He is used to others cowering in fear before him, shrinking back at his mere sight.
From the first day they met, however, Varka has stared him down, a half-smirk spread across as his eyes graze his form. In the beginning, it was in admiration. A strange, foreign look that Il Capitano has mostly forgotten. Even as they needle him, his peers shrink in his presence.
Time slips through his clawed gauntlets as it often does, just like the blazing sand of the Natlan desert. They met many times over many weeks and months, and now that gaze on Varka's face has melted into something softer.
Something that should be directed at someone like himself. Something that he certainly shouldn't answer readily, and yet—Capitano does.
It is another night in the wilderness, a hushed meeting at the northern edge of the desert. It is chilly at night once the sun dips below the horizon. Varka's men are now asleep, no longer tip-toeing around him as though one gaze might bring their downfall.
One day, in the past perhaps. Capitano is a man of justice above all, but his years are stained with enough blood and pestilence that he's become a plague of his own.
To everyone except Varka, who leans close to him. A warm hand slips into his coat, pressing against Capitano's waist. Varka is broad against him and handsome—the sort of rugged attractiveness that cannot be overlooked.
"This is a bad idea," says Capitano in a low whisper. The camp might be asleep, his men included, but Varka is not known for being quiet in moments like this.
"It's been too long." Varka leans closer, an arm snaking around Capitano's neck to tug him down.
"It's—" Capitano lets himself be yanked at. He lets Varka smooth those wide palms over the length of his shoulder.
Never his face. Never his mask. Varka is respectful of this boundary where others usually are not, and that only made Capitano slip further and further with every illicit meeting.
It is not romantic—unless one finds stories swapped underneath the stars a warm comfort. Shitty dehydrated food, boiled tough in dubious water, served in rough-worn bowls with barely workable utensils. Genuine, honest curiosity, and a drive for the unknown.
Sparring, for Varka, because the man knows no bounds and is incredibly stupid every time that he asks to take a peek behind the armor. It is a game by now. Weeks and months have bled into something that is no longer just teasing, it's something to be longed for and that curdles Capitano's gut.
"Stop thinking so hard," says Varka, tugging Capitano's shirt from where it's tucked into his trousers. "I can the gears in that blasted helmet of yours whirring."
"I am not a clock. There are no gears—"
"Well, I wouldn't know, would I?" From most, they would be biting words, but Varka says them with a laugh as his face tips up to kiss the chin of ice-cold, black-hardened steel. And then he pulls back before Capitano can push him away.
Or lean into it, which seems to be the option more and more as of late.
Heat curls in his chest, an old, forgotten feeling that haunts his being these late, embittered nights. Capitano finds himself lonely when they part ways and delights when they meet again. Varka is barrel-chested and tall. He has nothing but hard edges and bulging muscles, and an unkempt beard that trickles down his neck because shaving is hard to keep up with when out on the road.
He must've seen an Inn recently because this time around Varka is more clean-cut, the angle of his sharp jaw proudly on display.
Capitano takes his chin into his clawed fingers, turning it side to side.
Varka grins, wily and crooked, and that heat in Capitano's chest quickly spreads south. "Looking good, no? I managed to even get a shower in last week." Heavily insinuated words that do not go unheard.
"There's no time for—"
Varka knows. "Not for the whole kit and caboodle, but—" His hand slips south, curling around Capitano's wide hip, squeezing. And then, it skitters further, pressing between his legs.
Capitano's head slams back, hitting the hard rock of the stony plateau he's pressed against. Truly a terrible place, but not the worst they've gotten handsy. Which makes it worse. Those memories cannot be unseen, unthought, they linger in the back of Capitano's mind.
His cock twitches, slowly filling out and tenting his trousers, to which Varka grins boyishly. "There we go, big guy."
Capitano huffs, hating it. "Stop it with such nonsense."
Varka does not. He squeezes Capitano's cock through his trousers, gaze tipping low as he licks his lips. "It's been—"
"Not as long as it usually is."
"Right, I noticed that." A pause. "A complaint?"
It should be. "No," is what he says, those damned, pesky feelings speaking up first.
Varka's gaze softens, glittering as he watches him back. What a foolish man. An utterly foolish, brute of a man.
Even now, there is curiosity when they approach this. It is not the first, nor fifth, nor dozenth time they've indulged. Varka's hands wander, pulling and prodding, knowing just what Capitano likes as though he can see beneath that blackened armor.
Capitano lets him in close which is probably not smart. But he wants and he's tired of pretending that he doesn't. Harbingers do not get to love but he allows himself these fleeting moments that come more often now that he intentionally seeks them out.
