Chapter Text
Wyll’s fingers card through his fiance’s unruly curls. May wiggles his shoulders, enjoying the warm contact.
“I can’t make the braids straight if you move, my love.” Wyll speaks through a smile. Mere days after their defeat of the Absolute, his home broils in chaos around them. Wyll allows himself a respite in the brief retreat of their morning routine. It is one of the few treasures he’s been able to preserve from their time on the road. They sleep in assigned rooms within the Ravengard Estate, then May meets Wyll each morning in his childhood bedroom to share this gentle ritual as if they’re back in his tent. The tadpole no longer connects them, but when May’s wiggling intensifies into a fit of giggles, Wyll is certain they feel the same joy.
“It’s a challenge! You have to hold me still while you braid.” the tiefling proclaims.
“I don’t have enough arms!” Laughing along, Wyll leans forward to wrap his arms around May’s torso. His fingers barely meet - May was built with deadly breadth. Curled into Wyll’s hug, he’s anything but imposing. Bhaal failed to make a monster of him.
“Learn Mage Hand, then! Or - maybe I should learn Mage Hand, help you. Should we be wizards?” May twists around to press their faces together. Wyll releases the hug with a forehead kiss, then stands to begin weaving his hair into neat plaits.
“The thought of depending on magic leaves an odd taste in my mouth. I could be… a ranger, stalking the city’s shadows to hunt the villains within.” This, too, is a step in their routine, easy chatter before the day’s responsibilities must settle onto their shoulders.
“Wait, you said we can’t do… the word’s gone, but it starts with a v. The good-reason murder. Thought we had to stop breaking laws now the brain’s dead?”
“Vigilante?” Wyll fills in where May’s brain sometimes falters. “No. No vigilante killings. We’ll see true justice upheld in Baldur’s Gate again.”
“You still thinking about being a paladin, then?”
Wyll nods before realizing May can’t see. “I’m considering it. Think of the good I could do.”
“Boo.” May twists again; Wyll catches the untied braids with a flourish. He’s never heard that particular jeer from his lover, but May is a surprise every day. Bright joy effuses their playful banter. The weight of his horns lightens.
“Boo?” he gasps in counter, taken aback by mock offense. May melts back into place on the little bed.
“Boo! Stop looking for the next version of the Blade of Frontiers. Just be Wyll for a second. Wyll doesn’t give a damn about the gods, and you’d hate being an oathbreaker. Feels even grosser than fiend magic.”
May would know. He still doesn’t recall the paladin order he must have betrayed for Bhaal, but the two former warlocks had first bonded over infernal pacts of uncertain terms. If anyone is qualified to compare the magic, it’s the man who once had both. It bothers Wyll that May assumes he would take up an oath only to break it, but this isn’t yet the time for that discussion. They’re daydreaming.
“I’ll take your word for it. An ordinary fighter, then, to lead the Flaming Fists from a place of experience.”
“Bo-ring. Eldritch knight, so you can do the blasts without anybody else’s magic, and only when you wanna. Balduran’s huge sword when you don’t. And also learn Mage Hand.” Wyll releases now-tied twin braids to fall neatly over May’s teal skin. They swing as the tiefling scampers off the bed toward the rumpled garments he’d thrown to the floor upon entry, calling out gleeful thanks.
Wyll is glad to have helped, but that doesn’t mean he won’t poke at his partner. “Perhaps so. I could use another hand to keep our living space in order, with you around.” May huffs at the tease, then repeats his fixation of the day.
“Boo. Clothes just get wrinkled when I wear them, there’s no point in folding. You should learn fun magic you’re interested in. Like Artistry of War.”
Wyll had enjoyed that scroll. There was a thrill in playing out his childhood fantasies of leading mighty forces into battle for a noble cause, without the responsibility of risking lives. He may have struck a cool pose - to improve concentration.
“Wizard it is, then.” Their faces split into twin grins. What a marvel, to afford the luxury of fun! “But what would you like to do? Now that we’re free to make our lives our own.”
May shrugs as if he doesn’t care. In betrayal of the truth, his tail spines scratch aimlessly at the floor.
