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hi! I made a Rusty Quill Gaming art and writing and other fan content server, including channels for talking about art and writing, talking about RQG, writing sprints, and an nsfw section ๐
https://discord.gg/utPQADFJj2
Check out the Creating the Line community on Discord - hang out with 15 other members and enjoy free voice and text chat.
Here it is! My art based on the lovely @mx-vinโs fic with a drink in your hand,ย as well as a link to my fellow artistย @lucianinsanity, who created this piece for the same fic :] it was such a blast, and Iโm glad to have been able to work with so many cool talented writers and artists for the Summer In The Archives TMA Big Bang! You can find other spectacular art and writing at the event tumblr,ย @summer-in-the-archives-event!
[ID: a picture of Jon, Martin, Tim and Sasha in Timโs car, based on a scene from the story. Martin and Jon are in the backseat, while Sasha rides shotgun, and Tim drives. Martin is a chubby man with pale skin, freckles, light brown hair and brown eyes, wearing a blue jumper, jeans, and round glasses. Heโs blushing scarlet, and seems rather flustered as he defends himself from Timโs jokes. Jon is a brown-skinned person with long dark grey-streaked hair tied in a half-ponytail, wearing a black button-down shirt, black skinny jeans and square glasses. They sit beside Martin, one leg tucked under themselves, and canโt contain their laughter. Sasha is a person with light brown skin, long curly brown hair, freckles, dark brown eyes and round glasses, wearing a pale pink dress, a necklace and faux-pearl earrings. Sheโs turned around to talk to the two in the backseat, gesturing and smiling. Tim is a man with tawny beige skin, short dark hair, brown eyes, a tuft of facial hair and piercings in his left eyebrow and right ear, wearing a red flannel shirt. He looks back at Martin and Jon through the rear-view mirror, smirking and laughing, eyebrows wiggling. Itโs dark out, and the four are piled into Timโs car on the way to get drinks, lit only by the colourful lights of street lamps and buildings outside and the lights of other passing vehicles. End description.]
[Image ID: a traditional drawing of (left to right) Martin, Jon, Sasha, and Tim sitting at a bar table. They are all talking and laughing with various drinks, and there are potted plants, green curtains, and a deconstructed eye painting on the wooden wall in the background.
Martin is a fat white man with light skin and blond hair, wearing a light blue sweater and jeans. He is looking across the table at Tim and smiling, holding a glass of a fruity drink on the table. Jon is a thin Latin American person with light brown skin and dark graying hair pulled into a ponytail. He wears a collared shirt and jeans and is also looking over at Tim with a smile. Their drink is a cocktail. Sasha is a tall, chubby Black woman with dark skin and long afrotextured hair in a ponytail. She has an arm around Jon's shoulders and is wearing a pink dress, and their drink is a glass of champagne. Tim is a thin Black man with dark skin and short curly hair, and he is wearing a red jacket over a purple turtleneck and ripped jeans and holding a glass of beer. He is gesturing and speaking as he looks to Martin. End ID]
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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ill buy the first round and maybe convince martin to drink something
the best one 4:38 p.m.
i told you i donโt drink alcohol right
the hot one 4:38 p.m.
yeahhhh but im sure they have one of those really fruity drinks that youโd like, yknow the pineapple ones or the mango ones
the best one 4:39 p.m.
arenโt those more alcoholic?
the hot one 4:39 p.m.
maybe, who knows, not me. do you want to come or not?
the pretty one 4:40 p.m.
iโm in
the best one 4:40 p.m.
fine
the hot one 4:40 p.m.
jon?
the cute one 4:42 p.m.
Fine.
the hot one 4:43 p.m.
sweet
4:43 p.m.
carpooling in an hour, im driving
Sasha and Jon are already in the car when Tim pulls up in front of Martinโs flat. He goes quickly out, joining them and sliding into the seat on the other side from Jon.
He pointedly tries not to notice the way Jon has done his hair, pulled back in a half-ponytail like a crown around his head, the gray streaking through the dark brown like highlights. And heโs wearing a black button-down shirt with black skinny jeans - itโs unfairly hot, and Martin stares out the window to hide the flush on his face.
