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Of all the things they'd encountered in their months of treasure-hunting and bounty-trawling in dank caves and forgotten ruins, this certainly wasn't anything they were prepared for.
Ever since their first encounter with one of the chest-mimicking demons, Will decided that an extra moment of caution before cracking a chest open was in order. So, when they ran into a chest that oozed an oil-slick-like stream of magla and Will warned them to back up, Strohl immediately reached back to curl around the hilt of his sword as he squared his shoulders.
The demon– a trove imitec– was twice as large as its pale, alabaster-sickly counterparts, dripping with viscera and jewels alike as its long tongue seemed to waggle in amusement. With its roiling, dark aura and the fetid, almost carrion-esqe scent it wafted, Strohl felt his lungs seize up as he realized this treasure demon was, to some extent, sentient.
And far more wicked than they prepared for, as it seemed to sense Will gearing up with a light spell ready to burst from his skin and beat him to the punch.
It heaved a sticky, foul-smelling, fuchsia mist from its stinking maw, forcing him to stumble back with a gagging cough, and Strohl went on high alert.
Strohl was immediately by Will's side, separating Will from the demon's line of sight so Hulkenberg could take a stab at it. “Are you alright?” he asked, sword drawn as he craned his head over his shoulder to see Will clutching at his head. “Will? Can you hear me?”
They'd encountered their fair share of poison fogs, vile liquids that made them come down with shakes brutal enough to dislodge weapons, and the occasional flash bang that dazed them beyond all belief, but this was something new entirely.
Strohl lowered his sword for a moment to turn toward Will, Gallica alighting on his shoulder in an attempt to also catch his attention, but only a guttural groan came out of Will's mouth as his fingers slid from his face. His eyes– albeit unfocused– made Strohl stop in his tracks, blood running cold as they settled on him:
Paired with the unhealthy flush creeping across his face, Will's eyes glowed in a deep, heady pink, widening as they met Strohl's.
Not good, not good, I can feel his energy spiking–
“Will…?” Strohl started, hesitance and panic scraping at his voice as Will flexed his fingers. A funny smile seeped across his face, and Strohl was unsettled, unable to put a name to it until Basilio shouted over his shoulder for Strohl to watch out!
The demon whipped out a lash of energy that sent Hulkenberg and Basilio backwards, breaking Strohl’s attention enough for Will to come out of his haze–
By raising his blade toward Strohl like a shaky, drunken marionette with an expression Strohl could only describe as hungry.
Metal screeched as Strohl hastily blocked the blow, baffled beyond belief as Will bore down on him like a man possessed. “Hey, what the hell!” Strohl choked, blocking attack after attack, but Will was fast. Where Strohl exceeded in sheer brute force, Will was trained in speed, and he seemed to be using that knowledge to force Strohl backwards.
Away from the treasure demon?
“Will, what are you doing?” Gallica cried, tugging uselessly on the strap of his coat and wincing when he swatted her away. She ground her teeth, wincing as Will gained some distance, warily catchingStrohl's eye. “Something’s wrong– snap him out of it!”
Will staggered toward Strohl, and that punch-drunk expression wavered for a moment as the glow in his eyes flickered; pain and confusion crawled over his face, hands shaking, but his body continued to lurch forward. Like… a man possessed, Strohl realized, his earlier thought coming back to bite him. “Leave him to me– you and the others take care of the demon!” Strohl barked, cutting off into a wince as Will– possessed?– brought his sword down across Strohl’s forearm. It sliced through the fabric deeply enough to bring red to the surface as blood seeped through it, and Will used the attack to kick Strohl backwards.
Wheezing, Strohl barely caught his balance before Will was bearing down on him, sword a choppy blur he was barely able to dodge as he redirected attack after attack. Even in the dark of the room, Will's eyes still glowed that sickly pink, expression warring between heat and hurt.
The rest of the group was still whittling down the demon, and Strohl risked a glance toward them after a catching pained shout from Hulkenberg, which proved to be a mistake.
Searing pain bloomed below his ribs, and a pathetic noise of shock left his lips as he looked down to see the tip of Will's sword now puncturing the skin. At the sound, Will shuddered to a halt, eyes widening at the sight of the blood now blooming across Strohl's dress shirt, and through the pain Strohl silently cheered. Come on, the spell is wavering– push through it!
