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Scars. So many of them, white-hot and angry red. He hates them. He hates himself.
One through his right shoulder, courtesy of a bullet from enemy lines.
One diagonally across his back- shoulder blade to hip- from a knife that had belonged to one of his own "comrades" in arms.
Countless across his biceps and forearms and thighs, mostly earned through scuffles and close combat. A few are from himself, during his most impulsive moments of bitterness. He hates those the most.
One straight down his chest, more recent than the others. Doctor Dyer had had to perform an emergency surgery. She said he was lucky to have lived.
Then the four at the corners of his mouth, from when he'd been captured, tortured by the enemy, and then sewn back up again. He hadn't cracked even once through it all. Those still burn sometimes.
He's received comments about them all before, too many to count. Sometimes it's remarks that they make him look 'rugged' and 'steadfast', and those make him want to laugh in their faces, because he is anything but.
Sometimes it's words of derision. About how they make him ugly, how he should be embarrassed of them and always keep them covered. He knows they're right; it's nothing that he hasn't already told himself- yet those nights, he wraps the bandages tighter still around his body, hiding every inch of the evidence.
And sometimes it's sideways glances and secretive mutters that they think he doesn't notice. Not of disgust, but of fear. He likes to stare at those kinds of people until they bow their heads and scurry away on hasty feet, leaving him to his lonesome trophies. It's a sort of spiteful vengeance that could never satisfy him, and yet he does it to feel something. Anything other than the numbness that springs up in his gut from their whispers.
Norton Campbell is the first one he meets who seems to understand how he feels, even if it isn't exactly the same. When they first meet, that brown eye lingers on the pale lines across his exposed shoulders for only half of one terrifying moment before sliding up to his face, and Naib feels something foreign tug at his insides.
For his part, though, he cannot help but stare at Campbell's scars, especially at the start. The prospector has no way of hiding from the world, and it's clear that the pocked lines of rusted flesh don't stop at the crisp line of his shirt-collar. The only mask he can put up is a figurative one, and he does a damn good job of it, but Naib can see through it anyway. To him, Campbell is transparent as glass and fragile as porcelain.
The prospector is quiet and reserved at first, keeping to himself at the corner of the hall during meals and retreating to his room right after. Naib watches him with a hawk's eye. Nobody else approaches him, either out of fear or disdain. Naib is the first to speak to him, and he is nearly surprised when Campbell responds.
They spend time together sometimes, keeping each other company in the kind of silence that nobody else could understand. But there are times when they do speak, low voices barely stirring the air. Naib tells Campbell of his people and his homeland and lets him hold his khukuri blade, hilt worn from use. In return, Campbell shows Naib his guitar, allows him to run his fingers over the smooth finished wood, and plays for him, though he refuses to sing. Naib remembers seeing somewhat similar instruments in the hands of a few British men who he had held arms with; in his early days, painfully naïve, he had approached them curiously, only to be met with laughs and derogatory comments about the color of his skin and the shape of his facial features. As he listens to Campbell pluck the strings, he wonders how something that had seemed so bitter can become so sweet.
The first time they fall into bed together, it might as well be an accident. One fueled by cheap liquor and the other hazy-eyed on tobacco, what happens between them cannot be called anything more- or at least, that is what Naib tells himself over and over as he pushes Campbell down onto the bed and yanks at the buttons of his shirt with a frenzied drive. They do not cross the invisible boundary; only touches and husky whispers and trails of kisses like fire across chilled skin are exchanged. But still, when Naib wakes in a bed that is not his own, he feels a sickening wrench in his gut.
He swallows down bile and curls himself into a ball, as far from the other source of warmth under the blankets as he can get. He feels wrong. Fear is not a word that often describes him, but it is the most accurate description of the heaviness in his heart.
Fear of what? Of disgust? Of rejection? Of....?
Why should he fear such concepts? Naib knows he is not here to form relationships. What they had done could hardly be called coupling, certainly nothing meaningful enough to warrant any emotional attachments, and yet here he continues to lay in this unfamiliar bed.
