Author's Notes: I'm celebrating the 6-year anniversary of (a) this account according to the publication date of my first IkeMarth fanfic (Mechanism) and (b) the IkeMarth fandom. Ike's return to SSB4 is icing on the cake, but as you all know by now, I don't work in canon (e.g. SSBB Subspace Emissary, Fire Emblem, Legend of Zelda). Whether Ike returned or not, I would have continued to churn out IkeMarth fics. Not really sorry. It's what I do.
So here: have all 16 of my AUs in one insane spiel, which runs like a point on a Möbius strip. This anniversary piece is organized so that each AU runs into another by chronological publication dates, then the process is repeated in inverted POVs so that both "sides" are used. 32 scenes with POV changes are dictated by alternating italicization.
Warnings: Homosexuality. Scattered curses and implied sexy times (i.e. nothing new). I am an old dog that doesn't learn new tricks. Regression of writing skills, because writing this much was not a good idea. Painfully un-beta'd.
Pairing: IkeMarth. Happy Half-a-Zodiac-Cycle Anniversary, guys!
Disclaimer: I don't own Super Smash Brothers.
Summary: No matter when or where or how, they would be together. [Anniversary AU] –Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-
Möbius Strip
By SSBBSwords
||: "Marth."
He vaguely registered his own name being called from somewhere outside the second bedroom-turned-study's closed door. This was followed by three short raps against the wood before the knob turned to grant his recently graduated boyfriend entrance into the room.
"What is it?" he asked, turning in his seat to look at the younger man through a series of hard blinks. Pulling away from the spreadsheets and graphs on the computer screen was like wading through a pool of molasses; yet, whenever he managed it, he was left with irritatingly dry eyes. Ike's tie draped lopsidedly across the other's broad shoulders and he swiftly followed up his previous question with, "Do you need help with that?" and a gesture to the work uniform's supplement.
With a smile filled with unsourced amusement, his boyfriend simply ignored his inquiries and set down a steaming mug of tea. Peppermint, by the smell of it. "But I just untied it."
"Hm?" He scrubbed a hand across his blurry eyes. "Aren't you—"
"I just got home," the younger man interrupted, smile fading in order to briefly kiss him near the mouth, despite all his disorientation to the situation. "It's after two."
Working on his dissertation tended to include side effects such as disregarding the progression of time. The fact that this was just another repeated occurrence ran unstated between them. He wanted to check his computer to verify the late hour, but turning back to the bright screen after a compendiary reprieve caused him to wince.
Sympathetic, Ike pulled out a tiny bottle of eye drops from one of numerous pockets. "Here. You left it in the kitchen."
"Thank you." His fingers grazed the other's hand while accepting the easily misplaced product. The corner of his mouth twitched as another wave of menthol wafted past his nose. "To think that you would still be making me tea…"
With a grin exuding boyish charm, his boyfriend bent at the waist to whisper into his ear, "It's for the sexual favors."
He stared at the blond college student like the other had sprouted into a prismatic unicorn. "Uh…"
Lounging horizontally in an obvious attempt to monopolize the entire length of the couch, Link smirked at the speechless high school senior. "You kept looking at me."
"I wasn't," Ike argued back with the defensiveness of a four-year-old.
Ignoring the younger student's protest, Link flipped through television channels with superior nonchalance. "You wanted to know why Marth still rooms with me, so I told you."
He swallowed, what with his cover blown (or his mind read; he wasn't sure which it was exactly). "No," he denied. Unfortunately, his voice lacked any conviction and sounded pitifully dubious. He ignored this little detail in lieu of turning his attention down the hall, where Marth was returning from the restroom.
"Link." The other college student's tone conveyed nothing but long-suffering exasperation. "Move."
"Make me," the blond retorted with a childishly blown raspberry in the roommate's direction.
With an unapologetic shove, Marth managed to clear enough couch space to be seated. Undeterred, Link replaced his calves across Marth's legs. Ike wondered just how tortured his current expression was. There had to be a manual that explained what an individual should do in situations like this.
"You're heavy," was all Marth cared to say to the hindrance across his lap.
Innocence disintegrated into mischief when the blond responded by sitting up to pull Marth over like a gossiping child. "That's not what you said last night."
If that was meant to incite something, the plan never took off because his childhood (current?) crush didn't take the bait and scoffed, "You were at Zelda's last night."
With a defeated groan, Link flopped right back down against the cushions and muttered at the coffee table, "You two deserve each other. No fun."
Small smile redirected in his direction, Marth said, "I have something to show you."
"Oh?" the pajama-clad taller man looked up from fiddling with the coffee maker. "Sounds good." Tail whapping the floor enthusiastically, Lacey sat by the other's feet as if she planned to have a cup of joe too.
Dressed for work already, he schooled his features as to contradict his earlier seductive promise. With the weekend paper in hand, he closed in on Ike's personal space by the sink. "Coupons for this week."
Expression crestfallen, his boyfriend cast a hurtful look in his direction after perusing the few items of importance that he had already highlighted. "Lies," Ike complained, setting down the collection of newspaper ads.
"Really?" he replied with faux concern, peering at the glossy paper with interest. "Is something falsely advertised?"
Leaning over enough to come within centimeters of his lips, his boyfriend slowly exhaled and hovered in place. "Tease."
Hands on the other's hips to brace himself, he let experience and ingrained instinct bring his mouth just a few calculated millimeters closer. "Monosyllabic much?"
"You caught me pre-one-three-seven-trimethyl-one-H-purine-two-six—"
With a short laugh at the broken mood, he stopped the other's recitation with fingers pressed against that moving mouth. "Yes, yes. Sorry. My fault, I know."
He never realized how immersed in banter he was until something bumped against his ankle. Bailey rubbed and wound her way around their legs in a series of meows. He was about to back up in surprise, only to discover he was held in place by a grinning boyfriend, who informed, "Karma's a bitch."
"Wha-?" Glancing down at the aloof (yet impatient enough for breakfast) feline, he realized his pants had received a full dose of cat hair. "Bailey!" At the unusual exclamation, Lacey chimed in with a bark because the occasion seemed to call for it and inclusivity was important to her.
"So," Ike began conversationally like one would engage in small-talk about the nice weather outside, "I believe some pants need to be removed."
With the appropriate amount of playful forfeit, his head fell against the other's chest and he replied, "I suppose I could use your assistance."
The other sounded almost miffed through the thick veil of indifference. As if it wasn't completely terrifying to be surrounded by a multitude of creatures that, in combination, could extinguish the angel's life without destroying themselves. Safety in numbers never quite made sense until now.
"You suppose?" he responded with a snort of disbelief to hide his nervousness and budding panic. It was one thing to continue these illicit meetings but another to have the situation turn suicidal. Fuck. He hadn't meant to be late. "What part of 'surrounded' don't you understand?"
