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Feelings are bullshit.
Sion knows this because he has them – has harboured them for a certain laggard for too long to think of them as anything else.
Even now, as Sion looks at Serfort talking to the Ice faction's Magia Vander – his dear Elfie, a voice titters in his mind mockingly – he can't help the quiet scoff that slips past his teeth at the sight.
He knows he only has himself to blame; this… crush refusing to take a hint and disappear despite the past three years making its hopelessness clear.
Well, if nothing else, at least he's not alone in his predicament – if the longing in Wignall's eyes is anything to go by, then Sion might even be slightly better off than the elf. He chalks it up to having had more time to accept that Serfort won't ever spare him a glance, maybe as a friend, but certainly not the way Sion wishes he would.
For Wignall, it must be a recent thing – Sion would have noticed it sooner otherwise. Either way, he knows that look; knows what the elf must feel as it goes ignored more than anyone else, except for Colette, maybe.
And isn't that just ridiculous? All three of them desperate for any scrap of attention Will deigns to bestow upon them, salivating like stray dogs for a fucking treat–
His body moves before his mind fully catches up, and he pushes himself away from the wall he had been leaning against as he sets off towards Wignall. He puts his half-empty glass down on the nearest table, the champagne too sweet and weak to dull the pathetic yearning in his chest, anyway.
“Hey,” he says, coming to a stop next to the elf and only then realizing he has no idea how to go about this at all.
Wignall turns slightly so that his body is facing him and cocks his head to the side in a silent question. The motion makes some of his hair slip over his shoulder, dark bangs falling in front of his eyes. “Yes? Can I help you?”
His voice is polite; a little dry. There's none of the kindness that perpetually colours Serfort’s in it, nor the sweet tinge that Colette's sometimes takes on, and Sion realizes it's perfect.
He takes a step closer, looks right into those unnaturally green eyes. “Yes, actually. I think we can help each other,” he says, flicks his gaze towards where Serfort is now laughing at something Elfaria said and then back to Wignall. “After all, it seems like we both have the same problem.”
Wignall goes tense all over, fingers tightening around the glass in his hand as a flush tints his cheeks. “Are you– that is, do you mean...” he stammers, pointed ears twitching a little, and Sion feels his expression relax despite himself.
“No pressure, yeah? It's just an offer.” He runs a hand through his hair, lets a hollow grin tug at the corners of his lips. “Thought you might want to get out of here and forget about him too – at least for a little while,” he says, and his voice sounds raw even to his own ears as he teeters, weak and vulnerable on the edge of something too close to the truth.
Wignall's eyes soften in response, his smile achingly gentle when he says, “I want to. Lead the way?”
Sion gives him a nod and his shoulders relax, a ball of tension he hadn't even noticed until now unfurling in his chest. His steps are sure as he walks towards the nearest door, eager to leave the venue, and he even manages not to sneak a glance backwards when he walks through the intricate doors.
With Wignall right behind him, it feels like a tiny victory.
They go to Sion's dorm because it's closer, only a few seconds of stillness passing between the click of the lock and the first touch of Sion's palm against Wignall's soft cheek, anticipation a low thrum in his veins.
He moves his hand to the back of Wignall's neck and pulls, gentler than he'd have expected himself to bother. Their lips are almost touching now, Wignall's breath tickling his skin as Sion's fingers curl into silky green strands before he whispers into the space separating them, “Having second thoughts?”
“No,” is Wignall's immediate response, heavy with something Sion doesn't bother to ponder. “You?” he asks, sounding nervous almost, fragile in a way Sion hasn’t heard from him in all the years they’ve spent in each other’s vicinity.
Sion pulls back a little and looks at him properly for what feels like the first time.
The thing is – Wignall is pretty.
Where Serfort is short and wiry, the elf is almost too lean, his full lips and high cheekbones nothing like the boyish softness of the laggard’s features even at nineteen.
Still, like all elves, there’s an ethereal sort of pull in the edges of even his emptiest smile, a lilt to the ugliest of his words. It's something Sion has known all along, a passive fact nestled into the back of his mind ever since he’d first seen him at Regarden, but now, looking at him with the knowledge of what they're about to do curling warm and heavy in Sion's belly, it feels more like a revelation.
He trails his thumb over smooth skin, watches Wignall's breath hitch, and wants with such sudden clarity it leaves him breathless. “I’m not,” he says, but it comes out rough. Before Wignall could respond, Sion grabs his arm to pull him towards the bed, pushes down on a thin shoulder until the elf lowers himself onto the mattress. Once he's sat, Sion steps between his spread thighs, then grips his jaw just so – a silent question.
Wignall's lips part, and he looks up at Sion with those too-green eyes drowning in something dangerously close to reverence.
Sion sucks in a sharp breath; refuses to examine how his blood thrums in delight.
