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“Gratitude.”
They have already travelled a good while in silence, and so Agron is almost startled now to hear the voice beside him, having nearly forgotten the girl was even there. He glances over and frowns.
“Whatever for?”
The child shrugs and turns her attention back to the woodlands growing around their path. “For taking me here,” she says simply, “It is not your place, yet you teach me when no one else would.”
For lack of a more useful gesture, he reaches out a hand and pats the girl awkwardly on the shoulder.
“It is better for everyone that you all learn to feed yourselves. And you show promise, such a thing should not be wasted.” And the words are just as awkward as his gestures, but what fucking wisdom are the fates now expecting him to part in any case? He hardly is the right man to act as a father to anyone, especially not to a woman-child of all things.
But the girl nods earnestly in reply as if she was able to glean some meaning from Agron’s speech. “Rainard said you were a good man.”
And if Agron was at loss for words before, he truly does not know what to say or do now, so he pats her shoulder one more time and then quickly hastens his step, hoping that perhaps a new pace will rid the girl of the inclination to share more words. And he begins to wonder if maybe he should have stuck with the boys from before, after all. They may have been stupid and loud and absent skill, but as useless as they were in the task, at least when they spoke they seemed to make some sense.
Though, maybe Agron can at least admit that the child is right on one account. For it hardly is custom for a man in his position to spend his days teaching children to hunt, especially when those children are not even his own. But then, Agron has never been much for customs, at least beyond those of battle and war. After all, it hardly is custom either for him to share his house and bed with another grown man, and yet he has no intention of doing else for the rest of his days.
Whatever little freedom he now has, he has fought hard to hold, and Agron shall not be offering it away in fear of nothing more than a few old wagging tongues.
And perhaps such freedom would be better spent elsewhere than here, even if, with spring still waiting around the corner, the responsibilities at home are yet limited at best. Agron has never had much patience for children, even less so than he has patience for anyone else, but lately he has come to appreciate these moments of relative peace, has come to appreciate the quiet over loud voices and raucous crowds. There is much to be said for the company of men on a proper hunt, yet there is a kind of pleasurable simplicity in this form of task – no showmanship, no competition, just the woods around him and a weapon in hand and the wind in the trees.
Rainard teases him of becoming an old man before his time, and maybe he is right. Whether that is to be a bad thing or not, Agron cannot yet say.
They have made it to the top of a modest peak when he feels Iryna briefly take his arm and then sees her point wordlessly towards a small opening at the foot of the hill.
It is a handsome stag, standing alone in the middle of the clearing. It will feed a family for some time, and the meat would come as a blessing at this time of year, when winter is barely behind them and no fresh food has been had for moons. It is too good an opportunity to miss, although Agron is doubtful the girl will quite yet have the skills to pull off this feat. Yet it is good practice in any case, he thinks, as he readies his own weapon. And everyone must start some place.
“You know where to aim?” he says close to her ear, not wishing to startle their game.
“Heart or lungs.”
Agron nods and waits for her to take position.
But she has hardly had time to steady her bow, when movement in the high grass at the edge of the woods startles both her and Agron, as well as the deer grazing below them. The animal is quick to run away as a flock of birds takes flight from the trees, and Agron and Iryna share a look between them.
“We better move as well,” he says, with a last glance at the large shadow yet standing still at the farthest edge of the woods, and is about to turn away, ushering the girl in front of him, when suddenly an all-too-familiar voice freezes him in mid-step.
Keeping the girl behind him, he carefully makes his way down the hill, until the whole of the plain and the riverfront finally comes into view. And Agron curses under his breath.
“Let it go now and come here,” Nasir is saying sternly, his eyes, too, fixed on the edge of the woods as he speaks, “I will not tell you again.”
Agron turns to Iryna then. “The others must not be far, go and bring them here. Now. As fast as you can.”
The girl casts one more look at the scene before them and then quickly nods her head and turns back to scale up the hill once more. And Agron takes his dagger in hand and steps closer to the small group by the water.
