#ghostlydragonpainter

Xander hasn’t slept. Exhaustion stings the back of his eyes and aches through his jaw. He wasn’t sober in the nighttime, though he is now, and he figures he ought to stay this way. He’s never had the time or luxury for grief. He only wishes his body would cooperate.

Laslow left him yesterday. He always said he might, that he has a home which expects him—but that it’s also a one-way trek. And it’s never been Xander’s intention to keep Laslow captive, and he’s told himself it may be better this way. But still, the warmth of Laslow’s hands have long left Xander’s skin, and there is nothing but void to replace it.

He didn’t leave in so many words. But it was unmistakably a farewell, one still fresh in Xander's mind. It hasn’t yet been long enough for him to recognize any regrets, even. Though he’s begun to feel them take form, brewing coldly in the back of his thoughts.

And as such, when Xander ran into Laslow while he was riding, he thought he was mistaken. A cruel but hopeful trick his imagination played, already longing for what’s far out of reach. Xander almost simply rode past—but as Laslow’s figure became more clear in the dark, Xander slowed his horse to a stop.

And sure enough, when Laslow turns around to the sound of Xander’s voice, those wide brown eyes are unmistakably his.

“Oh,” Laslow says, sitting on one of the low stone walls that outline the riding grounds. He twists farther around, swinging his legs to the inward side. “Milord. I—um. I was just trying to work up the nerve to go inside. But I—well. I can’t shake these jelly knees.”

Xander climbs down from his horse, not letting himself feel any relief. He wouldn't be able bear the weight of getting his hopes up, not now. And even if something begins to work its way into his throat, he calmly swallows it away. “You’re still here?”

Laslow gives a weak grin, if you could even call it that. It's hardly an upwards twitch of his features. “Of course I’m here,” he says feebly. “Where else would I be?”

Xander, now closer, can see the red in Laslow’s eyes. Not still wet, but bearing clear evidence of tears. “You don’t fool me,” Xander says flatly with a frown. “That was a goodbye, yesterday. What are you doing?”

“Ah.” Guilt creeps up Laslow’s expression. He shuffles his feet awkwardly in the dirt and grips the top of the stony wall tightly. And as his silence persists, Xander goes on.

“Why… Are you back?” Xander asks. Laslow’s face tightens, and he slowly begins to stand.

“I should go, shouldn’t I. I’m sorry, I—”

Xander strides to him and plants his hands on Laslow’s shoulders, sitting him back down before he may even stretch his legs. “That isn’t what I’m asking for,” Xander says, and Laslow shrugs into himself under the pressure of Xander’s palms. “Tell me—why did you return here. What happened?

Laslow licks his lips. And he stares down at one of Xander’s hands, still holding him steady.

“I… Threw my way home into a lake,” he says, with only a slight waver in his voice. “So. Unless it begins to drain, you may be stuck with me.”

Xander stares. He loosens his grip on Laslow, moving his hands from his shoulders down to his arms. “What?”

“Odin and Selena left. We were supposed to go together,” Laslow continues. He scowls down at his feet. “We had magic to use, you understand. Crystals to travel with, one use only. But I—well, I hesitated right at the last moment.” He gnaws the inside of his cheek with an irritation, eyes still away. “But they left. And I—I panicked, and I got frustrated, I was alone and I didn’t think. So… I threw mine into the lake we were by. Because I’m stupid. And—it seems I have a pretty good arm.”

Laslow’s distress looms over him like a blanket. Xander releases his grip and goes to sit beside him instead. “…Oh.”

Laslow nods. “I hope it’s okay I’m here. I don’t know where else I’d go.” He folds his arms tightly, closing himself off further. “You don’t have to take me back.”

Xander wraps an arm around Laslow regardless. They sit, for a moment, in silence. Holding him now, it truly begins to register in Xander that Laslow is here again. “You said you hesitated?”

Something begins to spill, and tears bulge over Laslow’s eyes. He gulps, and an ache comes out in his voice. “I… I kept thinking, um. Of you,” he begins, pinching his arms. “I didn’t know if I—if I was going to be able to love someone like I love you. If the way I’d love them would be anything compared to how I loved you. Love you.”

Laslow sucks in a breath, staring down at his knees. He sniffs, and some tears do begin to fall, dully wetting fabric and dotting his thighs.

“And I think—I’m more of a lover than anything else.”

Xander leans down and kisses him. Feels the warmth of his breath and the angular point of his chin as he presses back. Xander tries to savor every moment, in ways he never did before. And when he pulls away, Laslow lingers close.

“I’m sorry for saying goodbye,” Laslow says, just above a whisper. “Would it—would it be okay if I said hello, now?”

Xander gives a low and short hum. His kisses Laslow’s forehead, trying to relax into him, trying to take not a single moment of his presence for granted. He grazes his arm up Laslow’s back and rests on his neck, petting the hair on his nape.

"Why is it so difficult?" Manuela went on. "All I ask of a partner is someone nice, who doesn't mind a bit of mess, treats me with respect, maybe someone who can cook, someone nice to look at would be good too--"

Shamir rolled her eyes. She truly couldn't understand why Manuela was so desperate to be in a relationship. But she supposed she could understand the frustration. With her sandy-yellow tail that turned white towards her fins, her healing expertise, her love for poetry and song-- the fact that so many mermen passed Manuela up was a bit of a pity.

"Perhaps I should try chatting up mermaids again. It's been some time. At least a lady might understand how not to end a date. There was this one mermaid in the seas of Brigid that-- What was that?"