“Sion—” Wignall says, barely more than a whisper and yet too loud in the stillness of the room, and from then on it’s a blur of warm mouths and even warmer hands, of bitten-off moans setting Sion’s insides on fire as nails scrape hot trails along the back of his shoulders – almost hard enough to make him forget the sound of Wi– Serfort’s laughter in that crowded hall.
The next morning, he wakes up with a mouthful of hair that’s not his own and an unfamiliar weight on his chest. It should be awkward, and yet Sion feels nothing of the sort as he kicks Wignall’s cold feet out from under the blanket, nudging him awake only for bleary eyes to meet his own in clear displeasure.
“I understand you need your beauty sleep, but I have to be at the training grounds in about thirty minutes, so” – he makes a motion at their general state of… well, everything, and raises an eyebrow meaningfully – “I’d appreciate it if you stopped drooling onto me and got a move on.”
Wignall scoffs as he sits up, running slender fingers through his hair in an already failed attempt at making it look less like Sion had spent the better part of the night tugging on it. “I do not drool. Besides, if anyone is in dire need of more beauty sleep, it’s you,” he says, and reaches for his wand to conjure up a mirror right in front of Sion’s face.
“Excuse y— what the fuck?” He leans in closer to inspect the bite marks across the skin of his throat and collarbones. “What are you, an Evil Guard? How am I meant to hide these?”
Wignall’s snort is sudden and loud, and Sion gives him a half-hearted glare over the mirror’s edge.
“Come here,” the elf says with a smile that falls just short of sweet, the look in his eyes softened by something Sion can’t quite put his finger on. “Sylvanum,” he murmurs once Sion has shuffled over, wand raised to Sion’s throat and magic trickling over his skin in a soothing caress.
When Wignall is done, Sion glances back into the mirror and runs a hand over his now unmarred skin. “Thanks.”
“I doubt Logwell would have appreciated your throat looking like that in the presence of his precious Cariott-sama,” Wignall says with a grimace as he gathers mussed up green strands into a ponytail.
Sion barks out a laugh in response. “Ugh, don’t remind me of him,” he groans, watching Wignall throw his legs over the side of the bed and gather his discarded clothes with a flick of his wand. “His bootlickers would immediately report it to him, and then the old fart would make me sort the archive again. I’m pretty sure he’d add a regulation against breathing within a twenty meter radius of Cariott if he could.”
Wignall hums in response to his rant as he pulls on his pants, looks back over his shoulder at Sion with an arched eyebrow and a smirk tugging one corner of his mouth higher than the other, “Didn’t you say something about needing to be at training soon?”
Sion feels his eyes widen, and he almost trips off the bed in his haste to get to his closet. “Shit,” he mutters, and Wignall’s responding laugh is a little mean and much too cheerful for such an early hour. He throws a glare at him over his shoulder before pulling on his socks and pants.
“Here,” Wignall says a few moments later, still sounding too amused for Sion’s taste as he hands him his uniform shirt. “Your shoes and cloak are by the door,” he adds, and Sion could honestly kiss him.
The thought makes him pause, only then realizing he hasn’t thought about Serfort once the entire time he’s been awake, which—
Is exactly what he wanted. Huh, seems like the distraction worked better than he’d thought it would.
Sion resumes buttoning up his shirt, sneaks a glance at Wignall where he’s also getting dressed, and his eyes catch on the dawn light bouncing off pale skin before it is covered by the fabric of Wignall’s shirt. He tears his gaze away as if afraid of getting caught, clumsily pulling the last couple of buttons through their holes.
You are too quick to fall, his mother’s voice croons in his mind, low and disapproving, and even quicker to wallow after you hit the ground.
It’s something she told him what feels like an eternity ago – back when he would go to her first after a rejection, with crumpled flowers clutched to his chest; a time before Sion had been found lacking in every way that matters, before his father’s gaze became cold with apathy, before. – and he doesn’t know what made him remember it now.
“Sion?” Wignall says, snapping him back to the present. “Do you… I mean, would you be amenable to…”
Sion watches him adjust his cuffs then tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear as a flush steadily darkens his skin, a strange fondness tugging at his insides at the sight. He decides to take pity on him. “If you’re asking to have a repeat of this, then the answer is yes,” he says, biting back a chuckle at the way Wignall’s ears twitch in what seems like excitement. “If you want to, that is,” he adds belatedly, and it comes out shakier than he’d have liked.
“I’d love to.” The words nestle into the air between them with a softness bordering on painful, and Sion forces himself to swallow around his suddenly dry throat, a reply stuck somewhere in his larynx.
He clears his throat, cursing Wignall’s tendency to make everything sound grand and serious as he shrugs on his cloak. “That’s good then. I have to go now if I don’t want Logwell on my ass. Just cast a Claudris or something over the door when you leave.”