Perhaps it is the fact that Campbell had been one of the only people in this manor that he might have been able to call a companion, if not a friend. And it seems that he cannot keep even that. Naib knows that Campbell will not want him in his room when he wakes, but he feels another rolling wave of sickness as he thinks about facing the prospector at breakfast, and-
An arm loops its way around his waist, and Naib forgets how to breathe.
He goes stock-still at the feeling of lazy lips against his shoulder, right at the start of his long scar. It is so tentative, so gentle, that he is painfully overwhelmed. He feels too hot all over, stomach twisting itself into knots, and wonders whether Campbell will kill him if he vomits on his floor.
"... Subedar?" Campbell himself is blissfully oblivious as he mumbles into the back of Naib's neck, breath tickling his skin with shy fingers.
"What," Naib answers, rougher than he'd meant to; it comes out as nearly a snap. Campbell's arm withdraws from his torso almost immediately, and Naib feels a pang of regret as the warmth leaves his back. For some reason, though, he can't bring himself to say anything else.
"... I'm sorry. Didn't think you'd still be here." Campbell sounds very awake suddenly, quiet and unsure. Guilt takes Naib's chest between its talons and squeezes. He holds back the urge to turn around and look at Campbell.
"I was going to go in a moment." A lie, deployed in the most unconvincing tone that Naib had ever mustered.
"... Oh." The sheets rustle. "Sorry."
"Why do you keep apologizing?" Despite his words, Naib can't find the energy to even sit up, much less leave the room.
"Because I.." Campbell trails off. Then: "I don't know. You seem displeased."
"What would I be displeased with?" Naib stares out across the room, towards the cabinet set against the wall. There are probably at least 50 types of rocks lining the shelves, and he doesn't know the name of a single one. Campbell had told him about a few, but it had mostly gone in one ear and out the other, despite how Naib had tried to listen; he hadn't even known what some of the words meant, though he had been too embarrassed to ask.
Campbell makes a noise under his breath. Naib can't tell whether it's a snort or a sigh. "My- My... everythin'. Me in general. Anything. I understand. You were drunk. You probably didn't even know what you were doing. You should go."
Naib wishes he hadn't known what he was doing. That would make all of this so much easier now. "You want me to go?"
Campbell pauses for a second too long. "Doesn't matter what I want."
Naib scoffs without an ounce of humor, rolling over to look up at the tiled ceiling. From the corner of his eye, he can see Campbell laying on the other side of the bed, facing away so that only his broad back is visible. "Do you regret what we did, then?"
"I don't..." Campbell falters, and then forces a laugh. "'S too early for this. Stay if you want, or leave if you don't. We can always talk later."
"Why did you take me to bed?" Naib knows he's being a fool, asking such questions with answers that hardly matter, but he knows there will never be another chance to discuss this, and he wants to get it all out of the way while he still can. Before Campbell starts hating him too (if he hasn't already).
"What do you mean?" Campbell answers the question with a question, and Naib feels himself scowl at the way he dodges.
"Answer it."
Campbell heaves a great sigh, and Naib can hear him wheeze slightly at the end of it. "Because I wanted a quick fuck and you happened to be nearby, is that good enough for you?"
"Is that true?" Two can play at this game, though Naib knows this is dangerous. If he pushes too hard, he may find something that pushes back stronger.
"Is it good enough?" Campbell repeats, just as quickly.
Naib turns over the rest of the way. Campbell's bare shoulders are drawn tight and tense, and his scars look raw against the clean white bedding. "What do you think?"
Campbell takes in a shaky inhale. Lets it back out. "You want me to be honest with you?"
"Yes." His tone makes Naib nervous, but the mercenary has been trained to hide his emotions well.
Campbell laughs bitterly. "Because I think you're the prettiest man I've ever seen, and I really do enjoy being around you, but I don't want you to become bored of me. And I might love you a little but I don't know what to do about it or what to say about it. Happy now?" He says it all in one rush before he sits up, crossing his arms over his chest to hide himself as if Naib hasn't already seen it all, with a sullen curl of his lip. "I know what you're going to say. Just... don't. You better go anyway, before the others start waking and someone sees you leave my room. Please."
