please—don't–take these beautiful things

They were two days from the border outpost when Bastien took a sharp left turn. Until now, he had been wrestling with himself, and it was starting to become obvious, as his pace waffles between purposeful and hesitant, that something is on the mercenary's mind. It didn't help that he's been avoiding so much as glancing in Nicharion's direction, even when their shoulders intentionally touched, for the last day and a half. His lover had a unique quality that made him uncharacteristically nervous—that, or he frankly wasn't accustomed to someone knowing him intimately enough to glean his addled thoughts no matter how schooled he kept his expression. Thoughts that were becoming more trouble than it was worth trying to silence.

Thus, his decision was made and Bastien was in motion, splashing across the marsh towards the setting sun, before he knew it. At least it wasn't an especially long venture before a structure obstructed the harsh golden light, throwing an even harsher shadow into their path, that the monochromatic male appeared to be making a beeline for. They reached it right as dusk started to soften the skyline but before the details were lost in the dark. It was a cabin... in a remarkable state of disrepair. Where the wood was exposed to the elements was rotted and falling away; one side sat lower than the other after the earth became too soggy to support the foundation; and at one point it must have been broken into... or out of.

And Bastien was looking at it with a strange mixture of loathing and longing.

He didn't seem to remember that Nicharion was nearby until his body started to feel the fatigue from their days of travel. Looking at his lover now, then back and forth from him to the cabin, Bastien grinned somewhat sheepishly. "I know what you must be thinking," he claimed without having a clue as to what Nicharion must be thinking, "How did someone as big as me fit in that little ol' thing? Well to that I say: I'm rather great at putting big things in small places." Humor wasn't likely to ease his discomfort by much, but it was the only defense mechanism that Bastien had available at the moment. He was still doing his damnedest to not make direct eye contact, though his reason was clearer in this instance: He didn't want to see judgment lurking in a place only lust and love had occupied. It didn't matter that Nicharion had already claimed not to care what his past looked like; the shame wasn't so easily shaken off. But it was an inevitability he couldn't avoid forever so, sighing, he offered one of those rare whole truths: "I thought you'd like to see something no one else has. It's...inglorious, I know. I hope it doesn't make you think any less of me."

There was no door on the rusty hinges to step through, though the way Bastien entered without acknowledging that fact suggested that that had been true even before he'd left home. Inside, whatever meager furnishings his family had owned were unrecognizable now, bittersweet memories all that remained, all that had not been overtaken by mold or mushrooms. He started speaking without checking to see if Nicharion had followed him in: "We were never often hungry—hard to be when you can fish from your front porch. I'd have let my parents starve if Gar didn't steal food from my siblings. That town you're staying in, it's the closest one to here for miles. I learned how to swindle and how to steal in that town. That's why some a' the locals give me those dirty looks... an' how I can blend in so well with yer guys, since they're gettin' 'em too." Bastien found himself speaking more freely than he had in some time, neither carefully choosing each word nor enunciating every syllable. But he didn't want to drone on pointlessly either, so he huffed through his nose and said, "All of this to say... my past isn't something I'm proud of, but it's what's got me here. You wanted all that I could give. Well, this is it."

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Entire days spent on swap trekking were not Nicharion’s image of a perfect date. There was nothing hearty to eat as far as the eye can see and his paws felt absolutely miserable from treading through all the muck and mire... perhaps he’d grown too accustomed to the comforts of his fortress. It didn’t help that Crow seemed to have taken an entire entourage of thoughts along for company; focusing entirely on the destination rather than the journey made the latter feel particularly uneventful.

If not for the trust they had established, the red brute could even have worried he was being led to a spot where his body will never be found.

But he suspected that very trust was the reason for this trip. Since they’ve grown closer, there was an inclination on both sides to share more.. but not everything is comfortable to share. Even less so for the likes of them, who have less than than average experience in the matter. It wouldn’t help any if he acted sour the entire way, so he held his complaints back. Even if it meant his tongue started to hurt from him having to bite it so often.

Nicharion didn’t pay the cabin they approached much mind at first, assuming it to be just a point of reference along the way, a pitiful landmark befitting this dreary landscape. But then Bastien stopped in front of it, suggesting it was to be their stop for the night.. or that it’s been their target all along. He raised a brow at the other’s shifting glances, until the dirty joke made him snort in amusement. A clear sign that despite his countless internal complaints, he was still enjoying spending time in his lover’s company. “I’d say it was a good guess, but we both know it’s tautologically true.” After all, when is stuffing or getting stuffed not on his mind?