“Sure, and Sion?” Wignall says, looking at Sion like he’s a particularly slow child. He holds out his hand, twirls Sion’s wand between his fingers with a raised eyebrow, then, “I suppose you’ll be needing this. Though I can’t imagine your arson-happy faction having many worthwhile training activities, so maybe a flint and steel would suffice...”
Sion can’t help but roll his eyes as he walks over to Wignall to take his wand. “Oh, do shut up,” he grumbles, then almost stumbles back when Wignall pulls on the lapels of his cloak, straightening them out with a quiet tut.
“There,” he says, running his hands over Sion’s shoulders. “Now you can…” his voice tapers off as their eyes meet, neither of them moving for what feels like minutes but is most likely a mere couple of seconds.
Sion’s gaze drops to Wignall’s parted lips before settling lower, on a bruise darkening the skin stretched over sharp collarbones. It's entirely subconscious – the way he leans in; only notices what he’s doing when Wignall’s grip stops him.
“Don’t. You like someone else,” Wignall says like Sion needs to be reminded, like all of this didn’t happen solely because they both want something they’ll never have.
Sion takes a step back and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” is all he manages as his mind flashes with violet eyes and a bright smile. “I do.”
“You’ll be late,” Wignall says, and it sounds a little strained and a lot like he wanted to say something else, but before Sion could push the matter, he realizes he really will be if he doesn’t leave right the fuck now.
He runs to the door and throws a half-hearted smirk over his shoulder. “I have some eggs in the fridge if you're hungry,” he says in an attempt to bring back that earlier ease. “Try not to set the building on fire in case you decide to cook them, yeah?” He barely bites back a laugh at the way Wignall sputters, his face and ears flushing a dusky pink.
“Oh, come on!” Wignall calls after him, but Sion’s already out the door and rushing down the stairs, the Verdiare Wignall casts at him missing him by a few inches, and he can't quite force down the smile that tugs at his lips.
When Logwell spots him – and Sion still has no idea how, considering he’s blind and all – the older man's face gets this pinched look that fills his chest with glee, and it is a monumental effort to keep his grin down the rest of the day as his skin tingles with the faintest reminder of Wignall’s magical signature.
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“So… what’s got you in such a good mood?” Lyril asks the moment they step outside, giving Sion one of his patented looks.
The courtyard is full of mages mingling about with their cloaks billowing behind them, and Sion almost misses a step when a rich green flutters at the edge of his vision. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he says, flat as he can make it because he really isn’t in the mood for an interrogation. Not after the last one where his fellow Fire Faction members managed to drag the truth about his crush out of him.
Gordon throws an arm over his shoulders, waggles his eyebrows obnoxiously. “Oh, I know what it is. Sion here got lucky last night, the sly bastard.”
“Even if that were the case—”
“Which it is,” Gordon cuts in, like he can smell the afterglow on Sion or something equally disturbing.
“—it's none of your business,” Sion finishes, and shrugs his friend's arm off. Honestly, his eleven-year-old self should have picked less nosy lackeys.
Lyril's eyebrows pinch together and his mouth flattens in displeasure. “He just made the face,” he says with the driest look Sion's seen from him this week.
“Face? What face?” Sion asks, thoroughly confused.
Gordon's hold returns, and Sion can feel his eyebrow twitch. “You just thought of us as your lackeys again, didn't you?”
“How did you–”
“You wound us, really,” Gordon continues, clutching at his chest dramatically and completely ignoring Sion's question. “I believed we were past this, but alas…” he trails off, and Sion is half-expecting him to pretend to wipe a tear off his face at any moment.
Lyril gives an empathetic nod. “It seems we still aren't good enough to be privy to the woes of our dear friend's heart.”
“You’re just hoping to laugh at my misery.” Sion shoots them what he hopes is an unamused look as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Again,” he adds, accusing.
Gordon throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Your failed love life is our primary source of entertainment, man. At least indulge us.”
“Or you can foot the bill next time we go out for drinks to make up for calling us your lackeys,” Lyril says, smirk widening when Sion tenses up at the words.
“You know my father cut me off,” Sion tries, a desperate edge bleeding into his voice at the thought of a Friday night out bill, “besides, I didn't even say it out loud!”
“I mean, you kind of just did.”
Sion barely keeps himself from slamming his head against the nearest wall. He lets out a sigh instead, throwing his hands out in frustration. “Ugh, fine! Yes, I hooked up with someone yesterday, happy now?”
“Who was it?” Lyril’s voice is sharp, his dark brown eyes even more cutting. “The elf you left with?”
Sion’s face must do something that gives him away, because before he could so much as open his mouth to try to lie his way out of this whole conversation, Lyril gets this horrible, self-satisfied look on his face, and Sion knows he’s done for.
“Oh, how I love being right.”
Gordon fist pumps at the words, reaching into his pocket for a piece of parchment. “Mike owes me a fifty now, the asshole,” he says, writing something down before sending the message flying with a quick spell. “Thank you Sion, I always believed in you,” he adds with a grin and thumbs up.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Gordon and Mike bet on whether or not you two would hook up after the way you disappeared from the function together yesterday,” Lyril answers immediately, moving a step away from Gordon’s side.
