Work Text:
Warm, fading light from the setting sun beams through the crack in the curtains, directly into the weary eyes of Nero, leaning against a dirty bathroom counter in a cheap inn, chest heaving with staggered breaths. His hair, loosened from its ponytail, is disheveled and matted with blood, a mix of his own and that of the enemy after having shielded Faust from the worst of it. His head begins to spin the moment he releases pressure from the wound across his stomach, holding back a whimper as he steadies himself.
“Go clean yourself up,” he grunts. “I can handle this myself.”
Cat-like lilac eyes bore holes through his skull. Nero furrows his brows and looks away, focused more on trying to keep his blood inside him than pleasing his... friend .
“You really cannot,” comes Faust’s stern voice, gentle but cutting through his bullshit with violence, “and I refuse to let you make this worse.” Deft fingers undo the buttons of his torn overshirt and pull at the fraying hems of his underclothes. “Come on. Shirt off.”
Nero opens his mouth in protest, but closes it with a muffled groan when Faust pulls the blue undershirt over his head and exposes his bare chest to the cold, heavy air. Before he can find the right expletives to mutter between his teeth, a cold cloth soaked in alcohol is run over his stomach. His fist clenches the counter, knuckles gone white, and he stares down at the mess of brown hair crouched at his waist. “Are you trying to finish the job?”
He’s met with a cold glare and a colder glass of water pressed to his dry lips. “I’m trying to help you, you brat. Do you want me to finish what those beasts started?”
Faust gets to work with the tweezers, pulling shards of claw and bone from the gash in Nero’s belly with surgical precision. Nero is given time to catch his breath between the removal of each shard, though it does little to dull the pain that twists his face and tightens every muscle. A thin, bony hand on his hip holds him still against the counter with gentle pressure as the warm aura of Faust’s healing magic mends the broken skin. Nero does not miss the way their hand darts back to their side when they become aware of the possible implication of its placement, nor does he miss the way their cheeks turn pink and the corners of their eyes soften behind the cover of purple glass.
With his focus elsewhere, Nero does not notice Faust wipe the wound down once more and begin bandaging. He does , however, notice the way Faust averts their eyes every time he catches them looking at his shirtless form, muscles still firm despite years of disuse, and how they wind the bandage more gently around the parts of his skin riddled with scars from days long gone as if their touch will reignite his pain. He watches them tie off the bandage with a little bow, whisper their spell, and press a kiss to it, and before Nero can process what that gesture might mean, Faust tugs at it gently to secure it, a pained whimper slipping past his lips. They admire their work with one last brush of their calloused fingers against the knot before rising to their feet.
That same calloused hand hesitantly reaches out and comes to rest on Nero’s bruised cheek, rubbing gentle circles under his eye. Nero leans into the touch, closing his eyes with a hum. This hand, still speckled with his blood, cradles him as if it holds the universe. When his eyes flutter open to meet the soft purple hidden behind dark glass, he cracks the tiniest of smiles. Their face, uncharacteristically gentle and devoid of its usual stern expression, bears a look of pure admiration, as if in his eyes they see something more than the troubles of his past that continue to haunt him, something beautiful, and that burns the tips of his ears. He stifles a laugh, cupping his hand over theirs and interlocking their fingers. He brings their hand to rest between the twin scars on his chest, a silent laugh still bubbling in his throat, and brushes his thumb against the back of Faust’s hand. The skin is littered with scars: small nicks from the thick pages of ancient curse tomes or the edge of Shino’s blade, the deeper, signature marks of a flame, some unevenly healed, others still fresh. Nero traces each one and silently vows revenge on those who’ve inflicted them.
Of course, there’s the oldest scars, the ones hidden from all eyes beneath layers of clothing that turn their eyes dark and glassy with every mention of them. Suddenly feeling brave, he mutters a silent prayer and presses his lips to the smooth skin of their throat, tense with uncertainty. He’s sure Faust can feel his racing heartbeat with how strongly it leaps against his sternum to greet the flat of their hand, and when they pull their arm away he wonders if he’s made a great mistake. With each kiss, he feels more than he hears a pleasured hum, and through the corner of his eyes he can see their eyes slowly shut.
For a moment, he pulls away for air, and a quiet disgruntled sound rumbles through Faust and past their thin lips. He releases his grip on the counter and instead places one hand on their waist, the other running underneath the unbuttoned collar of their shirt and pushing the folds apart. They wince at the cold air that nips at the bare skin of their collar, and Nero’s thumb gently irons out the furrow in their brow.
“Stop thinking so much.” The words hang in the air.
Nero’s never been much of a holy man, but he thanks the heavens above for giving him Faust.
Deep, red scars branch out and cradle the skin of their collar, and he gets to work kissing each and every one. He makes his way down their chest, quiet noises escaping Faust’s lips getting louder the more he unbuttons their shirt. Gaze flickering between the hands exploring their chest and meeting with their reflection in the deep amber of Nero’s eyes, they wet their lips, heartbeat suddenly so loud they can’t hear themselves think. He nips at their neck, just above the pulse point, and they unravel beneath his touch.
Hooking his thumb and forefinger beneath their ears, Nero takes their head in his hands and kisses over their closed eyelids. Quiet praises inaudible to anyone but his beloved are whispered against the smooth skin that’s cradled as if precious, caressed like no greater beauty exists in this world.
Perhaps there isn’t, he doesn’t dare to speak aloud.