He was obviously stalling, but the ever-growing collection of demons seemed equally hesitant to dive right in. After all, it was likely that ill-timed contact would wipe out the first brave (no, reckless) few. No one really knew how much energy they could absorb before whatever holding together their existences tore apart.
"Well, if I'm about to burn myself out here," the glowing figure reasoned, "I suppose I'd like some semblance of intimacy." The intensity of light pulsed like a heartbeat trying to mollify its own erratic pattern.
"Way to choose the complete opposite," he muttered as he shot toward the energy source at center stage within the titillated crowd. He hoped he would accumulate enough momentum that his collision with the angel would throw them both out of the fray since his common sense would have deserted him by then. Steeling himself for the mind-blanking result upon contact, he latched himself to the complementary being like nature wanted and let his residual launch speed carry them through any other obstacles.
They landed in enough clear space that he could rearrange his limbs to cast the other off past the outskirts. The angel tumbled past the borderline with an unintelligible shout. He lay there for what seemed like frozen time before he registered the sheer level of converted heat spreading through his core. His first instinct was to melt into the closest available surface but he sat up so to move to the edge. The other lay curled in a ball, dimming frame shaking like a candle riding out a rainstorm.
"Hey." His voice sounded loose like he was starting to unravel. "Are you okay?"
Glass slides prepared and in place, he sat before the microscope but stared blankly across the lab. He felt strangely unsettled and he had no idea why.
"Dr. Lowell," the lab technician repeated, "are you okay?" The young student reached over to tap the dazed biologist out of his reverie.
With a slight jump, he found a pair of guileless eyes gazing at him curiously. "Oh, what—" He cut himself off the moment he recognized the irritation coloring his words. "I'm sorry. What is it?" he amended in a softer tone.
Looking a tad worried, the trainee bit her lip before holding up a stack of pictures. "You wanted to check my cell counts?"
"Yes," he answered automatically, pushing his chair away from the counter in order to stand. He glanced at the microscopy photographs in his hand that he used to teach new assistants. He re-used the pictures so often that he already knew the counts, but he often had to refresh his memory as to which set he had given. Photos G-L. "All right, what did you get?"
"Forty-three, one seventy-two, two twenty-six, one ninety-eight, eighty-eight, and three thirty-five?" she rattled off hesitantly.
With an encouraging smile, he pulled Photo L from the rest and handed it to her. "Not bad. Try this one again." He left the student to dutifully attack her mission again and went to put the other pictures away.
Upon arriving at his desk, he paper-clipped the stack together and dropped them into a hanging folder. He caught his computer jumping out of inactivity in his periphery and he studied the bolded subject line ("Immunosuppression") of the unread email with a sense of foreboding. The title seemed too inexplicit to be a colleague or student and yet specific enough to bypass spam filters.
He clicked on the email, only to be greeted by one sentence: "Will you hηlp mη?"
What did they expect him to get out of such a forgettable transmission? Never mind the fact that this was the department with which he had the least amount of experience. Really? Communications? Didn't they have code-breakers or whatnot for shit like this?
The recorded conversation didn't even sound like it was in code. The reception sounded bad enough to break up one speaker's sentences now and then, but other than that, he had no idea why he was sitting here listening to it.
"Sergeant, your thoughts," the woman behind the desk prompted.
He straightened his spine automatically, seeing as his inner doubts on his usefulness had caused a slouch. He had been surprised to meet a woman as the head of whatever this operation was, but she looked like she could handle it. The intensity of her stare was uncannily similar to a certain someone who was waiting for him at home some few thousand miles away. "The connection isn't quite clear," he pointed out. "How was the recording recovered?"
With a smile that didn't reach her eyes, the director said, "It was given to us."
"Given?"
"A gift." A quirked eyebrow channeled his skepticism, and as if it would help, she added, "We are very persuasive."
These were waters that he did not know how to tread. Leaning back in his chair, he cut straight to the point. "I can't help you." He wasn't one to be rude, but he also knew his limits and didn't want anyone's time wasted.
"Oh, no," the woman smoothly replied without batting an eye at his declaration, "but you did."
"How?" he demanded.
She set a computer screen before him and played two short audio clips, which repeated monotonously, "Testing, testing. One, two, three." The second audio clip sounded broken to the point of babble. "T-sting, t-sting. On-, two, thr-."
"That was awful sound quality," he observed.
The woman's thin smile appeared long enough to mute the audio and play both clips together. He watched with growing alarm as the audio waves for both clips remained perfectly identical. He was double-checking the phenomenon when the director interrupted with, "So sound quality is fine." Fingers laced beneath her chin, she leaned closer to him across the desk. "I hear your partner stutters. What is he like?"
He idly traced a finger around the rim of his cup as he listened attentively to the witness' account of the man who saved her at the building site. He nodded and switched between expressions of awe and fright when suitable to her story-telling, all the while reminding himself to check the video feeds when this conversation ended.
When she departed, he pulled out his mobile like any other person in the café and began his search. As detonations went, the first to fail was the glue holding the building structures together. Frames detached, layers delaminated, and weak materials cracked. What standard engineering. For fragmentation to have reached her well-distanced location and for that man to have reacted to that danger, the culprit was likely glass.
What with the amount of kilojoules released during the explosions, pressure buildup, yield strength of the polyvinyl butyral-infused laminated glass used in construction, velocity of fragmentation, and approximate distance between the witnesses and glass, an individual would have had to recognize and react to the threat within 0.8 seconds.
He studied the video in real-time and watched the man pull the woman away in such a manner that looked rehearsed to the naked eye. Average reaction time tended to be a little over 0.2 seconds, but that corresponded to nothing but simple reflexes. Not this specific micro-dodging. He would love another demonstration of this ability firsthand, but he supposed he had plenty of time to design the perfect situation. He had more pressing issues now.
Notifying his waiter of his temporary absence, he stepped out onto the street and checked his watch. He wouldn't want the man to feel like the trek back to his table was overly far, so he scrolled through his inbox to kill nineteen seconds.
Seventeen steps later, they met in the middle of the sidewalk with pedestrians streaming around them like a river to a rock.
"Hello," he said.
The stationary moment of predictable confusion passed and the man greeted in return, "Hi."
It was almost criminal how happy he was nowadays. He loved this. He loved waking up with Marth propping himself up by the elbow on the pillow beside his own. His arm curled around the other's back with the undying need to make sure this wasn't a dream. It wasn't possessiveness. It was just the need to make sure this Marth did not disappear into wisps of smoke.
The dull headache that had been bothering the smaller man yesterday seemed to be a forgotten memory as the other bent at an angle to kiss him good morning. God, his mornings were great. Perfect, actually.
"Hey, beautiful," he replied with unrestrained glee. He pulled Marth off-balance so that the other's upper body landed across his before he wrapped both arms around his prize like one would hug a stuffed animal. "How're you feeling?"
"Wonderful," Marth answered with utmost clarity before pushing up and away from his loosened embrace. Those eyes were bright and reflected equal, if not more, pleasure in their situation. "You make me so happy."
