Chapter Text
The incantations that fall over Dref’s tongue as he manipulates the very essence of the captain's body feel both foreign and familiar. It's like the clumsy fluency of learning a second language without ever having heard it spoken by a native speaker. It's so unlike divine magic, which tastes natural in his mouth, warm in his larynx.
But, unlike divine magic, necromancy yearns. It aches to dig its tendrils into his psyche, wants to force itself out of his chest like a wild animal. Restraint is one of the biggest challenges, because necromantic magic so badly wants to be preached.
Dref’s severe social anxiety far outweighs the desire to give into this temptation.
That doesn't mean he doesn't feel it, of course. But he's finding that it's easy to curb the withdrawal by confiding small bits in the others. Even to the secret keeper that physically recoils at the sound of his ministrations over Orimar.
Gable watches him sometimes. They could leave, and perhaps they should for their own wellbeing, but he appreciates the company nonetheless. “Does it hurt?” they ask one evening, plaiting their hair into complex weaves as if it were child's play. “Necromancy, I mean.”
“I can see it hurts you,” he drawls, tapping into the necromantic arts to sew tendon back together in Orimar’s hip. It's a thoughtless reply, and it feels rude to say, especially as they wince with the awful aura that fills the space. He hurriedly amends, “B-b-but no it, um, it d-doesn't hurt to p-p-p-perform.”
If they're offended by the careless comment, Gable is good at hiding it. They push a bone needle through a stack of thick, braided hair, humming thoughtfully, “But something does hurt.”
“It's more l-l-like a... craving.” Orimar’s leg kicks reflexively, and Dref swears under his breath. “If I don’t perform the magicks for a while…”
“Do you know why?”
It's not a question he's meant to answer. They look at him with a curious gaze, bright-eyed with knowledge. Insight into something he doesn't know, but something that he wants to. “No.”
Gable shakes their head grimly. He's a little disappointed. It's one of those rare lost knowledges that only an ageless being could possess. Maybe he's asking for too much. What he does, after all, goes against every fiber of their being. They move to hover over him, and Dref is suddenly struck with the eerie feeling that he is being examined. Or, perhaps, judged. “Most people would not be as sane as you after so many years of study.”
“W-well I took p-p-precautions—” he gestures to the room, to the lack of reflective surfaces and the sealed oil lamps, “And I-I don't want power. I want…” Dref exhales reverently, and looks up at them a little hopefully, “I want knowledge.”
“Those can be the same thing,” Gable points out shortly, coming close to his side and staring down at Dref as he fidgets over Orimar’s form. He wonders what he looks like to them, if he's maniacal or merely inquisitive or…
Or a sinner.
They smile, but it's not kindly, “I like you, Dref.”
He's confused, because Gable is his friend (perhaps more?) but he suddenly feels like whatever human connection he has with them is disintegrating under their all-seeing gaze. “And I, you,” he says slowly, suppressing the shudder in his spine.
“But if you show any sign that your proclivities are any more than a passing fancy, I will not hesitate.”
He meets their steely gaze, frightened and suddenly, inexplicably burning from within. “Gable,” he breathes, “I-I would n-n-never—”
They swoop down and kiss him.
Well, it's something more than that. The moment the shock wears off and his eyes flutter shut, they take to Dref like they want to devour him. He's helpless to Gable’s tongue in his mouth, running along his teeth and flicking over his palate, and to their teeth, biting at his lip until he can faintly taste copper.
And, of course, he's very confused by this whole interaction, but he welcomes their muscular arms hoisting him up and pushing him into his work desk with so much urgency that his papers go flying off. That burning sensation he got from looking into their eyes quadruples, frying his brain until he can distantly hear himself moaning indecently into their mouth. He feels ravaged, like prey for a starving lion.
But then the suddenness at which they stop leaves Dref reeling. He brings a shaky hand to his mouth to touch the slickness of saliva over the bruised and scraped surface of his lips, awed. He pants raggedy, staring into the metallic shine of Gable’s eyes, searching for meaning. “You need purpose,” they whisper, voice husky, “And if this thing you have with Travis and I is the one thing keeping the madness at bay—”
“It's not,” he rasps, mouth going dry. He licks over the sting of his lips. “But I—If it ever is, then I assure you that I will not go mad.”
“That's good to hear,” they murmur, leaning in until they're millimeters apart. Gable sighs, like they're releasing a breath they've been holding for however many minutes their conversation has lasted. Before Dref can lean in and catch their mouth again, urged by a sense of mutual infatuation that balances tenuously between Gable’s overwhelming heat and his own chill, they turn away to slot their head in his shoulder. Their arms come up under his arms and cradle his back, drawing soothing circles into the narrow space between his shoulder blades. It feels protective, like they're carving divine vigils into his skin, cleaning the filth of necromancy from his body.
Well, this is also good.
He basks in the chaste touch as it softens the jagged edges left by their heated kiss. “I-If I may ask,” he mumbles by their ear, “What made you so worried n-now?”
“Experience,” they reply simply, nuzzling into shoulder, “And the way you look at me when…”
They whisper a little something that makes Dref’s face go red. “Uh. Um.”
“I don't want to lose that.”
“Ah. Mngh—I… M-me neither.”
“I like to carry you,” they sigh, “And I like it when you touch my back.”
“Oh…” His hands migrate up from where he hugs around their middle to where he knows Gable’s scars lie. They purr an appeased little sound, and he thinks of how they're unlearning objective morals. For this. For him. Gable may have been opening their mind to the shifting interests of mortals for decades, if not centuries, but this is a unique brand of blasphemy that has never been acceptable.
The captain stares dead-eyed at the ceiling, totally unmoved by the sudden racket. In the two years he knew Orimar, Dref can't say he ever got a good grasp of how he viewed the good and evil things in the universe. Maybe he'd be disgusted at how Dref reanimated the former seat of his soul, or maybe he'd be amused at how he's use it to deceive the crew so tactfully.
Orimar winks. Dref doesn't know why he does that, and it scares him.
“Do not hesitate,” he murmurs. Gable makes a questioning little sound. “If it comes to—Please. Do not hesitate.”
They shift back until their nose brushes against Dref’s. “Do you know me to be one who does?”
He smiles shyly, and they kiss him again.
The captain's hand twitches.