Sion takes out his wand, slow and deliberate as he smiles through gritted teeth, his eyebrow twitching. “You have three seconds to run.”
“Lyril, you traitor!” is all Gordon manages before Sion’s setting a guardian on him, the fire-hawk singing Gordon’s uniform and chasing him around as bystanders watch on with varying levels of amusement.
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“What’s this I hear about you setting Gordon Baret on fire?” is the first thing Wignall says when they next see each other a few days later, smirking a little as he leans against a bookcase.
Sion’s answering sigh is long and heavy. “I swear the rumour mill just keeps getting lazier with the details,” he says, putting the next book away and marking it down on the list Logwell had given him. “Yesterday I had burned off half his hair, the day before it had only been his robes…”
His words pull a laugh out of Wignall, the sound bright and clear like a windchime and making Sion pause in his packing to look at him. “Let me help? We’ll finish quicker,” he offers, holding out a hand towards the stack of books next to Sion.
“Sure,” he replies, a little surprised by the earnestness in Wignall’s eyes. “Thanks. I’ve got about… ten more things to transcribe. Here.” Sion gives the lightest tome over to Wignall, his cheeks warming with a slow flush as their fingers brush against each other.
The elf skims through the list and starts leafing through the book for the section they need, Sion doing the same with the next one, and together, they get it done in less than half the time it would’ve taken him.
“Thanks,” Sion says again, but when he turns to look at Wignall, he finds him already looking back at him, standing close enough that Sion can feel the heat radiating from his body, his exhales a gentle pressure on his throat. He swallows, his tongue strangely thick in his mouth. “So, did you need something? I don’t mean to assume, but I doubt anyone’d come here of their own volition.”
Wignall’s eyes have yet to leave his, gaze heavy with intent as he bites down on his lips when Sion’s gaze strays south. “I came here looking for you. For—”
Sion doesn’t let him finish, doesn’t even bother to check if they’re really alone before swallowing the rest of Wignall’s sentence right out of his mouth, his hands settling on Wignall’s waist and pushing him against the shelves with a dull thud. He bites back a moan when that clever tongue slips past his teeth and hands tangle in his hair to tug at the strands, sharp pleasure shooting down his spine with each quiet gasp he manages to coax from Wignall.
“A repeat?” he asks the moment they part, panting each other’s air as they try to catch their breath.
With an insistent pressure on his nape, Wignall draws him in for another kiss, wordlessly answering his question, and from there the only thing he can focus on is the hitch in Wignall’s breath, the thrum of his voice as he casts a silencing spell around them and the burn in Sion’s arms and thighs as he holds him up against the deep mahogany of the bookcase.
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“Mike owes you another fifty,” Lyril tells Gordon the moment Sion sits down at their usual table, ale in hand and the high collar of his shirt hiding the evidence of his late afternoon… activities.
Gordon signals for another round with a grin, then slaps Sion on the back heartily. “I know I don’t tell you this often enough, but you’re the best, Sion.” He clinks his stein against Sion’s before downing the rest of his drink in what Sion supposes is celebration.
“Give me twenty percent and I might consider not burning your hair off,” Sion says, deciding he might as well get something out of this. “And trust me, you wouldn’t rock the bald look.”
“Oh, but I bet your new beau would.” Lyril’s smirk is nothing short of shit-eating as he says this, and it makes Sion’s hands clench into fists on top of the table.
“He’s not my— It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement, yeah? And also none of your damn business,” Sion snaps, reaching for his own ale to dilute his annoyance.
“See, you keep saying that, but there’s nothing more interesting happening, so you can’t blame us for being curious. And besides, you’re our friend – we want to know what you get up to!”
“More like you want to one up Mike again,” Lyril mutters, but the taller pays him no mind and keeps talking right over him.
“At least give us something,” Gordon’s voice is only half-pleading, and the look in his eyes tells Sion the next words out of his mouth will most likely have him reaching for his wand. “How was it? Do elves have anything… different down there?”
“What the fuck were you doing during our first year Anatomy classes?” Lyril asks, unamused, while Sion takes a deep breath to keep himself from setting the entire building on fire.
Gordon waves him off with a click of his tongue, both of their attention turning back to Sion. “Was it good?”
The way he stresses the last word catches Sion off guard, his mind flashing with a memory of Wignall’s glazed eyes and kiss-bruised lips parted around Sion’s name, and there’s a heat spreading across his face that he can only hope isn’t as visible as it feels–
Gordon lets out a groan and rests his chin in his hand. “You don’t even have to say anything, you lucky bastard. It’s written all over your face,” he says before heaving a forlorn sigh. “Man, now I wish I had someone to do the horizontal tango with…”
“Maybe stop calling it that first,” Lyril retorts with a grimace.
