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Over the years of his service in the ranks of the Sternritters, you can get used to anything.
After the first ten years, even injuries do not cause pain - only excitement. Excitement and burning - stronger than the growing heat, which has settled somewhere in the clenched fists - anger, causes another refusal. Bazz-B had to get used for more than several hundred years to the cold indifference of the blue eyes opposite.
It's not about that a battle with him could violate the rules established by his Majesty - although Hashwalt's zealous desire to regularly sucking up to the Emperor was nowhere more stable, it often manifested itself even when it could serve as a good excuse not to do what infuriates the master himself.
The refusal in the next battle will last for several days, both sternritters are well aware of this, and in a few days Black will again try to challenge Jugram to a duel, casually running into an annoying indifferent look and an ideal posture - as if a stick was pushed in the ass, or whatever it was that prevented Most-Trusted-Of-Yhwach-himself to slouch humanly.
Their communication, in fact, for the last five years has been reduced to formal meaningless nods at official meetings or any important events and short provocations from Black after them. This thought suddenly comes to Buzz-B in the middle of another sleepless night and completely spoils the whole mood. Inappropriate thoughts about Hashwalt himself come into my head and bitterness appears on my tongue by itself. Bazz-B hopes that it comes from booze.
And the next day he tries again to persuade (probably, his methodical attempts to persuade the commander-in-chief to fight with you are difficult to call persuasion) Jugo - now he’s just Jugo, as before, and not "that bastard" or “Sternritter B” you have to put up with it, as Bazzard resigned himself to the fact that he will always be a head lower - to fight.
For some reason, his heart makes an excessively serious coup for such an idiotic reason, when Hashwalt's face, which had not previously expressed an ounce of emotion, changes slightly - the blond man moves his upper lip slightly, narrowing his eyes at the sight of Bazz-B, as if in disgust - but for now, that's enough.
Buzzard grins rather in response to the apparent indifference and the grating grains on his teeth - not to see, but not to get rid of the intrusive presence - someone else's annoyance. For days - or maybe many long, slow-flowing, like tar, days in the Zilbern, he got used to the fact that his thoughts around Hashwalt are replaced one after another, so that it becomes almost unchanged. Jugo does not even suspect that a subordinate associates with a whole tangle of complex emotions, and his presence alone causes a vague mixture of desires in a pyrokinetic - vile, sadistic, with an admixture of humiliation, because what kind of idiot would run after a master like this for more than a hundred years?
Something between the desire to break this perfection's face - as a vengeance for dedicated common goals, for a caught arrow, in the end - and the thirst to warm him up with the flame of Bazz’s lighter, because Hashwalt, despite being wrapped in several layers of uniform, still looks freezing.
No, Bazzard is chasing this thought away from himself as soon as possible. Not freezing - freeze-minded.
The right thing is to show him that he is not so trusted by the Emperor and perfect. To direct a burning bright ray into the alabaster-white color of his skin. Jugram itself seems to burn, while remaining a gloomy piece of ice in its proper place - in the middle of a dark hall frozen to the very base of the palace, reflected by a thin reed in the smooth floor. I would like to use five fingers at once - but then, Buzzard is afraid of this, it will not be possible to capture the long-awaited change of emotions on a petrified face. The pyrokinetic is arrogant, and he himself understands some part of the brain capable of thinking rationally - he probably won't even have time to go to Vollständig before Jugo uses one of the techniques - doesn’t matter what exactly, any one will be fatal. And then - Bazz-B thinks about how he will burn with shame at the very second of his defeat, dying, but this thought even gives satisfaction.
In a perverse way.
Buzzard experiences something similar to what a fly feels when violently hitting its faceted muzzle on the incandescent surface of a light bulb.
It delivers.
This is what is needed, and it doesn't give a shit what Hashwalt thinks about this when he once again evades the answer, apparently tired of the demands that have become everyday to fight with an obsessive companion. Bazzard does not listen to his short, as if automatic commands from shinigami communicators, familiar phrases meaning refusal - this time - catches up in one of the corridors, catching Jugo by the shoulder.
Thin and wiry to the touch.
