#felshaxx

Felwinter only finds himself sleeping in when he is visiting Shaxx. The Iron Lord never sleeps at all; he doesn’t need to, and there is always work to be done. He often finds himself quite busy in the evenings, scouring submind data or organizing lessons for his new student, activities that he obsesses over long after dusk, when any ordinary man would retire for the night. But endless work and looming threats be damned, Shaxx has an absurdly comfortable bed, with far too many pillows and a mattress so soft that Felwinter’s frame sinks immediately into it like a stone in a pond. He’d never known he needed a soft bed with a mountain of pillows. It has become one of the millions of little things he looks forward to when it comes to visiting his beloved in the Last Safe City of Humanity

His infrequent holiday stays in the City have been growing in length recently. In the past, he was lucky to have a single evening to himself to spend, a few scant hours spent being shown all of the spectacular things Shaxx detailed to him in his letters. Now, he is allotted more time, sometimes a week or more, once or twice a month. There was never any announcement made; Felwinter highly suspects that Radegast had been pestered into lessening the burdens of his duties by those few nosy Lords who had deciphered his unspoken relationship with Shaxx. Absolute wretches, all of them. He cannot complain.

He sleeps in more frequently now; Shaxx wakes earlier than him, often unable to step away from his post for longer than a few hours. But he never leaves without soft murmurs goodbye and a few kisses pressed to his face. Felspring teases him relentlessly when he finds himself brushing his hand over where Shaxx’s had been. He swats at her before dozing off for the next hour or so, Arc energy buzzing across his frame long after the Warlord has gone, soft flickers of static mimicking well-known, well-loved fingertips.

When he does finally wake up, it is to a still-empty house. If he makes a small noise of disappointment, he will never admit to it. He makes the bed, dresses himself, and opens the windows to let the sun and the air in, admiring the cityscape in the distance. It truly is as marvelous as Shaxx had made it out to be. A place where flowers bloom and birds sing, and Lightless people sleep without guns in their hands. Shaxx had entrusted Felwinter (and Felwinter alone. Oh, isn’t that a precious thought?) with a small, messy manuscript of hand-written poetry. Felwinter had smiled as Shaxx asked for his aid in revising it, hiding his apprehension in his hands as he wrung them, his feet as he shuffled them, his eyes as he averted them from his face. The very same manuscript lay on the kitchen counter, pockmarked with notes and bookmarks, the pages marked with fresh ink in the margins where Felwinter had endlessly praised Shaxx’s prose (in a much more legible script). Where words often failed the Iron Lord, his writing never did. He confessed his love through paragraphs of detailed interpretation and literary analysis. Poetry of his own.

Felwinter is in the process of writing more notes in the manuscript when Shaxx finally returns to the house. Felwinter turns to greet him– there is a tray of twin coffee cups in one hand and a small box cradled in the other, another bag tucked in his elbow.

Shaxx’s Ghost graciously removes the man’s helmet in time for him to press a kiss to his forehead. “Morning,” he rumbles as he deposits his goodies on the counter.

Felwinter absorbs the matching icons printed on the bag and the box. Some kind of bakery, evidently. He shuts the manuscript and sets it aside, taking one of the cups when Shaxx hands it to him. “Good morning,” he replies. “How goes the Crucible?”

“Astoundingly boring. I have no exciting clips to share.” The man sounds almost wounded. Felwinter curses whichever Guardian neglected to throw enough grenades to elicit excitement in the Crucible Handler. “The new Lights tend to try their luck during the summer months. I almost feel bad watching them get decimated by some of our veteran fireteams.”

“One would think the loss would motivate them to try harder.”

Shaxx laughs as he opens the box and examines its contents, out of Felwinter’s line of sight. “It does! That’s the thing about the newly Risen. They haven’t learned what quitting is yet.”

Felwinter does not protest when Shaxx plucks something out of the box and presses it insistently into his hand. It is a soft pastry, glazed with a sweet white frosting and sprinkled with what looks like chunks of cookies. Shaxx grabs an identical item out of the box, but his eyes are on Felwinter rather than the thing in his hand.

The Iron Lord puzzles over it, tilting it carefully so as not to spill the toppings, and stares at Shaxx. “What is this?”

“It’s a donut.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “It’s called a Bismarck. A banana Bismarck, to be exact.” He sounds overly proud of himself as he tilts his chin triumphantly. Felwinter huffs at the display.

Felspring hovers over his shoulder, studying the treat curiously. Felwinter wishes that she had a mouth so she could try it herself. In her stead, he slowly takes a bite, watching Shaxx mirror him with equal trepidation. He cranes his neck over the counter and cups his hand under the Bismarck, making sure no debris falls to the floor. The kitchen is flooded with an oddly pregnant silence as they chew thoughtfully in tandem with one another.

Felwinter signifies the end of his chewing and swallowing with “It’s good.”

“I concur,” Shaxx says. He is still chewing, and the words are muffled as he cleverly keeps his mouth as closed as possible. Crumbs speckle the corners of his lips. “Very sweet.”

“Obscenely,” he remarks. Shaxx barks a laugh.

Felwinter takes another bite. He feels like something, a loose screw, or a damaged cog, clicks back into place. He plucks a cookie off of the top of the thing and pops it into his mouth. It crunches loudly in the metal hollow of his mouth, and the sound drowns out every other thought in his head. Shaxx chuckles at him again, looking very strangely infatuated, and Felwinter cannot stop the lights that dot his chest and his neck from flickering in diffidence.

When his mouth dries up from consuming the pastry, Felwinter reaches for the coffee. It is strong, straight black just the way he likes it, and pleasantly hot rather than scalding. He drinks deeply and feels his plates thaw from the warmth of it, his mouth, his throat, his chest, and his stomach, each system absorbing it individually. The bitterness is a perfect complement to the sweetness of the Bismarck. Shaxx watches him overtly, an earnest tenderness visible in his eyes, unhurried anticipation visible in his open posture. Silently, he seeks appraisal.

“It’s very good,” Felwinter murmurs. All of the words he knows feel inadequate to describe his feelings, so he resorts to simplicity instead. “Thank you.”

Shaxx physically sags against the counter with what Felwinter assumes is relief. An uncharacteristically bashful grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. “I’m glad. I wasn’t sure you’d like it.”

The Exo’s eyes sparkle with his version of a coy smile. “Do I not strike you as the type to enjoy banana-flavored sweets, Lord Shaxx?”

“No, Fel. Not at all.”

As if to prove him wrong, he takes another bite of the Bismarck. It is so sickeningly sweet that he is afraid it will somehow rot his metal mouth.

——