He hopes he doesnโt get drunk tonight and do something stupid, like tell Jon he likes him. Or that heโs attracted to him - really, who wouldnโt be, with that outfit on-
โMartin? Martin!โ
His gaze snaps to Tim, whoโs stopped at a red light and is looking back at him. He raises an eyebrow when Martin meets his eyes.
โAre you with us?โ he asks, a little teasingly.
Martin feels his cheeks flush more and he nods, quickly looking back out the window. He can practically feel Timโs eyebrows raise higher, but he resolutely doesnโt look back, and eventually the car starts moving again and Timโs eyes are back on the road.
Martin sighs, relaxing. The car is quiet for a bit, sitting in comfortable silence as they drive, and then Sasha speaks up.
โSo, what are we going to get Martin to drink?โ
โNothing,โ Martin replies, before Tim can open his mouth. Sasha laughs, and Tim only shakes his head.
โCome on, try one of the fruity ones? Itโll be like you,โ Tim says, laughter teasing the edges of his words. Martin thinks he can see him smirking, and he wonders amusedly why he ever became friends with Tim.
Martin feels himself flush a brighter red than he thinks heโs ever been capable of, and he opens his mouth for several moments silently before words come out.
โI- just because Iโm- that, doesnโt mean Iโll like it!โ he says, but he canโt hide the smile as Tim and Sasha only laugh from where they sit in the front seat.
As Martin looks over, even Jonโs mouth is curled into a small smile, his hands rubbing against each other where he stares down at them in his lap. โJon!โ Martin says, betrayed, and fights a laugh as Jonโs eyes snap up to him, wide and surprised. โYouโre laughing too?โ
It takes a moment, and then Jonโs face softens into warm amusement. His voice is quiet, as if heโs hesitant to make a joke- โI mean, heโs right, isnโt he?โ
Martinโs mouth opens. Sasha turns back in the seat, and the car is silent for a good several seconds before Tim bursts out laughing. Sasha follows, and Jonโs smirk widens.
Martin buries his face in his hands, cheeks flaming red. โChrist, I hate you all,โ he says.
โNope, you love us,โ Tim fires back, teasing all the way, and Martin groans dramatically.
โUnfortunately for you,โ Jon says- and that sets Tim off into another round of laughter.
Sasha laughs. โJon, did you just roast all of us at once?โ
Jon meets her eyes and shrugs. โI am capable of making a joke, you know.โ
โNo shit,โ Tim says, still laughing quietly.
Jon raises an eyebrow at the back of Timโs seat. โTim, youโve known me for four years - why are you surprised?โ
โWell, boss, youโve never made a joke in front of all three of us. Hell, I donโt even think youโve smiled in front of all three of us,โ Tim says.
Jon looks down at his hands. โTonight feels good,โ he says quietly.
The car is silent for several long moments until Tim speaks up again, breaking the tension. โOh, I do apologize for insinuating youโd have to admit you have feelings, Jon,โ he teases, smirking, almost immediately lightening the mood.
Jon looks up, and Martin watches his face soften, eyes rolling before he looks out the window again. โShut up, Tim.โ
โNever,โ Tim shoots back, and Martin watches Jonโs mouth flicker in a fond smile as he looks at the city pass outside.
The rest of the car ride passes in silence - well, silence from them. Tim doesnโt hesitate to put on music, and he and Sasha sing happily in the front seats while Martin and Jon are quiet in the back. Itโs a comfortable quiet, Martin thinks. Jon has that look on his face like heโs fondly irritated, especially when Tim reaches a very high note purposefully very badly. They all know Tim can sing - heโs only singing badly right now to put that look on Jonโs face.
Once they get into the bar, Tim picks their table first, spotting it almost immediately. Sasha seems to have the same sense, because she follows Tim too, leaving Martin and Jon to follow the both of them last.
Martin never quite knows what to do with himself in bars. Heโs been to a few by virtue of Tim and various other Institute workers in the time heโs been there, since itโs really been his only job, and the only time heโs had people near him with the sort of dynamic needed to go out to bars together, but heโs never invited anyone himself. Theyโre just not his scene, he thinks - he never drinks anything when heโs there either, not liking the thought of losing his faculties in such a way. Plus, beer never really appealed to him.