“Dunno, I’ll figure it out. Hitting stuff with swords is working for right now.” He tangles himself up in long sleeves in a careless effort to don the shirt. Wyll steps closer to ease him into the soft goldenrod fabric - flashy, comfortable, the antithesis of Bhaalist attire - and when May’s spiral horns poke free, he speaks again.
“Whatever the furthest from an assassin is. I’m going to ask Astarion for advice and then do the exact opposite.” May jokes in the face of obvious hurt. Wyll follows his lead.
“Careful. If he’s in a prickly mood, he’ll send you off to join the Gondians. You’d run away from artificing, and right into a bard’s lyre.”
May chortles. “Nooo! You’re right, I’m asking Karlach. She’s always got good advice, and she’s extra smart now, I guess.”
Her ceremorphosis hangs heavy in the air, an unspoken regret. Wyll would have gladly gone with her to Avernus to seek her heart’s repairs, had she been willing. But before that fateful moment where he could have last convinced her to live, he had sworn to come home to his father in acceptance of the dukedom, then promised May a married life without murder or masters. Wyll was a man of his word. He only wished he could have found a way to give it to Karlach, as well.
May shakes him from his thoughts with a soft hum of appraisal. “You know, you would be cute as a bard. Irresistible, really. You’d do the fancy little Blade twirl like when we met, and all the monsters’ hearts would explode. I could play you a theme song while you charmed ‘em to death.”
Wyll indulges in ridiculous fantasy for a moment; he pictures the two of them adorned in puffy armor more stylish than sturdy, himself launching flourishing attacks while May cheers with a lyre. He dances blade-first through hordes of formless enemies, the hero of the hour. Back in reality, he spins his fiance into a kiss, holding him low to whisper sweet affections against his ear before pulling back.
“My father would die of embarassment. His only son, run off to start a bard troupe with his betrothed,” they break to giggle, “although, I would still love to hear that song. Come, now, we’ll be late for breakfast.”
May sighs. “Your father sucks gnoll ass.”
At that, Wyll stifles whatever unimportant stinging spikes within his heart. May still struggles to filter the thoughts that escape his injured mind; Father seeks to restore the bond they once shared, imperfect as it was. Neither of them are to blame for the emptiness in his heart. It’s merely the early stages. The two people Wyll cherishes most in the world are both trying, on his behalf, to give him a family. He’s honored by the effort put forth for his sake. For that greatest of gifts, Wyll will offer infinite grace. The three of them may falter, but they will find their footing.
“Give him a chance, won’t you? He had to do what he believed was right. All of that is behind us, now.”
“Fine. Only because we’d be homeless again if he kicks us out.” Wyll winces; May droops. “Sorry, not funny. Come here, I’ll be serious. That was thinkl… thoughtless, of me. I’m sorry, again. I promise to be nice to your shit dad, because he’s important to you, and you’re more important to me than anything I’ve ever cared about.” His tone half-shifts back to the pitch of mischief. “Just remember you can disown him if he still doesn’t love you. Worked out great for me.”
The corners of Wyll’s mouth tug out in neither grimace nor grin, mirroring May’s pained expression. What they are doing is difficult. The pair of them are rough-edged adventurers dressing for formal breakfast in an Upper City estate, playing out roles that only Wyll has any faded recollection of. He cannot fault May for applying the only framework he has ever known, where every father is a monster. Wyll isn’t upset, not necessarily. That would be selfish. He hasn’t suffered trauma the way May has, or so many of their friends.
Wyll offers May an easy, charming smile, forgiving the blunder.
“Thank you for apologizing, and for trying. I’ll see you downstairs, love.” Hand on the doorknob, he turns back. It’s too bittersweet a parting, even if for a few moments. “Prestidigitation.” he appends. “More useful than Mage Hand, if we were ever to start a bard troupe.”
May nods vigorously. “Prestidigitation, then. And I’ll write you that theme song.” It’s a lovely fantasy, one which Wyll would love to dwell in, but the dawn has now risen. On time is late by Father’s standards.
Wyll straightens his every garment beyond reproach, then departs for the next step in making this work.