Biting back a groan, Strohl lurched backwards toward the wall, wincing as he pressed a hand to his gushing side while Will struggled against the spell. Sword still drawn, Strohl lowered it just a fraction as Will pressed a hand to his face, and he sucked in a pained breath. “Will, you have to shake it off,” he tried, even as his side ached and his wrist stung (and his heart seized in panic). “Can you hear me?”
Will's sword hand was shaking, face twisted in pain as the sickly pink flickered in his eyes as he tried to meet Strohl's. Over his shoulder, Hulkenberg landed a solid strike onto the demon, making it wail, and Strohl held his breath as Will recoiled at the sound. When he opened his mouth to speak again, though, the demon let out a hushed, vicious chitter in a language none of them knew, the pink of the spell flaring deep under Will's skin.
Panic flared ice cold Strohl’s gut as Will's head snapped up like a jerky puppet, fingers squeezing around the hilt of his sword as his eyes glazed over again.
No, no, no!
“Come on, don't give in!” Strohl croaked, breath failing him when he took a hasty step back from the approaching Will and met a wall against his shoulder blades.
Will took a rattling, heavy breath before surging forward, barely giving Strohl enough time to bring his broadsword up to keep the blade from his throat. In his desperation, he slammed the flat of his hand against the sharpened edge of his sword where Will's own bore down against his, his skin splitting from the force with an ice-cold sting as blood ran in rivulets down his palm.
This close, Strohl could feel Will's body heat radiating off of him, overwarm and feverish, and hunger still dripped from his features. “I can't–” he broke off with a ragged moan, the sound making Strohl's stomach drop despite the bite of the sword against his shaking arm and the blood dripping to the ground– “I can't control myself.” His breath ghosted over Strohl's face, and Strohl felt his skin warm.
Strohl swallowed at the roughness coating Will's voice before tightening his hand around his blade, relishing in the sting to get his head back on track– the spell isn't contagious, is it? – as he shifted his weight. His side was stinging more than it should, the slash as his arm and his palm ice cold, sapping his energy– poison.
Focus!
He leaned into Will's weight for a moment, blood stinging in his nose as he sucked in a breath. “Don't,” he started, before shoving back as hard as he could, “make me fight you, Will!”
The shift of weight had Will stumbling back, the sound of his sword clanging against the ground as he fought to catch his footing. Strohl grimaced, fearing the worst as Will righted himself, but he wasn't able to focus as a sharp flare of pain in his side wrenched through him hard enough for him to lose his grip on his own sword.
As if waiting for its opening like a snake and its quarry, the demon gave another hissing command and a rattling sound like a laugh, and Strohl's back slammed against the wall as small– but iron-clad– fingers wrapped around his throat.
“Strohl!” Gallica cried, horrified at the sight as Strohl fought against Will’s sudden hold. Basilio lurched toward them, only for a tendril of darkness from the demon to catch around his ankle and yank him away before he could intervene. Hulkenberg helped him up, holding her ribs, and Gallica fluttered over to wash her with a healing spell.
Strohl, despite the noise and the pain and the panic, felt everything zero in on the hands he squeezed against and the eyes of molten, fevered magenta that stared emptily at him. “Will,” he choked out, fingers slipping against Will’s, slick with blood, “you– you need to fight against it.”
Will only shifted closer, knee slotting firmly between Strohl’s as he pressed him harder against the wall. Strohl wheezed, the roughness of the wall scraping against his back, and his vision started to blur, and Will– for a brief, blissful second– froze, eyes wide. His fingers twitched. “I– I–”
“Come–” Strohl gasped, raw and ragged– “on–”
“It's too strong,” Will replied, the spell warming under his skin until Strohl could feel it burning through his gloves. “It feels too good.”
Please, Strohl begged, vision and strength starting to fade, I don't want to hurt you.
(He knew how much Will valued the lives of his friends over his own, and while Strohl argued and argued that his own was of no significance, he knew that Will wouldn't be able to recover if he did the unthinkable.)
His mind raced as he fought to figure out how to render Will unconscious, but the idea of striking him with a fist or a sword hilt made him sick to his stomach, and Will–
His expression was faltering, caught between hunger and horror, but his grip did not lessen as he leaned even harder against Strohl.
