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“Which means the humans are also petitioning our aid, and are liable to take offense if we refuse them but help someone else. It may be a good idea to send a representative to smooth things over.”
Laranthir finishes his report and settles into a resting position. He doesn’t so much as flinch when he feels a soft bup, and another small projectile lodges itself into the back of his collar.
“Ooh,” he hears Roza breathe in victory, very quietly.
Trahearne’s gaze flicks behind him for a brief second. “A wise idea, Laranthir. Commander, if you’ve naught else to do?”
“I’ll go.” Roza walks up to the table, munching on—a handful of peanuts, a quick glance tells Laranthir. Ah. “Who am I talking to?”
“Anyone of import who will speak to you,” Trahearne replies. “If you can manage it, having Queen Jennah reassure her people that the Pact is not purposefully neglecting them would do wonders for diplomatic relations.”
Laranthir stifles a smile at his wording. Surely enough, Roza’s spine straightens. “I can certainly manage it,” he says. “Any bells and whistles needed, Marshal?”
“Don’t show off,” says Trahearne.
“Is that an official concern, or a personal one?”
“And perhaps don’t throw peanuts at them either,” he continues easily. “The Seraph are not going to be as tolerant of you testing their discipline as Laranthir is.”
“Tch.” Roza tosses another peanut, this time not even bothering to be subtle. It bounces off Laranthir’s breastplate and lands on the floor. “I don’t know what you mean. Did you see that one? It almost got inside.”
“Truly, your aim is admirable, Commander. Enough that I’m certain you won’t mind cleaning up all the ones that fell on the floor when we are done. If that matter is settled, we will move on to the next. The Risen are still largely populating Orr, which means…”
The meeting continues. Roza seems to be only half paying attention, either bored or distracted by some distant thought, which means that Laranthir temporarily steps up to do his job for him. He should mind more than he does, but offense is not high in the air, and Trahearne keeps glancing at the commander like he knows he isn’t all there but can’t bring himself to berate him for it. Laranthir shouldn’t think it is romantic. He especially shouldn’t think so when he is still being occasionally pelted by a peanut.
“Gotcha,” he hears now in an undertone. He dips two fingers into his collar and fishes the projectile out, idly popping it into his mouth. Hm—salted.
He is also, perhaps, a bit over-tolerant of Roza’s brand of buffoonery in general, but he cannot help it. It wasn’t that long ago that he almost never smiled. It wasn’t that long ago that Laranthir would walk by him and feel borrowed loneliness tug at his heart like the call of a drowned spirit warbling for company at the bottom of an empty ocean. If Roza finds joy in this childishness, Laranthir will let him partake in it as much as he wishes. To an extent.
“Laranthir, I will bow to your expertise on this matter.” Trahearne gives a small, self-conscious smile. Troop distribution is not his specialty.
“I would get the commander’s first, if you don’t mind me saying,” Laranthir replies. “He is the best tactician in this room.”
Roza laughs at that—his short, dry, half amused one. Then it dies, and he glances at the both of them.
“Oh,” he says. “Really? Oof.”
“Do not sell yourself short, Commander,” Trahearne tells him. He is looking at him with that little sideways smile he gets sometimes, the one that says Roza could launch a diplomatic visitor off the ramparts and laugh at the splatter they leave on the ground and I would still praise him because of the way his eyes catch in the sunlight. Laranthir shouldn’t think that is romantic either, especially since a few peanuts ago one had successfully gotten inside his armour. It is currently quite uncomfortable.
“Here.” Roza sweeps the map with one elegant finger. “Priory team went there. They will need armoured backup, because they always do. Do not send out the strike squad yet, even if they complain—wait. We will be spread uncomfortably thin.”
Trahearne nods. “Even more so,” he concedes. “Very well. I am not eager to incite such complaints, but safety is paramount right now.”
“I can go and yell at them,” Roza assures him. He laughs softly, weariness or some other feeling easing the edges into genuineness.
Trahearne chuckles. “You can,” he says, that same emotion in his gaze.