He takes the last seat next to Jon in the booth, and almost immediately Tim slides a drink menu over to him. The first title Martin sees is โCOCKTAILSโ in big, bold capitals across the top, and he flicks his eyes up to Tim.
Tim grins. โTry one? Just one?โ
Martin raises an eyebrow. โIsnโt there more alcohol in these drinks than regular beer, Tim?โ
โThatโs why you only get one,โ Tim says. Martin gives a dubious glance at the menu.
โActually, cocktails have 12% alcohol content,โ Jon pipes up, without looking up from the menu. โBeer has any range from 5% to 14%, and the most alcoholic drink is a rum.โ
Tim gestures at Jon. โSee, there you go. Youโll be fine, Martin.โ
Martin still looks dubious. โMaybe later.โ
Tim shrugs. โYouโre driving us home tonight then.โ He grins and puts an arm around Sasha. โWeโre not staying sober.โ
Sasha laughs and leans against him. โNope, I plan on getting very drunk with all of you.โ
Jon looks up. โI wonโt be getting drunk.โ
Tim rolls his eyes. โOh, you will. Iโm going to get you both at least a little tipsy.โ He points his finger at both Jon and Martin in turn, sternly.
It surrounded them, glowing in the flowers and the zombies, spreading through unnatural veins. Zolf is beside him on his right, glaive aflame and out defensively, and Hamid is on his left, hands sparking with dragon fire, hovering some feet above his head. Wilde is singing beneath his breath, feeling his magic course through him, feeling the presence of the party around him as he supports them.
He spreads his hands, changing tune, and calls to the world an illusion - something big, distracting. Itโs off to the right of the zombies around them, and his hands twitch and jerk, directing the illusion. He turns his head and sees a dozen zombies following it, chasing after the warp in reality.
Theyโre going to win this, Wilde thinks. Flame erupts in the center of the zombies from Hamid above him, and Zolf slices and strikes with his glaive. Azu and Cel are somewhere behind him, and Wilde can hear the howl of Azuโs axe as she strikes out at the zombies.
There arenโt many left. Thereโs an explosion and the sound of screeching - Celโs bombs, Wilde thinks automatically, and then the flash of fire in front of him.
Hamid fired too close. The world goes white as the flame erupts, heat searing across his skin, and Wilde sees Zolf turn away, sees skeletons coming at him from his right-
Pain flares in his stomach, and spikes as the weapon is pulled out. Wildeโs vision comes back to a skeleton in front of him, blue flowers in its eyes as it tilts its head at him, holding the weapon, and then it erupts into flame.
Wilde stumbles back, away from the fire thatโs suddenly devouring the rest of the zombies. His hand goes to his stomach, where pain throbs and flares white-hot, and his hand is immediately soaked in blood. He feels dizzy, the world blurring into red flame and blue flowers.
โWilde,โ says someone, distantly, and thereโs a hand on his arm. Wilde tries to form a response, his mouth opening, but all that comes out is a pained sob.
The hand is now pushing on his arm, and Wilde realizes his knees have given out, and now thereโs two hands trying to hold him up. Somethingโs glowing. His name is repeated, again, and Wildeโs vision has narrowed into a blur of fire several feet in front of him.
The red dances, swirls into orange, into gold, into red againโฆ
โWilde- Wilde,โ Zolf repeats, desperately. The man goes limp in his arms, eyes closing, and thereโs far too much blood streaming from between his fingers. โFuck- Wilde-โ
Zolf looks up. The skeletons are being devoured by flame and sliced by Azuโs axe and exploded by Celโs bombs. Theyโve seen Wilde go down, and Zolf catch him, and they surround him in a protective circle.
Zolf turns back to Wilde and starts casting every healing spell he can think of.
He hopes desperately, his hands glowing as he holds them over Wilde. โCome on, Wilde,โ he whispers, โget up, get up, youโre not allowed to die on me again, thatโs not how this works-โ
He stays limp. Zolf ignores Azu breaking the circle and focuses on Wilde. Wilde, limp in his arms, blood streaming from his stomach. Wilde, the bastard of a man that Zolf cares about.
Wilde, taking a deep breath, Zolf feeling his last healing spell go through, and the blood flow stops.