“Come here,” he tells the boy himself, matching Nasir’s tone, “And leave him, he is not to be your toy.” While he speaks, he grabs one of the other children by the arm and ushers her to move further away.
But the child on the ground is too young to listen to reason, too enchanted by his newfound furry friend to even pay attention to given orders. And so, safe in the knowledge that Nasir is keeping watch behind his back, Agron has little choice but to step forward and drag the boy away from the cub by force.
Dangling the baffled child by the arm, Agron turns to Nasir, all the while keeping his eyes on the shadow closing in by the treeline. “Take the child to the others and keep your distance. I try and scare her away.”
“Agron, you are not–”
“Go!”
Nasir’s eyes keep flitting between the edge of the woods and Agron’s face as he holds the spear a little higher in hand. “I will not leave you to fend for yourself, I am better able to wield–”
But there is too much noise in Agron’s head now – from fear, from frustration and from sheer need to formulate some sort of plan for himself – that he is of no mind to listen to any more protest. And the words that next fall off his tongue are as coarse and unplanned as they are desperate, as he shoves the other man out of the way with a harsh hand.
“You are no use in this, so do as you are fucking told!”
And then the bear is already charging forward, and Agron can no longer pay any mind to what goes on behind his back, far too occupied once more with the task at hand.
There is one chance to strike before it is too late, and Agron can only hope he has chosen the target for his weapon well. For he may very well have faced half the men of Rome in battle, but such experience holds little weight with an opponent who is strong enough to kill a grown man with one swipe of her claw.
Even with the blade lodged in its chest, the animal raises to her feet one last time, and Agron attempts to stagger out of its reach. She will be too injured to strike with full force, yet she is big enough to do damage even now. And then, just as she is about to lunge at him again, Agron watches her go completely still before him. And the next thing he knows, he is lying flat on his back on the sand covered ground, something so heavy resting on top of him that it is preventing him from drawing in any air. On instinct, he starts pushing the weight off of him with his hands, only to howl in pain as his left arm violently protests the action and the telltale heat of fresh blood spreads across the skin.
Then, there comes the sound of voices somewhere above him, and he feels the burden upon him slowly easing, until it has been dragged off of him completely. And no later, there is already an arm hovering in his line of sight, taking hold of his own to haul him up from the ground.
“I leave you alone for one morning and this is what you do?” Rainard says with a wide smirk and a shake of his head, when Agron finally has found his feet again. “You truly are as stupid as you look.” He then grabs Agron’s left arm and looks at the deep gash running along its side. “We should have this seen to.”
But Agron is hardly paying attention to him or to his own injury, his eyes following the man now pulling one of the spears from the bear’s back. Their eyes lock for a moment.
“Nasir, will you come and offer aid in this,” Rainard shouts out, “I fear I am better served cutting off arms than putting them back together.”
“Do not think my aid needed,” the other man answers evenly, in a tone that holds more chill than the early spring air around them. His eyes never leave Agron’s as he speaks. “I am certain he is able to manage the task well enough on his own.”
And with those words, and with the weapon once more in hand, he turns to go without a backward glance to join the rest of the men now standing in wait at the edge of the woods. Agron is left watching his retreating back for a moment, until he feels Rainard’s grip tightening around his arm and is forced to hiss out in pain. He shoots the man a look and is met with a surprisingly understanding one in return.
“Come on then, you fool, let us see this done,” he says, patting Agron’s shoulder, “Leave the others to see to the meat and skins.”
Agron casts one last look at Nasir over his shoulder, but the man still stubbornly evades his eyes. And Agron – not to be outdone – finally turns from him completely and follows after Rainard’s back with heavy steps that leave pebbles flying in the air and twigs snapping in half under his feet.
* * * * *
Icorix tries his best to wait patiently as the older man inspects the weapon in his hand, but every drawn breath has his toes tapping on the ground just a little faster. He leans further on his cane and makes attempt to keep his expression even when the blacksmith finally lifts his eyes from the sword, fixing them back upon his face.