Laranthir gets the uncomfortable urge to exit the meeting room and leave the two of them be. He can’t, of course—not only can he not simply leave, but Roza will most certainly notice his discomfort, come find him later, and interrogate him with all the lack of compassion and efficacy of a torturer carving answers out of their victim.
He clears his throat, only smiling gently at the guilty way Trahearne starts. It makes an odd sort of longing ache in his chest—he wishes he had his own long-lasting love, one that both slipped through and eroded the boundaries between duty and friendship like theirs does. It is… difficult, to find someone who both respects and understands the demands of his job. He also gets the oddest feeling that if he ever so much as looked at anyone in the vicinity of Fort Trinity, he would find them the next day reduced to a rotted husk with a smiling Roza standing over them declaring them not “good enough” for him (He seems to be inclined towards such in thought touching, but in reality incredibly disturbing displays of overprotectiveness. Laranthir isn’t entirely certain he has warranted it, but he supposes that is what one should expect when one chooses to plant an—incredibly volatile, really perhaps malevolent—sprout in their garden).
Roza rubs at his eye with the back of his knuckle. “Trahearne,” he mumbles, “Can we adjourn for now? Laranthir is getting tired and it is affecting me.”
Laranthir is not terribly tired. Trahearne smiles and says, “Oh? I thought that was coming from you.”
Roza blinks up at him blearily. “No, it is him. I am very awake.”
“Clearly.” Trahearne’s smile softens. Laranthir does not have the heart to tell him that, genuine or not, Roza is probably gleefully yanking at his strings (something that he himself has been the unfortunate victim of before). It is getting late, anyways, and they have nothing of urgency to discuss.
“Alright.” Trahearne runs a hand through his foliage with a sigh. “We can resume in the morning.”
Roza smiles. Trahearne points at the floor. “Clean that up, and then you can sleep.”
Roza pouts at him exaggeratedly. Laranthir looks away and tries to tell himself that he is not flirting, that they are all very platonic friends, and that even if he was flirting he would never do it in front of Laranthir, because he is a decent sylvari who respects people’s right to privacy. It does not quite work—he does not think his brain can hold that many lies.
(He feels for Trahearne sometimes, he really does. Laranthir himself had once had a fleeting thought that it is… easy to see why his gaze strays sometimes. He had then spent the entirety of the evening trying to drink that thought, the fact that he had it in the first place, and the sudden fear that Roza had somehow learned how to hear minds as well as whispers out of his head. In a frightening turn of events that he is still trying to tell himself is a coincidence, Trahearne had come to him the next morning asking him in all innocence if he thought Roza was attractive, which... is a question he is scared to answer even to himself now. Anyways. Peanuts).
“Ah—speaking of.” Laranthir unbuckles his breastplate, takes it off, and shakes it out vigorously, sending a small rain of makeshift missiles scattering across the floor. “Here. Just making sure you can get them all, Commander.”
Roza gives him a smile that is caustic enough to burn his eyes out of their sockets. “Thank you. Laranthir,” he says.
Laranthir bows with one hand spread over his chest. “Of course; what else are friends for? I will take my leave. Goodnight Marshal, Roza.”
“Goodnight, Laranthir.” Trahearne sounds like he is trying not to be amused.
“Where is your room again, Laranthir?” Roza sounds like he is very much not amused.
“Next to the sign that says: ‘Latrine duty for starting petty squabbles,’” Laranthir replies, and slips through the door before another peanut can find its way into his clothing.
He is almost glad he doesn’t get to see whether the two leave together or not.
~*~
Roza is not a fool.
He awakens with his magic fleeing in terror and his pattern flaring fearfully bright, and he closes his eyes, focuses, and draws himself in.
In, and he checks immediately to see if his nightmare had flickered out into the Dream. In, and he knows this will not dispel it completely, but he thinks of Trahearne.
He is not a fool. He knows they are not… nothing.
They are not nothing, but they are also not something. They are simply… them. Trahearne is Trahearne and Roza is his, and it is just that. Some things in his wretched life are simple, and his relationship with his marshal is at once both the most incomplex and the most complex thing he knows.