Surely Shamir hadn't caught that correctly. Manuela was open to the company of female merfolk? For all Manuela's prattling, Shamir couldn't recall if she'd even mentioned that before.

"Shamir? Do you see that shadow up there?"

And even if that were true, so what? Manuela was more suited to pretty, delicate mermaids who would laugh politely at her tall tales and blush on cue. Not mermaids with scars on their tails and no tolerance for small talk.

"I think that's one of the boats Seteth warned us-- Shamir!"

Manuela grabbed Shamir's hand and pulled her backward. A flash of silver streaked by, exactly where Shamir had been swimming. Sand flew in all directions as it hit the ocean floor. Shamir reflectively put herself between Manuela and the threat, their hands still clasped.

The cloud of sand settled to reveal an anchor. It was almost the size of Shamir herself, sunk partway in the ground. Shamir followed its chain to a boat floating high above them. "I told you to was a boat!" Manuela snapped.

Shamir swallowed. "I wasn't... I didn't hear you."

"Evidently not!" Manuela swam around to face Shamir, eyes narrowed. "Are you alright? You've hardly said a word this whole time. I've had to make all the conversation."

"Uh, sorry." Shamir pulled Manuela around the anchor. "We should keep going. I'll be more careful from now on."

Manuela squeezed her hand. "I'll make sure of that." Grip firm, Manuela lead the way forward.

They didn't speak for a long moment. Manuela's obvious irritation filled the silence, and Shamir felt awkwardness creeping in. "Thanks," Shamir said after some thought. "For watching my back."

Manuela glanced at her sidelong. "You're welcome." Her tone was as frigid as the Faerghus sea.

"You were saying something about Brigid before?"

"I was." Shamir gestured with her free hand for Manuela to go on. "Well, if you insist. She was just lovely, although her wife took exception to my hanging around. I didn't know she had a wife at the time, mind you! I'm no coral wrecker!"

Rambling as they were, Shamir made herself pay attention to Manuela's exploits this time. Manuela let go of Shamir's hand at some point and Shamir had to resist the temptation to grab it back. No matter. Hopefully the next time they had cause to touch each other, it would be in less life-threatening circumstances.

She moves aside to let Bernadetta pass. Bernadetta has been in Leonie’s room a few times before, so she sits on the bed in what she has started to think of as her spot. Leonie sits beside her and holds out her right hand. It looks worse up close, Bernadetta decides with a wince. Blood oozes out of several knuckles, some of it resting in the crackles in Leonie's fingers, and there's even a few shallow splinters. Noticing her discomfort, Leonie lets out a nervous chuckle. "It's not as bad as it looks?" She tries. Bernadetta only nods and sets about unraveling the bandages she had brought. They sit in silence as Bernadetta cleans and wraps Leonie's hand. Bernadetta keeps her attention on her work until she hears a sniff, looking up to find Leonie with silent tears on her face. "Sorry." Leonie rubs at the tear tracks with her free hand. 

Still holding Leonie’s injured hand, Bernadetta summons her remaining courage. “Why did you do that?” She asks. It takes effort to not let her nerves take over and squeeze Leonie’s hand.

Leonie lets out a dry chuckle. “Why did I punch the support beam, you mean?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Because I can’t run after Captain Jeralt’s murderers. I can’t go kill Monica, or whoever that was.” Leonie wipes away more tears. “I can’t focus on school work and I can’t sleep so. I punch stuff.” A wet smile appears that makes Bernadetta want to cry too. 

“I’m sorry.” It’s the only reply Bernadetta can think of. 

Leonie snorts, eyes falling to the side. “Don’t be. It was a stupid thing to do. It didn’t even make me feel better.”

Bernadetta rubs her thumbs over Leonie’s bandaged knuckles. She doesn’t think killing Monica would make Leonie feel better either. Nothing short of Jeralt miraculously coming back would make Leonie feel better, Bernadetta suspects. 

“How did you meet him? Jeralt.” Bernadetta clarifies unnecessarily.

“He came to my village to scare off some poachers.” Leonie’s lip quirks up. “You should’ve seen him. He rode them down like they were nothing, fierce and strong-- and then when he spoke to us villagers, he was so kind.” More tears follow that but Leonie goes on. “That’s the kind of mercenary I want to be. He was a nightmare to those guys, but kind and reassuring to us.”

Bernadetta tries to smile herself. “I-I think you can do it! I used to think you were really scary, but now I know you’re really nice. I think you can be just like Jeralt!”

Leonie purses her lips. Swallows. “Thanks,” she says, voice cracking. A sob escapes her.

This isn’t what Bernadetta had planned at all. She feels partially responsible and altogether flustered as Leonie covers her face with her free hand and her shoulders begin shaking. 

Letting go of Leonie’s hand, Bernadetta shifts forward to hold her in an awkward side hug instead. She’s about to apologize again but Leonie holds her back, pressing her face into Bernadetta’s shoulder and letting out another sob. 

For long moments, Leonie cries and Bernadetta lets her. Even after her knees cramp from her position on the bed, even after her jacket sleeve turns into a mess of tears and snot, Bernadetta stays.

Leonie calms sometime after the dinner bell rings out. She sniffs, sighs, and leans away from Bernadetta. “You think I’m really nice?” She asks in a hoarse voice. 

“Now I do, yeah.”

This smile is small, but it makes Leonie’s tear-stained, exhausted face light up. “I’m glad. Thank you, Bernadetta.”