Strohl's lungs were aching, bruising, blood pounding against every point Will was pressed against him, and Will's breath caught, mouth parting–
A loud yell of bloody, vicious victory split the air as Basilio brought his axe down on the demon's neck, ichor squelching as the beast let out a wretched squeal that echoed even as its head bounced across the floor. Hulkenberg stopped it with her boot, spearing it with a revolted look as its tongue tried to wrap around her leg.
At the sound of her spear hitting flesh, Will's strength snapped like an overdrawn bowstring. With a weak, terrified mumble of Strohl's name, his hands slipped from Strohl's neck as he collapsed, hitting the groan with a boneless thud. Strohl slid down against the wall after him as he gasped for breath, ears ringing and vision dotting as the blood rushed back to his head.
Through the spinning of his head and the aching of his wounds, Strohl wheezed as he leaned up from the wall, hearing the pounding of footsteps toward him as he reached out to pull Will toward him. He was out cold, skin finally cooling down, and Strohl’s hands shook as he turned him onto his side and into his lap.
Eyes shut, skin clammy, breath even– he's okay.
Hulkenberg dropped to his side as he weakly pulled Will to his chest, wincing as he tried– and failed– to stand. Agony ripped through his side, and Hulkenberg’s face fell when she spotted the red staining his front.
“What did that spell do to him?” she demanded, furious as Gallica landed on Will's shoulder with eyes dark with fear. “Rather, what did he do to you?”
Strohl only shook his head, biting back a yelp of pain when Gallica's magic sizzled as it came into contact with his wounds. “What the hell?” she breathed, eyes wide, but Strohl ignored her.
“We need to get back to the entrance,” he forced out, grunting as he tried to stand again, only for Will's weight to wrench at his wounds.
“Oi, none of that; you're hurt real bad,” Basilio intervened, hand firmly on his shoulder as he forced Strohl to sit. His face was pulled in a frown as he studied Strohl's face, and Strohl– for a reason he couldn't name– burned with shame. “We’ll retreat for now, ‘aight?”
“Agreed,” Hulkenberg hummed, biting back a wince of her own as Basilio shifted away, turning his back to Strohl. “That monster wasn't something we were prepared for.”
“Give ‘im ‘ere, I’ll carry him,” Basilio urged, gesturing for Strohl to shuffle Will onto Basilio’s back.
Strohl opened his mouth to argue, to pull Will closer to him, an ugly blossom of anxiety and terror spreading its sickly petals in the gumminess of his bleeding heart, but Hulkenberg’s stern expression forced his mouth shut.
Let him go– he’ll be fine.
Silently, he let Basilio take Will, now sprawled across his back as Basilio gingerly hooked his hands under Will’s legs to keep him secure. With that, Hulkenberg helped Strohl to his feet, an arm around his back as Gallica dug in Will’s bag for Ariadne’s Thread.
As she unwound it, Hulkenberg stooped for a moment to retrieve their fallen swords and Strohl closed his eyes as the spell wound around them.
(Gallica sat on Strohl's shoulder the entire trip to the tavern, wordlessly healing him as best as he could; both of them watched as Eupha investigated Will's magla with matching expressions of worry.)
⊹₊ ♛ ₊⊹
When Will opened his eyes to see the ceiling of an inn above him and his body aching like he'd taken an ill-timed nap, he realized something wasn't right.
When he lifted a hand to scrub at his eyes and spotted crescent moons of scabs and bruises littering his wrist, he realized something was wrong as a dim burst of memory slammed into him like a runaway train:
The hiss of the imitec. Sickly-sweet haze, burning my eyes, my tongue. Heat, too warm. The sound of my sword against someone else's. The feeling of drunkenness, of pleasure–
Blood, pain, skin beneath my fingers, pleading, brown eyes, familiar voice, panic, confusion…
He sat bolt upright, breath an aching rattle of a gasp as it left him. “Strohl,” he choked, stomach hollowing and heart twisting in terror as it clicked into place.
Oh god, what have I done?
“Oh, love, you're awake!” Junah– by his bedside, skimming through a book– chirped, relief palpable in her voice. “How are you feeling?”
