In the shadows, stripped of sin

“This the closest to the forest you could get, big guy?”

Mountain’s startled by the fire ghoul limping out of the dark. He scoffs. “Sort of. But I think this grass is fake.”

“Hm.” Dew settles onto the ground next to him, stretches out his booted leg, and immediately fishes a cigarette out of his jacket pocket. He turns his head towards Mountain and roams his eyes over his hunched, semi-balled-up form. His butt is in the dirt of the landscaping beneath the gazebo, and his back rests against its wooden structure. “Are you trying to become one with the trellis?”

Mountain rolls his eyes half-heartedly and rests the back of his head against the crawling vines. The ivy-covered gazebo was, in fact, the closest to familiar vegetation he could find at this time of night, let alone in this part of the city. 

The palm tree was interesting, but not exactly secluded.

“At this point, I’d rather do that than keep performing like nothing’s wrong.” Mountain scrubs at his face, groaning frustratingly behind his hands. He’s been stewing for the better part of two hours now, fighting off bugs as they buzz by his ears with the same amount of frustration awarded to his thoughts. “This isn’t right. I don’t like doing this without him. Without her.”

Dew sighs and pinches a light onto the end of his cigarette. Drawing in until he can’t inflate his lungs any further. Mountain watches the smoke of his exhale dissipate into the night, corners of his eyes starting to sting. 

“Yeah,” the fire ghoul says sadly. “Somehow I’d thought changes would get easier after . . . everything. But it really fuckin’ doesn’t, does it?”

“No,” Mountain says darkly. “Why would Swiss just . . .” He throws up one hand and lets it fall back onto his shin with a distressed smack. Mountain pulls his legs in further, caging himself in when he rests his arms on his knees. “He said he was fine. Aether even . . . we aren’t even that far from home, Copia could have—should have—flown him out to fucking help Swiss instead of letting him go home. At the beginning of the tour. He’s done this for so. Long. What’s different this time?”

“Mount—”

“No. I’m. I’m done with all of it. How many are we going to have to keep going through, Dew? And what if it’s Cirrus next? Or Rain?”

Dew shakes his head and takes another long drag. “I don’t want to think about that.”

“Well, neither do I, but here we are,” Mountain spits. He squeezes his eyes shut and steeples his hands against his face, shoulders tensing. Hot shame curls in his chest for the brash carelessness of his comment, but the mood he’s in could hardly be considered rational. Not even hours of pouring energy into his drums, hitting them harder than he really should and breaking every other stick, was enough to shake the sour feeling tonight. Like a burn to the roof of his mouth, it has only lingered. Making even the sweet moments flat and bitter.

The silence hangs heavy between them, but Mountain knows Dew won’t break it. He’ll sit next to the earth ghoul and puff from his cigarette in silence for as long as they both let it happen. All night, if they’re both feeling stubborn. 

“Sorry,” Mountain breathes after a minute, almost afraid to say it too loudly. He re-folds his arms and defeatedly plops his forehead down onto them, sighing heavily into the cocoon of his own limbs. “I miss them. I miss all of them.”

Dew shuffles for a moment, scootching his body closer to Mountain’s until their sides are pressed together. The fire ghoul lays his head against Mountain’s shoulder. Smoke tickles his nose as Dew exhales, purposefully slow. 

“Miss them, too,” he says eventually. “You remember how much of a wreck I was that first show with Aethe still at home. Hell, the first show without a bass in my hands. But we were there for each other.” Dew nuzzles his cheek against the pilled fabric of Mountain’s sweatshirt and takes another drag of his cigarette. When he pulls it away from his lips, he snubs it into the ground, a little too hard. “I’m not going anywhere—and if anyone ever has something to say about that, I swear to Satan they aren’t gonna walk away alive this time.”

Mountain can’t help the way his lip wobbles at that, and all at once the damn is ready to break. He sobs through a poorly-masked cough, smiling bitterly as he turns his head towards Dew. The earth ghoul reaches for one of Dew’s hands and holds it tightly until the tips of his own fingers blanch. 