Zolf carefully takes Wildeโs hand away from his stomach, seeing the wound barely knitted together. He feels a breath escape him thatโs shakier than heโd ever admit, and presses his fingers against Wildeโs throat to feel the pulse there. Light, quick, but there. Still there.
He looks up, ready to enter the fight again-
Celโs voice. โZolf-โ
The zombie a foot away moves, skipping through the space until itโs right in front of Zolf, and he barely gets a hand up before thereโs a sword stabbing into his chest.
Something hits the zombieโs head, as Zolfโs vision narrows, and then it explodes against it. The sword comes out in a flare of pain, and Zolfโs vision goes dark.
Wilde wakes up to silence.
The first thing he does is see the sky. The second thing he does is try to sit up, and thatโs when dull pain flares through his stomach and he gives a cry out before leaning on his elbows.
The third thing Wilde notices is that his right hand is wet.
He looks down, and thereโs blood pooled around his hand, and he follows the trail up to white hair, up to-
โZolf?โ Wilde asks, and he hasnโt had that tone of helpless, lost confusion since he was young.
โWildeโฆโ Cel says, somewhere off to the right of his head, before they turn around to meet another of the few remaining zombies. Wilde ignores them and sits up, the pain in his stomach nothing compared to the stone dropping in it, the way his heart sinks.
He shakes Zolf, uncaring about the blood soaking one hand getting on him. โZolf, no, no, this- no, you canโt-โ
His words end in a sob he didnโt realize was building, and suddenly Wilde is fighting tears. He presses two bloody fingers to Zolfโs throat frantically, even as his breaths come quicker and something inside him starts to break.
Silence. Zolfโs skin is cold, Wilde thinks abruptly, hysterically, and then his words come back.
โZolf- Zolf, no, you canโt be- thatโs not how this works- we were supposed to go- we were supposed to go on holiday together, we were- we were so close, Zolf, we won-โ
Wildeโs voice breaks into another sob, and then another, and then he starts singing.
His magic flutters to life, spreads through him, and his song echoes around the area. Wilde thinks of Zolf, of bringing him back. He wants him to take a deep breath, to open his eyes and ask what Wildeโs been so worried about, say that heโs never seen him cry and that itโs not a good look on him (itโs not, not like this). He wants him to sit up and wince, wants to put his arm around his shoulder and lift him up. Maybe carry him too, though Wilde thinks Zolf would sooner stab him than let him carry him. Even if he does have a- a wound that might have killed him. Might. Maybe.
Wilde keeps singing.
He knows itโs too late. He can feel Zolfโs skin, still cold against the fingers he has against his neck, blood pooled around his body and sticking in his hair. His braids have come a little undone, and he has dirt and blood on his face, and his clothes are torn, and Wilde thinks he would only look better if he were alive.
He wants Zolf to live.
(the fire of their love burned bright,
and unturned came the heavy night,
and then, while he could still believe
his desperate stream of words did weave)
Wilde sings, and sings, and in one of the songs he curses Zolf out for being such a selfless idiot, and in another he declares that he loves him, and in a third he describes what their life wouldโve been.
It doesnโt heal him. Zolf doesnโt take a breath in, doesnโt sit up, the story doesnโt end happy.
Instead, flowers grow.
Wilde sees morning glories, in the corner of his eyes. Affection, he thinks suddenly. Morning glory means affection, and it grows near Zolfโs hair, through the blood, around his ankles, near his elbow.
The blue is complemented by red. Declaration of love, Wilde thinks at the red tulips climbing from the ground, his magic wrapping gold around the flowers. The tulips grow around Zolfโs feet, curl around his hand and wrist, trace the line of his neck and jaw.
Wilde sings, and tears run down his face, and he thinks desperately that theyโre ruining his makeup. He worked hard on that, not having many opportunities for it in the field. It had lasted since the Svalbard castle.
Hyssop grows next, and it means sacrifice, in lavender purple . Wilde laughs, something bitter and sad and half hysterical through the tears. Heโs missing so many notes by now, but heโs sung enough to keep his magic going, and he goes quiet with a soft hitch of broken breath, sitting on his knees by Zolfโs body and letting the spells play out.
Green carnations. Wilde set a trend for that, wearing it to show he loved men. It stuck, and here it grows, around Zolfโs other metallic ankle and up around his knees, beside his hip. It springs up by his shoulder, over near his heart.
