Phil-pokr

It’s done.

They’re still processing it, truthfully. Instinct developed over years will not die so quickly as their curse did — gone in a flash, unbelievably. Skin no longer mottled and struck through with veins of gold, now merely the same tone as all the rest across their body. Plain in comparison, they’ll admit, even if the sight of it brings them some measure of joy.

Errol hasn’t stopped winding dark gauze from fingertip to shoulder. Partly out of a desire to hide the gradually regrowing nails they’ve spent more time examining in private than they’d care to discuss, and partly out of simple instinct. One of those instincts not yet as dead as the vile magic that had once stained their flesh deep gray and shining gold. Not unlike the impulse to keep their distance from others. To remain guarded, reserved, as careful and measured in their actions as they can manage without holding themself back from accomplishing their goals.

As they sort through the possessions they’ve accumulated throughout their time in this city of secrets, recollections of the previous weeks play through their head.

Blood. Death. Pain and misery and loss — and all the other unpleasantness that accompanies them.

But they’re free. Impossible as it had seemed just months ago… they’re free.

The room around them feels emptier than it is without the sound of activity seeping up through the floorboards. Soon enough, the eerie quiet and stillness of the tavern and inn will be nothing more than one more memory. Once they depart, the mourning Adders and grieving populace of Lowtown will be behind them, no longer their concern. The loss of the “bleeding heart” ringleader of the “benevolent” gang no more their problem than the disappearance of a certain doctor.

They try not to linger on that thought and the inevitable decline the city will see in the absence of the both of them.

They wonder idly how many — if indeed any at all — are mourning Mhin. Mourning the outsider who’d shoved away each and every soul around them up to the end. Was there a single person out there that might be missing them? That might weep over the discovery of their death — if they’re fortunate enough to stumble upon such information in the first place?

No such effort is extended to a certain fox. Nothing more than passing thoughts of how Ais might be coping with the absence of the constant annoyance of the vulpine charlatan. 

Ais…

Errol forces their attention back to the items before them.

A book. A set of vials. Some knick knack they’d nearly forgotten existed. A spare roll of clean gauze. One item after another, carefully placed among one of two piles: things they would refuse to part ways with, and things they can no longer see a point in keeping — much less in keeping close.

“Listen, I have a goal. Once I’ve achieved it, I will be leaving Eridia.”

A huff. “Running?”

They glare at him, eyes narrowing. “Leave it. You’re only looking for something new to entertain yourself with. You won’t find it in me.”

A single step closer — enough to make Errol twitch as the demon scoffs and begins speaking again. “You’re acting like you’re still on a leash.” The statement stabs through them, straight to their heart, as Ais continues on, not pausing for a second. “What do you think running’s gonna do? Think it’ll get you any closer to your ‘goal?’ Think it’ll make you feel better? Make you stop feeling —”

“Feeling has never been enough for anything on its own. Why would you think my opinion on that would change now?” Errol snaps, the words spilling from their mouth in a rush. “Even if I feel anything for you, why should it matter? Why should you care?”

If they didn’t know better, they’d think Ais had just been punched in the throat going by the look on his face alone.

Their lips purse at the memory.

The conversation following that snapped comment — accusation — whatever it was, is of little relevance now. All bitterness honed to a razor’s edge they’d thrown in his face in a flash of cold anger born from something soft and afraid and far larger than they care to acknowledge. Something frustratingly, regrettably attached to a demon who now knows some measure of freedom again for the first time in years. Better that that soft, fearful part of them die here in Eridia with so much else, left to rest in whatever peace it can find, possibly sunk to the bottom of the still-crimson waters of the Seaspring.

Errol pushes aside memories the stench of the red water has left, a stench that has sunk so deeply into the wood, they doubt the place could ever hope to smell anything approaching “normal” — especially with the still waters just as deep a crimson as ever. That scent is as much a part of the Seaspring as the mahogany wood and red water itself. Something that, to those who remember, will always bring to mind a monstrosity beyond most humans’ reckoning, impossibly ancient. A monstrosity now impossibly absent — leaving behind only a ragtag colony of crimson-eyed unfortunates no less inextricably linked to the unsettling spring than before.

If nothing else, there’s no longer a God commandeering their bodies left and right.

There’s no longer a God commandeering Ais’s body left and right.

Teeth grinding, Errol’s fingers clench around a worn botanicals compendium they’ve flipped through thrice in their time owning it; before they can bend the delicate, aged cover of it, they stiffly place the book among the items they’ll be leaving behind.

It’s not their business. 

Nothing about Ais is their business. It doesn’t matter any longer; they’ve gained their freedom as much as him, and there is nothing left to be resolved between the two of them. 

They focus on a set of scrawled notes. The handwriting is their own; they remember the day they’d written this. As they’d penned one line after another, they’d had to stop repeatedly to fire back some comment or complaint at Ais, who’d been leaning over them and distracting them all the while.

They scoff.

The papers join the pile of objects they’ll either sell to a merchant or  leave to decay in their soon-to-be-former room.

— — —

Chattering.

So much damn chattering. So much clearer. Ceaseless. Incessant. 

Annoying.

Ais takes a drag of his third cigarette of the hour.

Best get used to it.

Hard to do that. Can’t decide if he misses the constant whispering or not in comparison to the noise. If he misses being dragged down, down, down into the quiet abyss of something else’s command. If it’s better than the cacophony now clouding his mind. At least he knows he’s not a puppet anymore. At least he knows when it’s not his inner monologue rambling as opposed to someone — or something — else. Better than before, that way. 

Nothing to shut any of them up, though. No dominating, consuming force to swallow up the noise. Tame it. Keep it low enough to think halfway clearly — when not trying to smother him along with all the rest. No Ocudeus to force them all to work together. To play nice with one another. To kill the ache pounding against the inside of his skull and driving him up the wall.

The hush that’s fallen over the taverns of the city doesn’t help. Not enough noise he’d like to hear to drown out that which suffocates him. Not enough people. Not enough people who want to talk. Banter. Bitch.

Not much point in getting wasted without company.

Never thought he’d find himself missing the dove and their constant hostility, the daggers they’d glare at him, the threats and insults they’d barrage him with. Or the mage — and his groupies. And the murder attempts — he’d kill for another one of those fucked up, possibly-poisoned cocktails Leander used to slide across the counter and urge him to drink up, right down to the very last drop. 

Not surprised he misses Vere and Kuras, though. No endless supply of sarcasm and biting comments, broken up only by the private moments of softness no one else was offered. No more stern frowns at every inane question about sutures and salves that leaves his mouth, interspersed with small smiles at drawled jokes others wouldn’t expect the doctor to find funny.

The spring is no less unsettling than his mind. Old, swollen wood creaks underfoot, groaning whenever he steps upon particularly unstable spots. His foot connects with a cushion, sending it sliding into a support beam beside a small pile of others.

Should get some distance from here, probably. See if that’ll help muffle the sound some.

Ais comes to a stop at the edge of the hardwood flooring and stares down at the water, the same shade as it’s always been. No less vivid than when Ocudeus still swam about his mind and the others’ as he pleased. The sharp aroma it exudes is no less pungent, no less sticky than before.

What happens if it works? If distance makes the sound of all the other members of the groupmind quieter?

He’ll be alone again. Really alone. No one to talk to. No one to lean on.

Where would he even go?

“Even if I feel anything for you, why should it matter? Why should you care?”

Ais has an idea. Not that it’ll happen. They’d never agree. Stubborn. Snappy. Listened too well when he told them to go that night in the alley. When he told them to leave him alone. Deadset on pushing him away, now. On denying themself as much as they’re denying him.

Hard to decide if they’re a coward, or just smart.

Maybe both.

When would he come back?

What would —

Something smooth and solid bumps firmly into his shoulder, right on time.

Sharp scarlet eyes fix on his company, meeting a number of Princess's own scarlet eyes evenly.

