Rogue isn't used to being included.
It's not loneliness as much as introversion that has kept him on the fringes of interactions all his life, that has held him out from never being anything warmer than acquaintances with those around him. Even now he's not sure how Sting got in so close so easily; Sting just sort of happened to him, helped himself to Rogue's life and Rogue's heart without bothering to ask if it was okay.
Rogue doesn't mind. It's warmer with Sting, brighter and clearer until he can see where he's going, where they're going, and there's never any question in Sting's assumption that they will be moving forward together and so there's no hesitation in Rogue's mind, either. It doesn't make sense, that one single person could smooth away so many of the shadows across his path, but just because it doesn't make sense doesn't mean it isn't true.
Rogue would follow Sting anywhere, across the world and over oceans and into the sky itself, if Sting decided that's where they should go. Through the front door of a guild hall is nothing remarkable, in comparison, and even though Sting is vibrating with anticipation Rogue doesn't feel as much as a shiver of concern.
He has Sting with him, after all.
It's Sting who starts the conversation, who strides into the room as if it belongs to him, as if the inhabitants aren't all older than Sting and Rogue's ages put together. It's the flash of white as he lets his power ripple over his skin that catches the audience's attention, that draws a hesitant moment of shock over the observers. It's Rogue who finishes it, who flickers into darkness and shadow in the dimmer light over Sting's shoulder, so quietly the observers would miss it if they weren't already staring at the pair of them after Sting's performance.
"We want to join," Rogue says, softly, but the echoing rumble of his shadow-voice is enough that the words carry, underline the arrogant tilt of Sting's chin and the diamond-bright flash of his grin as he stares down the cluster of onlookers.
It's straightforward enough, after that. The guild leader complains for several minutes, citing tradition and age requirements and tests of strength, and Sting winds tighter and tighter with frustration until Rogue reaches out to touch the back of his wrist, to cool away the first flare of rage so the blond can blink and see the inevitable capitulation writ in the way the leader isn't looking at them directly, the way his hands tremble with greed for a pair of dragonslayers in his guild.
Rogue doesn't wait for Sting, when the posturing is over and the leader is lifting the stamp like it's a holy artifact. He's turning immediately, dragging up the sleeve of his shirt to offer his left shoulder for the weight of the pattern. It tingles like sunlight on his skin, settling in so for a moment Rogue can feel ticklish sensation halfway to his elbow before it recedes, collects under the dark guild mark on his skin before fading off into body temperature. When he looks up Sting is hissing in surprise, shaking his arm like he's chilled; the blond is grimacing at the sensation but Rogue is watching the mark light up like it's fired from the inside, a tiny star settling into the blond's shoulder before the light fades off into pearl-white pattern.
They compare the shapes afterward, sitting cross-legged in front of each other and tipping sideways so Rogue can stare at the clean lines of Sting's mark while warm fingers press into the curves of his own.
"Left shoulder, huh?" Sting asks, and Rogue can hear the grin without looking. He looks anyway, because Sting's smile is like the sun, and Rogue likes to watch the bright sparkle of it.
"Yeah." He doesn't need to say any more than that. Sting knows where his own mark is, has his own reasons for choosing that particular location. Rogue just knew it would be the same as his, knew without talking about it the same way he knows they're going to be together from now on, that everything will be okay because Sting is here with him.
"Did you hear what they're calling us?" Sting is still grinning, his attention drawn from Rogue's arm to the other boy's face, his eyes gleaming with the edges of an almost-secret. He leans in close, conspiratorially, and Rogue echoes him, tips his chin down and his shoulders in until their foreheads bump.
"The twin dragonslayers." Sting's smile is infectious, strikes sparks off Rogue's thoughts until his own lips twitch in pleasure. He knows they are a single entity, and he is pretty sure Sting knows, but it's nice, still, to be acknowledged as a unit, paired with the day to his night in the minds of onlookers as well as in the only two that really matter.
Rogue is sure Sting doesn't think at all, when he moves. Rogue is doing the thinking for them, has been parsing out motions and possibilities of this event for days and more immediately for the last few minutes. But when he comes to a conclusion, and tips his chin up, Sting is already moving to meet him, shutting his eyes as easily as if he's kissed dozens of people before, as if he knows how this works. Rogue keeps his open for a moment, stares close-up at the fine gold of Sting's hair and the shape of eyelashes feathering across his skin while his lips catch together on the other boy's, as they tip their heads in unison to better fit their mouths together. Then he feels Sting start to smile, summer-warm and sharp with delight, and Rogue lets his eyes shut so the warm focus of darkness can sweep over him.
He can still feel the sunlight against his skin.