Note: Nagamas gift part 2/3 for gahraazel on tumblr. Dragon laguz look so much like beorc compared to the other laguz sooo we're changing that. They need more lizard bits. And the Branded must inherit some of that too, right?
Ike woke to a jagged prickling down his chest and stomach.
Maybe once he would've assumed he was being attacked, but after only a fortnight on the road with Soren, with just what he could carry on his back, he was already feeling the war get further and further behind them. It also helped that Soren himself was in his arms, thin back against his bare chest. His hair was soft against his nose, and his skin slightly cooler than Ike's, but warmer than the air outside their bed at the inn.
Thin dawn sunlight was leaking in through the window. For a moment Ike focused on Soren's breathing. He was definitely asleep, right? Where was the pain coming from? And then Soren flinched and Ike was pricked again.
Aha. The spines. They'd ripped through Soren's nightshirt.
Ike didn't mind them, truth be told, though he'd only just discovered them: black, reptilian spikes raising from Soren's spine in a spotty line, as if some vertebrae had forgotten to join the chain. Soren had been so cautious about hiding them for so many years. He bathed separately, kept separate rooms and separate tents, and would wear the same robes for days rather than change in front of someone else, even another member of the Greil Mercenaries. After finding out about the Branded, Ike had figured he understood— though he hadn't, not really.
Soren cringed again, and again his spines flicked upward, digging into Ike's skin. Apparently they worked like hackles.
"A nightmare?" he murmured against Soren's neck. "There's no need for that."
But Soren kept tensing, twisting a little against opponents Ike couldn't see. He held fast. The pricking turned into a sharp pinch, and then a dull ache, and faintly Ike realized they'd broken the skin.
"Soren," he said, tightening his arms. "You're fine."
Another flinch, a whimper, and Soren finally quieted, spines lying flat, practically unnoticeable. Ike stayed curled around him until the sunlight strengthened and washed the room bright.
He almost thought the morning would pan out normally, from there. When Soren stirred for good, they both stretched, Ike making the bed creak as his weight shifted. He got up to rummage for his clothes, and Soren went straight for the basin to wash his face and brush his hair. And in fact, if Ike hadn't carelessly thrown his shirt off after the candles were out the night before, everything might have proceeded without a hitch.
As it was, he took an extra minute trying to find it, and Soren turned around with the sleep cleared from his eyes and hissed, "Ike!"
"What?"
He followed Soren's gaze to his chest and stomach, remembering too late the trail of little needle wounds. He pursed his lips and shrugged.
"Don't do that," Soren snapped.
"Do what?"
"Make that ridiculous face!"
Soren went back to the small mirror above the basin and craned his neck to observe the back of his nightshirt, and the spines bursting free. They were flexed again from his agitation. The self-loathing in his eyes and the horrified twist of his mouth were hard for Ike to look at even through the reflection.
"How did this happen?" Soren demanded, more to himself than to Ike. "We always sleep that way."
"You were having a bad dream, and I was holding you."
"You didn't let go?"
"I didn't want to."
There it was— he found his shirt half under the the bed and shrugged it on. Soren kept boring his gaze into his chest anyway, as if he could see past the fabric. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides, an oddly indecisive gesture for a tactician to make.
"Disgusting," Soren said finally. "I hurt you. Just by virtue of what I am, I—"
"Hold on, now. I'm the one that didn't let go."
"Disgusting."
Words obviously weren't going to get them anywhere. Ike went to him and smoothed the spines down with a finger, like calming a ruffled bird. They lowered easily under his touch, though Soren's shoulders remained high and tense. He wouldn't meet his eyes, so Ike brought the same finger up to touch his chin, coaxing his face up.
"Let go, next time," Soren ordered.
"No."
And then he pulled him into a tight hug. After several long moments, Soren's arms hesitantly snaked around his waist in turn, and his hands fisted in the back of his shirt. Ike let his hand roam, gently rubbing his back. When Soren's breath juddered against him— "I'm sorry"—he moved a hand to cradle the back of his head instead. There was no need for apologies.
"You know I don't mind," Ike said. "I said you could come with me, and I meant all of you."
Soren took a deep breath and drew away, cheeks pink. The tightness was gone from the corners of his eyes and lips. He didn't have to say anything in reply; Soren hated stock phrases and had made his feelings obvious long ago. Ike let his mind wander to hopes of bacon and ham.
"Breakfast?" he asked. "I'll bring you up something."
"I don't want anything."
"Come on. We're on vacation."
"Wine, then," Soren said dryly.
Ike shrugged as he went to the door, intending to take the quip seriously. They had nothing important to do and nowhere important to be; not anymore. They could lounge and drink all morning, if they wished, and it was an idea that was already growing on him.
All that existed for now was the road and Soren, and if he scattered everything else behind him, he would at least cling to that.