Soulless may not have the same kinds of facial expressions as humans or Monsters, but he’s certain she’s glaring. Certain she’s cross.

Of course; she’d know the contents of his head as well as he knows the contents of hers.

His fingers reach out to her, sliding along her strong jaw to her neck, stroking along skin that’s softer than one might guess a Soulless’ could be.

Stupid. Selfish. Should stay here. Stay at home, with what passes for his family.

Still. Was hoping he’d be able to sleep soundly again without Ocudeus around. Actually sleep — and wake up rested. Like he did before he ever stepped foot in this place for the first time.

Princess grumbles. Should’ve expected she’d hate hearing him contemplate this.

“Wouldn’t leave you behind if I left,” he murmurs softly. Not much point in keeping his voice down, he knows; anyone in the shrine would know what he’d said before it left his mouth anyway. The constant awareness of being heard, being seen, being known weighs on him at all hours.

This shrine didn’t feel so crowded before. Suffocating, still, but not crowded. Felt empty then. Lonely.

This shrine is his home, he reminds himself.

Shouldn’t just throw it away.

Princess shakes his hand off — offended.

Ais rises. Mind racing, feet more certain than his head, moving towards the grand doors of the shrine.

Through dozens of eyes that aren’t his — that he knows are those of his most beloved, most loyal Soulless — he watches himself push open the towering doors and step out into the wastes beyond, headed for Eridia proper.

— — —

The Wet Wick’s food is no better now than it was when they’d first arrived in Eridia. Stringy meat — likely from some creature that had barely been worth slaughtering to begin with —, bread on the verge of being called “stale,” and vegetables with far more salt than seasoning. Paltry offerings — but edible, if barely palatable. Errol wonders if that might change after their departure. If it might improve in some small fashion — or if the fare on offer will manage to grow even worse somehow. 

It’s not worth contemplating. They won’t be here long enough to see it, anyway — and what’s here is less likely to poison them than it was when a certain mage still drew breath.

People are here, this late — not as many as there might have been just a couple months ago, but more than are generally present any other time of day now. The thrum of low voices keeps the place alive, even without the crowd that had once packed the place on a nightly basis not so long ago.

Errol notices immediately when it falls dead silent.

They cast a quick look toward the entry, and immediately identify the cause of the sudden hush.

Ais.

He’s already looking at them, eyes as vibrant a hue as the last time they’d seen him. Still as sharp and dangerous as before. Familiar.

Familiar, and sad — even with the neutrality of the rest of his expression.

Their eyes linger on him longer than they intend. As he takes a step toward them, they force their gaze back to the plate before them..

Every footfall closer to their seat makes them tense. What does he expect them to say to him? What does he intend to say to them? There’s nothing left for them here now that they’ve gotten what they came for in the first place. Nothing left to do, nothing left to seek — nothing at all.

Ais sits beside them, as casual as ever.

The bartender’s nearly as on edge as Errol when she approaches. “What can I get you?” she asks tersely.

Ais grunts. Out of the corner of their eye, they see him turn to her, lips parting — then freeze, his eyes squeezing shut. His hand rises to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Whiskey. On the rocks. Triple.”

Errol’s eyes narrow as the bartender hurries off to pull a bottle from the shelf and hunt down a clean glass. 

He usually orders doubles.

Scarlet eyes crack open just a sliver — just enough. Ais meets their sidelong look with his own. “Headache,” he says, answering the question they refuse to ask aloud.

Errol looks away again, offering only a short hum in response.

Neither of them speak, the air between them thick, charged with tension while they each wait for the other to break the silence. Break the stalemate. By the time the bartender returns, the atmosphere has grown outright oppressive — and everyone around them can sense it, going by how multiple patrons abandon their places at the bar in favor of tables and booths further away. The bartender is all too happy to slide the glass of whiskey across the counter, ice clinking against the walls of the tumbler, and beeline it to another patron.

They can hardly blame her. They’d happily take an excuse to vacate their seat at any moment, were one to present itself.

“Heard you’re packing up.”

It’s only four words, but it tells them enough; he’s been keeping tabs on them ever since their last conversation.

They grunt — half acknowledgement, half confirmation. If their ire at their epiphany shines through their wordless response, all the better.

“Should swing by. Princess'd be sad if you left without saying goodbye.”

Errol grimaces, remembering all too well having to mend or replace more garments than they’d care to count thanks to the Soulless’ teeth and slobber. “I have no desire to be dragged around like a chew toy.”

Ais hums as he takes a long sip of his drink. “She’ll behave.” He smirks. “Probably.”

They scoff, but consider the idea as they poke at the scraps on their plate. Should they? Is it worth it? What would they gain from traipsing across the mud and muck to stand inside the shrine and see or listen to whatever it might be that Ais wants to show or say?

“Don’t have to,” Ais murmurs, voice devoid of the teasing lilt they’ve come to expect from him. “Just saying I’d like it if you did.”

They hate that it’s the right thing for him to say.

“Tomorrow,” they concede before they can think better of it. The single word is heavy on their tongue, more foreign than it should be. “Tomorrow,” they repeat, “in the late morning. And then I need to dedicate my time to preparing for travel.”

They're not sure whether they're trying harder to convince Ais of their certainty, or themself.

Ais finishes his drink in silence — then leaves as quickly as he'd arrived. 

Errol’s feet feel like lead weights as the alchemist makes their way up the stairs and to their room.

The piles of belongings around them seem to mock them as they ready themself for sleep, as if trying to remind Errol of how they’ll never see anything they choose to leave behind again the moment they set out for… wherever it is they’ll go first. Plenty of it will be gone within the next couple days, equipment and notes pawned off to merchants with an eye for alchemical tools and research in an effort to amass whatever funds they can for the journey before them. Without a proper cart or the like, the coin will prove more useful than the objects themselves in the wastes; experience has taught Errol that much quite thoroughly over the years. 

They should focus on that. Just that. Forget the endlessly annoying, infuriatingly handsome demon they’ve promised to visit, and instead fix all their energy and effort on their future plans.

That’s what they should do..

As they drift off to sleep, they fight off images of a maddeningly charming grin and echoes of a low voice that riles them up as much as it sets them at ease.

— — —

Waiting at the edge of the city wears on him more than he'd expected it would. The still, humid air presses down and in on Ais as he leans back against a crumbling wall, arms crossed over his chest.

Errol’ll show up. They may not have left the Wick yet (he knows they haven’t; he’s been peering through the eyes of his “kin” passing by the place all morning) but they’ll be here.

They said they’d visit, after all.

Cigarette in hand, he debates lighting it, tapping the unlit end against his bicep. Probably enough time for one — more likely enough time for two. Shit, with his nerves wracked the way they are now, he could probably burn through a carton before Errol got here even if they were to exit the tavern right now.

As he mulls it over, fighting to keep his thoughts strung together into something coherent as a thousand unclear voices cloud his mind, he nearly misses the first glimpse any of the groupmind catches of Errol that morning. Jolting at the vision, he forces his focus sharply onto that of the groupmind member that peers at the alchemist, gauging their pace and their expression as they make their way down the street. They pass by fellow pedestrians, dodging those who stray a little too near with the same diligence they had prior to being relieved of their curse — a habit he doubts they’ll break any time soon. Careful as they may be to avoid contact with others, the far-away look in their eyes tells him their mind isn’t on the pavement beneath their feet nor the people they weave around. Other than that…

They’re not rushing. Not dragging their feet, either. No smile — but no frown.

Not a lot to work off of — just enough to recognize that sharp mind of theirs is working overtime. It’ll have to do.

He tears his attention back to his immediate surroundings, shaking his head as though it might aid in clearing images of storefronts and lanterns he knows to be damn well more than a few blocks away, well out of sight. Well out of his sight — far from what he can see with his two eyes and not the thousands of others he’s able to gaze through.

His head throbs, blurry images flickering at the edges of his vision as his concentration slips. He shoves the cigarette between his lips. Fumbling for his pocket, his hands find what he’s looking for blessedly quickly: a matchbox.