Despite the embarrassment still bubbling in his chest, Sion can’t help the laugh that stumbles past his lips, and he arches an eyebrow at the other two. “Can we talk about something other than my sex life now? Like why I haven’t seen a single Ice Faction mage around all day for example?” he tries, the question something that’s been bugging him since the afternoon.
“Oh, you don’t know? The droughts in the East have gotten so bad three entire squads had to be sent out to help save as much of the produce as they can,” Lyril tells him between sips of his wine. “I also talked to Jhorua yesterday, and allegedly, the Tower let the situation escalate to this point because of the tension with the local nobles. He said he heard from Julius how they’ve had a lot to say about the Tower’s new tax hikes.”
Sion nods, his shoulders losing some of their tension. “Yeah, I overheard my parents talking about that when I went home last time. With the recent dock due increases down in Bullmar and Selonia, I can imagine why some families would be upset about this,” he muses out loud, chest light with relief as the conversation takes a turn away from his personal life at last.
It’s long past midnight when the three of them and the last stragglers get up to leave, the late Shannamoon chill making him shiver the moment he steps outside.
After a quick goodbye to Gordon, the two of them settle into a companionable silence. The Tower gleams tall and imposing in the waning moonlight as they head towards it, and Sion doubts he’ll ever manage to look at it without a hint of awe filling his chest.
Lyril’s voice is the one that breaks the silence once they’ve reached the upper floors. “Sion,” he says, giving him a weighted look. “Just be careful not to get hurt, yeah? I know you have feelings for Serfort, but…”
“But what?” Anger curls hot and sharp in his stomach as fingernails bite into the skin of his palms. He hasn’t felt the too-familiar heat in long enough that it almost makes him pause, but the vitriol on his tongue is too sharp to swallow. “You think I’m stupid enough to drag feelings into this thing I have with Wignall? Do not presume to know me just because I indulge you and Baret at times,” he says, regrets the words the moment he sees the slight crack in Lyril’s expression. Still, he doesn’t take them back.
“I didn’t mean— Sion!”
Sion ignores the calls after him, his footsteps echoing in the predawn stillness as he walks towards the Fire Faction dorms without turning around.
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Sion storms up from the Fourth Stratum with his mouth tasting like ash and rage clawing red-hot at his chest. He doesn’t stop on the Fire Faction’s level even though his lungs burn with each step he takes, exhaustion and shame hurt anger warring just beneath his skin as the image of Serfort’s lips meeting the Ice Maiden’s burns the backs of his eyelids.
He knew. All this time, he had been perfectly aware of how inevitable this moment was, and yet—
The Sixth Stratum stretches out in front of him, grand and flowery and intricate – as one would expect of the elves.
Sion ignores the looks sent his way by the elves mingling about and sets off in the direction he’s hoping the training grounds are, his eyes searching for a familiar figure in the sea of opulence. Once he sees the edge of the training area, he slows his steps and starts wondering whether it wouldn’t be better to turn around and just try and catch Wignall during dinner. Before he could make up his mind, the sound of someone loudly clearing their throat stops him.
He turns around, coming face to face with an older looking elf. “Can I help you?”
“What business does the Fire Faction have here?” the man asks, his voice filled with such contempt it makes Sion’s jaw tighten as he fights the urge to retort in kind.
“I’m not here on behalf of my faction,” he grits out, trying and most likely failing to sound polite. “I am merely looking for someone.”
The man’s frown deepens and he gives Sion a slow once-over. “I can’t help but doubt that any esteemed member of our faction would associate with—”
“He’s here for me.”
They both turn to look at Wignall walking towards them, and Sion’s heartbeat stutters between his lungs at the look he gives the older elf – all sharp eyes and drawn brows, full lips curled in disdain – before he comes to a stop by Sion’s side. From this close, Sion can see the tense line of Wignall’s shoulders, the minute tremble in his arms as he keeps talking to his superior, and his own fingers twitch as if wanting to offer some semblance of comfort.
He shoves his hands into his pockets to keep them from moving.
“—doesn’t apply if there is a legitimate reason for the visit,” is what Wignall is saying when Sion tunes back into the conversation. “In this case, he came to pick me up before we are to head to a voluntary inter-faction training session.”
The stern expression on the elf’s face doesn’t relax. “So be it. It is no surprise that the only ones willing to associate with you are Lyzance riffraff from inferior factions,” he sneers before turning sharply on his heel and leaving.
The moment he’s out of earshot, Wignall lets out a sigh heavy with relief, his entire frame visibly relaxing as he looks at Sion. “Well, that was mighty unpleasant. I hope Master Erlan spared you the worst of his usual commentary,” he says, sheepish and remorseful like it’s somehow his fault.