Warmth bloomed through his chest; it was a recurring symptom that consistently reminded him just how glad he was about risking it all with that underground technology. He sat up as much as the other's body above his would allow so that he could catch those lips in another kiss, which was gently returned in proper, lazy-morning fashion. "Because I love you," he concluded, relishing the freedom to say so and knowing the feeling was mutual. Maybe even reciprocated ten-fold, if that was possible.
Speaking of which, he fell back against the mattress and stared expectantly at the other, whose cheeks were tinged with embarrassment. On cue, the smaller man's head lowered and the words, "I love you too," were murmured against his collarbone. He found both the coy and desperate aspects of Marth's character absolutely endearing.
"Do you really?" he teased, wanting to savor the other's blush but not enough to actually move from their seamlessly fitted position.
Marth's fingers were absently skimming down his arm and he felt the other's palm graze his own hand like it wanted to interlock. His heart leapt in fear when his wrist was abruptly clamped down against the bed sheets.
Through gritted teeth and pain, Marth managed to utter, "No, I don't."
"Are you sure?" the golden retriever's owner asked with no small amount of uncertainty.
"I'm positive," he insisted and subsequently affirmed, "I don't mind at all." He hoped he sounded half as reassuring as the sentence was meant to be. He was wont to mentally curse his edginess but didn't trust his vocal chords to have the discipline to act as filter between his head and mouth.
The man sighed and glanced down to meet a tongue-lolling, doggy smile. "Geez, you could at least have the decency to look guilty!" In response, the canine tossed her furry head away from her indignant owner and decided her affections were better lavished on their new friend.
Prepared to encounter slobber, Marth crouched to the floor to meet the retriever head-on. Clipped to the front of her collar was a heart-shaped pendant engraved with the name Lacey. "Hello." He smoothed the sun-bleached fur in strokes toward her fluffy tail. "Aren't you a pretty girl?"
"Hey now," the taller man said good-naturedly. "Keep charming my dog and she'll be running away tonight."
By now, Lacey had flopped to her side and was lying there like a sprawled rug. She stared at the pair of humans conversing by the door as if wondering how long it would take for one to succumb to giving her a belly rub.
"What brand of dog food does she like?" He caught the other's eye and smiled innocuously. "I'd hate to be a bad host."
"Ike."
As he continued to play with the golden retriever, he mused aloud, "That sounds new." Then again, who was he to question the naming sense that cultivated Iams, Purina, and the whole slew of Nature-/Nutri- pet foods?
He only looked up again from Lacey when he heard the man laugh. "Ike is my name."
He wondered just what tactful expression he managed to paint on to hide the hammering in his chest. In fact, he was starting to wish he could forget this entire exchange because it didn't look like he was going to survive this acquaintance with his heart intact. Regardless, he lamely offered in return, "My name is Marth."
When he had first set eyes on his new colleague, he thought he had just met an extremely attractive administrator. He tweaked his assumption as they shook hands because typical office workers did not have such strong grips. During the tour of the academy, he trailed after Marth with a good meter's worth of distance between them (old sparring habits die hard) and the shorter man had stopped to point out something about office layout. Feet still on autopilot, he took a few steps forward. Marth took the exact same number of paces away from him at the same rate, thus maintaining the one-meter span.
"You fight," he stated dumbly.
Professionalism unruffled, the other answered ambivalently, "Yes."
He learned all too quickly that Marth really did spar with strict premeditated spacing. He also had a frustrating time keeping a visual on the guy; it was almost like trying to hit a leaf riding river rapids.
So one day, he switched his sword to his non-dominant hand long enough to clumsily block an incoming swipe from Marth. Reaching across to grab the other's sword-wielding arm, he twisted and squeezed until the weapon was forcibly dropped. Ditching his own, he grabbed the front of the smaller man's shirt, side-stepped to hook a calf behind Marth's knee, and pushed down while simultaneously kicking the other's leg out from beneath that pretty little body.
The look of pure shock on Marth's face made the whole sequence worth it. Admittedly, he worried that he had slammed the other down too hard, as his colleague looked rather dazed beneath him. It was only until he was staring into the other's alert eyes that he noticed (1) the urge to kiss the guy and (2) the lightning-quick death glare preceding two hands grasping his upper ribcage and a bent leg smashing into his shoulder to force his body off to one side.
"Did you think I would just lie there complacently?" Marth asked, rocking to a seated position and running fingers through any wayward strands.
Well, that could have been nice, he thought, but mindful of his future safety, he responded, "No." Wheeze (unfortunately) included.
Blatantly disinterested in his fetal position on the ground, his colleague elegantly stood and held open a hand to help him up. "I'll stay down," Marth said with careful articulation and a faint smirk, "but you'll have to get me in bed first."
"Wh—"
He turned away from the ruined scene of crumbling plaster and stammering boyfriend to reload. He was fairly sure he had successfully intimidated the rogue drug dealer next door, but rote practices tended to overwrite necessity.
"What the—"
Poor Ike was still trying to assemble a full sentence. How cute. He was half-tempted to pick up the nearest empty shell and flick it at the younger man. Instead, he set his gun on the nightstand and knelt down to peer past the tousled blankets and beneath the bed.
Ah. There they were. He pulled his briefs from their resting place after having been accidentally kicked down there the night before.
"What was—"
His boyfriend was bound to get over this. He hoped it would be sooner rather than later though. They (he) had places to go, things to do. He eyed the other's boxers, which hung unfittingly low on his hips. They were too loose and he supposed he should return them to Ike. He began to slide them off.
"What are you doing?!"
"Oh." A complete sentence. This was promising. Pausing his movements, he locked gazes with the towel-clad man and responded matter-of-factly, "Returning your clothes."
"Not that—well, yes, that too—but that." Here, Ike gestured in the general area behind him. It was such a wonderful thing that his boyfriend took to instructions so well.
"Ah," he murmured as if genuinely contemplating this question. How did that towel manage to stay on this entire time? That was the more interesting question. He pulled the other's boxers off and tossed them aside as potential laundry. "Damage control." His phone was silent, which indicated no further problems to take care of. A shower was in order.
Doing so required crossing paths with his statue-mimicking boyfriend, so as he passed, he took hold of the upper edge of the fabric. Too lazy to stretch upward, he brushed his lips over the other's beating heart. "Are you still using this?"
"Hm?" He looked up from his computer to see his roommate walk around the kitchen island to show him the mug in question. He squinted at the cup until he realized he had used it for coffee. Two days ago. Maybe. Shit. "Uh, sorry. Yeah? I'll wash it." He made to get up.
"It's fine." Marth waved off his offer and returned to the task at hand.
He would have politely insisted, except his roommate hummed a few muted notes while sponging detergent and that shut him right up. So maybe he had a tiny idea as to why all the town's children were charmed by his roommate. Never mind the fact that they had never seen the guy wash dishes, but okay, this arrangement registered as something on his radar. Sure, when they had met previous to signing the lease, he had been dumbstruck by how good-looking Marth was, but that didn't mean he was attracted to—
"Ike?"