“Not too bad,” the man says, wearing a stern frown as he runs a finger along the edge of the blade, “for a Gaul.”
Relieved, Icorix lets out the breath he has been holding, deciding to ignore the slight in the words for the moment. It is to be expected, after all, and he has heard far worse. So much so, in fact, that this only sounds as high praise in his ears.
“Father, we have spoken of this.”
The sudden voice behind them has them both turn to the doorway, where Anja is standing a bundle of spears in her arms.
“It is of no consequence where he is from,” she continues, sending a brief smile in Icorix’ direction that he would happily return if it were not for her father’s glare boring in his skull. “All that matters is what he can do. You have said so yourself, have you not?”
The old man gives the girl a hard look and then an even harder one to Icorix. “Well, do not think yourself a master yet, boy. You have much to do and learn.” He flips the weapon around and hands it over. “And you can begin with rekindling the fire. I will be back shortly. ” And with that, he is already walking away.
“Do not pay him any mind,” Anja says, as she follows her father’s back with her eyes, “He is only set in his ways.”
But Icorix waves the concern off with a smile of his own while he tries his hardest to ignore the flush of heat quickly spreading across his cheeks. “He speaks reason, though, I am here only to learn.”
“Only? I thought you were here for the company?”
“I...yes...that is...of course...yes...for company, too...” He stammers and stutters until finally he must give up the effort completely. And for a moment he truly contemplates simply throwing himself on the hot coals in the forge. It could not be more painful an end than this.
The two of them stare at each other for another heartbeat in awkward silence, until a muffled chuckle from the corner breaks the moment, and Anja quickly looks away and lifts the bundle higher in her arms.
“I should take these to the back,” she says with a brief smile and then already turns to go. Yet she has barely taken one step when she spins back around again. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Agron stands outside, he wished to have words.”
She then gives him a nod and a knowing look before disappearing through the doorway at the back, and Icorix, too, glances towards the corner one last time before walking outside. He has to blink a time or two at the harsh sunlight before he makes out the familiar figure leaning against the wall, fiddling idly with the edges of the cloth wrapped around his arm.
“So I hear you are fighting bears these days. A brave feat if there ever was one.”
Agron turns his head at the sound of his voice and quickly greets him with a worn-out smile.
“Yes...” he says slowly, scratching his chin and then huffs out a laugh. “Yet more foolish than brave, I fear.”
“You? Foolish? It cannot be.”
This time Agron meets his words, not with a smile but an even more familiar look and then shakes his head with a sigh. “One of these days that tongue of yours will get you in more trouble than you are to handle,” he says and narrows his eyes even further.
Yet Icorix only shrugs and smiles wider in return, he is not to be scared by a simple glare any longer. Though he does decide that a change of topic might still be called for. Just in case.
“How fares the arm?”
“But a scratch,” Agron answers, his glower quickly giving away to a wry smile, “I have suffered worse.”
Their stare holds a moment longer, and then Icorix nods in reply. He does not need to say the words any more than Agron needs to hear them; it has all been said many times before.
And no, it is not as if they have spent hours upon hours conversing on such matters; Icorix would never dream of such. He is after all still little more than a child, at least compared to the German. Yet, somewhere along the way, they have come to a strange sort of an understanding between them, as two people who share a fate no others among them do.
A gutter rat without a leg and a general without his hands. A strange pair to say the least.
Yet never one to dwell in hardship, Icorix quickly shakes off the thought and the shadow it briefly cast upon his shoulders and then finally recalls the reason he was sent out here in the first place.
“Anja said you wished to have words.”
“I am in search of Nasir. Have you seen him?”
Icorix hides his reaction by adjusting his stance and his cane and then finally looks back at the older man and clears his throat. “I believe I saw him with Wendel earlier.”
“And he told me he saw Nasir with you.”
“Well, all I can tell you is that he is not here,” Icorix answers with another shrug.
Agron lets out such a deep, defeated sigh that it is nearly enough to make Icorix’s defenses crumble there and then. And yet he stands firm and does not utter a word.