“Does he always talk to you like that?” Sion finds himself asking, seething with the urge to go after this so called Master Erlan and give him a piece of his mind. Or better yet, show him just how inferior humans are. As much as he hates to admit it, Logwell’s constant criticism of the Fae Faction’s arrogance isn’t entirely unwarranted.
Wignall tears his gaze away at the question, hunches in on himself in a way that tugs at Sion’s heart, only adding to the mess under his skin. “Don’t worry. It’s not like I’m not used to it,” Wignall murmurs, and manages to muster a gentle smile. “You shouldn’t worry about internal elven affairs.”
Sion supposes he’s trying to be reassuring. “I’m not worried.” Certainly, he feels… something, but it’s not like he’s worried about Wignall. “I’ll let it go for now, but don’t think for a moment that I buy the whole ‘I’m used to it so it’s fine’ thing,” he says, grinning at the eye roll Wignall gives him in response. The knot of tension in Sion’s chest loosens and he starts walking; knows Wignall will follow. “Also, inter-faction training? Really?”
“Oh, let me live. It’s not like I had time to come up with anything better,” Wignall huffs out as he falls into step beside him, the slightest hint of a pout on his face. “Why were you looking for me? Or well, at least I assume that’s why you came here…”
Sion’s counting on the stratum’s layout to be the same as the fifth’s as he walks up to what he hopes is the dorm building. Before they round the corner to the main entrance, he quickly sweeps their surroundings to check if they’re alone, then grabs Wignall’s arm and pushes him against the wall in one smooth motion.
“What are you— Sion?” Wignall asks, eyes wide and breath hitching. He doesn’t try to move away.
Sion knocks lean legs apart with his knee and tangles his fingers into the hair at the back of Wignall’s neck, mouthing at his jaw with a desperation he wishes he could hide. “A warmup. Before the inter-faction training, of course,” Sion says, drawing his head back and grinning at the flush already dusting the sharp curve of Wignall’s cheeks. “Wouldn’t want you to pull a muscle or something equally treacherous,” he adds, and sneaks a hand under dark uniform fabric to palm at the soft skin stretched over Wignall’s ribs.
Wignall lets out quiet gasp at the touch. There’s a heartbeat of stillness in which their eyes meet that feels like a Sagius Leo sparking in Sion’s blood and settling at the base of his spine, but then Wignall wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him in for a kiss, teeth tugging at Sion’s bottom lip as his heartbeat rabbits under his fingers.
“So my excuse wasn’t so bad after all,” Wignall says between heaving breaths, lips curled into a sharp smile that makes desire flash hot just beneath Sion’s navel.
Without thinking, he raises his thigh a little, grinds up between Wignall’s legs, and it draws this lovely, high-pitched groan out of him that has Sion leaning back in for another rough kiss.
“Sion, wait, ah—“ Wignall’s words are hot against his lips, his hands tight in his hair as Sion trails down to scrape his teeth against his throat. “Someone – fuck – someone might see.”
Sion doesn’t have time to delight in making Wignall curse, nor appreciate how hot it sounds, before the rest of his sentence reminds him of why he went looking for him in the first place. His chest tightens at the memory of Serfort kissing Elfaria in that partly hidden corner, much like he is right now, only–
He takes a step backwards, averts his eyes from the worry clouding Wignall’s. “You’re right. I should… I think I’ll go—”
“Sion!” There’s a hand wrapped around his wrist, and absurdly, it occurs to him how it’s the first time Wignall has touched him so casually. “My dorm is right here. Let me help,” – he gives him a smile, eyes and grip gentle, and he’s so pretty it hurts – “please.”
Sion can feel the moment he gives in, his fingers tangling with Wignall's as he says, “Okay.”
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Lihanna presses a kiss to Colette’s cheek before turning to leave, and Sion walks over once the knight has rounded the corner.
He lets out a low whistle as he comes to a stop next to Colette. “Well, that’s new,” he says, grinning at the startled look she shoots him. “Congratulations. I hope it’s treating you well?”
“Thank you.” Colette’s gaze returns to the direction Lihanna disappeared in. There’s a pink tint to her cheeks, the fondness in her expression stirring something in his gut. “And yes, it’s… been amazing so far. I often can’t help but feel like Lihanna’s the sun and I’m just helplessly caught in her orbit, basking in her warmth…”
As he listens to her, Sion recalls a tale from his third year literature elective – a class everyone really only took for the high-credit exams – about a boy who flew too close to the sun. He distantly remembers thinking of the boy as a fool even while writing his essay on the myth, but now, looking at Colette, he might be starting to understand it.
Colette lets out a quiet laugh that snaps him out of his thoughts. “Sorry, I got a little carried away,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear, and Sion finds himself wondering what it would be like to have someone who’d talk about him like this.
“No, it’s— I’m happy for you. Truly.” He crosses his arms over his chest, resists the urge to clear his throat that’s tickling the back of his mouth. “For finding someone after…” he trails off, unsure of how to address the naberus in the metaphorical room.