Naib's heart thrums dangerously against the inside of his ribcage, beating like a bird's wings against metal. "You lo...?" he echoes dumbly.
Campbell buries his face in his hands, but it isn't a gesture of embarrassment as much as it is one of anguish. "I told you I was sorry. You've humiliated me in my own goddamned bed enough. Get out."
"Ca- Norton," Naib says, carefully, like he's speaking to a wounded animal that's been cornered. "I never said I was angry."
Norton peeks a glance over at him. "But you-"
"If anything," Naib cuts him off, "I should be sorry. I... am the last person you want to love." He pokes at Norton's blankets. His emotions are confused, swirling around in his head like soup, but he does know that he feels better with everything out in the open. "Honestly, I thought that you would hate me after this."
"I couldn't." Norton barks out a half chuckle, staring down at his lap. "I just... Jesus. I don't know. Nothin' good ever happens to the people I love anyway, so it's probably for the best."
He looks so forlorn, like a stray animal in the rain, that Naib resists the urge to reach for him, knowing that will only complicate the situation further. He thinks about all the times he'd caught Norton staring at him before. Every time he'd seen one of the prospector's rare genuine smiles, which seemed reserved for him and him alone. Every time Norton had revealed a part of himself that he'd never shared with anyone else in the manor.
Was that love?
Is that love?
"I don't know anything about love," Naib says, though it's more of an out-loud realization than anything. The only person he has ever truly and whole-heartedly loved is his mother, and even that isn't comparable to the kind of love that Norton speaks of.
Apart from...
Naib shakes that thought from his head before it can go too far. He's blocked out those memories for a reason.
"I didn't either," Norton agrees, more readily than Naib had anticipated. "Not... 'till I met you, I mean." He scratches at the nape of his neck, pushing aside heavy black curls. "But I really think I love you. Maybe."
That isn't particularly convincing, but Naib knows that Norton is being genuine with him, and that softens him a bit. He scoots a little closer to the prospector; Norton shoots him a glance from the corner of his eye, but says nothing.
"Why do you think... that?" Naib asks slowly. He knows that sometimes he asks too many questions, which may seem out of character with his otherwise stoic and reserved demeanor; it's a habit that has stuck with him from years gone by, even though he'd learned to mostly abandon it eventually, when white men had scorned him for not understanding some of their harsher language. He knows that Norton, whatever he does, will not treat him with such disrespect, and so he dares to continue asking.
"That's..." Norton huffs out a huge exhale, pursing his lips. "God. That's like asking why I'm fine one day and then melancholy the next. I just am. I just do. 'S not somethin' I can really explain."
"I see." Naib doesn't really see, but doesn't push it. "Do you spend time with me because you.. love me?"
"I... Maybe?" Norton tries. "I just spend time with you because I enjoy spending time with you. Probably because of.. that, yes."
Naib thinks it over. He feels ridiculous, putting this much thought into something like this. He's built for war and destruction, not lovey-dovey feelings and romance. This sort of thing couldn't be farther from his forte.
And yet... He thinks a bit deeper. Remembers the way he has to work to bite back a smile of his own every time Norton greets him in the halls. The way he trusts Norton without having to question his own judgment and look over his shoulder every few minutes. The way he could fall asleep listening to Norton's drawling tones.
The way tan skin turns red under his touch, blush spreading beautifully across a smooth cheekbone and fingers curling into his loose hair and pulling-
Naib stops himself quickly and concentrates to hold back a flush, although sitting in Norton's bed isn't really helping at all. "I think..." he starts to distract himself. "........"
Naib finds that he can't get the words out. His throat is locked tight, voicebox sealed neatly away. With a frustrated clench of his jaw, he reaches out and places his hand over Norton's scarred one, feather-light.
Norton's head spins ludicrously quickly as he first looks down at their hands, and then stares at Naib's face. "..?"
Naib coughs, looking away pointedly as he intertwines their fingers with a bit more force than necessary. He admittedly has no idea what he's doing, but he wants to show Norton that it's okay. To show him that speaking about his feelings won't cause Naib to be disgusted with him.