Blue springs up next, forget-me-nots between Zolfโs legs and all up his side, around his other shoulder and by his head. Eternal love was the meaning taught to Wilde for that flower, and he watches sprigs of it curl with the green carnations, circling Zolfโs shoulder and left arm, next to his heart.
Wilde thinks heโs holding his breath, and he lets it out in a small, soft exhale. The flowers have stopped, now, and he thinks itโs over.
Itโs over. Zolf is gone.
He lays almost peacefully, surrounded by flowers. Wilde stares at him, something numb and cold inside him now, the tears dried on his face and his songs dull now. Thereโs a strange color to Zolfโs cheeks, and heโs not actively looking moreโฆ well, dead. Wilde reaches over and pulls his arms up. He curls Zolfโs hands around his glaive, sets them crossed over his chest. Itโs a warriorโs funeral - fitting for Zolf. Selfless idiot, Wilde thinks, because heโs nothing if not sarcastic and petty and in the face of losing Zolf, he will curse him out for his selflessness. Thereโs nothing else he can do except mourn, and really, heโs already ruined his makeup once today.
Farewell, says the sweetpea, growing pink up between the rest of the flowers, filling in the spots, forming a perfect, flowery, deceptively bright outline around Zolf.
(a memory traced in flower blue,
on burning hills of brightest hue,
where towering stems in silence stand,
the product of a once-held hand)
Wilde stares, and then he notices itโs become eerily silent.
Thereโs one heavy footstep, the soft shift of metal. โWilde?โ Azu asks, gently from behind him.
He exhales. He imprints the sight of Zolfโs body surrounded by flowers in his mind, peaceful and at rest, and stands up. When he turns to Azu, his mind is clear in a way it only gets when heโs compartmentalizing hard.
It wonโt last. Not for something like this, but Wilde can at least make it back to the inn, or somewhere else, before he makes some bad decisions.
(and there beneath the weeping trees,
a golden tear, a sunbeam gleams
where the loverโs crown still grows,
above a skull that bears no woes
for liquid gold the air did weep,
through sweetest songs his death did keep)
Wilde meets Azuโs eyes. He ignores the shifting of her stance, recognizing what heโs doing as he looks at her, entirely steady, not acknowledging moments ago when he was singing desperately through tears, when he sung enough to make flowers grow around Zolfโs body.
Her head tilts, her mouth tilting down, a sort of sad disappointment. โWilde-โ
โWe have to go back,โ he interrupts. Heโs Oscar Wilde, their handler. Theyโre in the middle of a war zone (theyโre standing next to Zolfโs corpse), they need to go back (they need to leave him alone). Itโs safer (less painful), anywhere but here.
Azu stares at him. Wilde doesnโt break his gaze, and then she gives a soft sigh. โAlright.โ
Wilde nods and straightens, professional and brisk. โRight. Letโs go.โ
He starts walking, and ignores the eyes of Azu, Hamid, and Cel behind him, concerned. He doesnโt have time for this, doesnโt have time to think about the injury in his stomach that shouldโve killed him, doesnโt have time to think about Zolfโs body surrounded by flowers.
He walks, and itโs silent, and Wilde tries not to cry.
one year later
Wilde hates and loves the song in equal measures.
Itโs accurate, and it hurts, and itโs a reminder of what happened. He blames the pain on the song, as if he doesnโt think about what happened every day, as if he doesnโt remind himself enough. Earhart had even warned him against spiraling like she did, in the months after.
As far as he knows, heโs the only one to visit Zolfโs body that isnโt anyone on the airship. People wrote a song about him and donโt bother to visit his body. Zolf and he have become a tale to tell, the story of two lovers, a classical tragedy.
Wilde gives a bitter laugh. They werenโt even lovers, really, not in the romantic sense. Heโs fond of the word anyway, even if it was simply a platonic connection, even if they didnโt need romance to be connected to each other like they were. Itโs the only word that can really encompass the connection.
Wilde stands and stares, at Zolfโs preserved body, at his gold magic shimmering in the light if Wilde tilts his head just so. Itโs appropriate that Wilde managed to preserve him, that his corpse wonโt rot, will stay surrounded by flowers for eternity.