Trembling fingers strike a match along the edge, and he lights the cigarette at last.

With the first lungful of smoke, relief hits — minor, minimal, but relief all the same. He shuts his eyes and takes in the warmth of it in his lungs, the heavy scent and taste that lingers on his tongue and in his nose even after he’s exhaled. Familiarity soothes that constant wariness he carries — even if only just. 

He’ll take it. Better than nothing.

The Wet Wick isn’t a short walk from here. And slower with the crowd. But Errol knows the route like the back of their hand by now. It doesn’t take them long to reach him — not as long as that incessant twinge of anxiety within him would prefer. Only long enough for him to suck down the final wisps of smoke a second cigarette has to offer before he’s dropping it to the ground and crushing it underfoot, right on time for Errol to turn one last corner and pause, looking him over.

He hopes he doesn’t look as much of a mess as he feels. As much of a mess as he is. 

Pushing away from the wall, Ais closes the distance between the two of them, feigning comfort as he approaches. A task made far more straightforward than he anticipated with the unexpected ease with which he focuses on Errol — rather than the clamoring voices retreating to the edge of his thoughts. 

“I didn’t expect you to escort me.” Their words are stiff, clipped. A hint of something dangerously sharp lurks beneath the surface of them.

“Thought you didn’t want Princess to gnaw on you,” he returns.

They scoff, and the tension between the two of them melts away ever so slightly. “No, I did not.” They pause. “Though, I don’t need a guide to find the Seaspring. You know that, surely?”

He throws them a smirk; too much fondness slips through, and it turns to a gentle smile before he can bring himself to fight it. “Better safe than sorry.”

Rolling their eyes, they gesture out at the wastes. “Guide me, then. Before I decide to return to my lodgings.”

Ais grunts, leading the both of them out into the mud and the muck.

It’s silent now. Uneasy once again. Ais doesn’t need to look at Errol to know they’re on edge, even as he slides his gaze over them as casually as he’s able — but is it on account of the setting, or him?

Both, probably.

Can’t blame them. Place might look the same, but the shift in the air is unmistakable. No question it’s changed. Just as alive as before, but more chaotic with its inhabitants so much more… unbound. Free.

Same big happy family as before. Squabbling now more than ever.

And where Soulless and humans and Monsters squabble, anything and anyone with half a brain has their guard up — Errol included.

A number of his Soulless’ gleaming red eyes are already trained on the distant figures of him and Errol by the time the grand silhouette of the shrine comes into view. The creatures alternate between roughhousing and observing him and the alchemist as they cross the last stretch of swamp. The lot of them are interested in the visitor, but more interested in their play-fighting. Good that they’re keeping themselves occupied, Ais supposes. Bodes well for the future if they’re still getting along enough to play rather than fight, still retaining enough control over themselves to not tear each other — or Errol — apart. Might mean they’ll really be okay in the long run.

Without Ocudeus.

Still a foreign thought. Still unreal.

Errol’s on guard as Ais pushes open the wooden doors, their eyes flicking between the myriad beasts all but frolicking about the outside of the shrine.

“Planning on staying there?” he asks, holding the door open. Errol takes a step forward, casts a final glance back over their shoulder, then walks past him into the shrine, entering stiffly.

Figures. Not like he was anticipating they’d be relaxed. Or happy. Or trusting.

What the hell was he anticipating when he invited them here?

He tosses possibilities back and forth in his head, struggling to track each one through the haze of voices and fog of foreign thoughts, as he follows Errol through, then passes them by.

Ais kicks a couple cushions toward the edge of the deck on his way past them, gesturing at the plush seating without looking at Errol as he turns to the tray he’d prepared earlier. Crouching down, he lifts the lid of the kettle sitting on it..

Clean. He’d made sure it was before he left. Made sure all of his “roommates” knew not to touch it. Not before he’s done with this little meeting, at least. Or date. Farewell, maybe. Whatever this counts as.

Tamping down the ache in his chest at the thought this might be the final time he speaks to them is no less daunting a task than he’d expected. 

He’s quick about the preparation of the tea; he’s been through the motions of it more times than he could count. More times than Ocudeus may have been able to count — though that wager’s one he wouldn’t take, even without the constant, looming presence of the eldritch entity in his head any longer. The motions are simple, straightforward. Meditative, in a way he finds little else to be. Something that had remained “his” even when his grasp on the most basic parts of himself had been slipping ever further from him.

One of the few things he has left to share that doesn’t involve bloodshed or booze.

He’s not gone long as he gathers together what simple fare he has to offer (bread, mostly; not many of the groupmind are overly preoccupied with anything fancy as they all learn to navigate the world without Ocudeus’s influence). He leaves Errol only long enough to return to find them situated relatively comfortably on the cushions rather than shifting and fidgeting. 

Ais sets the tray gingerly between the two of them and sits — close enough to talk, far enough to not push his luck with Errol. 

It’s too quiet for too long. Awkward. Stiff. The two of them pick apprehensively at the food as an excuse to avoid speaking. The tea’s only growing cooler by the minute, no doubt steeping far longer than needed. Only growing more and more bitter by the second, now.

Worse things have happened. Least Errol’s bound to like the added flavor.

“I’ll be gone within a week.”

Flat. Final. No changing their mind. He doubts he ever stood a chance at managing it anyway. Doubts anyone stood a chance.

Ais grunts. “Going somewhere?”

Silence.

Maybe he hasn’t earned that answer. Maybe he can’t earn it.

“I have ideas,” they say quietly, taking him by surprise, “though I’m still deciding.”

Ais snorts. “Don’t even know where you’re gonna go?”

Errol’s eyes narrow, their gaze settling on him for a moment before they’re looking back into the still water of the spring. “As I said: I have ideas. I’m unsure which would prove best now that I —”

They stop short, fingers twitching against the smooth ceramic they hold, still covered in gauze as always.

No need for them to finish the sentence anyway. He knows what they would’ve said next. He takes a sip from his tea and hums. “Must be weird.”

They give him a curt nod. “I’m… adjusting.”

He grunts. After a pause, he admits, “So am I.”

Shifting in their seat, Errol turns to look him in the eye, waiting for him to continue. There’s nothing harsh in their gaze now, only solemnity. Understanding. Sympathy.

Not like Ais planned to spill his guts, but that look sends a pang through his chest he can’t claim is fully unexpected. “... Not used to it being this loud. This — intrusive.” He pauses, frowning deeply. “Hard to relax with the noise. Just doesn’t stop — ever. Can’t stop thinking about them all. Princess. Iris. How they’re adjusting. How they’re changing.”

“... Were they well when you first found them after Ocudeus’... departure?” they ask quietly.

Tired red eyes drop from Errol briefly. 

Brown hair fans out around her head like a halo, mud drying on the dark strands. Her eyes are humorless, nearly lifeless. He’s only ever seen them look so dead once: just before their hue had turned that signature scarlet. Just before she’d taken a mere sip of that life-changing, life-saving water from the spring.

Not far from her lies a smooth black heap of muscle and sinew, no more animated than the girl Ais stands over. The gentlest rise and fall of the heap of dark mass is the only sign that the being that’s followed him so closely in his time here might not be any more dead than the girl at his feet.

A bang snaps him back to the present. Across the water, Princess rolls over hardwood planks, tangled up with another Soulless. The two of them growl and snarl in that way he knows all too well indicates fun rather than fury. Indicates they’re conscious. Alive. Well. Happy.

Iris, he knows — sees — is making her way through a market, more stalls empty than would have been a month ago, but still plenty full of jewelry and clothing and food and other wares to make her heart feel lighter than it had in years. Lighter, because now nothing controls her at random. Nothing restrains her from reaching out and admiring each and every object that catches her eye.

“... Well enough. Fine, now.”