Colette gives him a look out of the corner of her eye – sharp and searching in a way that has Sion’s hands tightening on his arms. She hums thoughtfully then lifts her gaze to the sky. “What about you? Do you still...?”
Sion almost laughs at how neither of them can even say his name, the sound getting stuck somewhere in his chest like an ugly cough, and he’s silently grateful to her for not rubbing in the fact that she’s moved on while Sion remains stuck in the same place he’s been in for years.
He thinks he would have, before. Now, he’s not so sure; hates what that says about his past self.
“I do,” he says, wry and rough. “Pathetic, right?”
Colette doesn’t turn to look at him, and Sion feels another wave of gratitude wash over him. “Then does that mean I was also pathetic for falling for him?”
“No! I mean–”
His stammered response is interrupted by a bright laugh. “Relax, I’m kidding. I don’t think there’s anything shameful about having feelings for someone. Nor in taking longer to get over those feelings,” she says, giving him a meaningful look that makes him swallow whatever he’d been about to say as he tries not to let his face show how much her words affect him.
A comfortsble silence settles around them before Colette’s voice breaks it, a teasing edge to her words. “So… What about Wignall?”
“Where did you even… wait. Let me guess, Lihanna?” Sion asks, and lets out an exasperated sigh at her nod. “Anyway, what about him?” he tacks on, ready to crack down on any and all betting pools.
“You two could be good for each other, you know.”
Sion barks out a laugh that’s all derision. “Yeah, sure. Two people settling for each other because neither of them can get Serfort – that’s sure to end well.”
“Get Will? I thought he—” She seems to catch herself, sucking in a sharp breath before her gaze softens with something that looks almost like regret. “Never mind. I’m sure it’ll work out somehow if you just give it time,” she shoots him a quick smile and his heart skips a beat, the weak, attention-hungry part of him latching onto the indulgence like it always does. “And if you ever need to talk to someone who… understands, then I’m here. After all, we’re friends, aren’t we?”
Sion can’t quite meet her eyes when he says, “Yeah…”
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He’s been on edge ever since his conversation with Colette – hasn't quite figured out how to deal with it.
“Why do you keep indulging me like this? I know you like him, but you could have picked someone less… difficult by now,” Sion says against flushed skin, Wignall’s pulse a slowing flutter beneath his fingertips. He wants Wignall to get angry at him for prying, and yet, his chest tightens with the thought of those eyes looking at him with contempt.
There’s an almost sweet hesitance in the way Wignall brushes some of his hair from his face. “I don’t mind difficult,” he says, voice laden with too much gentleness to be addressing Sion.
Unbridled, his eyes flicker up to meet Wignall’s and he wants just like he did all those months ago, only this time, Sion is hyper-aware of every point of contact between them, face and chest suffusing with heat as his lips tingle with the reminder of elf-sharp canines and he’s not sure if he’s breathing because this feels like–
Oh.
Mercedes help him, he’s such a damned fool.
“Sion?” Wignall asks, but it sounds distorted and too loud against the pounding of Sion’s heart. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“I’m fine. I just— remembered something,” he manages, stilted and awkward, mentally kicking himself for not being able to come up with something, anything, better.
Wignall’s brows furrow, his hand hovering in the air between them for a second too long when Sion sits up. “Did your father say something again?” he asks in a sour tone, his disapproval clear and strangely touching.
“No— well, yes, but that’s nothing new.” Sion’s heart is speeding up again, the worried look Wignall shoots him not helping at all. “I’m fine, truly.”
“It shouldn’t be something you’re used to. It’s not right,” Wignall insists, and Sion really doesn’t know if he can take this now.
He lets out a sigh, gaze falling into his lap. “Yeah… I know.”
“You'd better.” Wignall’s hand squeezes his, the touch reassuring and gone much too quickly. He clears his throat. “Are you staying over? I still have some reports that I want to get done tonight, so…” he says with a vague motion towards the stack of papers on his desk.
The intensity with which Sion longs to say yes is more than a little pathetic. “I have an early start again tomorrow.” He waves over his shirt and starts getting dressed. “It’s easier if I don’t.”
Wignall lets out a thoughtful hum. “Dungeon exploration again?”
“Yeah,” Sion replies, not even trying to hide the annoyance in his voice. “The thirty-sixth floor – I swear I could navigate it blind at this point.” He glares down at the second to last button, which is, for some reason, refusing to cooperate.
Wignall chuckles at whatever face he’s making before leaning over to button up his collar for him with careful, sure fingers. “Let’s hope you’ll find what they have you looking for this time.” He smooths out some of the wrinkles in the dark fabric, the warmth radiating from his hand as it pauses over his chest making Sion bite back a contented sigh. “Do be careful, though.”
Sion nods, not trusting himself to speak, and the small smile Wignall gives him in response only cements his earlier realization. After all, only a fool would go and fall for the one person he knows already likes someone else.