On the subject of guesses, he could already hazard one regarding what this cabin was because of Bastien’s apprehension and the mention of having grown up here that had fallen to the wayside when they exchanged confession on that rainy day... But the fear of judgment itself was more difficult to understand. All commoners come from more or less similar humble beginnings and for the most part only nobility had inclinations to view it with contempt. While it’s true that Nicharion had a taste for finer things, at the very least in aspects of life that weren’t more enjoyable in crude form.. could he really come across as so unapproachable? “Who do you take me for, Bas?” The question was soft, for the most part incredulously dismissing the notion in the other man’s statement.. but he couldn’t deny himself putting a hint of curiosity in it, too.

He followed into the cabin and his nostrils were immediately assaulted by the dust they have stirred upon entry. He grimaced as he looked around, trying to hold back the approaching sneeze.. to no avail. He sniffed a few times throughout Bastien’s explanation, smirking towards the end at the reckless cleverness of using the locals’ suspicion as a disguise. It’s quite the paradox that this kind of backstory isn’t something anyone would wish for, yet it’s worth so much more than being born with everything one could possibly want and never knowing the struggle it takes to obtain it. “It’s a funny coincidence, I was born on a swamp too, you know.” There wasn’t a good moment to mention it the last time the past had been discussed, but he could make up for it now. “Although mine had crocodiles. Imagine, hmm.. lizard the size of a cow... with big and sharp teeth. And I didn’t live there long. After my mother died, I moved in with my father to a desert.” It was such distant past that it’d be more accurate to say he merely had knowledge of it, rather than that he actually remembered it. He couldn’t even tell if he felt about it any particular way.

“By your standards, it was a primitive land. Divided into packs that bickered with each other... tribal, almost. My great grandfather had at one point conquered most of the place, but that empire was already in decline by my time.” And Nicharion was glad for it. Duty imposed by others didn’t agree with him, and he already had enough traits painting him as a black sheep. “So, what do you think I am?” The red brute grinned, looking to his partner. “On one end, impoverished royalty. On the other, a warmonger savage. Either way, a prodigal son.. or, none of the above?” He shrugged and returned to examining the dilapidated furniture, not to concerned about the answer no matter what it might be.

As far as he was concerned, it wasn’t Bastien’s past that got him here, but everything he strove to accomplish, things outside of his reach that he attempted to grasp. But he didn’t want to tell the other male what to think, nor did they have to agree; at most, he hoped that attempting to assess someone else will allow Bastien to see himself from a broader perspective.

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Who do you take me for, Bas? Framed by the hollow doorway and facing forward, his wicked grin went unseen. Bastien schooled it into an expression of total concentration before his broad head whipped around, emphatically squinting at the wolf still within the darkness outside before adopting a look that was purely theatrical disbelief. “Wait… Is that not you out there, Savard?” He gasped… and then heaved a relieved sigh that threatened to knock the walls from their flimsy foundation. “No wonder I’ve been so attracted to you this whole time. It’s all making sense to me now.” Holding composure was a pursuit he quickly abandoned in favor of a wink, happy to enjoy a moment more mirthful than those that preceded their arrival. Otherwise, he might actually have noticed that ache growing in his chest.

But they couldn’t stand outside forever, and Bastien wouldn’t be able to ignore what awaited him within for much longer either.

Barely recognizable while being almost completely unchanged. They hadn’t owned much, and what they had wasn’t worth selling (which Bastien was sure could be attributed to his mother already having sold what would turn a profit), so if opportunists did pass through, their ventures here would have ended in a net loss. The white wolf was almost certain the same could be said for them, unable to stop from wondering if Nicharion would consider this miserable invitation into his past worth all the effort it took to get here.

He might have asked if the unbidden inquiry wasn’t interrupted by a sneeze that startled Bastien almost out of his fur altogether.. and serving to remind him that he’s not alone in here, despite half-expecting to be. He wouldn’t have blamed Nicharion if he chose to remain outside, but instead he followed and listened and now… offered more insight into his own origins—along with preposterous descriptions that made the mercenary’s brow hike. Bastien threw an incredulous glance over his shoulder at that but didn’t argue; if anything, the way his red eyes lingered betrayed that his skepticism was only surface level, an appreciative glow glimmering beneath.

Only to end up eclipsed by mischief. “So if you were born in a swamp.. and I was born in a swamp…” Bastien’s tongue lolled out of his mouth and his motions started to lengthen so his haunches swayed just that little bit more enticingly. Not that it was in competition with much unless his lover revealed that he had a peculiar fascination with ruined buildings and horrible interior design. “...were we always destined to be dirty boys?” He paused once he reached the other side of the room, examining a broken floorboard with more interest than it deserved, even bowing his front end low to get a closer look.