The distraction works, mostly. Roza can think of Trahearne’s smile and his gentleness and he can ache for it, but he will not seek it out. Such a thing should not be disturbed—it should be kept precious, sacred, for Roza to visit and pay homage to in whatever unholy sacrament he decides.
He releases himself. He checks Laranthir first, out of habit—he is the first, and he will always be the first, no matter how golden Trahearne’s heart gets—and, when he finds him sleeping peacefully, his marshal. They are both fine. Trahearne… is awake.
Roza opens his eyes. Perhaps he should be selfish, then, and seek him out with the offer and request both of shelter.
He slips out of his bed, padding across his room to grab a robe and a book before leaving. The hallways of Fort Trinity are cold in the night, especially to bare feet. He shivers, pulling his robe over his shoulders. He wonders if Trahearne will agree to give him a hug, if he asks for one.
His rap on his marshal’s door is soft. If he is kind enough to respond at this hour, Roza will not give him cause for alarm.
It cracks opens after a few seconds, and yellow eyes blink at him, not weary at all. “Roza,” Trahearne says, and he sounds surprised.
Roza tugs at his robe. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” The door opens further. Roza ducks his head and slips underneath his marshal’s outstretched arm before it closes.
“What can I do for you?” Trahearne gives him a small smile. Roza stares at it unwillingly, and his mouth parts.
His thought out explanation for his visit dies an ungraceful death. Roza’s stare skitters away as he warms, not knowing why. It is a warmth only Trahearne can beget—sometimes it sunders his thoughts, like it is has just done.
“You can do much for me, my Marshal,” he murmurs, walking past him with no aim. He clutches his book to his chest, gaze idle.
There is a breath before Trahearne answers, although he does not notice it. “Are you cold?” he asks, and in front of Roza is a fireplace, he notices now. Trahearne must think he has gone to it. He feels a hand press to his back and lights up at its touch, that warmth coming back now to overwhelm him. He is…
“You are.” Trahearne’s voice is frowning. “I’ll light the fire, do not worry. Please, sit if you want.”
He goes to light the fireplace. Roza watches him as he does, gaze caught on the reflection of firelight sputtering against his bark. He kneels next to him on the floor, smoothing down his robe.
“Oh.” Trahearne looks at him as the wood catches. They are close together. Roza, still warm, tries a smile.
It gets returned near immediately, and he almost looks away from the sheer presence of it. Oh…
“Roza?” Gentle fingers touch his arm. They slide slowly, catching on his pattern underneath his robe. “Is there a reason you sought me out?”
Roza looks at him, and feels so warm, and sweet, and different. He feels so different, with Trahearne, and he is no fool. He can guess at what that means, even if he tells himself he does not truly know. Why else would he blush at such odd things? Why else would he want nothing more than Trahearne’s attention, his closeness, his touch? But here Trahearne sits, and he is asking why.
Do you not love me? Roza wants to ask in return. Do you not ever wish to put your lips to mine and fall with me into the sweetest night?
He does not ask. He knows the answer.
“You were not asleep.” His voice speaks for him. “I thought I might stop by and ask for your company, if you would grant it.” He looks away, into the fire. “I can just sit here and read if you do not wish to be disturbed. Or I can go.”
“Nonsense.” Trahearne’s hand migrates to his other shoulder, and now his whole arm is there, warm and present against Roza’s back. “If you came here to request company, who am I to refuse? Come, you are cold.”
Roza ducks his head and falls closer, and Trahearne settles against his side, pulling them snugly together. “There,” he says. After a moment, quieter, “Did you have a nightmare?”
Roza nods slowly. Trahearne makes a low noise and raises his other arm, and now Roza isn’t very cold at all, really. He supposes asking for a hug at this point would be redundant.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Trahearne asks.
Roza wonders if that is what a lover would do, speak about the things they would rather hide. “Not really,” he replies. “Apologies.”
He is no lover, and perhaps that is why Trahearne does not feel for him in that way, does not blush at the things Roza does. It is his own damn fault, he knows. He is not… he is not the type of person someone looks at with warmth in their eyes, or the type that would invoke sweet thoughts, like the ones he has about his marshal. He is torn and bloody, more often than not, and when he bleeds on someone he leaves them tarnished.