Wilde opens his mouth, and sings the song, softly, like a lullaby.
the fire of their love burned bright,
and unturned came the heavy night,
and then, while he could still believe
his desperate stream of words did weave
a memory traced in flower blue,
on burning hills of brightest hue,
where towering stems in silence stand,
the product of a once-held hand
and there beneath the weeping trees,
a golden tear, a sunbeam gleams
where the loverโs crown still grows,
above a skull that bears no woes
for liquid gold the air did weep,
through sweetest songs his death did keep
His voice fades away. Zolf doesnโt respond, and the flowers wave gently in the wind. They do well too, a product directly of Wildeโs magic and emotions. Theyโll never die.
Wilde sighs and tilts his head back to look at the sky. He closes his eyes.
The world is mostly healed by now, at least physically. Society is still rebuilding, and the trauma hasnโt magically healed itself for most of the world, but itโs getting better. People are being elected as leaders. The meritocrats have been overthrown, their corruption exposed, and the religious temples are all rebuilding.
And Zolf lays here through it all, and he looks like heโs sleeping, peaceful as ever. Grass has grown over the area where the zombies died, where blood stained the ground. Itโs a plain field, preserved using Hamidโs influence. They saved the world, and Hamid had enough influence and money of his own to do this for Wilde. The fact that it was a war zone stained by blood and the last fight of the infection helped matters in convincing people not to build on it.
A small field of bright green grass, and in the center, the corpse of a dwarf, hands crossed over his glaive on his chest, bright flowers surrounding him.
Wilde takes two steps forward. He sits down, and toys idly with the ends of Zolfโs hair, and he starts to sing.
Itโs a nice night when Zolf steps outside. The air is cool and clean, so unlike the thick air in London or the dusty air in Cairo. The stars are clear, highlighted in shining white against the dark black of the sky. It reminds Zolf of the way the stars look on the sea - clear and bright, the entire galaxy and the gods looking down on you.
Maybe not the gods, anymore. Not for him, but he has his own gods now - one in shining pink armor, and one that had so many daggers, and one in obnoxious clothing, one with elf ears and potions on their belt. Even one with dragon fire at his fingertips. He disagrees with Hamid, butโฆ the fact that heโs with him, fighting to save the world, is still hope enough, no matter the fights they have.
He picks a spot on the grass, clear of most trees, and leans against the side of a building, staring up at the sky. He counts three constellations, tracks the position of the moon and catalogues the direction and force of the wind that blows his hair to the left. He thinks of how heโd navigate a ship in weather like this.
He thinks of a ship crashing, of blood staining snow and a fur coat and brown hair, and starts tracing the constellations again. He stops thinking about ships.
โCanโt sleep?โ comes a voice to his right, about ten minutes after heโs sat there. Heโs tracked the moonโs position in the sky.
Zolf looks over to see Wilde standing there, hands in the pockets of his coat. Thereโs an affection rising in him, a fondness at seeing him alive and healthy, white hair glowing in the moonlight, blue eyes bright. He lets himself feel it, and then he pushes it down. He canโt do that. Not until theyโre safe.
He answers with a noncommittal grunt and looks back up at the sky, and hopes Wilde doesnโt come closer, hopes he doesnโt make Zolfโs chest feel warm and something unexplainable rise in his throat, begging to be let out.
Wilde comes closer. He takes four long strides, putting himself next to Zolf, and slides down to sit next to him.
โWhat constellations do you see?โ he asks, staring up at the sky. Something traitorous flutters in Zolfโs chest.
โWilde.โ
He feels Wildeโs gaze turn to him. โWhat, Zolf?โ
Zolf wishes he could hate the way Wilde says his name, voice curling soft over the syllables, warm and open. He wishes he didnโt want to sit here and explain every constellation he sees, wishes he didnโt imagine a life with Wilde after all of this is over, a lifetime of his smile and laugh and bad puns.
It might never happen. He canโt let himself hope for that, canโt let it get out of control. He can hope that this ends, that theyโll get out of this alive, but he canโt hope for Wilde, canโt let himself enjoy this. It would devastate him.
โNot like this,โ he says after a long pause, and moves to get up. Wildeโs eyes follow him confusedly. Zolf resolutely doesnโt look at him.