There’s no pity in Errol’s somber eyes. No feigned sense of “congratulation.” No, there’s simple acknowledgement. Restrained empathy. There’s a line they’ve drawn that they’re hesitating to cross. A line carved deep into their heart, never blurred by indecision in the time he’s known them, and yet —

They scoot closer, the movement awkward, stilted, as though they’re reconsidering the action even as they take it.

“They’re alive,” Errol states, “and they’re safe.”

Obviously.

Somehow, hearing it spoken aloud by someone else — someone whose voice doesn’t echo from within his own skull — makes it feel more real. Makes something restless and nauseating that’s been throbbing in his abdomen settle into a little more than a reluctant twinging. Doesn’t quite drive away the fears that this “happy ending” might be a dream, fears that have lingered despite his best efforts to stomp them out and bury them along with so much else.

But it helps.

Abruptly, Ais rises; Errol almost follows suit, but halts as he holds up a hand. He smiles, and there’s a gentleness to it that makes their heart feel both lighter and heavier than they’d like it to. “Stay there. Only be a minute.”

The alchemist watches him walk away. Notes that he’s headed for his room, none of his Soulless following behind as he disappears into his sleeping quarters — likely still as messy an excuse for a bedroom as ever, no matter how comfortable they suspect the plush bed must be.

Their gaze drifts to the placid red water.

It looks no different than it once did. No different than the first time they’d set foot in this shrine. No duller a red than ever, it could be mistaken for blood just as easily as it could a few months ago.

And yet.

None of the dread that seemed to fill the depths is present any longer, replaced by an odd, haunting peace they never would have thought they’d find within it. Memories of previous visits to this place — memories from before Ais had rid himself of his “friend” — and the pervasive unease it had increasingly filled them with sets their teeth grinding. It had been difficult to linger here for long after a point. Difficult to sit and watch as Ais lost himself bit by bit, sliver by sliver, one day after another.

It’s no longer a problem. More than that, it’s no longer their problem.

“Got you something.”

Errol startles, head whipping to look up at the tall demon. He plops down on a cushion again, a bundle of — something in his hands.

They’re about to decline his offer; he shoves the bundle in their arms before they can.

Typical. They should've expected he wouldn't leave them a chance to reject it this time. 

Slowly, Errol picks at the twine keeping the unexpectedly weighty bundle tightly secured in faded blue cloth, gingerly freeing whatever object it might be that Ais has elected to dump on them.

A… cloak. A new one, going by the condition and cleanliness of it. Fashioned from sturdy brown fabric that’s been waterproofed, the exterior made waxy in the process. Ideal for rain. Inside, it’s lined with a layer of thinner, finer material — material that their bandaged hands glide across smoothly. They itch to unwrap the gauze and touch it, but —

… But what? There’s no reason not to, now that their hands are no more dangerous than any other part of their body. There’s no need to hide their hands — or their curiosity.

Errol lays the garment across their lap, tentatively plucking the end of the bandages covering their right hand out from where they’d tucked it. Ais watches as they bare themself — the part of themself they’ve spent their entire life hiding. There’s no judgement in his eyes. No surprise. No hint that he might be marveling at them like a prize or examining him like a test subject.

Just looking at them. Just watching. Awaiting a reaction.

They brush their hand over the interior of the cloak, fingers twitching at the softness of the fabric. There’s no doubt that the item is made of materials far more expensive than most could afford; they wonder briefly whom he might have killed to afford this. 

Stroking the cloak, feeling the sleek inner lining and the smooth, waxy exterior, Errol considers their next words carefully. They only just avoid asking whose blood was spilled in the name of this present. “It’s a thoughtful gift.” A beat. “Thank you.”

Ais grunts; it’s not much of a response, but the curve of his lips tells them enough: he’s satisfied with their answer.

Errol rewraps their hand — and then dons their new garment.

Though there’s a certain heft to it, it’s surprisingly cool; it would be of little use fighting off bitter cold in the midst of a snowy winter. But for rain? For staying dry, whether the air trends cold or hot? Perfect. 

“Figured you could use it sooner or later,” he muses.

“Most likely,” they agree. “If I decide to find my way back to my mother, I imagine I’ll encounter both snow and rain along the way.”

Ais cocks his head to the side. “Thinking of going home, then?”

“I… suppose I could.” Could. If they chose to. If they could bring themself to.

Ais doesn’t press them for any further information, just sits and waits.

“Not yet. I have no intention of returning there… yet,” Errol elaborates, discomfort stinging at them as they speak. “Perhaps one day, to see my sister — without worrying about harming her. Harming anyone. Though it holds…” they pause, emotion crawling up their throat like bile “... bitter memories. I suffered there. I lost a great deal there. I —” Images of a familiar face — a beloved face — flash through their mind and turn their tongue to stone. Warm eyes and dark hair, comforting and calm. A face they’d found grounded them, brought them a degree of peace they’d treasured.

It twists into a visage of pure insanity — then to a bloody, bruised mess that —

Errol lurches upward, standing unsteadily. “I’m —” They search for a word, an excuse, some reason to get out. Fumble for something, anything, to escape the situation. “I’m tired. I should —”

Just as they’re about to turn and make for the doors, Ais reaches for their wrist, grasping it lightly. It takes all the restraint in their body not to snatch it away and escape the nauseating sentimentality he’s forcing them to experience.

“Stay.”

It’s not the demand that surprises them, but his tone. Quiet, pleading; he expects them to refuse. It knocks them off-balance. “What?”

“Stay,” he repeats. Red eyes flick to the doors and back to Errol. “Spend the night here. Getting late anyway. You can head back to the city in the morning.”

They should say no. Wrench their arm free of his loose grip and march out of the shrine. Trudge through the swampy wastes and back to Eridia — whether or not they reach the city before dark. They should demand Ais guide them back, perhaps, to guard them from any Soulless that might be prowling in the shadows, awaiting someone foolish enough to brave the streets after sunset.

They should say no.

“... Alright.”

— — —

Sleep doesn’t come when they lay down hours later, much as they will it to. Thoughts cloud their mind too thickly to hope for its embrace to take hold. Unfamiliar sounds — the snoring of Soulless, the shifting of bodies, the lapping of water against wooden support beams and stone alike — seem louder than ought to be possible in the quiet night, only worsening Errol’s plight.

Ais makes no sound, however. No movement. Lies there on the collection of cushions he’d tossed down for himself, arms crossed behind his head, as though it’s no less comfortable than the messy bed Errol lies on now. 

Ais’s messy bed. It smells as much of smoke and spice and Soulless as they’d previously imagined it might.

As the demon rests, Errol observes him. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. The way his hair, messy as ever, frames his face. The even, subtle curve of his lips. They observe him — closely. Committing tiny details to memory as the seconds tick by. Etching into their mind the angle of his jaw as much as the curve of his bicep; the scraped knuckles as much as the swell of his chest. Tonight may well be the final opportunity they have to memorize such details. One last chance to take note of every feature they treasure before they set out for…

… for where?

Back to Melisende? To Winona, and the endless questions the girl would no doubt have for them? It might be nice to see their sister. To get to know her better. What games would she ask them to play with her? What sort of spells has she learned under Melisende’s tutelage that she might like to show off? What treats could they pick up for her on their way back to Peiremiss…?

Peiremiss. A place they’d scarcely expected they ever could return to. They’re already aware they wouldn’t be turned away; Melisende had informed them of such the moment they’d relayed the news of their success to her. When they’d spoken to her in their dreams the night after their arms had changed — after their arms had been fixed. After they had fixed themself. She’d hummed at the good news, mused over how enough time has passed that the worst of the vitriol directed toward them has faded. That without the threat of their curse lingering over their head, they would be accepted again. As truthful as that had been, the strained smile she’d worn as she assured them of how happy she was to see them freed of their curse, of how delightful it was to know they had found an answer to their lifelong plight…

… Errol knows perfectly well just what a load of shit that was. Knew it as the words left her mouth by the strain in her voice. When they’d awoken from their dream, they’d contemplated her palpable disappointment for just a few short minutes.