"You...?" Norton tries, lips parting slightly. His dropped lashes cast a shadow across his cheeks, and Naib realizes with a sudden start how long they are.
He swallows down the lump in his throat. "I... it's alright. I don't know what to say. But I want to keep being with you."
Wait. That isn't right. "I mean... being around you. As we have. And maybe we can try to add something extra." He squeezes Norton's hand quickly, and then lets go. "I don't know if that's what you want, but it's what I want."
"... Okay," Norton agrees slowly, flexing his fingers as if trying to search for the last traces of warmth from Naib's hand. "Extra... like..?"
"Like what we did last night," Naib answers without thinking; then he can't hold back his ridiculous blush, and thanks the gods for his darker complexion. "Er.. if you want. If that's what you mean."
"Oh." Norton blinks, and then he's blushing too. "I was.. thinking something like just kissing, but that could work too."
"You want to kiss me?" Naib asks cautiously, narrowing his eyes a bit. It's not that he's entirely against the idea; in all honesty, he's curious about whether Norton's lips are as rough as they look, or are softer than expected. But he's just nervous, though he'll never admit it. Things are moving quickly, far too quickly for him.
"Only if you're alright with it," Norton amends hastily. "And if you're not, we don't have to."
"... It's fine. Do it now first." Naib prepares himself, sitting up straight. He's learned through experience that the faster he can get things over with, the sooner he can learn that they truly aren't that bad. (Unless they are, of course. But he's sure a kiss won't be anywhere near that level.)
"Uh.. Okay. Stay still." Norton slides closer to him, worrying at the corner of his lip with crooked teeth. He gets so close that Naib can count each of his long eyelashes, and then he pauses for a painfully long period of time.
Naib fidgets. "What are you waiting for?"
"I'm..." Norton groans, cutting himself off as he leans forwards quickly and presses his lips to Naib's.
The kiss is messy and uncoordinated, and Naib winces as one of Norton's canines digs into his lip. Last night, their mouths had connected in one smooth flow, but chaste touches are clearly different from those performed during the heat of passion. Norton draws back with a muttered apology and then leans forward to try again.
The second attempt is easier, and Naib sighs into it as one of Norton's hands comes up to cup his cheek. It's gentle and nearly delicate, which Naib hadn't expected at all. Despite that, he can indeed feel that the lips against his own are chapped and uneven, and he makes a mental note to fetch Norton some balm from Dr. Dyer.
Norton pulls back for air and rests his forehead against Naib's, biting his lip in a familiar gesture as he holds back a grin. "I wanted to do that for so long, you have no idea."
"Was it the way you expected?" Naib leans his cheek slightly into Norton's palm, enjoying the light touch. Nobody has touched him, especially not like this, for a very long time; he's relieved to find that it isn't making him feel too overstimulated.
"Better." Norton laughs, bright and nearly childish with suppressed excitement, and the sound makes Naib feel a way that he hasn't felt for years now, fuzzy and warm inside. He... had nearly forgotten. How it could feel to be accepted. Valued for himself, not for his prowess or his strength.
Norton pulls back for a moment, one leg bouncing gently against the mattress as he presses his lips to the very corners of Naib's mouth this time- tenderly, tenderly. Naib feels a shudder travel through his whole body, but it's only when Norton pauses with a concerned look and swipes his thumb across the mercenary's cheek that Naib even realizes he's crying, overwhelmed in a good way.
"Sorry, I should have asked first," Norton mutters ruefully, beginning to draw back, but Naib catches him by the shoulder quickly and pulls him in again.
"No," he croaks, and then clears his throat, almost ashamed of himself. "No, you're- you can keep going."
"You sure?" Norton asks even as he brings his lips to Naib's bare chest, kissing down the vertical scar like a worshipper adoring his god.
Naib wipes his face hastily with the back of his hand. His eyes sting. It's been a long time since he cried. "I'm sure."
Norton's lips are like a blessing upon his skin, patching his wounds as if they are still open and his touch is the only cure. His fingers trace over his body, mapping out every line and every crevice and every dip of muscle, and Naib cannot remember the last time he felt this loved.