“Gratitude,” Agron says then and gives a nod and the briefest of smiles in parting, before he turns to go, shoulders hunched, nearly dragging his feet on the ground as he walks away.
And he makes such a sad sight that Icorix almost calls after him but then halts his tongue at the last moment. After all, he has already made his promise to Nasir, and if nothing else, he at least wishes to be a man of his word.
So he leaves the German to retreat in peace and makes his way back inside. Once he crosses the threshold, he looks over at the other man still standing by the corner, balancing a newly forged sword in his hand.
“He wished to find you.”
“And he is yet free to do so,” Nasir answers evenly.
“Not if you are to hide here.”
“I am not in hiding.”
Icorix wobbles along the uneven floor to go and add some wood to the fire and then decides to try again. “I fear I do not understand,” he begins as carefully as he can, “All he did was to save life. How is that any reason for quarrel?”
“He did not–”
Nasir pauses to take in breath and the weapon in his hand falls heavily back on the table next to the others. “Do not concern yourself with this,” he continues then, turning to Icorix with a tired smile on his face, “It is but a childish squabble. It will pass.”
But it seems that even after all this time of holding acquaintance with the other man, Icorix still does not know when to leave well enough alone. “Is it not of worth to have him find purpose in task again?” he asks in honest inquiry, knowing something of such things himself, “After all, it is long since he last held a blade to any proper use.”
And the words seem to only feed Nasir’s anger like a bellows feeds the flames.
“I am not here only to make him feel of use in this world,” he says, “Nor is he the only one who has lost much to the war. Even if he may see it so.”
“And you truly feel he does?”
Nasir shrugs. “It seems to be so sometimes.”
* * * * *
The sun has already set behind the hills and dusk is quickly settling around him as he walks along the main street, his feet suddenly weighing more and more like lead the closer he is to the house. And he has to quell the childish urge to just turn on his heels and walk back to where he came from. Stubbornly hiding away from a fight is supposed to be Agron’s trait not his, Nasir knows, yet this day he has found himself more alike his lover in that regard than ever before. And such knowledge has only helped feed the irritation that now is burning under his skin like the sting of a thousand nettles.
Yet no matter his reluctant feet, he finally makes his way inside, and the door closes quietly behind him. The house is dimly lit, its only window yet boarded against the winter’s cold and the only light within its walls the withering flame in the hearth. It will soon be too warm to keep the fire going all day and all night, but as always, Nasir at least is glad of the added warmth in the air. He is not and never will be a friend of the cold.
Leather and steel sound against wood as he slowly rids himself of his weapons by the door, before finally glancing up to look at the man at the other side of the room.
Agron sits on the bed clumsily wrapping a fresh bandage over the cut on his arm. The cloth slips from his grip time and time again, and it is clear that the man is one string of curses away from giving up the task altogether. And Nasir cannot help the pang of guilt that forces its way inside at the sight of the injury, no matter how hard he tries to push such feelings aside.
“I had begun to think you had taken up with Wendel by now,” Agron says then, never once glancing up from his undertaking. His voice stays calm, yet Nasir can tell by every stiff line on his face and neck that such result is only produced with great effort.
“An option not yet removed from thought,” he answers in similar vein and then walks over to the bed and sits down next to the man with a deep sigh.
Without a word, he swats Agron’s useless hand away and starts to redo the bandage himself. And for a while they sit together like that in silence, Nasir busying himself with his newfound task, Agron leaving him to it and turning his stubborn gaze to the fire.
“What you did today, what you said,” Nasir starts finally, eyes still fixed on Agron’s arm as he makes the last knot in the dressing, “I will not have you do so again. It no longer is my place to follow orders, and it certainly is not your place to protect me.”
“It is my place to protect you. And it is your place to–”
“What?”
Nasir stills his hands and looks up in disbelief that is so great that he almost forgets to grow angry again.
Almost.
“No, Nasir, you must let me fin–”
But Nasir is of no mind to follow any one command again.