“No, it is your prerogative.” Trahearne’s voice is soft. “That is alright. What do you need from me?”
Roza shrugs automatically—he does not know. “I like sitting here with you,” he offers. “But are you certain you do not wish to sleep?”
“I would much rather be here at your side.” Trahearne adds a crooked smile to the words, as if they are not world-shattering. His pattern pulses leisurely, dotting his face in violet.
“Oh,” Roza manages.
They sit.
After some time Roza gets warm—too warm, although he would rather banish the fire’s heat than Trahearne’s. He pushes at him with a soft word and the light pressure of his fingertips. Trahearne draws back, and Roza slips his hand underneath his robe to let it fall.
He notices the way yellow eyes catch on his neck, then his shoulders—and it is an amusing thing, especially when it incites a faint ahem. Roza stops his smile from rising, not wanting his marshal to think he is being made fun of.
He may never catch Trahearne’s heart. However, he knows he can catch his eye. He may not understand why, but he is far from unobservant, and he can read his marshal easier than any book. It is a cruel thing, he supposes, that they can only affect each other in the way that the other cannot. But what is there to be done about it?
He crooks his fingers. “Come, Marshal,” he says. “Warm me.”
He can be a little mean. It is too fun.
Trahearne clears his throat again, and shuffles forwards to mostly the same position he was in before. Roza leans back against him with a sigh.
“You, ah.” Trahearne’s voice thrums against his back. “You have changed your style, recently. You usually… cover up more.”
Oh, the poor thing. Roza hums, glancing down at his—rather fine, since it is summer—night shirt. “Kas got this for me,” he says. “She said it was one of hers, but I looked sexy in it, so I could have it.”
Trahearne makes a choked noise. Roza waits for a full three seconds, grin spreading, before he laughs. “Oh, I am just kidding,” he admits. “You are fun to yank around, Trahearne. No, it is just very humid here nowadays. I am always too hot, and I cannot sleep in anything else. My magic does not work ambiently.”
It is mostly the truth—he is being purposefully vague about whether he is only talking about this tunic or not. Trahearne nods anyways, relief in his expression.
“You, ah…” He clears his throat. “You look nice.”
Roza raises his eyebrow. “In this night shirt?”
“No! I mean… I mean yes, but… in general. But also with the new style, I mean.”
“What do you mean?” Roza mutters at the ceiling. Perhaps it is a good thing he cannot be subject to… whatever this is. He would rather keep his words intelligent.
Trahearne chuckles warmly at his back. “I do not know,” he admits. “It is late, and you are distracting. Forgive me.”
And now Roza is the fool, because whatever does he mean by that, and is Roza always distracting? Just now? In what way? Only physically? Can he—
“Trahearne,” he says, struck by some urge to offer, “Do you think we can…”
He trails off. What kind of a proposition is that? But no, they could… They could…
They could what? He feels no desire. Sure, he is willing to try, if Trahearne wishes for it—he is willing to do anything for him. But his marshal will not want to lay with stone.
“Mm?” Trahearne’s hand brushes down his arm.
Roza lets out a quiet sigh of defeat. “Never mind.”
Breath smelling like dew warms the back of his neck. “What is it?” Trahearne asks again, with words this time. He is so close.
Roza shrugs in his back. “I just… wish I could,” he says, “Feel.”
Trahearne’s chest moves as he breathes, slow and steady. “You can feel,” he replies. “I know you say your world is muted at times, but you feel much, Roza. Your emotions run deeply.”
How does he…? “First of the firstborn,” Trahearne answers his unspoken question with a smile in his voice, “Remember? And you are… very close to me. I can sense you nearly as easily as I can myself.”
Roza does not know why a shiver runs through him at that—maybe it is the low timbre of his voice, or its certitude. “Physically?” he asks thinly.
Trahearne hums. “Clarify?”