It wasn’t ever supposed to be like this, Mountain thinks. So much change in so little time. And just when he was getting used to it all, Perpetua appeared as some literal long-lost twin with an irreversible fate and a vision that wouldn’t budge. He’s still not used to it. He does everything he can to mask it for the new Papa, comply with his directions and play along—literally and figuratively. But deep down, he still wishes it were still Copia leading them each night. 

That’s difficult, obviously, with death and chaos surrounding the man like a suffocating haze. As much as Mountain wanted things to be the same, at least for a little while longer, there was no way the newly-appointed Frater could handle all of that and remove himself from the abbey for months at a time to perform for the masses. 

It was and is a hard truth that Mountain keeps involuntarily picking at like a half-healed wound. 

“I know you’re trying to keep it together for them,” Dew says softly. “But they aren’t gonna push you away for having feelings, Mount. Especially not me or Cirrus.”

Mountain shudders through another sob. “Just wish things were different.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Tears soak into his sweatshirt as he simply looks at Dew sitting next to him. Sometimes it hurts to see how much he’s changed—nothing could ever make Dew not Dew, but when the silver tones in his hair shine through the dark, suddenly he’s ten years younger and looking at him for the first time.

“Sometimes I wish it was just the five of us again,” Mountain sniffles. He hates admitting it. Hates to think about what could have been, to want it. But it’s all that’s been swirling around in his head since Swiss got in that van back to the airport. 

Dew doesn’t have to clarify what he means, because Mountain’s sure he can see it in his eyes. “Been thinkin’ about that a lot lately,” he agrees. He rubs his thumb softly against the back of Mountain’s hand, easing some of the tension away. “But I still wouldn’t give this up. Not after all we’ve been through. All the good stuff we’ve seen.”

Mountain wipes away the tears with his sleeve. “Yeah.”

Dew tips his head back and gazes up at the flat black sky, hardly any stars visible from the light of the city. He sighs. Waits a beat. Then: “. . . I mean, think about all that water ghoul ass we’d be missing out on.”

The earth ghoul barks a wet laugh, peeking over at Dew’s poorly-masked smirk. “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’? You’re telling me you wouldn’t miss that?”

“Well . . . yes, but that’s not the only thing about him that’s worth missing!”

Dew snickers. “Of course not,” he says. “Just tryin’ to get you to come back to yourself a little. Make you laugh.”

He squeezes Mountain’s hand and looks at him with soft eyes and a small smile. Something genuine, reserved just for him. It probably has the opposite intended effect, though, because seeing it makes Mountain’s eyes tear up again. He can’t help that it hits him right in the Dew-shaped place in his heart, a spot permanently carved that aches with love every time the fire ghoul does something to fill it. 

Dew tsks, not unkindly. “Aw, Mount—”

“I love you, you know that?” Mountain’s voice shakes from crying. “It means a lot when you’re here for me.”

“Hey now, don’t start all that, I’ll start crying,” Dew laughs. Despite his leg, he springs up from his spot next to the earth ghoul and holds out his hand. “C’mon, let’s go to bed. Kept it warm for ya,” he sing-songs, wiggling his fingers. 

Mountain casts a bleary glance around at the dimly lit, manicured gardens. Briefly wondering if there’s a hedge somewhere for him to disappear into instead. Huddle in there and become one with the branches instead of going on with the tour. But Dew waves his hand in front of his face before he can spiral back into that thought again. 

“Okay, okay.” The earth ghoul gets off the ground with far less ease than Dew, somehow, knees protesting and ankles popping when he stands. He dabs away the last of his tears and clears his throat, looking down at his little savior of the night. Frowning when he remembers how far he had to walk to make it to this spot in the gardens. “You are absolutely not walking all the way back.”

“Oh, my humble steed, I thought you’d never ask,” Dew holds his hand out limply like a dainty maiden, batting his eyelashes for good measure. Leave it to Dew to reel him back to normalcy with a well-timed quip. He used to think it was dismissive. Rude, even. But over the years, a firm redirect is something he’s come to appreciate, especially when all his mind wants to do is dig him into a deeper, sadder hole. 