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It is another few weeks later that the moment Sion had been dreading comes – quiet and sharp like the slow cold of a Carnsmoon night.
“I need to tell you something,” Wignall says, and Sion looks at him from where he’s sprawled on his side of the bed, distantly wondering when the other one became Wignall’s.
He sits up, elbow against his bent knee, and rests his chin in his palm. “Sure? Wait, were the elders all up in your business again? I swear, if you’d just let me give them a thorough talking to—”
“No! No they… well, they’re the same they always have been, I suppose. But this doesn’t have anything to do with them,” he says, eyes glued to his lap.
Something in his voice makes Sion’s chest tighten, a heaviness settling in his gut as Wignall keeps nervously wringing his fingers. He forces his throat to work. “Wignall?”
Wignall meets his eyes, and Sion suddenly feels stupid for thinking nothing of that myth from so long ago – knows he's about to be burned the same way that fool who overestimated his wings had been.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he says, and the wax holding the leftover fragments of Sion's heart together starts to melt. “I’m truly sorry, it’s just— I thought I could handle it, but I can’t. I can’t bear to lie to you any longer…”
“Lie to me?” Sion echoes, acidic bile swelling beneath his sternum.
There’s a too bright sheen to Wignall’s eyes, and Sion can’t tear his gaze away from him. “I haven’t been truthful about my feelings, and the most horrid part is that I— I took advantage of yours to sate my own selfish desire— ” his voice breaks and he draws his knees up to his chest as if to protect himself from Sion’s reaction. “I'm so sorry.”
Sion’s chest feels too tight, his mind filling with white noise and unable to muster even the terrible comfort of anger. He doesn’t want to be angry at Wignall – isn't sure he feels anything beyond the cold numbness scraping his insides raw, really.
Most of all, he just feels helpless and tired of falling for people who don’t want him back.
“Can I kiss you?” The moment the words leave his mouth, he snaps his teeth shut, braces himself for the familiar sting of rejection.
Wignall blinks at him slowly. “Why would you…”
“I haven’t been completely honest with you either, you know. I mean, I was – at the beginning, but the more I got to know you, my… feelings began to change, and if this is the last time I get to be with you like this, then I—” he’s cut off by a hand cupping his cheek, a light pressure urging him to look up at Wignall before that same force pulls him forward until the space between them disappears.
Wignall’s lips are soft against his, the way he tugs at Sion’s bottom lip achingly familiar and at once gentler than ever before.
When they part, it’s slow and reluctant, and Sion tries to rip out the hope taking root in chest.
Before he could say anything, Wignall lilts forward and rests his forehead against his chest. “I was dishonest from the very beginning,” he says, lips brushing against Sion’s skin as he runs his fingers through silky green strands for what may be the last time. “It was never about Will for me,” Wignall adds softly.
Sion’s breath gets caught in his throat at the words, his hand stilling. The ache is as sharp as ever, and he can't even find it in himself to be angry this time. After all, he's already more than used to not having a place in other people's stories.
There's a lump in his throat when he croaks out, “I hope whoever it is realizes how lucky they are.”
He feels more than hears Wignall's responding laugh, and his eyes linger on the dim glow of the Illumina cast overhead that reflects in jade green eyes as the elf sits back on his haunches.
Wignall gives him a fond look, and the stubborn hope in Sion's chest blooms. “It's you, you oblivious fool. It always was,” he says, lips curling into a smile that feels like a stray ray of sunshine.
A beat passes. Then two, and before Sion realizes it, he’s throwing himself forward and falling half on top of Wignall, punching a sound of surprise out of him as they land on the mattress. He stays silent for another long moment, tries to wrap his mind around the other's words while Wignall’s heartbeat wavers under his palm.
He tilts his head back to look up at him, any words he might’ve said turning sticky sweet and getting stuck at the back of his mouth.
“As much as I'd like to believe I've become apt at reading between the lines when it comes to you and ‘emotions’,” Wignall says, arching an eyebrow meaningfully at the last word, “I hope you’ll indulge me with an answer regardless?”
The airy, somewhat petulant tone makes him find his footing reflexively. “First you call me a fool, and now you want me to bare my heart?” Sion teases once he’s propped himself up on his forearms, basking in the attentive glint in Wignall’s eyes – instantaneous whenever Sion so much as speaks, and how did he not notice it before—
“Humour me?” Wignall asks, soft and cheeky and perfect, and Sion can’t resist kissing him again.
He pulls away just enough to be able to speak. “I think it’s been about you from that very first morning… when I woke up with your hair in my mouth,” Sion says, and he doesn’t even try to bite back a laugh at the mock-offended look Wignall shoots him. He brushes slightly overgrown bangs out of those too-green eyes, his voice thick with sincerity when he adds, “I feel the same, you ridiculous elf.”