"Yes!" he blurted out mindlessly and wondered if his roommate could sense the exact second that thoughts meandered into dangerous territory.
"I should have asked earlier," the other began while adeptly rotating a soapy plate in order to clean its circumference, "but do you have anything in your room to wash?"
"Uh, let me check." He could hear drumming in his ears. That wasn't a good sign. At the doorway of his bedroom, he scanned the conventional spots for stray tableware before returning to the living room. "Nothing to report." He relished the fleeting smile that crossed his roommate's face.
The apartment was growing overly warm, strangely enough. Feeling restless, he walked to his computer, to the couch, then back, and finally settled for the refrigerator. Oh, grocery list was getting long.
Marth looked over momentarily at his stoic position by the temperature-regulated kitchen appliance and misinterpreted his intentions for the change in location. "Could you pick up some tea too?"
The way his roommate put it, there was no way he could say no. Not that he ever planned to, at any rate. "Sure."
He likes the timbre of this man's voice. Or perhaps it is the delivery that he likes. There is a certain casual component that straddles the middle ground between jittery enthusiasm and cool detachment. In place of typical arrogance, he is treated to agreeability so alien that he almost requests the man to stop—just to feel the satisfactory thrum of boundaries considered and wishes respected.
He is so preoccupied with this novelty that he temporarily forgets that they are engaged in an act that requires the participation of both parties. Everything is a dark silhouette that blends into one another, so he trails both hands up his partner's naked torso so he can cradle the other's face in place. The man stills and there is an extended moment where he waits with bated breath. Slowly, he feels the other close the distance and he meets his reward with parted lips.
The connection is warm and insistent and above all, comforting. It's a strange desire—to want to get closer when any closer is not physically possible. His hands twist into the other's hair, mussing original spikes to the point of disarray, in attempt to delve deeper into the other's mouth. It's not so much wanting the depth, but more wanting to prolong the perception of intimacy. It's as if, through the slide and retreat of lips and tongue, he could forcibly extract and swallow the other's eternal vows of companionship.
He doesn't realize that the man is holding him in such a manner to maximize contact, what with one arm wrapped around his back from neck to waist and the other from waist to hip. He just knows this is what he wants and does not want to let go. The drastic contrast occurs when the other shifts the hold to his hips in order to lift him onto the mattress. The time of separation is short-lived but he still reaches out desperately to re-establish the bond. "Come back."
Now and then, when he paused long enough to listen to the crash of waves against the beach, he would get an eerie feeling. For a while, he failed to even recognize something was amiss. It crept into his life gradually and he first dismissed the haunting feeling as a reaction to seasonal change. Yet spring bled into summer; summer transitioned into autumn; autumn pulled in winter; winter linked back to spring; and he still got the same sinking emptiness saturating his chest.
He was beginning to consider moving away from the ocean, but just as much as he wanted to rid this feeling, he wanted to understand its source. However, he could hardly even pinpoint whether it was a good or bad feeling. It had yet to cause him physiological repercussions; he functioned fine even though it remained a nagging mystery. The most similar feeling he could relate it to was sadness, but then he could not imagine what he had lost to induce such a level of mourning. But it wasn't exactly loss, so he remained somewhat discouraged.
The intensity reached an all-time high one day when he was walking near the rocky cliffs by the beach. The tide had come in and he was limited to areas above sea level, as he had no inclinations for a midday swim. Maneuvering cautiously in case of slippery slopes, his eyes caught a flash of white a few levels down. Waves lapping just a short dive away, a puddle of old cloth lay tucked into a corner of rock and he vaguely wondered if he should go down to get it. Trash on a beach always meant some murdered sea life.
Figuring it was better to pick up litter than indirectly advocate the killing of hapless animals by means of intestinal blockage, he began to scale his way around the rocks, which turned out to be more difficult than it looked. A good five minutes later, he reached the lower level but saw nothing of a dirty white color resembling what he had come to throw away. Yet the tide was no higher.
Murmuring to himself, he mused out loud, "Where did you go?"
He surveyed the various tunnels and contemplated choosing one to explore. Shaking his head, he tried again with a raised voice, "Hello? Is anyone home?"
He tugged on the strap of his bag somewhat impatiently and circled the area while waiting for some sign of life. Just when he thought maybe the strange man had moved on to bigger and better things, he heard footsteps echoing down the cave farthest from where he stood.
His heart leapt for his throat when the man appeared right beside him. "The lights are off, but yeah, I'm home." As if confirming his identity after recognizing his voice, the other gave a good-natured grin. "Hey there, Hunter-for-Hire. How've you been?"
"Fine, Mr. Vampire, thank you," he deadpanned in return. True to form, this man was as ridiculous as he remembered.
"This is an unexpected house call," the not-a-vampire blithely pointed out. "What did I do to warrant this honor?"
"I need to talk to you," he responded evenly before nodding in the direction in which the other had originally entered. "Shall we?"
Not moving the slightest, the man quirked an eyebrow. "Aren't we moving too fast? We haven't even had a first date."
Was it possible to be both entertained and annoyed? In response, he smacked the other gently upside the head, noticing the other's honed reflexes permitting this violation. "Be serious," he chided with no real antagonism. "I have money and a proposition for you."
Eyes widening almost comically, the cave recluse rubbed a hand through the un-tidied section of hair. "Is this a bad time to inform you that prostitution is one skillset I haven't learned yet?"
"Oh, god." He massaged the twin points between his brows in exasperation. "I really want to kill you."
With a laugh at his predicament, the man grabbed his wrist (which, much to his own surprise, he allowed without instinct kicking in) and began to lead him into the cave interior. "Joking, of course." They walked for about half a minute before the other added as a complete side note, "Unless you want—"
"No, thank you."
He had grown fond of the human. It was quiet and cautious and courteous in a way that suggested high intelligence. It, of course, also had a peculiar look that appeared across its face when he interacted with it. Sometimes all he needed to do was stay nearby and that glow would grow in the other's eyes.
As if to prove his point, he had carefully set down his latest kill by the human's side. He was willing to share his food, as the other would often offer him strange (supposedly) edible things he had never encountered before, but his own offerings were always rebuffed. At first, he wasn't sure if he should be insulted, but then he realized his own diet may be somewhat poisonous to other species. He figured humans had extremely delicate digestive tracks, what with all the preparation this one went through before it even took one bite of its food.
"You're terribly thoughtful for a dragon."
As usual, the human by his side was saying gibberish in its native tongue. It had a tendency to speak to him as if he understood the sounds that left its mouth. Granted, most of the words seemed automated, so he focused more on the accompanied gestures, which fortunately were easy to interpret. Every time the human reached out to touch him, he knew he had done something the other liked. Tonight, it was a mix of a rub and pat at his left temple. Despite his size, he pushed against its hand in attempt to tunnel beneath the other's arm. He also learned that when he endeavored to do the impossible, it elicited the strangest joyful-sounding titter from the human.
