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It had been Sting.
It had always been Sting when it came to those kind of things, not because Rogue was any less sure in his feelings, but because he had never been good at putting them into words. A difficulty that had been made a thousand times worse by the stance that Jiemma had taken about ‘bonds’, and the fear that if he ever showed just how much Sting meant to him that it would be used against him – more than it already was. However, that threat was gone. The guild had changed, and still Rogue struggled to put what he felt into words even when they were alone, let alone in public. Actions he could do, slipping his hand into Sting’s as they sat in the booth they’d claimed as theirs, leaning against Sting, arms around his shoulders when he was supposed to be ‘helping’ with the paperwork.
Perhaps that was how they had ended up here, with Sting plopping himself down into Rogue’s lap in the middle of the guild one day. To be honest he had been expecting something, especially after seeing the article in Sorcerer’s Weekly that had listed them both as some of Fiore’s most eligible bachelors – Sting had been raging earlier, especially as he had explicitly said in the interview that he’d been persuaded to give, that he was ‘involved.’ However, Rogue knew that he hadn’t helped matters, because he had found himself clamming up during the interview, unable to contradict the questions about their ‘close friendship’ and while Sting knew that Rogue returned his feelings, the world was not quite so clear on the situation.
He was prepared for grumbling or even irritation, but he wasn’t prepared for Sting grabbing his hand and cradling it between his, and he was highly aware of the silence that had started to stretch around them. “You’re mine,” Sting murmured, seemingly oblivious to all the eyes around them, lifting his hand to press a kiss to it and Rogue melted at the silly gesture. The worry that had been building from the moment he’d set eyes on the article flowed away, although it was replaced by a flicker of new worry as he caught the mischievous glint in blue eyes.
“Sting…?”
“In case anyone else doesn’t get the hint,” Sting cut him off, with a grin that was only half joking, a note of possessiveness slipping into his voice now as he pulled Rogue’s hand closer. And there was an explosion of sound around them, that had Rogue shaking his head and Sting rolling his eyes in exasperation, as they had both explained that they were waiting until Sabertooth was entirely free of the shadow of their past actions before taking that step. However, he had to admit that he hadn’t been expecting Sting to deftly wrap a length of red thread around their hands, binding them together. “You’re mine.” Another kiss, this time on top of the thread. “My partner, my mate…my soulmate.” It was hopelessly sappy, but Rogue could feel colour creeping across his cheeks as he glanced down at their hands.
Soulmates.
There were a few disappointed groans, a handful of wolf-whistles with Orga being the loudest, smiles from the rest of their teammates – with Orga landing on the ground with a muffled thud, as his stool mysteriously disappeared and reappeared on the far side of the guild, and whispers that descended into quiet conversation as he found himself leaning into Sting.
“Soulmates,” he echoed, voice little more than a whisper so that only Sting would hear him. It was an acknowledgement, and a promise, and when he tilted his head up, it was to find Sting waiting for him, drawing him into a warm kiss.
*
They had spent a pleasant half hour, just cuddling, bantering back in forth with Rufus and the others who had eventually drifted across to join them. Sting taking some gentle teasing for being a ‘hopeless’ romantic, before they’d had to reluctantly part as Sting’s office was slowly disappearing under a mountain of paperwork that needed his signature. It was then that they discovered that Sting for all his inability to braid Rogue’s hair, had been able to tie a knot that neither of them could loosen in the thread. It took nearly ten minutes, a lot of laughter from their long-suffering teammates, and eventually admitting defeat and allowing Yukino to grab a pair of scissors to free them – by which point they were both red-faced, and when Rogue looked down at his hand, there were clear lines where the thread had bitten in.
He had let Sting rub his hand, easing out the lines and joined in the laughter and teasing, warmth blossoming in his chest as he realised just how much things had changed. However, he had been unable to stop himself for reaching for the broken thread that had been set on the table, carefully scooping it up and slipping it into his pocket, fingers lingering against it as he looked up at Sting with wide eyes.
Soulmates…
The word was replaying through his mind now, as Rogue pushed himself upright on trembling hands. The world spinning around him, and he honestly wasn’t sure whether it was him or the ground that was moving and he was about to squeeze his eyes shut and block out the disorientating blur of shapes and colour when a flicker of red caught his eye. It was faint and seemed to fade in and out of view as he tried to focus on it, blinking to try and clear his vision as he traced its path through the air, as it flickered and flitted as though caught in a breeze.