Mountain sighs at the ‘steed’ comment, leaning over to help Dew clamber onto his back. He hikes him up to the right spot, careful not to jostle his leg too much before making his way back to the hotel. 

“Aren’t I. . . supposed to be the knight?” Mountain muses as they enter the elevator. 

“But I’m the one that rescued you from those poor excuses for plants,” Dew points out, poking him in the cheek. “So that would make me the knight and you the . . . horse.”

“Oh. Delightful.” 

By the time they reach their room, Mountain’s limbs once again feel heavy and sluggish in a way that has nothing to do with carrying Dew’s weight. The momentary reprieve his humor afforded him floats away once the hotel door closes and the only sounds surrounding them are the hum of the mini fridge and the air circulating through the vents. Thankfully, the bed looks inviting—and warm—as promised. 

Mountain shucks his street clothes and all but falls into the bed, face-planting into the pillow with a drawn-out groan. 

“Still fresh on your mind, huh?” Dew asks, sliding into the bed next to him after dimming the lights and carefully removing his boot. 

“Hasn’ been that long,” Mountain counters, voice muffled by imitation down. “Kind of hard to not think ‘bout it.”

Dew sighs and runs his fingers through the earth ghoul’s hair. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. I know.” He half-grumbles, half-purrs at Dew’s touch, enjoying the tingling sensation on his scalp as he drops his glamour. The fire ghoul hums and goes for the base of his horns, his weak point. His tail thumps against the bed despite his gloomy mood, never unable to hide how good it feels. 

“There you go,” Dew mutters. 

It’s easy to sink into the feeling of his nimble fingers on his scalp, letting his eyes close and shoulders untense. His mind, of course, wanders to Dew, though, and he feels somewhat selfish. “D’you need ice?” Mountain asks between his noises of enjoyment.

“Mount,” he sighs, lying down next to him and brushing his hair away from the side of his face to get the earth ghoul to look at him. “I iced before I came to get you. Don’t worry about me, yeah?” His eyes are so blue when cast in shadow, their usual copper iridescence dulled without light. But the dusky hue is comforting, mirroring the kindness reflected in Dew’s tone. “I love you, but you’ll make yourself sick worrying like this. And you know Aeon’s not great in the healing department.”

“He’s not doing well either,” Mountain says sadly.

“Mountain.” 

“Mn.”

“Stop thinking.”

Before the earth ghoul can say anything further, Dew closes the distance between them and kisses him softly. Mountain makes a quiet noise into his mouth, letting his eyes fall shut. His hand is warm as it cradles the side of his face, a gentle anchor to the present that lets the intangible slip away. 

Mountain sighs into the feeling of Dew’s lips against his, which are surprisingly hydrated instead of perpetually chapped. The fire ghoul presses their mouths together in a slow give and take, licking feather-light across his lips, inviting Mountain to do the same. A delicate breath here, a languid slide there. Back and forth until it’s all too easy to melt and let Dew be his guide. 

“Love you,” Mountain breathes, sliding his hand onto Dew’s waist. 

Dew smiles against his mouth. “Love you too, you big sap.”

Mountain rucks up his shirt just enough to graze a little sliver of skin. He’ll have to stop himself from getting lost in the planes of Dew’s stomach or in between the knobs of his spine (let alone every other part of his body), even though it’s so easy to do when the fire ghoul has his brain now pleasantly distracted. But that’s almost too easy—too easy to rush into the familiar, the sometimes-automatic. It’d be a disservice, Mountain thinks as Dew scoots closer, to unravel this careful blanket of stability that Dew weaved around the both of them and rush into mind-numbing pleasure instead. 

Not that grinding against Dew’s cock until he makes a whimpering mess of himself doesn’t sound enticing. Because it does. And dutifully, of course, the fire ghoul carefully and lovingly redirects the wandering hand that’s focused on that fantasy a bit too much. 

But at the heart of it, Mountain finds he doesn’t really want more. Just having Dew to talk to, to hold, to kiss—actions that, on the outside, seem so simple—is enough right now.