A pity for her that they can’t bring themself to particularly care about her opinion anymore.

Elsewhere. They should go elsewhere.

But where?

There are towns, they know, that may prove of interest to their research. Research that can now revolve wholly around what they want it to without regard for the vile curse that had plagued them for so long. No more need to pursue one dead end after another searching for an answer to a seemingly impossible problem; all their time and effort now free to be directed toward whatever they please. Cities (all scarcely worthy of the title, in comparison to Eridia — even in its current, wretched state) come to mind, a litany of names and points scrawled on maps. Some known for purposefully nurtured, painstakingly-selected crops, others known for simply existing amidst stunning, fascinating wild flora. Hardy, durable, designed by nature itself to survive whatever its environment might throw at it. 

The idea of spending their time examining such plants, experimenting on them, developing something more from them — it fills them with a degree of excitement they’d almost call childish.

Almost.

Perhaps they could travel southward? Quite an undertaking. The sort that would require ample preparation. Gallivanting into the hotter lands, unreadied for the high temperatures, would damn near guarantee heat exhaustion — if not heat stroke outright. Dangerous to wander there on a whim; they’ll need more time to think it over. More time to collect what they need and ready themselves mentally for any obstacles that might get in their way.

Perhaps they should find their way to the oceanside once more. Take the opportunity to walk along sandy beaches or rocky waterfronts, watching the waves crash against the shores. Listening to the sound of water rushing and birds squawking as they comb the sand and dirt for whatever might catch their eye: plantlife, shells, stones…

…provided the weather doesn’t drive them away again. Provided no harsh, unforgiving winds and bitterly cold rain chase them back inland — like last time. At least if such a thing does come to pass again, they’ll be more prepared this time; they have that new cloak, after all, courtesy of —

Dark eyes refocus.

They find two crimson eyes staring back at them intently.

… The bastard was never asleep, was he?

For a long moment, the two of them simply stare at one another in the dark, eye contact unrelenting. Errol wants to look away, wants to avoid that piercing gaze by any means available to them. Being seen like this — Being caught staring like this —

They go rigid as Ais rises.

Carefully, as though worried he might startle a wild animal, Ais makes his way to the bed, taking a seat on the edge. Far enough that he can’t quite touch Errol. Close enough that, as he offers his hand, palm upright, Errol could reach out and touch him.

If there’s anything they should do now, it’s smack the hand he offers them away. Snarl something acidic and venomous and drive a wedge between the two of them that could never be removed. Protect themself as much as him.

It’s what they would have done just a day ago.

Against their better judgement, they reach for him — and find warmth bleeding through the bandages and seeping into their skin as he takes their hand in his.

“Errol…” The low hum of his voice commands their attention, overriding the instinct to turn away and hide. Instead, they hold his gaze and listen as he speaks, each word uttered with caution and care. “I like you. Always have. Meant it the first time I said it. Lot’s changed since then —” a gentleness in his eyes — something between affection and mourning — strikes Errol just as much as the earnest words he speaks “— but not that.”

Errol flounders for a response, lips parted but unmoving, not making a sound. How are they meant to respond? Are they meant to respond at all? Or simply listen?

Before they can piece together a sentence, Ais carries on. “I don’t know what the hell to do with myself now. Don’t know what to do without Ocudeus, without something to drown out the noise for a minute. Can’t even think straight half the time.” He pauses, searching their face for — what? What could he possibly be looking for? Brow furrowing, he admits quietly, “It’s easier around you.”

 “Around me?” Errol echoes.

His grip on their hand tightens. “Yeah. Around you.” A beat. “I’ll miss you if you leave, you know.”

The simple confession hangs in the air heavily, weighing down on Errol. Inside their chest, something tears and splits; joy and fear mix together as a dull, bittersweet ache settles firmly within their ribcage. They don’t know what to say. Don’t know what the proper response is. Voice strained, they rasp, “I’ll be gone within a week.”

Ais huffs, the corners of his lips turning upward in a sad smile. “Said that earlier.”

Errol nods, unsure whether they’re confirming it for Ais’s sake or their own.

Ais leans toward them, raising their hand to his mouth; though the layers of cotton dull the sensation of his lips brushing over the back of their hand, the sight alone leaves them stunned. Leaves their cock twitching to life beneath their clothes. They watch, attention rapt, as he reaches for the end of their bandages — then pauses. Waiting, patiently, for them to react.

Again, they nod, light-headed at his request.

With no small amount of care, Ais unfurls the bandages from Errol’s hand bit by bit, revealing that the skin beneath the gauze is no more cursed now than it had been earlier today. With every second that passes, their heart pounds quicker, each beat stronger than the last. As he finishes unwrapping the last of the dark cotton from one arm, they bat him away — only long enough to pull at their clothing, fumbling with the hems of their garments as they rush to doff it all. Keen red eyes roam over every inch of their skin as they bare it, taking in details with an intensity that fills Errol with heat. 

Touch light, Ais begins working on unwinding the rest of their bandages from around their torso and other arm. It’s too intimate an act. Too intimate for them to try and convince themself they don’t return the sentiment he’d shared with them. Too intimate for them to deny that, despite their best efforts, they long for his presence. That while they may be eager to leave all the pain and sorrow they’ve found in Eridia far behind, they’re dreading leaving him.

“Wherever you go,” Ais murmurs, eyes rising from their hand as the last of the cotton falls away, “I figure you’ll be alright. I know you know how to take care of yourself and all…” Ais’s lips press to their palm; the skin beneath the warmth itches, alarms ringing in the back of their head at the thought that at any moment, scraped knuckles might slam into their face or calloused fingers might curl around their neck with intent to kill. Muscle goes tense as lips track across their skin. There’s no pattern. No rhythm. No destination. It’s exploration, not demand — even if the want in his eyes is clear. Even if the hint of teeth sharper than knives warns them — promises them — something they don’t dare ask for aloud. It freezes them in place, the heat running through them doing nothing to free them of this unexpected captivity. It only serves to make their cock grow harder.

There’s a prick against the meat of their palm — nothing more, nothing serious, nothing Ais couldn’t pass off as an accident if he were so inclined. Errol’s breath goes still in their chest, vision constricting to a narrow cone focused on Ais’s face. Ais’s mouth. Dark eyes track its movement, seeking a peek of gleaming white canine among the flash of teeth he bares in a grin for but a second before he’s mouthing at their wrist, tongue brushing over their pulse point. Teeth follow behind — the grazing of enamel a reminder of just how easily he could tear into them.

“... But I’ll miss you,” Ais whispers against their skin.

Reeling at his quiet words, their head hazy, blood pounding through their veins at just the thought of those razor-sharp teeth cutting into them, Errol fights to draw a breath once more. The moment they succeed, thoughts racing with the influx of sorely-needed oxygen, their fingers wind into his hair — and yank.

Ais grunts and stares back, eyelids hanging heavy over red eyes, the bright irises nearly swallowed up by inky pupils as he steadily meets their gaze. Unafraid. Unphased. Unconcerned. 

Waiting. 

Just as he has been all this time.

But it seems his patience is reaching its limit at last.

Tugging at their free hand drags their attention downward for an instant. Only an instant, only long enough to catch the way Ais squeezes their fingers between his. It’s more polite than they’d have expected of him. More tactful. More subtle than they’d have wasted their time with being if their roles were somehow — impossibly — reversed. 

Huffing, amused, they close the distance between their mouth and his.

They’re not quite “rough” with him— for now — but they’re not far from it. They’ve kept too much bottled up to be properly sweet about it. Kept too much buried deep and sorted away as neatly as they could manage.

It’s bubbling up now. Spilling out through their mouth and their fingertips alike, undeniable in how their hands push and pull and prod, in how their teeth clamp down on his lip enough to slice the delicate skin as their restraint crumbles further. They expect the taste of metal on their tongue, of the unmistakable, delicious bite of iron. The accompanying taste of the same spice he smells so strongly of — that comes as a surprise.