That position was swiftly abandoned before it could become an invitation instead of the reward. As unlikely as Bastien was to deny the other’s advances, he didn’t want to waste the opportunity he’s being given to learn more about the man he loved. It wasn’t often easy to find the right time or place to bring up the past, especially when the present had been so much sweeter recently and the future looked impossibly optimistic. He tipped his head when Nicharion posed another question, similar in nature to his previous one, but managed to be strangely nonchalant about the response. Curious. And curious still that that caused Bastien to be entirely too chalant about his response.

His voice lowering into that breathy whisper that all his whole truths became, he slowly crossed through the room again to reach the other’s side. “I don’t care what you were or who you’ve been,” he murmured, the sentiment an echo from another time and place, on that cliff’s edge overlooking a sea of emotion, but it rang no less clear nor any less honest than when Nicharion had uttered it to him. Bastien pressed his chest flush against his lover’s, the mixture of sulfur and spice enveloping him like an eager embrace as his nose found its place amid the plume of crimson fluff. “I’ve lived a lot of places too. Nowhere half as interesting as you have, what with those big-toothed cow lizards—Cowzards, was it? Crocowdiles? I can’t imagine a creature existing with such an idiotic–” He bit back the end of that insult. Was he losing the plot here? Almost certainly.

Bastien shook his head as if to realign the tracks of his wayward thoughts with a physical motion, wrinkling his muzzle when Nicharion's scruff tickled it, before continuing, "The point I'm trying to make is that I've had many opportunities to feel at home somewhere, and yet... I never have. It’s somewhat ironic that I find myself here, where I’ve always wanted to escape from, and suddenly wouldn’t rather be anywhere else. And I think you play no small part in that. Royal dunderhead or not, whoever you were, whoever you are now, what you are to me is... home."

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The joke about Savard elected a groan and a roll of his eyes; there was only so much that the soldier could endure. The flattery that followed it buttered him up to a degree, but not so much that he’d spare the effort to notice that Bastien was laying his humor on rather thick. Analyzing another’s behavior was a habit... one that, Nicharion realized, proved utterly useless here. For once, he wasn’t in company that needed to be constantly probed for weaknesses, nor was it some great secret that their reason for being here was something personal. Trust and openness rendered everything so much simpler, subverting his practiced expectations. Like an exotic spice mixed into a familiar dish, or a drop of blood spilled into a glass of wine.

The cabin’s musty interior goaded his mind into tackling a great challenge - imagining Crow as a kid, running across the creaky floorboard in some game with his siblings... it was nigh impossible. The concept was too far removed from the vivid image of man in his mind, gleefully spilling the blood of some hoodlum in a dark alley... or... As if anticipating the direction of his thoughts, the monochrome male had the vague visions scattering into fine dust agains the unyielding solid reality, far more compelling that any fantasy; the poetry of his body. Crow’s words earned a glint of his fangs in a smile, while his eyes followed his lover’s hips with unashamed appreciation, like an open praise of his efforts. “Mhm, you do keep my mind in the gutter...” But in spite of the temptation, Nicharion didn’t budge an inch. He’d like to savor an even show before he allows himself to act.. desperate.

And, despite the hum of quickening bloodflow in his veins, he somehow noticed the slivers of moonlight sneaking through the roof, as well as the dance of dust motes upon it... all against the backdrop of dazzling white fur. Like stars reflected in freshly fallen snow... Nicharion’s ear flicked in a split-second, imperceptible moment of irritation. Being a hopeless romantic didn’t suit him.

Looking through a different lens, Bastien seem to reach an answer easily enough, a familiar one at that. “Then you needn’t care about your past either.” With this, the point has been seemingly delivered, yet still he mulled over the other’s words. Perhaps the major wasn’t quite so indifferent as he thought himself to be. Every coin has two sides; growing numb to the face in plain view was a simple matter, contrary to its hidden, unknown counterpart. He could dismiss the past, but he could never find contentment in how he set sights for the future compared to the ambitions of his forefathers. But following the already established pattern, wouldn’t it stand to reason that Bastien’s acceptance reaches into the future as much as it does into the past?

If that’s the case, then Nicharion should follow his own advice.. ah, the irony was nothing short of sublime. A reversal upon reversal, leading him into the same pitfall that he would have the other avoid so easily.

Bastien’s touch forced his thoughts to a halt. He welcomed it, tilting his head to let his chin rest on the back of the monochrome male’s head. Then, he chuckled, oddly glad for the silly complaint about crocodiles. “Would you prefer crowcodiles, perhaps? Or...” A pause followed, giving his lover a chance to prepare for the horror that was to follow. “...caw-caw-diles.” Even with the exaggerated bird sound, the name sounded close enough to the original, and it pleased him greatly.