A red thread…
Then it disappeared, and he bolted upright with a cry. Sting. His entire body protested the movement, and he faltered, slowly becoming aware of the deep, throbbing pain that seemed to permeate through every inch of his body. His vision was beginning to settle now, and he wished that it hadn’t as he glanced down and took in the deep tears down his side, his nose now starting to detect the copper of his own blood. However, with that realisation came memory. Not a clear one, as though someone had come along and scrambled up his thoughts, although maybe that had more to do with the sharp pain that he could feel in time with his heartbeat that seemed to be centred around his temple. But enough, to leave him with a fleeting feeling of acceptance and inevitability, of tensing his muscles in preparation for a blow that he couldn’t avoid… of white light, a frantic voice and a warm hand on his shoulder, before he was falling…
Sting.
Sting had been with him, he knew that much, and he could still catch a trace of his partner’s scent in the air around him, and that was enough to get him moving. Struggling to get shaky legs beneath him, he staggered upright and nearly fell, pressing a hand to his side, as the movement ignited a fire between the wounds. He could feel dampness against his fingers, but he ignored it, frantically scanning the area for some sign of Sting, ignoring the way the world spun for a moment.
Red flicked in the corner of his eye once more, and he whirled towards it, chasing the trace of colour on unsteady feet, even as his other hand darted to the pocket where he had kept their thread ever since Sting had given it to him.
The pocket was empty.
Something clenched in the pit of his stomach, a frantic denial rising in his throat. No. He sped up, chasing the flickers of red before they could disappear again. His legs caved beneath him, and he hit the ground hard, but the collision barely registered as he staggered upright once more. Sting. I have to find Sting. It was a mantra. A prayer. A promise. One that had risen to a crescendo in the back of his mind before the red danced directly in front of him, before darting off to the left, and there finally, he caught a glimpse of blond hair amongst the rocks, and there was a moment where he was frozen. Locked in place, as he watched the red flicker above his partner. Then the colour was fading, disappearing from the world, and he was lurching forward with a sharp cry.
“Sting!”
There was no reply, and the clenching sensation in the pit of his stomach had become a leaden weight by the time he had managed to clamber over the rocks and reach his partner’s side. And for a moment there was nothing but white noise, a roaring that filled his head, as his gaze was locked on the figure sprawled on the ground. Rogue knew that he was a mess, even though he hadn’t taken time to do more than a cursory examination of his wounds…but Sting…Sting looked like he had been to hell and back, and Rogue had to fight back nausea as he collapsed to his knees beside him, hands reaching out, only to hover helplessly over his partner’s wounds. Some of which he knew with a deep, icy certainty had been obtained protecting him, and it took him a few seconds to collect himself enough to find his voice.
“Sting?” He whispered, voice cracking and breaking as he finally let his fingers brush against his partner’s body. Nearly collapsing in relief, as he felt Sting’s chest rising and falling unsteadily beneath his searching fingers, and gently he shook the other Dragon-slayer, mindful of the wounds. “Sting? Sting!” It took a few minutes, and more than a few repetitions before he was rewarded by faint creasing of Sting’s forehead, and he leaned in closer. “Sting?” He tried again, louder this time, and Sting came alive beneath his fingers, trying to lash out defensively, although the blow had no strength in it, his arm falling back to the ground halfway. “Sting!” Urgently he reached out, moving to grip Sting’s hand between his, just as the blond had done to him that morning in the guild, squeezing it lightly even as he leant forward to try and catch the blue eyes that were drifting, unfocused. “Hey, it’s me. It’s me.”
“R-Rogue…” Sting still wasn’t focusing on him, but some of the fear eased out of his expression, and he recognised him. Rogue wanted to take comfort from that, but without fear lending him strength, Sting seemed to be shrinking in on himself, losing strength in front of his very eyes and for a moment all he could see was the red thread fading from view. No…
“Yeah, it’s me,” he murmured instead, blinking the image away and trying to force a smile as he realised that Sting was semi-focused on him now. All he managed was the faintest quirking of his lips, the weight in his stomach growing as Sting’s gaze wandered away again. “You’re going to be okay.” It was a declaration because he couldn’t accept any other outcome, even as his mind was cataloguing Sting’s injuries, a quiet voice in the back of his mind telling him that this was bad. That Sting…
“I…” Sting was trying to focus on him again, the crease back between his forehead, and there was fear in his eyes now, and in the waver in his voice.
“You have to be okay,” Rogue cut across him, refusing to let Sting finish the thought that he could see forming in his partner’s face, shaking his head when Sting tried to continue. “I can’t lose you,” he added, with a hint of desperation breaking through now, and he moved, releasing Sting’s hand in favour of reaching up to cup Sting’s face between his hands, holding his gaze and drumming up as much conviction and determination as he could as he whispered fiercely. “I can’t lose my soulmate.”