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Always fascinating, how the subconsciousness interprets yourself.
How it transforms you.
It erases his callouses, it removes his armor but remembers his scars and ticks. It removes his work, his life, his loyalty, but retains his wants and his skills.
He is Shaw. But he is also not.
He’s just a man named Mathias.
There’s another man with him, and the bright, warm glow of the sun obscures him for a moment. He’s saying something, but Mathias doesn’t quite catch it, too distracted by hearing that accented voice utter his name. He can feel his heart skip, and the man takes off, long stride carrying him through the tall grass, and Shaw can do nothing but follow.
There’s laughter on his lips, and it’s an unfamiliar feeling at this point - when was the last time he laughed like this? Quite genuinely frolicked in an open field this way, chasing a thing of beauty, watching long hair dance in the wind, just too far to reach, but so close it burns his legs to run and chase, like a hungry fox pursuing a rabbit. Nay, this fox pursues the taste of wildberries on the side of a barbed wire fence — Shaw feared this fence in the waking world, how tooth and paw will snare in it and bleed in blind pursuit to taste something sweet.
But here there is no barbed wire. No fear.
Just a little game of catch me .
He wants to, too, and that man taunts him, spurring his desire. The pursuit, this is something Mathias excels at. The hunt, the tracking, taking out any target — but this is not a place where he is Spymaster. His hands do not feel slick and sticky with blood as they often did, and the weight of his title did not weigh on his shoulders. He’s loose, free, flying high, oh , his hands just brush that long hair, and it is soft in his hands, it’s soft —
The man lets out a sharp laugh upon feeling the hand, making way to pick up pace, but now, Shaw’s had a taste, and there is no barbed wire. He makes a bold step, his hand catches an arm, the man gawks and turns on his heel, momentum carrying them until they collide and roll into the tall grass, limbs entangled and air filled with merry laughter.
Eventually, they manage to stop, both of them on their sides, and Mathias gazes into ethereal blue eyes, the color of the sea in Boralus as morning rises — so many times Mathias lost himself in these eyes, wondering what he could do or say to make them continue to regard him as they do.
Right now, they’re full of adoration, of something great, and it makes his chest swell. Mathias doesn’t think twice before huddling close to this image of Fairwind, resting his head on his large chest. Oh, how warm it is, how safe, how much like… home , it feels, to be in Flynn’s arms. He feels the Captain’s arm loop around him, carding fingers through his hair, and Mathias decides this is true happiness. Bathing in the sun, feeling the gentle breeze, watching the grass dance around them and hearing the birds and rustle of leaves — there’s an emotion in this Mathias hasn’t quite experienced enough, and it makes him nearly burst at the seams, unable to contain such elation.
What is this feeling? What is it, truly? This longing, this yearning, where did it come from? Has it always been there?
“Ever since I laid eyes on you.”
In this place, it’s hard to tell which one of them exactly said it, but regardless, it’s the dangerous answer to this question. Any other time Mathias would have run away, not allowed a chance to even toy with the idea of such a predicament, embraced like this.
Where is your armor, Master Shaw? Where are your agents? Where are your missives, your reports? Why have you let your guard down? Where has your sense gone? Do you know how far from home you are?
These don’t bother him. All that matters is that Flynn is reaching his other hand to grasp Shaw’s, fingers intertwining together. Shaw’s are long and slender, Flynn’s are wide and sturdy — oh, the differences between them! How starkly they contrast, yet how perfectly they slot into place like this!
Shaw wraps a leg around him, as if he can’t get enough out of the embrace that he must cling to him with every inch of his being, but Flynn lets him, he hugs him just as close, as if he wants him just as much. What is this feeling, this emotion, truly, what is it? He wants to know what it is.
“Shaw,” Flynn says, and Mathias wants to close his eyes at hearing it. But he doesn’t, he hums instead, prodding him to continue. “I… wanted to ask you something.”
Shaw’s heart skips, and he doesn’t have the mind to scold it for doing so, reminding him of his humanity, his vulnerability, his emotion. He cranes his head to meet those eyes again, and he can’t read what they’re saying. Uncertainty, longing, something else, he can’t read it —
“Are you sure?”
Mathias blinks. “Am I — About what?”
Flynn squeezes his hand. “Are you sure?”
Mathias stares at him, and he thinks he knows what to say to him, but it doesn’t come.
He blinks, warm sunlight slipping away, the heat of Flynn Fairwind dissipating with it as true sight returns to him in one smooth fade. His hand, once intertwined with Flynn's, disappears, leaving him empty. His head rested not on the Kul Tiran’s chest, but on the sorry excuse of a bed, soft grass gone and reminding him of the aches in his back. There is no blue sky or sunshine or trees and birds — the golden walls of the Zandalari cell gleam back at him, a mockery of the sunrays he’d just witnessed.
And he is cold.
He feels the vacancy, the lack of that hand in his hair, the comfort of someone he longed for, and he finds himself snared in the barbed wire, caught and strung, in pursuit of something sweet.
Oh he bleeds, he thinks, as he rolls to his back and holds out his hand that held Flynn’s.
Are you sure?
He closes his eyes, feeling a sting in them, a lump in his throat.
He’d never been more sure in his life.