“I did not think I was to fight you on this of all things,” he says, voice beginning to shake from pent up frustration while a scowl knits his brows together even tighter, “Not after everything.”
“You mistake meaning,” Agron attempts again, but Nasir only replies with a bitter laugh.
“What is there to mistake?” he spits out, “You were clear enough, were you not? I do not need you to run to fucking rescue, Agron. I am not the useless thing you still seem to think I am.”
“I do not think–”
But Nasir barely notices Agron’s attempt at explanation and then refuses outright to even allow him another chance at such. Not now when he has finally found the words he has been searching for the whole of the day. And he knows his voice now stands weaker than he would wish it to be, but he is past the point of caring about such things, so he simply clears his throat and carries on.
“You should know me better by now. I thought you did. I thought we were to stand as one, not as one above the other.”
“We are,” Agron answers, and when he now looks back at Nasir’s face, there is nothing but sincerity to be seen in his gaze, and yet...
“It is difficult to think so, when you so easily shoved me aside earlier. When you spoke to me as to a child without second thought. And even now, when asked, you still tell me it is your place to protect me, as if–”
“I tell you this because it is fucking true.”
“How can you–”
But this time it is Agron who does not let Nasir finish the thought.
“Do you recall the Romans we met when we first made it over the mountains to Rhaetia? That first night at the lake?”
The change in topic is so sudden, it leaves Nasir staring at the man in sheer confusion.
“Yes...” he draws out the word, and the frown lines upon his own face only keep deepening as he now makes attempt to read the other man’s away-turned face. “But wha–”
“Do you know I nearly did not call out for help then?”
It takes a moment for Nasir to fully understand the meaning behind the words.
“Agron...”
The man draws in yet another deep breath and Nasir can see the effort it takes for him to find the right way to explain. Agron has never been particularly good with words beyond those of curses and jest, and Nasir does know this by now, even though such knowledge is often conveniently forgotten in the midst of a brewing fight.
“It is true,” Agron continues quietly, keeping his stare trained on the furthest dark corner in the room. “For a moment, I truly thought it better to let them cut my throat than have you there to save me.”
There is a look on the man’s face now that Nasir has not seen in many a day, maybe moons even. And it is strange, Nasir thinks, that no matter how much pain he himself is to go through in this life, it still always is Agron’s pain that hurts the most. And he does not know how that is to logically be, yet it truly is so.
But be that as it may, what passed all those seasons ago and what passed this day are two separate things, and Nasir also meant what he said to Icorix earlier. Agron’s pain does not excuse him of showing Nasir the same.
“That is different,” he says sternly and gently at once. “You were in need of aid then, your hands...You were too wounded to fight them–”
“And you are too small to fight a fucking bear!” Agron cries out, standing up from the bed with a frustrated groan. But Nasir is not far behind.
“So you are as strong as a bear now?”
“No...” Agron groans again, then nearly growls, running a hand over his face. “But between the two of us, I am stronger. And the only one who has ever faced such a thing before. Would you have even known where to fucking strike sword or spear? The stomach? The heart? The neck? Or would you have chosen poorly and ended up mauled to death before ever finding the chance to strike again?”
“I–”
“And I know I spoke out of turn before, but that truly is all I wished to say then. You are more than able to do many things, many better than I, yet not all. I know you would rather not hear it, yet it is what it is. Just as these fucking hands are what they are. And always will be.”
Stunned to silence for the moment, Nasir cannot do much else but to stare up at the other man, making attempt to decide whether he is supposed to be more angered now or less.
“Perhaps what I mean is,” Agron continues, watching him carefully under a furrowed brow, “if I am here to protect you as you are here to protect me, then maybe we both will have a chance to survive longer.”
But it still takes time for Nasir to find the right words in response, and then Agron is already giving up the fight, and he sighs so deep Nasir begins to fear he has no more air left in his chest to spare.
“And now I have only made matters worse,” he mutters almost under his breath as he sits heavily back on the bed and hangs his head, resting it on his hands. “Why do you even let me open fucking mouth? Could we simply agree to have you speak for us both, always?”