"I caught an extra for you."
The light in the other's eyes flickered with the movement of the campfire's flames (courtesy of his awe-inspiring natural ability, of course) that were used to cook food. That voice held an encouraging quality, so he scooted closer until he formed in a semi-circle around the human. It settled contently back against his side in response.
"Would you be interested?"
He was studying the glass case like it held the answers to all of the universe's mysteries. Maybe it did. It probably didn't. Oh, god, he felt blasphemous already. This was a bad idea.
"Sir?" The clerk behind the counter studied his troubled stance with age-wizened understanding. "Perhaps this style is more suitable?" A few displays over, she slid the options out and placed them on the transparent surface.
He moved several steps over in order to look at the suggested merchandise. His thoughts still rattled in his head as an unsettled mass. The only opinion he could come to was that the glass below the rings was impeccably clean.
"I don't know," he choked out, feeling all sorts of pathetic.
The woman nodded sympathetically, behaving exactly like she dealt with this pitiful scenario multiple times a day. It wasn't like he was proposing. It just so happened to be a birthday (anniversary? Did that sound more formal? Did he want more formal?) gift idea. He wasn't committing to this!
Yet?
He wasn't proposing. He had plenty of time to make this (gift) decision. This was not supposed to be this stressful. It was just a simple ring. Marth had other things to worry about (something about a thesis defense?); he was not going to get on one knee and—well, he'd obviously get on his knees any day if his boyfriend asked him to, but—
"Sir," the jeweler began while pointing to one of the rings with a thin instrument, "what about this one?"
Concentrate! He could do this. He glowered at the crystal-studded band in question as if it had wronged him. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he certainly wasn't doing well with this whole decision-making business.
"It may help to imagine it on your partner's finger."
He couldn't do this. He wanted to die. People could die from failing at simple tasks, right? Or at least embarrassment? No. He was going to do this. Yes. Yes. He could do this. He envisioned Marth's hand. Slender fingers. They were really—no, focus. He frowned. "It's…" too complicated, "er, fancy."
Smiling, she seemed to read his mind and switched to a simpler design. "How about this—"
"No," he immediately interjected, wondering if he could ignore his roommate into submission. "Absolutely not."
"Hey!" the blond pouted at his emphatic denial. "I haven't even said anything."
"Let's keep it that way," he retorted while struggling to remain impersonal. "I don't want to talk about it."
From their bedroom's adjacent corner, Link had swiveled around to read his body language. Sobering, the other college student offered, "You really think he doesn't like you?"
Giving up on completing this current set of homework problems, he pushed away the paper and locked gazes with his roommate. "That's not exactly it."
"He does like you?" He wasn't affronted when the blond sounded so incredulous. Link had never actually met his young neighbor, which may explain why his roommate seemed utterly intrigued in untangling his woefully ambiguous relationship with Ike. "What's the problem?" the other asked with a sunny smile before succinctly finishing with, "I don't see a problem."
What was it exactly? He bit his bottom lip before releasing it as he wracked his brain. He often disregarded the conventional problems such as compatibility or reciprocation. He got along with Ike very well all their lives to date. To top it off, they shared a questionable level of attachment that could not be found elsewhere within his social network. As platonic as their relationship was, there was an inkling of codependency that caused him enough objective apprehension to sweep the issue under the rug.
Fighting a rising grimace, he began with, "We," but then felt obligated to change the context to address himself personally. "I'm," he paused to search for the correct term and finished with a questioning lilt, "not good for him."
Under normal circumstances, Link may have laughed at this odd viewpoint but the blond remained fairly subdued. For almost a minute, his roommate nibbled inaudibly on the tip of a pen. Finally, Link scrupled to request, "Define not good."
His boyfriend didn't sound all that pleased across the phone line. He winced to himself and even Lacey seemed to pick up his distress. She whined in supportive camaraderie and he inhaled deeply in order to steel himself to deliver the bad news. "I can't find Bailey."
For a few heartbeats, he thought the reception had cut out. Then, with a little bit of static and threat-laced enunciation, Marth translated his words as, "You lost our cat."
"I didn't—" okay, maybe he did, but, "I mean, I set out her food this morning and it's still here and so I started looking around the house—you know, her usual spots—and—" Yep. He was rambling. He had regressed to a sputtering elementary school student.
"I've been gone for," there was a pause where Marth was presumably checking the time and comparing it to when he had departed their house for a business trip, "not even thirty-six hours and you lose our cat?" The unspoken 'how' was so clearly heard that he had to wince again.
Shrugging even though his boyfriend could not see it, he shamefully mumbled, "I might have left the back door unlocked."
"You left a door unlocked?" Marth was starting to sound really unnerved.
He hurried to calm the other down. "It was fine! We weren't robbed or anything…" he trailed off and was met with an anomalous thunk from the other end of the line and what sounded like a feeble echo of 'not robbed, he says…"
"Ike!" The love of his life seemed to have picked up the phone again despite now sounding rather frazzled. "Please be more careful in the future," the other entreated with a tinge of strain. He heard Marth take a deep breath before he received further instructions: "I need you to check the following locations."
On his fourth attempt to search the areas suggested by his boyfriend, he found Bailey tucked beneath layers of clothes that were waiting to be folded. She barely stirred when he lifted the pair of shorts off her coiled form. With a tremendous sigh of relief, he muttered, "Found you."
Found me? He perused his surroundings and found nothing out of the ordinary. It was just another mundane evening. There was no one around that could have possibly said anything. He got to his feet slowly and turned toward the shadows beside him.
"Hi," came a cheeky greeting.
Confused by the cryptic introduction, he peered into the darkness. He suspected the heckling originated from a demon, but he would believe it when he saw it.
"Shouldn't you be in bed?" After providing that taunt, the black entity materialized from the obscure background, just enough for him to note its ominous outline.
Tilting his head to get a better angle for observation, he narrowed his eyes as he stepped closer to the border. It must be a fledgling; no one with any ounce of self-preservation would come near its polar opposite. He should refrain from smiling but there was something about the cosmic timing and young insolence that he couldn't help entertain. Easing into the situation, he answered, "Baby, that's my line." Emphasis on baby.
He was surprised to find the prevailing silence less than gratifying. He presumed the other was more tenacious than this. Fortunately, after a long moment, the demon didn't disappoint. "Hey, are you really an angel?" The disbelief clearly exposed the other's ignorance.
He held out his palm face-up with fingertips grazing the gray section between light and dark. "Why don't you try me?"
His indistinct smile widened when the other's hazy outline backed up with so much speed that all he could see was the night. From somewhere within the blackness, the demon sounded petulant. "Angels are supposed to be virtuous."
He hummed mockingly as if pondering the validity of this statement. "Demons are supposed to be audacious."
