Whale oil — ingenious stuff, he knows, he’s just never asked, it’s never been a real question of how does it do what it does; it’s always been it does this and that’s all I need to know. He’s never searched for a deeper explanation. He’s never needed to. He wishes, a bit, that he’d asked in the past — then he could answer the questions he’s being bombarded with, useless shrugs of his shoulders the only replies he’s able to give.
Questions of the purpose. How they work. Is it fuel, is it a catalyst for another reaction. Where was it discovered. Where are these whales now.
Shrug, shrug, shrug.
What can Corvo do for him. Skills, talents, (left hand moved behind his back). Past, history, scratch that, who needs history, the future is where it’s at; Corvo is staring, lips parted in confusion, a silent question underneath his mask.
"Well?"
Well, what, Corvo thinks.
A comment about redheads, about fantasies, and that’s something, isn’t it — Corvo’s expression is one of dumbfounded bafflement as he speaks, as the man continues, absolutely casual and flippant as can be.
He doesn’t ask Corvo to take the mask off, anyway. Just the hood.
Corvo obliges, and there’s a sigh as the man peers closer, at first in anticipation and then in disappointment. His hair isn’t red; it’s dark, very dark, he knows. Serkonos bears a great variety of peoples, but as for Corvo he is just raven-haired and dusky-skinned. A strip of skin from underneath the mask shows, just beside his jawline, and his ear; the other man is still peering close, closer, closing in.
Lips almost on Corvo’s ear. It’s a shift in the mood, less casual, more tension, but of what kind he can’t be sure, and Corvo stiffens, hands hovering on either side of the man as if to — what.
Not push him away. But…
But.
Then there are lips on his ear, teeth, and Corvo’s breath comes out of his nose in a brief, shocked huff, not backing away but just standing absolutely still, the mask feeling like a weight instead of the assurance that it normally brings.
After a suspended moment, he moves away; Corvo brings his left hand up from being hidden away behind his back to touch at his earlobe, perplexed, and the man’s eyes light up, apparently pleased with the reaction. Corvo does not miss the way the other’s gaze lingers for a second on the mark that is dark against his hand. He speaks, watching Corvo, and Corvo watches back, brows curving down at the words.
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"It's fine," he insists, admittedly quite softly and not at all insistent as he should be -- and she tsks, and rolls her eyes, and looks at the swollen, painful thing that has replaced the muscle in his shoulder.
Corvo is quiet when she shakes her head.
"It's fine," she repeats dubiously.
And he presses his lips together in a thin line and doesn't look at her directly.
There is a dry touch to his shoulder and he stiffens, glancing back over and seeing her pulling away from him -- she's smiling, and she's kissed the skin that feels like it's too hot because the muscle is angry with Corvo for pulling too far, but she's kissed him, and Corvo is suddenly thinking that it is not such a bad injury after all.
(He tries to roll his shoulders back after and she only just keeps from the wry curve that plays on her lips away thanks to his quiet suffering.)
They are both hidden by masks of varying types of beauty; the party goes on around the two as if time itself has created a bubble among their persons. They dance because they must, because it is expected, and to accomplish what he is here for, he must blend; her agenda is not quite as easy to decipher for the man who does not think oft of things such as analyzing others' intent.
(Or rather, he used to refrain from that;
now, at least he wonders on it.)
Half of his face is obscured by the mask that is such a parody of his old visage of death and his eyes are downcast as they step-step-step, sway and move with the grace held only by those who have lived long in nobility.
Corvo's eyes move up, slide among the people milling about, and when his gaze falls upon the woman again, she has kissed him. Her painted lips are dry on his and it is chaste, all things considered, but he does not know why and he is wide-eyed and taken aback.
It is a moment and then over and he is still throughout. Not unpleasant, no; but confusing, and all manner of other things. The dance goes on, and he does not think to wipe the smear of color from the corner of his mouth until the music changes.
The touch of the god’s lips to the brand that was given by him is —
— it is stunning, first.
There is something that happens there, when the Outsider kisses the back of Corvo’s hand, and the man stiffens like he’s been stretched taut physically. This is not the case, in fact, but rather a reaction to the — the feeling, the burn. It is cold and hot and electric all at once, the Mark bleeds sensation and Corvo does not breathe. The kiss itself is as light and as fleeting as anything the Outsider does to tempt (because he watches, because he wants to see what will be done and is never the orchestrator, not quite, but the composer), and Corvo finds the ability to realize,
he wants it again.
This revelation does not go unheard and so, tipping forward, the Outsider’s mouth is a more firm press atop the tattoo that has been burnt into Corvo’s hand forever, into eternity, and Corvo is sure that even if he asked, there would be no way to remove it. The only way to lose the Outsider’s fascination is to lose it — there is an uncomfortable itch under his skin with the thought, and he knows he doesn’t want to fall out of favor, despite all that he does.
His lips part with the second kiss to his hand and it is a biting thing, the shock that runs up through his arm, making him tense and tense more. Corvo does not make a sound, but he breathes a little faster, and when the Outsider smiles and disappears, he thinks that was the whole point.