His face was gaunt as he whipped toward her, her face falling as she registered his expression. “Strohl– is he okay? Where is he?” he bumbled, words clumsy and desperate as he shucked the covers off.
She reached out to catch his arm, trying to calm him. “He's alright, but– oi, hang on, you've been asleep for two days, so get back here!” she bellowed as he burst out of bed, bare feet stinging against the wood as he sprinted out of the room and into the hall.
He knew he had to look like a man gone mad as he slid into the dining room, chest tight as he scoured the room for his friends, easily finding Hulkenberg’s red hair amidst the mostly-empty room.
There, beside her, was the person he was searching for, eyes happening to look up mid-laugh to find Will's, and–
His arm was tied in a sling beneath his coat, bandages wrapping the length of his wrist and criss-crossed around his hand, and even from here Will could see dark marks blooming at his throat.
I did that to him.
I hurt him.
The ground nearly fell out beneath his feet as his guilt hit him like a physical blow, Strohl's delight in seeing him awake quickly morphing into worry as Will's face crumpled.
Mumbles and chatter from comrades and tavern-goers alike buzzed in Will's ears as Strohl pushed up from the table to meet him, his free hand falling onto his shoulder. “Are you feeling alright?” Strohl immediately asked, voice contorted in concern. “We didn't know how long you were going to be– well, unconscious, so we elected to just stay in town until you healed, so–”
“I hurt you.”
Strohl paused, knitting his eyebrows. “Pardon?”
Will's fingers dug into his palms, breath crooked. “Whatever that demon did– it made me hurt you,” he whispered, and Strohl's breath caught.
“It wasn't your fault,” Strohl said, hand shifting from Will's shoulder to his cheek, lifting his eyes from the floor to Strohl’s eyes. There was nothing but patience and worry there, and Will's heart ached. “You were charmed , or so we've taken to calling it; it's a spell that takes control of the victim via suggestion, apparently.”
“I tried to kill you,” Will choked, a hand lifting to ghost against the spot he remembered his sword piercing just below Strohl's ribs, the memories burning through the haze of his intoxication. “I– Strohl, I'm so–”
Strohl caught Will's hand, stopping his words in their tracks. “Don't,” he said, shaking his head. “It doesn't matter; I'm fine.”
“No, you're not!”
“Will, please, you're shaking–”
A figure loomed behind Will, arms crossed; his shoulders hiked, head bowing as he squeezed his eyes shut.
(Strohl didn't let go of his hand.)
“You two, room, now,” Junah ordered from over Will’s shoulder, tapping her perfectly-manicured nails on her arm as she raised a perfectly-arched eyebrow. “Heaven knows you need the privacy– go.”
Will barely registered Strohl's mumbled reply as Strohl gently tugged Will back down the hall under the careful, worried eyes of their friends, Junah huffing in satisfaction as she turned to rejoin the group outside. His heartbeat was aching against his ribs, too many apologies and thoughts pounding in his blood as Strohl guided them into the room, shut the door, and gently urged him to sit down on one of the beds.
He stared at his hands, dizzy with all of the things he needed but couldn't say as he felt the bed dip down beside him. His heart squeezed, ears buzzing but stomach twisting as he realized Strohl politely kept his distance, and he sucked in a breath.
“Will–”
“Show me.”
Their voices crashed over each other like whitecaps on stones, falling into an awkward silence. Strohl stared at him, blinking, and Will chewed on his lip before speaking again. “Your wounds– show me, please.”
While subtle, Strohl winced, Will catching it anyway. “I– I don't know if that's a good idea right now,” he said, lips turning up in the way that warned of a lie. “I mean, you should probably have someone looking after you, and I'm already patched up and healing, so–”
Will placed his hand on Strohl’s leg, silencing him. “You shouldn't still be bandaged like this after two days,” he accused, gentle but firm; Strohl wilted, caught. “Let me see them, please.”
Silently, Strohl shrugged off his coat to expose the bandages working as a sling, allowing Will to reach for his arm without a word. Trepidation was caught in their teeth, in their breath as Will gently undid the ties to extend Strohl’s arm outward, palm open. “You don't need to do this.”