The stars seem a little dimmer as he walks back to his room, and his heart aches.
The Garden hums around them, alive and thrumming as they walk through it. The voices echo around them, and the rope tied around Zolfโs waist shifts with every movement.
Itโs oddly peaceful. Beautiful, too, in a way, though he knows as well as the rest of the party the feeling of dread hanging over them, the chill that turns a bit too sharp, the way they can feel themselves get closer to the blight. Itโs peaceful and tense, a juxtaposition that has them all on edge.
Zolfโs eyes flick to the right, and thereโs Wilde, somehow drifted closer to him in the time heโs been thinking. He takes another step closer, another-
His hand brushes ever so slightly against Zolf, silently. Thin fingers trail down his wrist, the back of his hand feather-light against Zolfโs, and yet Zolf feels every area of contact sharply.
He tenses, and shoves down the urge to brush back in the silent gesture of affection. He canโt be this with Wilde. Not until he knows theyโre safe. Not until he knows Wilde wonโt die before his eyes again, at any moment.
He can hope. He can hope hard enough to make fire light on his hands. He canโt let himself enjoy this, canโt grow complacent.
He lets out a breath. โNot like this, Wilde,โ he exhales with it, softly, and takes a small step to the left, enough to break the brand of contact of Wildeโs skin against his.
Itโs silent. Zolf thinks he can feel the confusion and hurt radiating off of Wilde, pushes down the urge to apologize.
Wilde gives a small nod, barely visible out of the corner of Zolfโs eye, and takes his own step to the right.
Zolf keeps walking.
Wilde knows Zolfโs protecting himself.
Heโs not a stranger to it; heโs had his own opportunities aplenty to close himself off, to push away the people he cares about in a futile attempt not to be broken when they are hurt.
He did it with the party, after all, and here he is, traitorous heart in his throat every time he sends them on a mission, every time they enter somewhere dangerous, every time they leave his sight. He mourns them day after day, and rejoices when they prove to live again, and mourns them again days later.
Itโs exhausting.
He understands it, but that doesnโt mean he canโt think itโs unfair for Zolf to do this to him. To say he needed him, to have him wake up alive, with a sense of peace for once, peace he hasnโt known for years, and then to take that away from him.
Itโs almost spiteful, almost like blaming the furniture for stubbing your toe on it and purposely giving it a hit that only hurts yourself in the end, that he finds Zolf in a morning at Barrettโs and wakes him, walks over to his side of the bed.
Itโs almost spiteful when, minutes later, as Zolf sits up on the side of the bed, Wilde reaches out and toys with the ends of his beard. โI know a good braid for this, you know,โ he says, flicking his eyes up to Zolf. The fingers of his one hand are already idly separating the hair into messy sections, mentally imagining which one heโd do and how-
Zolf sighs. Spiteful, Wilde thinks, and fights the bitter smile threatening to twist his lips. โNot like this,โ he says, soft as a breath.
Blaming the furniture for hurting you, giving it a hit back that only hurts yourself in the end.
Wilde flicks his hand in Zolfโs hair, gives a short nod, stands up, and leaves the room without another word.
Wilde knows how to protect himself. He never said he was good at it.
Zolf comes sprinting out of the Svalbard castle, dressed in only a cold metal breastplate and trousers and with uncountable monsters racing behind him and the party. Wildeโs mind flicks through several concerns, settles on the world, and deals with that. The world falls away around him, pieces itself back together in London, and his fur coat is too warm for him now.
The others end up leaving the room, and itโs him and Zolf and the things left unsaid between them.
Wilde shrugs off his coat and wordlessly offers it to Zolf.
He sees Zolfโs eyes flick to it, track down the coat and to Wildeโs hand curled around the material, sees a light flicker in his eyes.
The light dims. โNo, Wilde.โ
Wildeโs hand drops. โNot like this,โ he finishes, softly and with all the bitterness he can put into the words.
Zolfโs eyes meet his, once, apologetic and defensive and conflicted, and then he turns and leaves. Wilde watches him go.
He puts the coat back on, thinks of what he has to do next, and leaves the room as Oscar Wilde, his partyโs handler. Saver of the world. Ex-meritocratic agent.