Disgust curls in their gut at the sharp pang that shoots through it — disgust with the part of them that screeches for more. Another taste, another bite — a bigger bite.

The pain, the hunger — it doesn’t scare him, it seems. Not in the slightest. Doesn’t spur him to push them away and sneer. No, it drives him to grit out something sharp and sudden against their lips (a curse, they assume, in some tongue they’ve never heard before in their life) and groan (pain? Pleasure? Both, do they dare to hope?). Only to then match their urgency, their need, the second his mouth is pressing against theirs properly once more. He digs fangs into their own lip to draw blood in return, tongue swiping across the shallow laceration left behind.

He sees them. Hears them. Feels them. Understands them. In ways no one else does. Ways no one else could hope to — even now. Because he knew them before. Before their curse was nothing more than a vivid memory. Before they could even think of calling themself normal. 

He knows them — and it terrifies them.

Their hands push his shirt aside, shivers running up their spine as their palms meet the bare skin, warm and smooth, the fabric had been concealing beneath. Briefly, their fingers trail along the distinct lines of collar bone and across the firm planes of his pectorals.

Gods, they’d dreamed of being able to do this. Love that they can touch him so freely just as much as they fear the freedom to do so might be snatched away from them at any second. Fear that they might open their eyes between nipping at Ais’s lips and tongue and find their skin dyed that same inky hue it had always been. Fear that that very sight might be their last.

But no, there’s no sign of as much being the case, even with their eyes still screwed shut. The palm sliding up their spine is firm — not threatening, not bruising, not deadly. Just firm.

They’re safe. He’s safe.

The very idea of it is dizzying. Disorienting. Distracting — enough that they find Ais’s tongue shoved past their teeth, slipping against theirs while the same hand that had traveled up their back holds them close. Anchors them as they squirm in his lap, their stiff cock pressing against his through his trousers. It roots them in place and forces them back to the moment at hand even as old instincts and terrifying memories threaten to pull them away again.

Their mouth breaks away from his. Urgent. Desperate. Hunger and guilt swirl and twist in their stomach, guts tying into knots that bring a sour taste to their tongue. They need to relieve the tension curling their intestines into a tangled jumble of emotion and want and revulsion. They need to wipe the acrid tang of disgust from their palate. They need —

Teeth meet skin, cleaving through it, leaving white hot pain in their wake as they cut into Ais more cleanly than any hatchet or knife could. As though he was made to be devoured. Made to be consumed. The sound of heavy swallowing reaches his ear as he gasps, and Ais shudders with the slow drag of tongue against raw, exposed tissue. As though he’s being savored. A delicacy reserved for one and one alone.

Maybe Ocudeus was more on the mark than he’d care to admit.

Better Errol than the god. Better the one that laps at the wound they leave like it’s something meaningful, something sacred while Ais grits his teeth and grips their sides with bruising force. This isn’t about domination, about overpowering and using him like a puppet. Like a tool. Like something to wear — not so different from the clothing lying discarded on the floor. 

This he can live with. Even if it hurts. Even if it leaves a scar. 

At least the scar will be something to remember them by — no matter where he and they go. No matter whether he can convince them to take him along or not. No matter whether there’s a continent or an inch between them. 

Hips buck upward, the mindless motion no more graceful than the hands that force Errol’s hips down to meet the thrust — and then the next, and the next. Driven by want and by need, by a desire to feel everything he can. A demand for closeness. For the type of intimacy he could only find with someone who can’t see through his eyes. Who can’t know exactly what it is to be him, with a thousand echoes reverberating through his brain and bones at any given moment. Another person, completely separate from him and all those he can barely separate from him.

This might be the last chance he gets with Errol.

They might be gone tomorrow. Just like so much else. Like so many other people and things now well beyond his reach. And he’ll be well and truly alone, left to deal with all the hundreds or thousands or however many of red-eyed “family members” he has with no one else to turn to.

Best make the most of the time he’s got. The time they’re offering. Before the two of them figure out where they’re each headed tomorrow — and whether it’ll be the same place or not. Whether he’ll leave at all. Whether they’ll let him tag along with them wherever they plan on going. Whether they’ll give him the excuse he needs to try and clear his head. To try and be him again, to be an individual in mind and soul — not just body. To not be completely, totally alone in the process.

Errol pulls one layer after another from Ais, evidently eager to see him just as naked as they are. Between sharp nips and hot kisses, they discard garment after garment, tossing them away haphazardly as they busy their mouth and their hands alike. Calloused fingertips scout across Errol’s skin throughout the process, seeking out every divot, every ridge of bone, every scar — the old scratches and the deeper, graver injuries alike. Seeking out everything that marks Errol as Errol. Everything that makes them them.

His thumb brushes over the last strips of bandages they wear — the ones obscuring their forehead from view. They pull away from him enough to meet his eye, conflict playing out across their expression as they regard him.

He asks nothing. Says nothing. Doesn’t dare — not right now, not when he can tell one wrong word might send them marching out past the heavy mahogany doors of the shrine for the final time.

Finally, Errol glances away, tentatively reaching for the strips of cotton. Hesitation drips from them as they remove the final bit of fabric, revealing… 

… runes.

Ais doesn’t know these runes, doesn’t know exactly what their purpose might be. Only knows that, based on the tension in Errol’s jaw and their white-knuckled grip on the dark bandages in their hands, it’s something sensitive. Something painful. Something private. Something he doubts they’d care to reveal to anyone.

Something they’ve chosen to reveal to him.

His heart twists violently at the tender thought as he looks over the markings carved into their forehead. When his lips press to the rune-covered skin gingerly, half-afraid he might hurt them somehow, Errol freezes. Lingering there, he waits for them to relax, to ease up. Waits for some indication of whether or not he’s messed up.

When they pull his mouth to meet theirs again, kissing him slow and deep, he understands exactly what it is they want.

Ais tightens his grip on them. Digs his fingers into their skin in the same instance he feels the telltale sensation of something more emerging — of additional appendages springing from him and feeling about the world around him, seeking out any hint of warmth. Of movement. Of life.

Of Errol.

Now, at least, it’s all under his control. His command. At least now he can try to be sure they won’t be torn to shreds — literally — by the time he’s finished.

Still. He can’t afford to be too certain yet. Can’t afford to be too comfortable. Can’t risk assuming Ocudeus really is gone. Recklessness is in his blood. In his bones. Errol’s already survived far too much.

He doesn’t want to find out if they can survive more of it.

He needs to know if they can survive more of it. All of it.

They've outlasted Ocudeus. They’ve outlasted a God.

… He thinks.

It’s dangerous to just think it. To not know it.

Each long, flexible tendril that wraps around the alchemist sends feedback racing through nerves back to Ais, overwhelming him with a flood of sensation he wasn’t quite ready for. Wasn’t quite prepared to process along with all the rest at the same time. From the warmth beneath their skin to the flex of muscle as they shift and adjust; from the lengths of their legs to their chest, heaving with every breath, he feels it. Feels them.

Teeth sink in again — now into his pectoral. Shallow, restrained, slicing through almost purely skin and only a shred of the muscle beneath. Demanding his attention, as though they knew his mind was wandering. Knew his mind was anywhere other than them.

His eyes meet theirs, his breath catching.

Eyes bright and wide, lips and chin coated in sticky crimson now paving trails down their throat, Errol stares back at him. The raw starvation in their gaze takes him by surprise, makes him the faintest bit dizzy. The unspoken plea for more. For as much as he’ll allow. For him to let them continue, or to stop them, or something.

Part of him wonders if they’d dig their teeth into his throat if he asked.

His fingers wind into Errol’s hair, neither jerking them away nor pulling them closer. Best to leave the choice to them. Let them know he wants this — wants them. Wants pleasure as much as pain. Wants each kiss as much as each bite. Wants to take what they have to offer, and wants to give what they want in turn.

Because now, he can. Because now, there’s nothing stopping him.