Following this foolery and a side note of it being rather pleasant when Crow’s whiskers scratched his neck, the red brute was scarcely prepared to receive heartfelt words. He shifted his weight awkwardly, noting the same burning sensation in the tip of his ears that he had felt the last time. Struggling to wrest control of this feeling, he decided he could only bide for time. “Ah, indeed.. because you luuuuv me, right?” he teased recklessly, fully aware that his weapon of choice was a double-edged sword. But all he needed was a brief reprieve, a mere sign of being flustered in Bastien’s response, to shift the overwhelming pressure away from himself.

“I.. might not know what home feels like.” he finally admitted, serious once more, after clearing his throat. Perhaps he had never stayed anywhere - or with anyone - long enough to know. “But maybe I could find out, if.. if you’d show me.” Given the circumstances, it was natural to act on the temptation to lick and pinch the other’s scruff with teeth, only to tug it insistently, all but demanding that he takes half a step back so their muzzles might align for a kiss. That it also was a desperate attempt to play unfair and leave no opportunity for comment on the sentimental clumsiness of his answer, made it easier still.

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The way those eyes beheld him, how could he have been blind to it before? The pendulum swing of his gaze, tracking the steps he took, the moves he made, as though a red thread connected them. Who is the puppet? Who holds the strings? Nicharion didn’t relent, but Bastien could see through that control even from afar. A tic in his neck, his accelerating pulse, his chest transitioning to shorter, quicker breaths—subtle signals that the white wolf’s methodical movements were more than effective. He smirked, because Bastien knew beyond a shadow of doubt that it was the moon directing the tides and the same moon upon his back, accentuating his predatory approach, that oversaw Bastien’s push and Nicharion’s pull. It was only with the help of his anonymous ally that the truth was illuminated, irrefutable.

He fit securely in the embrace of his lover, the one place he had carved out for himself where he would shed all of his masks and every disguise. Bastien had trudged through this life with the holes in his soul—most of which originated in this very place—sewn haphazardly shut. He preened and prattled and parried any attempts at someone getting close enough to see the gaps he’d missed, the frayed ends coming loose. But it was with surgical precision that he took Nicharion’s hand into his own and cut away the fabric that held him together. “I care… about losing you,” he admitted. “I don’t have a good track record for this. Not for anything, really. I’ve been in the cold for so long that I forgot what warmth feels like, but you’ve reminded me. I want to know you and be known. I want..” Amoux’s demand tumbled through his thoughts. The shreds that Bast kept carefully spun slipped away completely, “..to unravel you.”

Likewise, his partner seemed to have fallen prey to the spell that had Bastien surrendering himself. That could be the only explanation for the awfully perfect amalgamation that came next. Bast had the decency to be only a little envious of how much better it sounded than what he’d been able to come up with. “Don’t you dare start calling me that, asshole. I have big, sharp teeth too and know how to use them,” he warned, lifting one side of his lip in demonstration—as if Nicharion needed a visual aid. Why, what else could he do with them?

The answer to that internal rhetoric came mere moments later, after Bastien fumbled his way through another confession, gleefully noticing along the way how his partner squirmed under its weight, only for Nicharion to push the tide in the opposite direction and drown his clumsily chattering companion with a horrible, harmless tease. It was quite the unfair advantage he had over the monochromatic mercenary; a maroon cloak served as the perfect camouflage for the heat burning in Bastien’s cheeks, rattling him. Enough so that the obsidian tail was the only part of the lowlander that could muster a notable response, shooting straight out behind him. He felt a stealthier sensation slink up the length of his spine, the fur there rising into a quiver. What was worse, this betrayal of his own body or that he’d backed himself into this corner, Bastien couldn’t identify. His lover was at least merciful enough to offer a distraction reprieve in the form of the irresistible invitation to seal the shared sentiments with a kiss. Greedy lips were all too eager to capture a crimson maw and urge it to continue their conversation without words.

When he drew away, it wasn’t because breathing was any more important than it had been a moment ago, but instead because his body was incapable of restraining what he desperately wanted to say any longer. “Nicharion Valentine...” A delicate pressure, applied so slowly that his words barely registered it—would Carion? “Are you asking me to move in with you?” He adopted a look that was positively scandalized by the prospect, dramatically clutching his pearls. Bastien was well aware that that wasn’t the implication, but his penchant for revenge was one need that must be sated.