He knows how to protect himself.
Wilde wakes up, and sunlight shines through the windows of his and Zolfโs house, and he relishes the soft warmth curled around him of the blankets. He takes a moment to appreciate that heโs not in danger; he does that often, these days. Every day he wakes up, every day he goes outside and does some mundane errand and wonders how he ever took normalcy for granted.
He then takes several minutes to part with the blankets, instead wrapping himself in just as warm clothes, and goes to find Zolf.
More accurately, he follows the smell of bacon, two turns out of their room and into their kitchen. Their house. Their life.
The sun shines through the kitchen window on Zolfโs hair, falling down the short, messy spikes, tracing down the curve of his arm and the hair there, glinting off the metal of his legs, covered only by his underclothes. Wilde takes a minute to admire it, leaning against the doorframe and listening to Zolf hum a sea shanty under his breath as the pan sizzles.
He walks forward and presses himself behind Zolf, draping his arms over his shoulder and clasping his hands beneath his neck. Zolf gives a soft grunt, but doesnโt break his stride in flipping the bacon and slipping it off the spatula onto the plate.
Wilde hasnโt tried this since the Svalbard dungeon, mere weeks ago. Theyโve slept together and thatโs been all. Itโs only been days that theyโve been together, in a healing city, and itโs both natural and unnatural to slip into routine with the other.
โMorning,โ Zolf says when Wilde doesnโt.
Wilde doesnโt respond, watching Zolfโs hands as he cooks the last pieces of bacon and finishes the eggs, and itโs not until the burner is off that Zolf sets the spatula down and turns to look quizzically at Wilde.
Wilde looks down at him, sees the strange new gravity of the situation settle in his gaze, and asks softly, โLike this?โ
Zolf stares at him for a long moment, and then he settles into Wildeโs arms around his shoulders. โExactly like this, Wilde.โ
Wilde smiles, feels that peace fall over him, and he lets go of Zolf. He turns to the dining room table, and takes a seat, and when he looks up Zolf is setting the plates of eggs and bacon on the table, spreading out their two dishes and serving spoons and their own silverware, and takes a seat to the right of Wilde.
It feels natural, now, with a peace and contentment settled over the both of them. Wilde picks up the spatula, scoops up some bacon and slides it onto his plate, and Zolf sits beside him. His beard isnโt braided yet, but Wilde knows Zolf will tease him about what new braiding style heโs learned this time, and he hasnโt shown Wilde all the constellations he knows, but they have all the time in the world and Wilde thinks Zolf could get a boat, now, if he wanted. They could spend nights on the boat, and Zolf could point out constellations and Wilde could make fireworks light in the sky with a flick of his fingers.
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A small ring, nothing special - a little thin gold band contrasted against Jonโs dark brown skin, with a small purple stone set in it, an amethyst. Martin doesnโt notice it until heโs, well, not dying or walking through fear dimensions, and once he does, he notices Jon doesnโt wear it all the time. Heโd assume it was a sort of thing to wear with his clothing, to match it, but it doesnโt match all the time. Itโs a random thing - sometimes Martin feels the warm metal bump against his hand for days at a time, sometimes Jonโs hands are bare for weeks before he wears it again. Martin doesnโt say anything, obviously - itโs not a huge deal, itโs nothing really, and if Jon wants to wear it, then he can wear it. Itโs not Martinโs place to stop him in something like this.
And then itโs eyeliner.
Again, not a lot, nothing special, just a little bit lining the eyes. Martin thinks he sees the slightest bit of glitter one day, in a faint dusting of the lightest violet eyeshadow across Jonโs eyelids. He doesnโt say anything. Martin thinks he couldnโt care less.
Wellโฆ he does care. He thinksโฆ it looks pretty, on Jon, the little line of narrow black along his eyes and the glitter flashing in the light occasionally. He almost wants to ask him to wear more, but ends up simply tallying up the days, admiring the ring and the eyeliner and eyeshadow on the few days Jon does wear it, sort of cherishing the days when Jon makes that decision. Orโฆ whatever it is. Martin thinks he knows, because heโd been to several Pride parades before the world ended, but if that is the case, then itโs Jonโs place to come out to him. Martin definitely wonโt push him into it.