The other's reluctance to respond seemed a sufficient indicator that this conversation was over, so he turned to leave. From behind him, the demon said in a low voice, "Well, I'm not."
If he were to describe his current mood, it would fall somewhere between unpleasant and rotten. More often than not, he snapped back and gave snide remarks to perfectly blameless employees of the institute. The level of spite that he was unsuccessfully coping with was off the charts and no one quite knew why or how to solve it. He couldn't solve it and that hurt almost as much as the failure in everyone else's combined efforts.
He wanted Marth. Marth Lowell. That name had become a mantra. That face had become home base. Marth, Marth, Marth…
It became a persistent ache in his head, in his chest, in his limbs. Somehow, he knew—really knew—that if he could just talk to that beautiful man once, maybe twice (maybe for the rest of his wretched days), then he would be all right. There were answers to his unformed questions. Marth had them. Had some? Had none. He was apparently unrecognizable. Until now, he never had an opinion on his body, but now he had one, and it was dismally negative.
How did he know Marth? Was the researcher a family member? Relative. Friend? Lover. Teacher? Student. Anything and everything except for stranger. Where could he find these answers? Was every portion of his brain labeled? Medical records. There was no way such a large-scale experiment could take place without an exhausting amount of history in paperwork.
Yes, he could start there and then find a way back to Marth, who was so lovely. He would do just about anything to end up together with pretty, smart, charming Marth.
The intensity of his spiraling thoughts only made the epiphany so much more jarring. So much that he jerked up from his flat position, disturbing whatever had been placed around him in the MRI machine.
"Ike!" the woman chastised from the speakers. "You know better than to move in there."
Scowling, he fumed at the ceiling of the capsule and tried to rearrange himself back into proper placement. He heard the technicians enter in order to fix the setup, and the woman stated with underlying condemnation, "Let's start over."
"A-all right," he agreed, hoping to high heaven that he wasn't blushing right now. With a generic textbook and notebook filled with scribbles, he had been analyzing this man from across the coffee shop to practice his categorizing. He was about to bet a month's stipend that this guy was o-τ but then the man approached him and brusquely said, "Got a problem with me?" Threatened and panicking, he slipped into typespeak and exclaimed, "Wh—nτ! Nτ, nτ. I'm sτ sτrry. I didn't mean tτ—"
Fortunately, the stranger apologized for intimidating him in the first place. He hadn't learned until months down the line that Ike had had a change of heart because his alarmed mindset made him stutter like an enamored schoolgirl (and Ike happened to find that endearing).
"Hi," the other initiated the second version of a first-time meeting with a winning smile. "I saw you staring at me from across the room."
If he wasn't beet-red by now, his sympathetic nervous system must be malfunctioning. "I…" he tried to produce some sort of normal response, but his voice box seemed to have eloped with his intellect. "Yτu… dτn't have tτ talk tτ me." This should work. The man should just take to the instructions, turn around, and this whole mortifying situation would disappear from existence.
"Relax," the stranger suggested with a disarming shrug. "You're cute. I thought I'd come by and say hi."
He wanted to drag himself into a hole and die. Wait, why didn't his typespeak work? His state of being could not handle any more stressful variables. "You," he began with a frown, "want to talk to me?" If he spoke sans ability, this man should theoretically leave.
"Yeah." The other's waning smile was back at full force. "I didn't mean to sound angry earlier. I needed some excuse to come talk to you."
"Are you…" asking me out? He wanted to say, but fear of giving off a presumptuous first impression caused the awkward suspension of his words mid-sentence.
"Say yes."
He was sliding in and out of consciousness. The temperature was soothing and the surface buoyant and the gravity stable, and he was 90% sure he was just sleeping. Yet, there was also this feeble speckle of concern that something about this situation wasn't right.
"Won't you say yes?"
And that voice. It had an enticing lull to it. He would follow it down the rabbit hole if he could. Of course, he couldn't. He was too large to fit into a depthless pit at the foot of a tree. He was fast asleep and his limbs were anvils even in his dream. As heavy as his body felt, his thoughts were floating, scattered like dandelion fluff in a breeze.
"You're undeniably useful."
He wished he was undeniably attractive instead. What a funny idea. He usually didn't worry about his looks. This REM cycle was oddly disjointed. He should probably get up and get ready for the day. He forgot what time his alarm was scheduled to sound. Maybe he didn't want to get up today.
"How angry will you be when you wake?"
He wagered not very much if he continued to bathe in the soft sensation of cotton and silk. How strange that anyone would find this atmosphere upsetting. Yet, despite all his herculean efforts, awareness of reality was seeping into his senses. That was the true travesty. Tactile, auditory, olfactory… He had to work overtime to even swallow. Eurgh. Cotton had a whole different connotation when pertaining to the amount of dryness in one's mouth.
His vision returned last and even then, he was limited to a bland plane. Eyes roving too stiffly to have much range, he figured this was probably the ceiling if that was a real light fixture. He may have groaned aloud; there had to be hundred-pound weights on his body. Moving was not an option.
An eerie pair of brilliant eyes entered his line of sight before he managed to connect the heart-palpitating visual with the ancillary angelic face. He expected a breathy 'Hello,' replete with déjà vu and austerity, but instead, the other said, "I'm sorry about that."
"About what?" he queried in response to his love's apology, which was so very out of the blue. Ike looked downright despondent. This was bad (wrong, terrible, inappropriate). These uneasy moods came and went without warning, and it never failed to cause him to fret. "Baby, what's wrong?" Panic crept into his voice in his flustered state.
Eyes downcast, the other made a heartbreaking portrait. Distress flooded his body in reaction to Ike's misery. He needed to make this better (solve this, fix it, make the other happy). Ike needed to be happy (pleased, overjoyed, loved).
Tension stretched close to point of yielding, Ike spoke falteringly like his throat had been dragged through gravel, "This is my fault."
The other's breathing hitched and his heart leapt in compassion (understanding, sympathy, love). Where had all this self-deprecation come from? He needed to do something. He wanted Ike to be forever happy (loved, in love, loving). The other's pain hurt him. He automatically closed the distance between their bodies and wrapped his arms around Ike. The inescapable ache diminished a fraction, but not enough to function. He needed to be enveloped (enclosed, surrounded, owned).
Lungs working unevenly, he tried to bury deeper into the comfort (protection, security, possession) of Ike and his fingers scrabbled for purchase. "Ike," his mind descended into condensed anxiety, "no," oh-god-no, "nothing is your fault." Ike was perfect (wonderful, amazing, ideal).
His senses registered like a mechanical click that Ike wasn't embracing him back. He had failed. He was the worst (defective, disappointing, worthless). He risked a glimpse at the other's face and Ike's eyes had a wet sheen. Agony spiked through his head. He did something wrong and his hold on Ike loosened as he dropped like a stone. The stabbing pain coursing through his skull rendered him speechless and gasping for air.