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Listening to Bastien’s words, words that he could have spoken just as easily and honestly, he realized this moment might have touched upon the essence of why they fit together so well. The edges of their very beings were rough and tattered, unlikely to fit in with anyone else.. not truly. But when they were together, it didn’t matter, not even that the tears might not be the same exact shape - there were enough teeth and crevcies for something to latch on and hold securely, perhaps even jamming and never letting go like two cleanly cut parts never could. Every word he resonated with.. but it was the last few that plucked a string that led to the darkest chasm within him.

To unravel you.

“Sometimes, though rarely... I feel overwhelmed.” he started to explain what wasn’t inquired after or even suspected. His voice wasn’t quite focused, as if some thought was holding his attention hostage. “It’s visceral. Savage. I can’t help but.. picture it.” His nose pressed up against Bastien’s skin, seeking the rhythm of his pulse. Beat after beat after beat. His own heart rang deafeningly loud inside his ears in comparison. “If we were dying, I’d tear us open until our guts entangle.” His voice softened, contrasting the sudden violent imagery. “I’d paint you with my blood. And I’d drink your final breath as I fade away...” One could only guess which came first, his words or the scenario they described. Was he actively entertaining the idea... or merely offering a glimpse into the primal, subconscious workings of his mind? “...unraveled.” This single word was the perfect summary, encompassing everything he felt in this moment. Not by definition, he had no vocabulary that could quite describe it.. but by taste.

It passed as quickly as it arrived, leaving him quite self-conscious. It wasn’t something he’d ever mentioned to anyone, or even acknowledged to himself. On the off chance that he didn’t quite have all his marbles, it seemed wiser not to indulge in it. “Ehm.. forget it.” He shifted his weight awkwardly. Fortunately, horrible puns seemed to be a sufficient distraction, or so it seemed at least. “Now I will never not be tempted to call you that, you know? Caw...” he started, but decided not to finish and only bluff this time, lest he risks Bastien really biting him. Not that he’d mind.

After savoring copious amounts of shared, yet in the end more evident in his counterpart, embarrassment, the drawn out kiss was enough to make him forget everything that’s happened moments ago. When the other male withdrew, Nicharion raised a brow and gave him a quizzical look, as if saying ‘surely you can go without breathing longer than that?’ or ‘eager to kick up the pace, ain’t you?’. He couldn’t lie, the question his lover asked took him by surprise, so much so he took it fully for jest, at least for the moment, and chuckled. “Well it’d be a show alright, watching you try to move into a keep full of soldiers unnoticed.” Maybe he could try to be a ghost living between the walls, the barracks gossip would be spectacular. “I can ask you something better: how about we get a little feisty.. and tear this place down while we’re at it. Leave the past buried, and all that.” Perhaps it was that dark whisper again, drawing him to something destructive.. but this seemed like a more productive outlet for it. “Only if you want to, of course. I understand if you’d rather still keep it around.” he tilted his head to the side slightly, curious what his lover will decide.

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Bastien tilted his head back, intentionally letting a hum drone into his throat so it vibrated in pace with his pulse. A reassurance of life while the depiction of their deaths danced upon his tongue. Nicharion didn't need to say it plainly. Though the pages were torn and most of the words on them smeared, with some careful positioning and concentrating very hard on sounding out what was written, yes, Bastien could read what rested between the lines of his macabre narrative. You unravel me. Delicious devotion, an antidote to combat the poison of his own self-loathing, and a dangerous addition to his burgeoning codependency.

He grinned now at his lover, pulled back into his original position as Nicharion moved away from his throat, the mirth in his eyes uncannily bright despite the subject matter and his lover's obvious discomfort. There was one manner he knew to be unfailing in leavening uncomfortable situations, and he leaned in to deliver a remedy all his own: "Is it odd for that to turn me on?" Following a soft chuckle, Bastien grimaced at the flimsy threat and leered. "I'm starting to think you want to get bit."" In testing the hypothesis, he nipped lightly at Nicharion's neck fur, giving it a playful tug.

It was made more difficult to ignore the walls enclosing them when they were directly referenced, encouraging him to look around and consider how he'd feel for the structure to be demolished. With all the other regrets in his life serving as more permanent reminders, perhaps it'd be nice to have one thing fall into his control. And besides... "We never did get to have that dance, did we?" In their close proximity, initiating the first strike was made more awkward than locking their lips in a kiss would be, which was equally as tempting, but Bastien was able to shift his shoulder and exert enough force to push Nicharion backwards. The summer air creeping through the various holes was colder than the space their breaths had warmed in unison, but it was rapidly thickening as excitement made his heart boom like wicked thunder with every collision.


fade exit via "forespar"

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