"Someday, you and I will become the strongest Quincy" - patronizingly slapping the small and eternally freezing Jugo on the shoulder, said Black centuries ago. Just as well loud and just as well annoying.
Bazz finds it sort of funny - he has not changed a fucking thing.
Then Hashwalt's shoulder seemed narrow and bony. Bazz always had the feeling that his friend was fragile, one push or squeeze and the icy statue will break.
But the opponent - he can promise this, confidently squeezing Jugo’s hand hand - the opponent will come out of him much better. Jugo twitches in response - more reflexively than surprised, trying to throw off his calloused palm from his shoulder, but he does not resist much.
Whether he is sure that his interlocutor is reasonable enough not to arrange a fight right in front of still sleeping Emperor or in his own strength, Bazz still not sure, but he is not going to back down and says - now it's not even a question:
- Tomorrow, at noon.
Jugo doesn't understand what it's about at first, but when he gets there, he freaks out - Black is delighted to notice a fiercely flashing light in the ice shards. He is seriously furious, but restrains himself, clenching and unclenching his fist in a white glove, oh yes, Jugo, am I alreadyunder your skin if not worse?
- I refuse. Fights between His Majesty's subordinates are forbidden. - Bazz notices how the opponent is hesitating. - Have you forgotten that there is a penalty for this?
Bazz could have sworn Jugo’s teeth gritted.
- It's time to remember.
Black would like to sneer now more than anything in the world - the ulcer is gnawing at the inside, and he wants to spit out a couple of swears in the Jugo’s face now. Instead, he twists an awkward grin, roughly pushing Hashwalt against one of the walls - there are no witnesses nearby, but the mere fact that the pyrokinetic dared should be enough, shouldn't it?
It doesn't look like a kiss in any way - when Bazz takes advantage of the younger sternritter confusion, their jaws touch quite painfully with Jugram, and their teeth make a dull thud, wetly colliding.
There are no moments to taste the master at all, and the pyrokinetic hurriedly passes over pale lips with his tongue, brushing away the taste of ash and rust - Hashwalt invariably bit his lips when he was nervous, although it was difficult to assume from the appearance of the B stern that he was capable of experiencing at least something humanly - something that would allow him to boil, to push away a ex-friend, blushing indignantly and slouching, almost shyly covering his mouth with his hand, because drops of blood would almost certainly have slipped out onto the snow-white skin - to the touch, Buzz bit through the Hashwalth’s lip again, damaging a recent scratch. But this does not happen, Jugram - no, Jugo does not break out, and Black seems to be kissing a corpse now, if not for the quiet heartbeat and even cool breath on his cheek.
Hashwalt slackens for a second, almost obediently opening his mouth, and Black gets lost himself, allowing his opponent to raise his fist in a familiar way - he just does not have time to react. The knuckles, covered with a white glove, bump into Bazzard’s cheekbone - so hard that he slips on the polished floor, pulling Jugo along with him - but Hashwalth rises instantly, and Black sees, God, he really sees how someone else's pale cheeks turn pink from a mixture of shame and rage. Yugram is freaking out, but at least now he's not trying (or can't) hide it. A droplet drips from the bitten lip and falls on the bluish fur of the overcoat. Bazz notices already how it matches icy-blue eyes.
- So, tomorrow at noon - will we have a revanche?
Bazz-B sounds stupid and presumptuous. The Balance flares up indignantly, and this does not even require a lighter or a Völstendig - blond hair is scattered over his shoulders, blue eyes are darting, as if looking for a foothold, which Bazz-B kindly presents in the form of an object on which Hashwalt could vent a rattling mixture of feelings - now the magister has no other choice. Yugram quickly regains consciousness, or rather, regains this appearance of external calm as soon as possible, biting the inside of his cheek with annoyance, although the corridor was still empty so that at least one living soul could see how for the first time in the memory of most sternritters, the greatest flunky of His Majesty himself is angry. Hashwalt clenches his teeth so that the jaw muscles distinctly twitch, like an angry predator. Bazz sees it, still sitting on the floor and looking up at Hashwalth. As a result, he comes to a general laconic, though driven - suffocates after their long contact:
- Tomorrow. At noon. And don’t you dare to forget