Nasir looks at the man for a moment, suddenly both amused and endeared by his newfound desolation, all old traces of anger ebbing away from mind like the swell of the tide.
“Perhaps we should,” he answers finally and steps closer to stand between Agron’s legs, reaching out a hand to take hold of his chin. “For I do not appreciate it when you share words like this. I much prefer it to be me who speaks reason and you who acts an ass.”
Agron lifts his eyes up to meet Nasir’s, and Nasir can see surprise gradually turning into relief that then spills over with a tentative smile. And Agron winds one hesitant arm around him, and then another, letting his fingers gently brush against Nasir’s back.
“I promise to do better in the future,” he says and gives Nasir another smile that curves his lips slightly higher on one side than the other.
“And promise me you will not fight any more bears if you are to avoid it,” Nasir says in return and wraps his own arms a fraction tighter around the man’s shoulders. “I have already seen you shed enough blood to last a lifetime.”
“Will you promise to at least make attempt to listen when I tell you to do something?”
“Maybe.”
Agron hangs his head with an exaggerated sigh and rests his forehead heavily against Nasir’s shoulder as he mutters a few gentle curses under his breath.
“What am I to do with you?”
Nasir smirks to himself then and lets his lips hover right by Agron’s ear as he answers. The man goes still at the words, and then his low chuckle sounds in the silence, and Nasir watches him lift his head up again. And this time the look upon his face is far easier to read.
“If you only believe me capable of such.”
“Let us have you try.”
* * * * *
The slowly dying fire crackles faintly in the quiet that has already settled between them some time ago. Beyond that, there is little else to be heard in the darkened room, only the sound of steady breathing by his ear and the wind rustling in the trees outside.
Agron shifts on the bed in an effort to find a more preferable position and a way to keep himself from burning up further like a log in a furnace. He was right before, the season is on its way to turn, and the nights are getting warmer along with the days. In last attempt, he does his best to peel the blanket off of his sweaty skin in hopes that such action will at least offer him some relief before he is to melt away completely.
But his reprieve is not long-lasting, and the cover does not stay away for good as another hand quickly pulls it back up again. And Agron sighs as he feels the coarse knitwork once more tickling his skin.
“It is too hot for wool.”
“It is the middle of winter,” the other man mumbles back against his skin, pulling the covers even higher over himself.
“There is hardly even any snow left upon ground.”
He hears Nasir mutter something in return, but it is difficult to hear him over all the layers of cloth wrapped around his head. And then the man has already turned away and rolled over to his side, taking the blanket and its itching heat with him.
“Better now?”
“Gratitude.”
Agron lies still on his back, enjoying the freely moving air around him – and the freely moving blood that is slowly returning to his arm along with the pins and needles it drags in its wake. He closes his eyes and tries his best to return to slumber, but somehow sleep succeeds to escape him still. So after one more moment of futile search for peace, he opens his eyes again.
And then, absent anything better to do, he stares at the thatched ceiling and keeps counting the beams for the longest of whiles. Once he is certain he has counted them all at least thrice, he finally glances covertly to his side.
Oh, fuck the gods.
He rolls over and snakes his arm under the woolen cover to draw the other man closer. Such action is met, not with surprise, but only with a gentle laugh, and it does not take Nasir long before he has once more molded himself against Agron’s form: back to chest, leg wedged between Agron’s own. And Agron, defeated, buries his face in the all-too-familiar join of neck and shoulder with a deep sigh.
“Do not say a word.”
“I would never.”
They settle back into an easy silence and share in the warmth that, as unbearable as Agron finds it to be, he has also come to find he will never be able to do without again.
“So, how did you spend the rest of the day on your own?” he asks finally, after some more time has passed in silence.
“I told you, I was taken with Wendel,” Nasir answers, and Agron can hear the smirk in his voice even if his face is hidden away. “He may not be much use in conversation but at least he is pleasant to look at.”