"Marth!" Ike had apparently caught him before he broke anything on his descent to the floor. Or something like that. "What's wrong?!"
A wounded whimper escaped him. His hands pressed into his temples like he could disperse the torture somehow. Somewhere amidst his suffering, he sobbed, "I hate you."
He didn't really mean it. Well, maybe he meant it half-heartedly. And very occasionally.
Conclusion: He only occasionally meant it half-heartedly when she was marking her territory on that clay rabbit in front of Marth, who was now making a daily appearance in the garden whenever he and Lacey walked by.
Post-script: He and Marth both bore witness to the urination ceremony day in and day out.
He was going to die of embarrassment. He was. There was no way around it. This was it. This was going to be the day that Lacey did him in because of natural animal instincts.
God damn it.
"It's all right, Ike," Marth said as they stood by the mailbox like this was everyday water cooler small talk (it kind of was). "Honestly," the shorter man insisted with an impressive amount of serenity.
"I don't understand how she manages to do this for five other locations." He really didn't. However, at the other houses, Lacey targeted shrubbery, not expensive-looking leporidae art. "Seriously, I need to replace your rabbit. It's going to stain."
"Don't worry," the other replied. However, the smile dropped into a grave expression when the mailbox owner whispered covertly, "But once she gets three houses down, I rinse it."
Marth was such a great sport. Grinning, he lowered his volume as well and complimented, "Clever. She'll never catch on."
The golden retriever perked up and wagged her way over to get between them, practically stepping on Marth's foot. Interrupting a private moment was another skill he did not teach Lacey. Evil thing. Her tail slapped energetically against the other's upper legs. No, he wasn't jealous of his dog's higher level of intimacy with Marth. See, dogs could get away with sticking their noses in places that didn't belong.
Bending at the waist, Marth held two palms out to Lacey, who took to the cue delightfully and placed her forepaws in the other's hands. How these two managed to interact with each other continued to boggle his mind—and he was the pet owner. Not jealous. Absolutely not.
So he asked, "How do you do that?"
"Do what?" he replied with understandable confusion. He took a sip of water as he awaited clarification.
Gesturing nebulously in his general direction, Ike muttered, "That… evading thing."
That didn't help. He set down the water bottle and gave the other a pointed stare. "I don't understand."
"That," the taller swordsman tried again with two hands to somehow mimic whatever the question was about, "thing you do." Ike stood all of a sudden. "Get up."
He did, but not without an arched eyebrow. "Again?"
"Without swords."
Oh. Intrigued, he followed the other back to the center of practice room. Even without a sword in hand, he gauged their spacing and deemed it adequate for whatever lay ahead of them. Standing in a stance inverse to Ike's, he waited patiently for the other's offensive move. Ike took two steps toward him, triggering his backward movement. He spotted an incoming punch and continued to avoid attacks to his person before spinning around and out of Ike's range.
"That. That's what I mean," Ike immediately declared, forgoing all sparring pretense.
"Dodging?" was his best educated guess. "But surely you know that," he mused, almost to himself. "Or perhaps it's your sp—"
Catching him off guard, the other swordsman had rushed into his personal bubble and gripped an alternating wrist and shoulder. With Ike's momentum, his instinct to move away combined with unbalanced footing caused him to stumble back and down.
But not before he grabbed fistfuls of the other's clothes to stay upright, which would have worked had Ike not misjudged his own forward force.
They landed on the mats in a jumble. Ike had released him mid-fall in attempt to not fall directly on his (very important) joints but nonetheless ended up caging him on his back with their legs in a mismatched straddle.
"Shit," Ike cursed over him. "I'm sorry."
"No, it's—"
"IKE!" Heads jerking to the door, they had two seconds before their redheaded colleague burst into the room. Roy tossed a bag of gear onto the bench and jovially exclaimed, "I challenge you! Just wa—uh? Am I interrupting something?"
The student's posture was flawless, even though the young man was assumingly taking a break by the window. With an unreadable look, the other scanned his body from head to toe before gazing back out through the tinted glass to the school grounds below in apparent apathy. "No."
It made no sense that another student would have permission to stay in the old library. This place remained locked unless someone was peddling books between locations, for which he was responsible. No one mentioned unfriendly students being allowed in prohibited areas. Even if they didn't seem to be causing any trouble.
Shrugging, he wheeled the cart of books over to section 300-399 and began to shuffle the original books further down the bookcase in order to make room for the present batch. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the other's disembodied voice from several aisles away say, "What year are you."
The lack of inflection made the question sound like a statement (or maybe even a neutral command). There was no reason his stomach should knot up like this. He cleared his throat and answered, "First."
He placed the newcomers onto the shelf two at a time. About eight tomes in, the other stated, "Name."
"Ike," he supplied, wondering if he was being impolite by not asking any questions himself, so he added, "What's your name?"
This time, he had progressed to the second level before the student by the window stated, "Lowell."
"Cool," he responded amiably, hoping that his affable effort would influence the other to do the same. "Nice to meet you, Lowell."
Met with radio silence, he guessed introductions and pending dialogue had all ended. He was about a dozen volumes from returning to the librarian with task completed when a quiet presence appeared at the end of the aisle. "Call me Marth."
"Okay?" He wondered who in the world was raised to introduce themselves by their surname but hey, who was he to judge? He tried to hide his bemusement. "It was nice to meet you."
Marth departed around the bookshelf corner with an evanescent goodbye. "Likewise."
"Of course!" the pixelated redhead agreed whole-heartedly, "But you first."
He couldn't remember the last time he and Roy managed to find the time to catch up over webcam. What with different time zones and work, even their email exchanges slowed to a snail's pace. Propping his chin on the heel of one hand, he listlessly stared off into space to consolidate what might constitute a significant event worthy of updating his old friend. "Samus revealed a laser-wielding R.O.B. about a month ago."
The redhead leapt from sitting to lean eagerly toward the screen. "Say what?"
"But then again," he mused, still trying to resolve his internal debate, "crime is so rare. I don't think R.O.B. will ever need those things."
"Lasers, man!" Roy cried from his sound system with a wail of excitement. "I need to see this!"
"And why use R.O.B. when she does enough damage alone?" he finished by reminding themselves of her infamous no-nonsense attitude.
His friend cringed away and dropped back onto a chair, arms hugging tucked-in knees. "Don't remind me." The redhead paused for a few seconds before pensively suggesting, "Does it simultaneously dole out coffee while shooting lasers?" Shutting one eye to take imaginary aim at an adversary, Roy pointed an index finger at the computer. "Like, PEW! Ding! Have some coffee and a nice day."
Laughing, he replied, "I don't know; I'll have to ask her."
"All right, cool." The other nodded sagely. "Now, onto my very important question." Was this going to be what he thought it was? "How's Ike?"
It was. With only a hint of a smile for Roy's predictability, he answered, "Fine, I suppose."
"Are you guys having sex yet?" the redhead joked, clearly remembering how he had vehemently denied any relationship with his roommate during their last chat. "You know, as totally-not-dating roommates."