“Physically feel,” Roza reiterates, ignoring the fact that just that one-word answer makes the shiver spread to his limbs. Is… this what Trahearne experiences? But no, Roza is not even looking at him. How can it be?
“Ah.” Trahearne says nothing for a long moment as he thinks, then lets out a short huff of amusement. Roza can feel it spread across his bark. “Are you asking me if you are physically capable of feeling things?”
Roza flushes unexpectedly. “You don’t have to put it like that,” he mumbles. “You know what I am asking.”
“Roza.” Trahearne’s voice dips. “You can certainly feel things.”
Roza shakes his head, although the movement is restricted. “No, I meant…”
“I know what you meant.” Trahearne shifts against him, and gentle fingers push underneath Roza’s ear. “Lean your head down, against my arm.”
Noting the intent in his tone with curiosity, Roza obeys. He feels a light tug at his tunic, and then its collar is being slowly dragged to the left, exposing his shoulder.
Trahearne pauses. “May I?” he asks, but Roza is already nodding. This is… intriguing.
It starts as light touch, two fingers and barely a third circling the top of shoulder before trailing to his neck. They curl to nails, and the touch continues, where Roza would normally be ticklish—
He shudders. Trahearne stops immediately, withdrawing his hand. “You see,” he says, “You can certainly feel, my dear Roza. Your body works perfectly well.”
Roza swallows. His breathing has sped up, he notices in some annoyance. He deliberately slows it.
“Is that what…?” he begins, then stops. Trahearne is gently tugging his shirt back into place. The contact tingles.
“Is that what sex is like?” he asks, blunt for once. Roza nods wordlessly.
“More or less.” Trahearne shifts again, and Roza leans back into him once more. “To a more extreme level, obviously, and, ah… elsewhere.” He clears his throat. Roza smiles at the familiar habit. “For most people, there is a psychological aspect to it as well. But I cannot say for certain where your own inclinations lie, I am afraid. That is something you will have to find out for yourself.”
“Mm.” Roza shifts his legs. He can feel Trahearne’s breath against his neck again. “Can you—move your head?”
A pause. Then, “Ah.” The word is knowing, as is the accompanying chuckle. “Of course.”
Roza turns his own head to direct a weak glare at his knees. “Just… do it. That is all.”
“Oh no, I understand your situation perfectly.” Trahearne’s voice comes from his branches this time, which means Roza cannot feel it. He does not know whether to be relieved or disappointed. “Consider it payback.”
“Pay…” Roza trails off, then blushes. “Shut up.”
He hears an amused hum. “I suppose this means you answered your own question, doesn’t it?”
Roza’s face heats further, and the fire reflects lilac for a brief moment. “Fuck off,” he mutters.
That earns a laugh. “You have such a dirty mouth,” Trahearne mock-scolds, and Roza can feel the moment he realizes what he has just said.
“I,” he says.
“Ju—” Roza.
“I didn’t mean—”
“It fits. I mean—.”
“Right, I—”
“Um. Just—”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“Thorns,” Roza breathes, dropping his head to his chest. He can hear Trahearne mutter a similar exclamation behind him. At least when they are made fools, it is with each other.
He leans back against his marshal’s chest as they collect themselves, coming down from his embarrassment and… that. Once it fades, he realizes with some surprise that it leaves exhaustion in its wake. Trahearne, perhaps sensing it, loosely cradles him in his arms.
“I am tired,” Roza murmurs pointlessly.
A kiss presses to his head. “I know. Do you want to sleep?”
Roza lets out a dry, bitter laugh. “I will return to another nightmare. But elsewise I will be exhausted come morning. It is not a promising situation.”
“You can stay here with me.” Trahearne detaches from him reluctantly before slowly standing to his feet. He stretches with a groan. “Ah… wherever you want, Roza. If you would kick me out my bed, I will sleep next to the fire.”
“I would never.” Roza is offended at the supposition, although he hears a smile in Trahearne’s voice that may hint at not entire seriousness. He leans forwards to blow out the fire, then rises as well. “Can we… do what we just did while lying down?”