It is not gentle, and it is in no way trusting, but Corvo falls into it anyway.
Where Daud pushes, Corvo pulls; where Corvo aches, Daud presses, and it ends up with both of them angry -- Corvo's temper is a quiet thing like the rest of him, and he has thrown men from greater heights for less slights than hitting too many of his buttons, unraveling his patience until there is nothing left.
Corvo tries to sweep Daud's legs from under him but is leapt upon and grappled and he clenches his jaw as he attempts to wrestle Daud off of him, only succeeding halfway. Legs are twisted together in his effort and Corvo is glad he does not wear his coat when they do this, so far from the Tower, from the watchful eyes of those who wonder at his whereabouts. He walks mostly, but sometimes he finds Daud. It is just chance, he's sure.
Both his arms are slammed to the ground and he clicks teeth together in his silent disapproval of this position, trapped underneath Daud's greater bulk.
He opens his mouth to say something --
-- and he does not expect the kiss.
It is not on his lips, but on his throat, and Daud is not soft about it, but nothing about either of them is soft with the other. Their edges are sharp and their glances sharper, and Corvo feels a burn deep within him, mixing awfully with confusion.
Daud's teeth are hard on his throat and when he bites, it draws a sound from Corvo, not of strictly desire but of some dissent. Corvo bites back, raises up enough to find the softer flesh of Daud's neck and sinks teeth in and struggles his hands free and knees Daud hard enough to push the other man off, the breath knocked out of him.
And Corvo does not touch the red, slowly-deepening marks upon his throat in disgust, but jumps back onto Daud and repays the injury.
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He is made of the things, welts and sore spots. His eyes raise to see posters of the Empress and his chest purples all over again; he moves to subdue instead of kill and his hands ache; when he runs and leaps and slides to a stop, there is always a moment of lurched discomfort in his legs, arms, bones. He is a bruise and all of him hurts.
Most of all, there is always a pain on his tongue, begging to be heard, but it is just under the surface of his skin, and he will not speak of it.
His fingers seek out Daud’s coat and his shirt and climb up, grabbing taut on the collar to reel him in and make it impossible to leave, for there is a cup of affliction that they two share, even with this, and to bow out would be to allow the cup to spill over. He wants to strangle the man as much as he wants to kiss him hard enough to make him want to forget, and the bruises bloom darker against his heart.
Bruises and stitches and wounds, and he does not think to help them heal.
A hand grasps Corvo’s hair tight and strong and Corvo growls, enough to still Daud for a second; a second is all he needs to shove the man back into the wall, lips back on lips within a beat of that damaged heart, and there is a hint of satisfaction in the manner that Daud tugs on his hair again, but Corvo is moving to bite bruises into Daud’s neck, throat, everywhere.
If all of Corvo is a bruise, then the least he can do is share the anguish.
They have not known each other long. Long enough for Corvo to find himself injured at a hand that isn’t hers and long enough to bring him staggering until she catches him and supports him behind cover. There is something to be said for trust here. Corvo is used to operating alone, being the only one in the shadows. To have someone on his side is… refreshing.
It’s been a while since he’s been shot.
"You’re fine," she says, and he glances down at the exposed wound that has cut through coat and shirt alike and shows only a grazing of blood, a lucky miss. One that hurts, nonetheless.
He wishes for elixir right about now.
”This is what nearly got you down?” she’s still saying, and Corvo is listening, he really is, but it’s all a little surreal and he’s stuck between amused and strained and there’s a cloth pressed against his side next thing he knows. “You have to have been through far worse.”
He has.
"I have," he says, echoing his thoughts, and she’s making some kind of face at him before standing and offering him a hand. Corvo takes it and then stumbles yet again, knocked off-kilter and all but sprawling (graceless, he is graceless without a sword in his hand) before Miranda is hoisting him over again and hands land where hands are wont to land, and there is most definitely a hand just a bit lower than on his back.
He apologizes, for some reason or another, righting himself.
Later when he has fully regained his sense of balance (it turns out he had lost a bit more blood than either of them realized), neither of them discuss it, but he does give her back the cloth she used — clean, now.
Blood loss results in frankly awful things — namely, when one passes out, and Corvo collapses hard with the gasp pooling the red across his side, deep and warm. It is a faint sensation when his eyes next open and the Void swims in his gaze, looking up at what his mind tells him should be the sky, but his eyes tell him is not.
The Void, he thinks, is more finicky than even the Outsider himself, though is there much difference to a mortal who knows neither for more than a blink?
It takes another moment for him to recognize that his head is lifted, angled as if propped, and that shade falls over his eyes. Someone’s lap acts as his anchor for the time, and he realizes who it must be before he sees the black eyes, peering down at Corvo’s blood-streaked face.
And then Corvo is leaning up, up — his eyes are shut again against the light that is too much, and his lips find purchase on the hollow of the Outsider’s throat. It is probably blasphemy of some kind, but Corvo is a walking blasphemy, so he has not much farther to fall. It is a light kiss, a simple thanks to repay for comfort while he drifts between sleeping and waking and all things that lie in the middle.