And Varka knows. He must, judging by that curving grin that can read right past the pitch black that swirls underneath his mask. He reads Capitano well through body language alone, and those old war stories that they share, even though they've heard them a hundred times over by now.
Varka is efficient as he undoes the opening of Capitano's trousers, pulling them down enough for his cock to tip out. The skin of his heated length, the spread of his hips, and the dusting of hair underneath his navel—these are the parts that Varka gets a rare glimpse of.
He kneels to the ground, eager as he pumps Capitano's cock with a rough and calloused hand.
Capitano hisses, eyes shut tight—not that Varka would know. It's too dry, so Varka slicks his hand with spit before jerking him properly.
A distraction, insists Capitano, but with every stroke of Varka's heated hand, his resolve slips more and more.
And then, a lick, just across the tip. The flat of Varka's tongue against the underside of the crown before he seals his mouth around the head.
Capitano's hand flies down to curl around Varka's head. If those clawed gauntlets cause pain, Varka doesn't even blink, he just sucks his dick down until nothing more can fit in his mouth. "Impressive," says Capitano, brushing his bangs back. It's what he always says, watching Varka's eyes tear at their corners because his cock is big enough to strike fear in most.
Varka is not the type to be intimidated. From the very first time, he's treated his cock as though it were a challenge to be won, and by now it's all muscle memory. Varka is amused as he smiles around him, sucking. Then he pulls off, resuming that tight grip of his hand.
"I've missed you," he says.
"My cock," corrects Capitano, his voice quiet as it echoes in his helmet.
"No, you."
Capitano expects tension to settle over them, but instead, it is affection. Warmth. Hot lust as Varka leans back in to suck his cock down until he's gagging. Capitano tugs his head back. "Quiet," he warns.
Varka ignores him, swallowing around his cock. He sucks at him, sloppily, spittle bubbling around from his lips as he slips forwards and back. He bobs his head. His tongue lathes the underside, tracing the bulging vein with every slide of his mouth.
Capitano loses himself in the moment. It's surprisingly easy as he pets Varka's hair with one hand, and holds his skull firm with the other. He knows what is expected, so he rolls his hips not so gently.
Varka sputters, choking slightly around his cock. But he's eager in that way that sucks around him. How he whines when the tip of Capitano's dick presses into the back of his throat.
"Handsome," says Capitano, as he watches Varka's spit-slick face, which only makes Varka keen. It's delicious, the way that Varka's mouth is stretched to its limit.
Varka moans, one hand dropping to grind against his own clothed dick. His face is a wet mess, his beard damp with tears, spit, and precome. Capitano rolls his hips more, fucking into his mouth deeper. Varka hums around him, sucking him dry.
It sneaks up on him, his orgasm. Capitano is too busy watching those dangerous long lashes, Varka's half-lidded eyes as he watches back from underneath him. He pulls back in just enough time to spend himself all over Varka's face, rather than down his throat.
Pearly white come paints his beard. Varka strokes his oversensitive dick right through it, kissing the tip and whispering sweet nothings that shouldn't settle in Capitano's heart. He swipes through the mess of his face, licking it up, savoring that bitter, sickly taste as though it is divine.
Capitano watches, chest heaving as his gut loosens with every breath. Fuck, this is bad.
This is good. He loves this man, which is why he moves, pressing Varka against the stone next, coaxing his legs around the rise of his hips before dipping a hand into his trousers. Three jerks of his hand has Varka tumbling, biting at his wrist to keep quiet enough.
He whines as he comes undone, soaking his belly and Capitano's dangerously gauntleted hand with come.
"Fuck," murmurs Varka, wiping the sweat from his brow. Then, he falls to the ground, tired and spent, pulling Capitano along with him.
Once, so long ago that he thinks he might have misremembered, Capitano was given a flower by a maiden. He tucked it close to his heart. It was stained black, tempered by his darkness until it fell to ruin. This time, he tucks Varka close, an arm tight around his waist as they lay on the dusty, soiled ground.
They are old and unwise to indulge in this but they persist.
For a man driven by the sort of devout loyalty the way that Capitano is, he wants to drive a stake into his own heart. Maybe. Lately, those thoughts are muddled, meaning less and less. Loyalty has not brought him happiness, it has been this man with his wild, outlandish stories, and incessant, persistent letters.
"Stop thinking so much," murmurs Varka, the same words from earlier that night. Always the same words.
Capitano sighs softly, so utterly unlike himself.
But, the warmth of Varka's body is worth it at the moment. And so, Capitano curls around him, just for a moment, savoring the time they have before their men begin to rouse.
The last time, he thinks, knowing it's a lie.