Work Text:
Nyx Ulric has quick hands. Fast with magic, summoning fireballs aplenty, and faster with his kurki, with any sharp object for cutting and slashing. They're also scarred from his countless mishaps during a childhood spent learning the proper care and respect one must give the tools of their trade, knuckles forever marred from fistfights and quiet fury unleashed on training dummies and punching bags. He has the mark of a hunter beneath his eye and another of a tracker running along his index finger, the same he lifts close to his mouth for silence when they sneak through occupied territory.
They're strong hands used to lifting heavy burdens, palms calloused from so long handling weapons and the years spent helping his father about the modest farm they lost to the Nifs and hauling delivery crates to and from the cellar when he and Libertus owned a bar. They're gentle hands, well-versed in weaving even the most stubborn hair into neat braids, threading in beads and cords to show the mark of a culture struggling to survive in the cruel hustle and bustle of a city that doesn't want refugees despite what the posters say, well-versed in massaging at scalp and neck and shoulders to coax relaxation after a long day of work and endless stress as the unofficial Glaive techie fielding the many issues of an unreliable Comms system.
They're hot hands, chasing the chill away from the sliver of his face left exposed between hat and scarf and sending a quick pulse of heat through his very bones to keep him warm as they creep and slide among prowling daemons in search of a Royal Tomb. They're hands that lose their grip when a pained cry tears loud and horrible through the cave, clatter of metal on metal drawing Pelna's gaze down for a few precious seconds to see his partner's kukris drop to the grating and skitter over the side of the walkway, and then Nyx is following them, hurled over the railing and clear of the blade run straight through his abdomen by the unnatural strength of an angered Ronin.
"NYX!" He does not launch himself at the retreating daemon's back, no, he hurls himself into a warp to the exact point he last saw Nyx in free-fall before he vanished from view, reclaiming his dagger and throwing his second straight down to burst into a second warp, misjudging the distance to the bottom of the cave and colliding with the ground hard enough to break a few bones in the arm he lands on and drive the air from his lungs in a pained grunt. He scrambles over to his partner despite the nerves screaming protests at his brain, frantically rolls him over and searches for a pulse and for breath, and when he finds both he should sigh in relief but his hand comes away bloody and Nyx isn't talking, isn't moving, isn't so much as smirking.
They are limp hands in his own when he bundles Nyx into the back of the van and Crowe tears into his uniform to assess the damage, and no matter how hard he squeezes or how many times he changes his grip and slots his fingers between Nyx's there's no response. Dread settles in his stomach like a lead weight when he notices they're not as warm as they had been just two hours prior, the pale cast to lightly tanned skin, the unconscious loll of his head on the bench, not even a flicker of movement under his eyelids when uneven terrain nearly throws them all to the floor. He maneuvers around to sit by Nyx's head instead, prop it up against his thigh and curl as best he can over his upper body, lays his arm over Nyx's chest (still moving, still breathing) to try and keep his body as still as possible for Crowe to weave the unpredictable threads of healing magic through him in an effort to keep him alive long enough to get proper medical attention.
"Stay with me, you reckless son of a bitch. Stay with me!"
Pelna Khara has an artist's elegant hands and slender fingers, confident and ever in motion. If they're not tweaking at wires and microchips smaller than the nail on Nyx's little finger then they're plucking thrums from the guitar he plays to unwind from a particularly stressful day, melancholy notes lifting to something brighter and softer when Nyx kneads at the cruel knots in his shoulders and upper back and buries his face in Pelna's hair. And if those hands aren't cradling his guitar then they're lovingly tending to his daggers on their way beyond the Wall (and what is death but nature's very own form of art?), breaking from methodical care only twice to extend the middle finger to Luche when he makes gagging noises at the casual way booted feet drop into Nyx's lap, at the ease in which he responds to the silent demand for contact by rubbing at lean calves and tossing a wink his way.
They're chaotic hands always covered in something, be it flecks of paint and brick dust from his latest gig renovating and redecorating derelict buildings, or the smudge of charcoal from filling his sketchpad with all the little details he can pick out from a thing with just a passing glance (a smudge he transfers to the bridge of his nose when nerves get the better of him and he starts fussing, starts fidgeting), or an unhealthy dusting of flour Nyx can only laugh at when he finds Pelna in the middle of a goddamn culinary warzone in his kitchenette. Sometimes, if he's especially lucky, he'll back his lover up against one of the cabinets and lave his tongue over a hand generously coated in vanilla icing, watch deep brown eyes darken to almost black as he takes fingers into his mouth and sucks on them, gets them nice and wet for other antics. Those instances are his favourite, especially when his braids are yanked on and he's forced to bend to Pelna, to follow his lead and bare his throat for stinging bites that leave marks he grins at in the mirror the following day.
They're tender hands, carefully gathering beads and cords and sliding each of them into the pouch Nyx keeps in the top drawer of his bedside cabinet, fingers combing through the waves left in his hair and coaxing out any tangles. The very same fingers that will sweep his hair back from his face whenever he wakes in a cold sweat with his sister's dying screams echoing in his ears, a kiss on his shoulder and Pelna's breath on his neck, a steady and welcome presence against his back as he sucks in lungfuls of air and tries to disentangle himself from the phantom heat of flames long since extinguished. Blessedly cool hands that will dust a light layer of frost over his skin when the flu hits and his temperature soars, bathing the sweat from his skin with a damp washcloth and quiet murmurs meant to soothe even through fever's temporary delirium.
They are careful hands all too familiar with the responsibility of twisting bones as close to proper alignment as possible with Crowe ready at his side, the silent "I told you so" clear in the arched brow she levels at Nyx, healing magic humming at her fingertips while she smugly informs him that he owes her the entire next round of drinks for getting himself busted up so badly so quickly ("it's a new personal best, hot shot").
"Don't do anything stupid, hero."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Pelbear."
Pelna Khara passes at the age of sixty-seven, his last breath a content sigh of his partner's name and his hand (burned and scarred after so many mishaps with gadgets) held in those belonging to Nyx Ulric, still quick and strong despite their years.
Nyx Ulric dies in his sleep three weeks later, following the familiar thrum of a guitar gathering dust and cobwebs in their attic and the sound of his sister's laughter, unforgotten despite the passage of time. He spins her round when she tackles him for a hug, laughter and tears shared between them, and there is that steady and welcome presence against his back, and Pelna's tender hands in his hair fussing with his braids.
He is home.