Knowing all that has passed between them, perhaps such teasing now would seem out of place in an ear of a passer-by. And yes, perhaps it would truly be of better form to be meek and mild and only treat your lover with careful words and touch instead of curses and biting jest. Yet much ground has travelled under their feet since the day they left the war and Rome’s soil behind. In more ways than one. And the endless nights spent upon alpine ridges with little more cover to share than each other’s arms, the endless days upon mountain path with nothing to eat but the dry dirt under their heel, they have all taught lessons far beyond survival in treacherous terrain.
Some of those lessons they do not speak of for they do not have the words – perhaps they never will. Some they do not speak of, for they do not need words. And then there are some they speak of in different ways, most often with jest – cruel even. For they know now that as long as they can yet joke with one another, as long as one well-timed raise of an eyebrow is still enough to bring a smile upon familiar lips, any gap threatening to stretch between them has not yet grown too wide to bridge.
“You tempt fate,” Agron murmurs low against Nasir's ear.
“With you? Always.”
Agron only scoffs, unimpressed, and holds the man a little closer to him, drawing familiar battle lines into warm skin with lips and teeth.
“Before, when you spoke of how you stand stronger than I...”
“You disagree?”
Nasir does not answer, only traces the length of Agron’s arm with his fingers and then links them between Agron’s own.
“So, when we are in bed like this, without our clothes and with no weapons between us, you could then kill me, could you not?”
If there ever was a question Agron was expecting to hear from the other man, this definitely was not it. And as many things he knows them to jest about, this topic certainly is not one of them.
“You know I would not. I would kill myself first.”
“But you could.”
Confused, Agron goes to pull away, but Nasir quickly stops him with a firm hand.
“It is a show of trust, to sleep with another,” he says soothingly, “Whoever you are. You can never know if you will wake up to a dagger in your chest or not.”
“Should I stand worried now?”
Nasir answers with a chuckle and wraps Agron tighter around him like the human blanket he is. “I often wondered how you ever came to trust me enough to share your bed. You yet had little reason to have such faith, back then.”
“Perhaps in my desperation I did not spare much thought for consequences.”
The gentle slap behind the ear is sudden yet hardly a surprise. And it nearly hits Nasir himself in the process, as the trajectory of his hand is blind at best.
“I ask in sincerity, you ass.”
The offending limb is quickly captured, but there is little in way of retaliation, only Agron’s firm grip around wrist that brings it down to Nasir’s stomach where it lay before.
“Trust is something given more than it ever is anything earned,” he says quietly, following Nasir’s lead and ridding his tone of mirth for the moment. “You choose who you wish to trust, whether they earn it or not will always be judged later.”
“You have not trusted many.”
“No.”
“Yet you trusted me.”
“I chose wisely.”
He then presses his face closer against the man’s neck, hiding the sudden smile in the damp locks curling at the hairline. And Agron knows it is him who will be tempting fate with his next words, but then, as big a fool as he may be, he does not like to think himself a coward, so he decides to try his luck.
“Though, in truth, I also badly wished to fuck you. Such a thing can cloud judgment.”
He feels the other man go still and tense against him, and then he is already turning around in Agron’s arms, pushing Agron roughly back on his back on the pallet, their blanket now lying tangled and forgotten at their feet.
“Anything else you wish to say on the matter?”
But there is a distinct gleam in Nasir’s eyes now that is difficult to miss, no matter how hard the man tries to hide it under a feigned scowl. And Agron can smile a little wider, safe in the knowledge that even if he may not have quite yet won this war, they at least are approaching a temporary truce.
“Well, there is also the fact that you were hardly a threat back then...little man.”
And the look in the hazel eyes staring back at him only turns more and more familiar with every harshly drawn breath. Then the other man bites his bottom lip in a last effort to battle the smile Agron sees twitching at the corners of his mouth, but it stands clear that he is quickly losing the fight.
“Fucking German.”
Nasir’s laughter echoes from the walls, and it still keeps on sounding long after Agron has rolled them over and once more pinned him down against the crumpled sheet underneath.