"Yes," he said in complete monotone. "We are."
"What?!" Roy exploded, exclamation so loud that his speakers rattled angrily at the mistreatment. "You're kidding!"
"Oh, no," he stated firmly before remarking rather offhandedly, "Ike fucks me very we—"
"Please, no!" Clamping hands over ears, the redhead scrambled to block out whatever else he planned to improvise. "I'm sorry I asked! Don't tell me."
So he doesn't, but he wants to. He wants a lot of things. He wants a name and a motive and a backstory. He wants to know what makes the other look so tired and sad and lost. He wants it all, but it seems he only gets a few hours of only this night so he best not let the opportunity pass.
He's been undressed at a rate much faster than the lithe man beneath him. And as much as he wants (there it is again) this stranger spread bare under his weight, he doesn't think this urge for the other's vulnerability is entirely based in the carnal variation. There is something in the way the other moves and interacts with the surroundings, lofty and transient and a bit ghostly. Like there is nothing solid keeping this man attached to this earth.
Except this. He could do this. Save this beautiful stranger from disappearing. He just needs to never let go. That's fine with him. He wants the other to stay and he likes to imagine, according to the way those slender fingers touch his face, that the other wants to stay too.
Despite the other's destitute aura, the man has a maturity that reeks of adult tribulations. He knows the other is overdressed in comparison but can't bring himself to take the initiative and risk wronging an individual who deserves nothing but better things. Maybe he could be the (a) better thing.
He doesn't realize he has found a provocative spot at the other's ear until he hears a wet intake of breath. He repeats his actions with a single-minded focus that inhibits all other functions, which leaves the other in a writhing mess of accrued tension. The man's body heat bleeds through those thin layers of cotton separating them and suddenly everything he wants is prurient and corrupt and obscene. His hands shake indecisively around the perimeter of the other's clothes because he doesn't know what the right thing to do is. Then his prayers are answered because he hears, "Remove it."
Her chosen victim complied, mechanically sliding arms out of sleeves and legs out of pants and she enjoyed her inarguable control over the mortal. She usually didn't bother with the pleasantries but this one had all but ambushed her during a nap. Minor offense aside, the idiot continued to dig his watery grave deeper by spouting some unbecoming verbal filth that was far from amusing. He also may have ridiculed her jacket and that was the last straw.
If she had a weapon, she would have set him on due course for an arduously drawn-out death by just about anything but drowning (until she got bored, that was). Unfortunately, she had nothing but her waves and her cliffs and one cretin who was about to perish in her most unpleasant manner possible.
Aware.
To add insult to injury, she even tied him up with his own clothes before sinking down into the water with him and enjoying the asphyxiation of the panic-filled vestiges of a useless existence. She took pride in her ability to give her expendable humans a luxurious pass into the afterlife but she was vindictively pleased with her latest result.
Her jacket lay forlornly where she had left it. Despite her drenched state, she donned on the fabric, which soaked in the moisture and stuck to her skin in odd patches and wrinkles. She couldn't care less that it wasn't aesthetically pleasing or practical. It reminded her of that one young man, and she wondered if he ever thought of her.
It was very possible he didn't even remember she existed. Should a mere mortal survive her song, the spell was known to irrevocably muddle the mind. Even with such low odds, she wanted to see him.
Spirits high at the prospect of meeting again, she began to hum beneath her breath. Her enchantment vibrated with her unsung pledge. She would find him. If she pitched it just right, he could theoretically be led right back to her again. "Follow me."
"You're cute, but not that cute," he replied with a wary squint at the decrepit establishment and all its dark recesses and creepy décor.
Looking over a shoulder at him, the smaller man's eyes glittered with hidden mirth. "How can someone who can't die be so scared of a little house?"
Huffing at the other's attempt to slander his good name, he (less gracefully) clambered over the window sill after Marth. They had already discussed his abnormal genetics, and his travel companion knew very well that he did not temerariously seek life-risking scenarios. His special condition could be subject to change; he was never too sure about these things.
Lowering his voice to a sibilant whisper, he asked, "So this is a thing you do? Break into other people's homes?"
With a smirk that made his stomach do a cartwheel, Marth replied, "How are you still surprised?"
They seemed to be in an antiquated sitting room of some sorts (a parlor? Did those still even exist?) and he wanted to make a quip about something (anything—brandy, fireplaces, upholstery) just to take his mind off of the other's agile, ruthless self. Trust him to be attracted to someone who tried to kill him in the first place. He would get his head checked if he could find a doctor who didn't ask for medical insurance.
Marth was scowling by the door. The hinges had released a creak upon rotation. "Keep up, won't you?" the other said and, with no further elaboration, slunk down one very dim corridor.
God, he was not ready for this excursion. Heart pounding like a drum, he trailed after his partner and tried valiantly to ignore the fact that this place made his skin crawl.
Arriving at a junction of hallways, he cursed tacitly. He had no idea where to go. He could only imagine the flaying lecture he was going to receive from Marth after this was over.
"There you are," the other emerged to his left and held out a hand. "Come o—" The man lurched toward him with an abridged cough, and with immense horror, he watched a sliver of metallic gray slice an arc through the other's neck.
One long blade thrust forward at chest-height and the second sword's handle resting on an opposing shoulder, Marth exhaled slowly as the figure between them slumped to the carpet. Bringing both weapons down to rest, the hunter said, "Let's discuss your propensity for getting lost."
He was certain the looming hulk of a dragon did not understand his words, so he reached up to touch the mythical creature to communicate his fondness. He loved the enviable power evident beneath those iridescent scales with every shift of the dragon's movements, large or small.
"Sometimes I wonder where you run off to," he murmured against the other's face, running the flat of his hand across the dragon's cheek. It nosed his torso in return. This movement used to push him down before the dragon reassessed how much force he could tolerate as a human. In lieu of a push, it had taken to curling around him.
Tail sweeping the rocky surface by the waterfall and spine bending to complete the circle, he found himself fully encased. No one could come within a hair's length of him without disturbing the dragon barrier. He wasn't sure if he should be amused or worried that the creature had decided some time ago that he was a necessary nap accessory. If he ever returned to human civilization, what would become of it? It couldn't possibly abstain from sleep forever (but in his experience, the dragon really did hold vigils for his return before it slept).
Never mind the fact that he now slept poorly without being securely wrapped within its protective embrace.
"You amaze me," he said affectionately, to which the dragon opened one drowsy eye to acknowledge his conscious form. With a bit of shifting, the creature nudged him closer to the pacifying epicenter of its heartbeat, which never failed to put him at ease.
And have a soporific effect.
As he drifted off in a haze of comfort, he wondered just how he had ever become so lucky. To be loved and cared for. Unconditionally. The rhythmic breathing surrounding him morphed in and out and between wheels and waves and curves and he thought he could hear someone calling his name over and over again. :||