And nothing stopping them — not even themself.

Tentacles curl more snugly around Errol, constricting around torso and limb alike to spread them wide and guide them into the position Ais wants them — more support than restraint, leaving them free to bury a hand into Ais’s hair and jerk his head back. The demon laughs breathily, grinning at them without fighting. Lips curled into a lazy smile still, he brings his fingers to his mouth, making a show of curling his tongue around the digits and coating them in saliva, sliding them past his lips and moaning softly as he sucks at them. It’s only once they’re thoroughly soaked that he pops them out, hand lowering between him and Errol. A breath escapes him — just short of a groan — when he finds their length just as hard as he’d hoped. 

Errol is not particularly soft in any definition of the word. They’re sharp, in body and tongue both, and can prove as cold as ice on occasion — Ais would know. He’s experienced just how cold a shoulder they can give someone firsthand. But here, their skin is smooth, velvety, warm — hot. A soft moan leaves Errol as the calloused pads of Ais’s fingers explore, sliding smoothly past their shaft and sac. He doesn’t miss the way they grit their teeth as he pointedly avoids sinking so much as one fingertip inside their ass, instead focusing on spreading his saliva around their hole, teasing them. The alchemist growls, frustration palpable, as they buck their hips, trying — failing — to either grind their cock against his belly or sink down onto his fingers.

Probably isn’t a surprise to them that he’s grinning all the while. Won’t be a surprise to him if he gets a snippy comment from them later for it. The promise of it should be all the more reason to keep on like this, keep denying them what they want until they open their mouth to do something other than bite.

It should be. It would be — if not for how the thought of it reminds him that he might very well never see them again after tomorrow.

The solemn thought sends a pang through him. Makes him want to growl and curse about how it’s not fucking fair. As though he were a petulant child, screaming his head off about some stupid game that hadn’t gone his way.

This isn’t a game to him. Errol isn’t a game to him.

Swallowing down the bitter taste of grief — grief for something that hasn’t yet come to pass — Ais stops teasing them, instead grasping Errol’s cock. Giving them the pressure they’re seeking without any further delay, despite how dearly he’d love to torment them. He relishes the sigh of relief they offer him as he strokes them languidly, their lips promptly finding the thin streams of blood rolling slowly down his chest. 

They kiss as much as they suck, jaw tight with restraint as they work. Holding back the urge to sink their teeth into him again, to take more of him than they already have.

Part of him wishes they would. Wishes they’d scrape incisor along clavicle as they stripped away the skin covering it. Wishes they’d take a proper mouthful out of his shoulder or his forearm — not mere nibbles.

At least they seem happy with this, going by the low sounds of contentment leaving them with every drag of their tongue. Could be worse. Could be so much worse — they could’ve walked out by now. Could’ve refused to come here in the first place. Could’ve left without humoring his request to talk one last time.

At the thought, Ais is all too eager to retract his hand, swipe it along a smooth, slick tentacle to cover it in the same moisture coating the appendage, and sink his fingers inside Errol. An attempt to try and banish the image his mind has cruelly conjured of them striding away in favor of feeling their breath stutter against his broken skin as he pumps two digits inside them. Slow — sluggish, even. Someone else might call the unhurried pace lazy; he’s pretty sure Errol knows better. Knows he intends to take his time with them — however much he can get. However much they’ll allow him to have. If he can’t bring himself to outright deny them for as long as he’d like, he can at least make this part drag on and on. Try to make them remember each and every knuckle as clear as day, try to burn into their memory just how good it feels to ride his fingers while a tentacle curls around their length and his, holding the two together firmly.

Errol shudders, rocking along with the motion and pace he settles on, tongue tracing over the trails of blood seeping from the bites they’d left and lapping up every drop of still-warm blood they find. The hot, wet muscle damn near tickles in comparison to the memory of the sharp, searing pain of teeth cutting through tissue, their tongue softer and kinder than the enamel in no small measure. 

They take his fingers easily enough, as worked up as he’s gotten them. Must like it – the way their dick throbs against his with each thrust of his hips. Could take more, he’d bet. Could probably take —

There’s a complaint readied on Errol’s tongue the second they register Ais’s fingers slipping out of them without warning. Some remark about how long he’s taking, how long he’s making them wait for —

Any words they might have uttered die as something else — something smoother and larger and wetter — prods at their hole. Dark eyes snap downward, fixating on the writhing form of a tentacle as it pushes its way inside them.

It forces a gasp from Errol — the way his fingers dig into their sides and the way slick, firm muscle slides across their skin and twists inside them. The way appendages smooth over their body and curl within them, leaving nerves lit up bright white with pleasure in their wake, massaging every inch of the pale flesh touched with a tenderness someone else surely wouldn’t expect of something perfectly, easily capable of shattering a grown man’s femur as though it were nothing more than a dried twig.

Images of flesh being stripped from bone, of stones being painted red, flash through their head. The smell of brine and the whispers of more voices than they could hope to pin down and identify. Human beings reduced to viscera and splintered bone while a dark, claustrophobic alley grows seemingly smaller and smaller with every screech of the dying and indistinct murmur of that eerie, outlandish choir. Eviscerated so thoroughly, the carcasses left behind could never hope to be identified. 

Brutal. Savage. Vicious.

But with Errol, things are different. Instead of viciousness or violence, they find patience. Consideration. Caution. Each and every movement of the tentacles is tempered. Measured. Even if any given one were to tighten its grasp on them further, Errol would be in no more danger than Ais knew they wanted; they’re as certain of that as they are of the building heat low in their belly. 

The demon in question is… obvious. Perceptible. Easy to read. And he reads them just as easily — no matter how thoroughly it discomforts them. No matter how much they may wish they could hide away all the emotion he stirs in them still — hesitant at best to bare it in full. A part of them seethes, bitter and biting; how dare he? How dare he look through them like this so easily? 

He’s real. And he’s here. And he’s feeling them from head to toe, inside and out in ways that scare them as much as excite them. In ways they’re not sure anyone else is capable of.

Wet, lewd sounds fill the air as the tentacle inside them moves, thrusting in and out languidly while Ais moves against them from below, cock grinding against Errol as the appendage dutifully continues its work within them. The drag of skin on skin, both their and Ais’s cocks hard and hot, drives them mad. Causes every muscle in their body to go taut, tight, ready for them to snap.

The low groan that rumbles through Ais’s chest as Errol’s thighs begin to quake — that, they’re certain, is what pushes them over the edge and leaves them gasping out half-formed words, gripping his biceps as muscles in their abdomen jump. Pulse thrumming, cock throbbing, their walls contract around the thick tentacle moving ceaselessly within them. It doesn’t falter for a heartbeat as they paint Ais’s stomach and chest in ropes of come.

Neither does Ais.

Rough hands slide to their hips and tighten — blunt fingernails bite into sharp hipbones painfully as Ais grinds against their still-twitching dick, soft grunts and moans escaping him as his cock slides against theirs and the tentacle pressing them together, seeing them through and past their orgasm without so much as a second of pause.

It’s odd, the way he both treats them as though they’re made of glass and as though they’re unbreakable at once. As though they’re perfectly capable of enduring whatever he seeks to give them — and yet still, he remains alert. Wary of his actions. Mindful not to push them beyond their limits, even as they struggle to cling to whatever shred of composure they can. Struggle to stay in control of themself and their body.

It makes their heart flutter more than they could stand to say. At least he’s not asking that they say as much aloud. Not asking that they make it known through words they’d find more difficult to pluck from their mouth than their own teeth.

One of the tentacles squirming rhythmically against them abandons them for a moment, returning to wrap around their body again before they can truly miss it — holding them more solidly against Ais now, doing exactly nothing to aid them in catching their breath again as they attempt to recover from their high, growing more overstimulated with every thrust of Ais’s dick against theirs.