Trahearne looks at him. Roza wonders if it is an odd request—surely not, since they are in the realm of head kisses and extended hugs? He has done that with other friends. Or at least… to a certain extent. But even so, he and his marshal are a special sort of friends. Of course it is not strange.
“We can,” Trahearne acquiesces with ease. He does not sound as if he thinks it is unusual at all, and Roza relaxes unconsciously. “Come. Get in first.”
Roza does so, curling up on his side with a small shiver. He misses the warmth of Trahearne’s body. It soon joins him, however, as do the covers, and he sighs in contentment, shifting back.
“Thank you,” he mumbles. “Goodnight, Trahearne.”
An arm snakes around his waist. “Goodnight, my dear Roza,” Trahearne says quietly. A gentle nudge of his magic, and Roza trips into slumber.
It remains peaceful and undisturbed for the rest of the night.
~*~
Trahearne wishes his commander could stay happy.
It feels like an odd thing to wish, now when they are lively and content with smiles in their souls. Roza lies next to him on the grass, his hand intertwined with Trahearne’s. It would be difficult to look at him now and say that he frowns more often than he smiles, or that he is more bitter than he is joyful. Trahearne is trying his best to tip that balance, but he is only one person, no matter how dear, and Roza’s world is bleak and harsh.
Roza makes a lazy noise that could be considered a giggle if Trahearne did not value his life, and points upwards. “Look,” he says. “That one looks like Zhaitan.”
Trahearne looks. He absolutely does not see a Zhaitan-shaped cloud. “It does,” he agrees anyways, and Roza’s not-giggle bubbles and bursts.
Pale Mother, Trahearne loves him so much it feels as if that is all he is, sometimes. He is glad that he is past the stage of spiking breaths and stuttering words. Instead his love for Roza warms him from the inside out, like the purest, sweetest ember left after a fire. It is a beautiful thing.
“That one looks like a penis,” Roza says slyly.
Trahearne coughs. Well. Perhaps not entirely past that stage.
“Do you ever wonder,” Roza is saying now, in that tone that means Trahearne is going to regret existing next to him, “How Elder Dragons reproduce? Hm? I mean, where did Blightghast and Tequatl come from?”
“They do not reproduce,” Trahearne begins, even as he bemoans his wont to take the question seriously. “The champions you speak of are powerful minions that—”
“Do you ever want a pet undead dragon?” Roza interrupts. “Because I do.”
Trahearne sighs. Here they were, having a romantic afternoon. “I am sure you can find a small enough draconic creature that you can kill and reanimate,” he says, resigned.
Roza shuffles closer, until his head nudges into the crook of Trahearne’s shoulder. “I want a big one.”
His tone is smiling. “Do you?” Trahearne asks, turning to look at him.
His face is smiling as well. “I do,” he confirms. “Will you get me one?”
“Hm.” Trahearne pretends to consider. Roza’s forehead presses against his cheek. “How about I get you…”
Roza’s hand is cool and comfortable in his. Trahearne can feel his contentment—an idle happiness seeping into his body and weighing it down. He wishes it were strong enough to make Roza stay here with him. Here they are lying like lovers, and he wishes for nothing more than to take this moment and press it into his commander’s soul so it can never be forgotten.
“Trahearne?” Roza murmurs. He has not yet answered.
“Roza.” Trahearne presses a kiss to his forehead, and black eyes flutter. “My apologies. I lost my train of thought.”
“That is alright.” Roza exhales softly against his neck. “Some conversations are not worthy of continuation anyways.”
“Stay here with me for some more time,” Trahearne entreats. “Long enough that you can think of this moment when your days are bleak.”
The hand in his squeezes. “They never are with you around.”
“When I’m not around,” Trahearne says.
A careful rise and fall of Roza’s chest next to his. “Alright,” he concedes finally. “I will think of you when my mind falls to darkness.”
Trahearne reaches across and lays his free hand over his breast. “Not just your mind.”
Another slow breath. “My Marshal,” Roza says, something precarious in his voice. “You are always in my heart.”
Trahearne closes his eyes and smiles. “Good. I can think of no better place to dwell forevermore.”
~*~