ALLEGIANCE-GUIDE

Ásgeirr doesn't notice his lip is cut until he watches the other lick the familiar red substance from his glove. What am I supposed to say to that? He thinks, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. As suspected, a smear of red is present on his pasty hand, and he's positive that his face is a bright pink. He's never been a particularly sentimental person, let alone a romantic, but his present company is making him want to be.

“ Zu'u ni los pruzah ahst daar malur. ” They say quietly under their breath, glancing down at Miraak's lips again. It feels like their chest has been cleaved open. This sort of vulnerability was new to him, and while he's completely terrified of it, he welcomes it. “ I've been with a lot of people. Lots. Mostly with people I didn't really want to be with. When I was in the Dark Brotherhood, I used sex as a weapon. I guess I slept with other guys occasionally for fun — but that wasn't very often. ” It feels good to admit out loud — Ásgeirr reaches for Miraak's hand, and finally raises their face to meet his gaze.

IT ISN'T LOST ON HIM, THE TRUST IN THIS MOMENT. It struck Miraak as quite strange then, the amount that had changed in such a short span of time. Maybe he wasn't the best judge of that these days. So much had happened in a year, yet he felt like it had been a hundred of them. In Apocrypha, he went such long spans of time without anything particularly eventful happening. A year ago, Miraak was ready to kill his counterpart if it meant his freedom— but there was precious little he would not have done for that.

A conflict of emotions brewed in his chest that he couldn't make sense of. The First is silent and with the mask called Miraak pushed aside, the contemplation is easy to witness in his warped countenance, expression all set in grim lines, yet slightly softer than his usually permanent scowl. So deep is he in thought that he has to consciously refocus himself, redirecting his frustration at an inability to sort through emotions either never felt or long kept buried. It would be easier to simply focus on Ásgeirr, anyway, like always. His hand stills as the other takes it, neither grasping nor pulling away, as if unsure of what to do. It felt so good to be touched like this — a reminder that he existed. This existed. The same hand holding him the one that pulled him out of Oblivion. Miraak's fingers curl back until they're gripping just as hard.

“Zu'u vomindok ahney.” He mutters. The vulnerability doesn't escape him either. A part of him even wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. Vulnerability wasn't a thing people like them got to enjoy. A luxury they couldn't afford. Feeling it now is almost antithetical. Didn't he always so love the taboo and forbidden, though? That rebellion was core to his nature. What was this if not a sort of rebellion?

Miraak nods slowly, understanding in both himself and what Ásgeirr was telling him. He waited in silence, both for his time to speak as well not knowing what to say, but the Last's conclusion has him barking a sudden laugh, lips curling up into a grin. The opposite arm snakes around Asgeirr's midsection without thinking, bringing them closer until he can feel the heartbeat against his own.

“You would have never imagined you would be telling me this when we first met.” He could imagine the scandalized look in the Last's grimace at the very thought of such a proposal. Not that he could blame them. There was additional humour to be found in the fact that his ravaged likeness would be the man they truly wanted. Cosmic joke, indeed. “Hei mur zey fraan faal rinid. But I question your taste.”

Carefully, he loosens his grip on the other's hand until it pulls away, the other arm unwilling to free itself from the vice around the other man's waist. With a pause of hesitation, he removes the mask in entirety, feeling strangely more vulnerable entirely free of it as opposed to only pushing it aside; it made him want to hide away, a feeling he so closely associated with shame. He can still feel his nerves, and isn't sure if the heartbeat thrumming in his chest is his or Ásgeirr's, but he doesn't retreat. The bronze visage now set upon the log beside them, he stares at it, thoughtful.

"Ahrk het zu'u mindol hi lost dilon." He clucks his tongue. The Last Dragonborn doesn't really sound bothered, despite his flippant words.

“&– - Apocrypha is a realm of knowledge-- - there is no purpose for it to give what is already known.” Not unless there was a benefit to do so // OR ENTERTAINMENT. But there was only a partial truth in this. The atmosphere pulsed with the evidence of continuance, that the strands of response were already pulled taut before speech // A THRUM. “&– - There is also the manner of... mmm.... uniqueness. Every duplication made here is perfect, but what is original remains. There are deeper, less treaded archives in which those are shelved. Yours lay within a section none outside my make have wandered.... yourself included.”

SOMETHING ABOUT THAT PLEASES HIM. Miraak knew a defining characteristic of his fickle master was Its intrigue in that which was unique. Part of the reason he was here, after all. Shouldn't be surprising. Pleasing nonetheless.

And then Miraak kisses him too. They try not to audibly sigh in relief, but rather settle against him with arms wrapping around his neck. This was hardly the first place he imagined they'd be in when they first met — a first meeting with a dagger aimed at his throat and stomach, poised to kill. Then, after rescuing him from a place that resembled a swamp from his nightmares, Ásgeirr assumed that they'd travel long enough for Miraak to gain his footing in a new world. And now, they're kissing at a dying fire following a handful of adventures fit for a storybook.

He pulls back after some time, clearing his throat as he does as his face turns red — something that he's certain Miraak hasn't seen yet. “ Geh. Grozah. ” They rub the back of their neck, and glance towards the fire. “ Nuz til kent kos atruk folaas voth hei akh. ” They reply, a grin on their face as they turn back to look at him. He still doesn't know where this came from, yet knows exactly where at the same time. His mind cannot wrap itself around this.

EVEN WERE THIS NOT MORE MUTUAL THAN HE'D READILY ADMIT, he could not begrudge them for acting on the impulse. What better way to test the waters than to be so bold? A part of him even admires it. Ásgeirr is braver than him in that respect, Miraak thinks, and catches himself surprised at the silent admittance. He blinks, brows knitting together under the shadow of his askew mask.

“Yes.” The First replies smoothly, distantly.

It isn't that Miraak ponders. Men, women, he was (once, at least) well-acquainted with indulging without stricer discretion. The Cult had frowned upon fraternization, but it never viewed sex with as strict a lense that emotional attachment held. He hadn't struggled much with that; Miraak could never fully relate to them, anyway, be they woman or man. Everybody was at a distance, unrelatable to him in a way that had always made him feel lonely. Unfamiliar to his fellow race of man who felt the subjugating soul underneath the skin, outsider to dovah that viewed him as a pale imitation. Sometimes it felt as if the world had a layer between him and everything else, a layer that existed with or without Apocrypha. A consequence of what he was.

The once-priest slides his hand back, tilting Ásgeirr's head slightly back in his direction. Absently, he runs the backs of gloved knuckles up along scars that crawl under assassin's collar. “Hei los ni nunon aanvorey mun.” He mutters as wandering eyes return again, holding the stare. Then, his hand recoils as if embarrassed by the tenderness of the gesture. It is somewhat unsettling to feel seen like this, as unsettling as it is rewarding.

The longer he sits with it, the more he has to explore it. Lowered hand curls around the fabric of a half-untied tunic, pulling him close to preface the third joining of their lips. Slightly less abrupt than the first or second, a little more slow and curious and even gentle. The warmth he feels seeps down to the marrow, down to the soul until he's positive it isn't just the nearby hearth. No, he doesn't recall feeling like this with other men, other daedra. With anybody. If he ever had, it would have been a feeling Apocrypha could never have erased from his memory.