And very, very little to brace them for the split second warning of fangs scraping across the skin of their palm before sharp teeth pierce it, slicing through with the sort of effortlessness that indicates they were designed for it. Designed to bite. To tear. To consume flesh. To consume them. Reflexively, they try to jerk their hand away, but the tightening of a tentacle forbids it. Keeps their arm rooted in place exactly where Ais wants it. Through the fog of pain and pleasure, they force themself to look at their palm.

It’s tentative, superficial. Scarcely more than a nibble. Barely more than a sample of them. 

Something in them wants to wail at the idea that he might only want a sample.

The moment crimson eyes meet theirs, that something is quieted; there’s an appetite gleaming in his eyes, unmistakable and insatiable, that sends a thrill up their spine just as much as the crimson painting his lips.

Warmth spreads up their spine and through their chest, pleasantly gentle in comparison to the overbearing heat between their legs.

He wants them. Craves them — maybe even as deeply as they do him. He’s only holding back in the interest of not truly damaging them.

The revelation delights them more than they’d have permitted it to a month ago. A week ago. Perhaps even a day ago.

That delight, that joy, has them melting into him, into the motion of his hips as his lips travel up their arm and to their neck, leaving pinpricks along the way. Leaves them melting into the sting of his teeth sinking into their lip again as his mouth finds theirs again.

Once more, they take hold of his hair — this time to keep his lips pressed firm to theirs as he moans into their mouth, his movements growing more and more erratic, the tentacles caressing Errol twitching and spasming as Ais grows frantic, desperate, rutting against them with purpose, cock pulsing as he chases his own release.

With a long, low moan, Ais comes — his release splattering across his front alongside Errol’s. Clutching them tight throughout his climax, holding to them as though they might anchor him, keep him rooted in the here and now and not in whatever might be fighting for his attention within the confines of his skull.

Maybe he truly meant it when he said it’s easier to think clearly around them.

It’s a shock when the tentacles vanish, retreating back into Ais as he struggles to even his labored breathing. Strong arms curl around Errol, and they fight a wince as they feel his wet, sticky chest press to theirs, choosing to trust that he’ll have enough consideration — once he’s caught his breath — to either wash them clean of the mess he and they have made, or to tell them where they can find the means to wash themself. At minimum, they need to attend to the wounds he’s left on them and the wounds they’ve left on him; nursing an infected injury while traveling, potentially far from any proper medical aid, is far from what they desire. And that’s without making mention of how uncomfortable sleeping tonight while actively bleeding would prove.

He takes his time cooling down. Takes his time allowing tension to seep out of him, slumping against them as he holds them close. With the open-mouthed kisses he presses to their shoulder and neck, patternless and rhythmless, it’s more difficult to mind than they would have anticipated.

For a time.

Errol clears their throat. “Ais.”

“Mmh.” Completely, utterly unbothered.

“Do you intend on sleeping in this state?” Errol hisses, squirming in his lap.

They can feel how his lips curl into that familiar shit-eating grin against their throat at their terse tone. “There a problem with that?”

With a noise of disgust, Errol shoves at Ais’s chest; the demon doesn’t budge an inch. “I will not sleep until I’ve washed up.”

Ais groans, holding them tighter.

“Ais.”

Another groan, but this time he releases them, moving and shifting until Errol’s left seated on the edge of the mattress while he rifles through drawers and cabinets. It occurs to them — for far from the first time — that it’s a miracle the man can find anything in here.

Despite the mess, he manages to locate what he’d been searching for: a latched box. Kneeling before them, Ais sets the container on the bed beside them, unlatching it and revealing… medical supplies. A respectable medical kit, ranging from surgical instruments to bottled alchemical mixtures; from rolls of gauze to clean rags. Errol is familiar with some of it — though not all. As he sorts through the box with purpose, pulling out vials and cloths, they realize he must have retained a good deal more knowledge from his time in Kuras’s clinic than most might have been able to.

Ais is nothing short of attentive as he turns his eyes on the alchemist once more. There’s something frighteningly vulnerable in the way Ais looks at them as he tends to the injury he’d caused. In the way his hands remain steady even as the heat and hunger in his eyes ease. In the way the striking crimson mellows into something warmer than it is hot, more sweet than searing.

Were they a stranger, had they not seen him rend men apart like wet paper, they could almost mistake him for harmless like this.

They know better. They know this is a choice — the gentleness with which he passes a soft, damp cloth over the open wound, the care with which he dabs at the moisture left behind and massages a salve into the tender flesh before setting about wrapping bandages to cover the damage he’s done to them.

Errol would like to say there’s nothing weak about either of them in the moment. 

They would be lying — and they find themself unsure as to whether it frustrates them or terrifies them.

As they watch him wind gauze around their palm — around skin the same tone as that found anywhere else on their body, as bare of gold veins now as they are of wretched curse — Errol’s thoughts slow to a crawl. Focusing on the deft movements of his hands is all they can manage. Practiced motions. The art of wound-tending not quite mastered, but acceptably adequate as he neatly tucks the end of the cotton fabric into a fold.

It’s only enough to cover their wounds — nothing more. Only enough to hide the evidence of what he’d done.

Part of them expects him to recoil when they move to return the favor; part of them knew before they even moved that he would remain still as they pass a clean rag over his own wounds.

He watches closely as they care for the raw wounds they’d left on him. Crimson eyes follow their every movement as they clean and cover the injuries, roaming over every inch of them as they clean him up and bandage him in return, seeking to replicate the level of expertise he’d just displayed. As they work, they try to ignore how their lip throbs with pain — proof of just how hard he’d bitten after all.

It doesn’t take long to finish up; there’s only so much to be done for the injuries after cleaning, applying salve, and covering it up other than simply waiting from this point on.

They’re… not as adept as him at this, they think as they look over their work. Not quite. But it’ll do. The gauze they’ve wrapped his injuries in is neat enough, tidy enough, and secure enough to suffice.

The two of them recline against the mattress then, sinking into the plush bed. Neither moves to pull any of the myriad blankets over themself, simply lying there in the dark and the quiet.

Errol rolls onto their side, examining Ais.

All the sharp angles and hard lines of his features seem… softer. Relaxed. They wonder whether he’s fallen asleep or if he’s merely resting his eyes again.

“View still as good as ever?”

Resting, then — not sleeping. Just as before.

Errol huffs, turning to their back and staring up at the ceiling. They see no point in providing him an answer; he’ll only use it as an opening to be a smartass, and they lack the energy to respond in kind at the moment.

Ais shifts beside them. “Should let me come with you.”

It’s hushed, spoken so quietly Errol wonders if they may have misheard him. Their head turns to him, and they find he isn’t looking at their face, eyes instead wandering from their shoulders to their fingers and back, again and again and again. They expect to see awe, perhaps, at the pale skin. At the absence of the curse that had plagued them, that had given them one more reason to keep anyone — to keep him — at a distance.

They find only quiet contentment and subdued sadness.

After too long a moment for it to be natural, he adds, “Could keep you safe.”

They know it for what it is the second the words leave his mouth: an excuse. An excuse to come with them, so they don’t need to say outright that they want him by their side primarily out of affection. A painfully considerate gesture — more evidence of just how clear a picture he has of them. Of just how laughably simple it is for him to look straight through them.

“... I will…” They trail off as they regard him, taking in the glimmer of — of sorrow, as though he fully expects nothing but a refusal. The expression tugs at their heartstrings, and any remaining resolve they’d had to plainly reject him crumbles. “I will consider it.”

A hand finds theirs, fingers curling around theirs so gently every organ within their ribcage aches.

This could have never happened at any other time in their life. This could have never happened with Augustus. With Louve. This was nothing more than a dream, once: the soft warmth of skin against theirs, real and scarred and calloused and alive.

Were they to simply look, they could find this with anyone, now.

Their fingers curl around his and squeeze.

Ais hums, and silence falls over the room again — for once, comfortable. Comforting.

Tomorrow will come. And the day after. Then the day after that. By the end of the week, they’ll leave Eridia and everything within it behind...