Even without seeing the injuries, Will could feel something heavy and hazy beneath the skin, cloying like graveyard dust. “Let me help,” he insisted, and Strohl faltered, knowing his argument was moot. He winced when Will started the peel at the wrappings, and Will held his breath.
Something isn't right.
When he tugged the wrappings of Strohl's palm free, he got his answer, heart in his throat.
“We… think there was something in the demon's magla that it used on you, and that's why the wounds aren't healing normally,” Strohl explained, a wry laugh on his tongue as Will gasped quietly. “Gave a few Sanctists a good scare when we popped in to check on some other remedies to keep the bleeding down.”
“I– Strohl, this isn’t ‘not healing normally’, this is ‘not healing at all’,” Will blurted, gaping at the gash still steadily oozing in the center of Strohl's palm. It looked fresh, seconds old as opposed to days, inflamed and scab-less. Will set his hand down and scurried to the side of the room in search of his messenger bag, knowing he still had a few healing items tucked inside. “Did you try stitches?”
“They dissolved,” Strohl replied, dim and dry, and Will frowned as he turned around. “Gallica said her magic recoiled from it, so she suggested using proper light magic on it instead to counteract the melancholia, but, well, our best bet was kinda–”
“Useless,” Will filled in, heart aching as he sat back down beside Strohl. He ignored Strohl's clear attempt to argue against his self-flagellation to instead carefully draw a burst of light magic to his fingers and trace it over Strohl’s palm. Relief flooded through him as that unsettling miasma that buzzed within the wound faded, the angry red of inflammation leeching out. “I think that worked,” he said, the glowing, amber lines of his Archetype marks fading as he reached for one of the potions he'd brought with him. “How does it feel?”
“Better,” Strohl breathed, and Will let him smile for just a moment as the potion sparkled across the open skin and eased it into a scab. “Thank you.”
Will's gut twisted. “You shouldn't,” he said, voice barely audible as he brought a fresh square of bandaging to Strohl's palm.
Strohl tilted his head. “Shouldn't what?” His voice was soft, delicate in the quiet, and Will shrank from it.
“Thank me.” He took a breath, stretching the binding over Strohl's hand. “Not when I'm the one who did this to you.”
Strohl shook his head. “I've already said it wasn't you,” he insisted, but Will chewed on his lip, bitter at himself. Strohl, catching it, dropped a hand on Will's, forcing him to pause. “Will, are you listening to me? It is not your fault.”
Will's hands were shaking again as Strohl squeezed them; he swore at himself.
“I am not angry with you, do you hear me? But I am upset because you're tearing yourself apart over something you shouldn't be,” Strohl continued, stern and serious as Will tried to wiggle his hands out from under his grip. “It was only me, and I'm okay–!”
“It’s because it was you!” Will burst out, mouth snapping shut in mortification as the words left his lips. While he didn't pull back, Strohl still gaped at him, blinking, and Will wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
The emotions he'd been trying to force back at every smile and touch and moment of peace with Strohl were threatening to drown him, laughing as he went, as if he hadn't had his hands around the throat of the person he was dangerously in love with as an enchantment told him to end his life.
Will hung his head, squeezing his eyes shut. A hand curled around his wrist, hesitant but soothing, a thumb sweeping across the little pinpricks of what he realized were nail marks left during the struggle. “Talk to me?”
The rest was left unsaid. Strohl was always good at that in the few instances where Will was brave enough to confide in him about things, pressing on those blind spots so Will would be forced to speak them as opposed to burying them away where they would rot and fester.
The realization made Will’s eyes burn, shoulders hiking. “This world we're fighting for, I–” he took a breath– “I don't think I can live in it without you.”
It was as close as he was going to get to a confession, and his breath turned to ice at the belated shock of what he'd just said, Strohl's own breath hitching in surprise.
Will felt himself blush to his ears as he hastily grabbed for another clean bandage, fingers numb and shaking as he pushed up Strohl's sleeve to tend to the wound there. It was deep, thanks to a blade catching on the bone there, but with another hush of light magic the bleeding turned gummy and scabbed. “I– I mean, after everything all of us have gone through, that is,” he blurted, pressing the bandage a touch too hard to the wound; he winced when Strohl jumped. “It's just that– if something happened to any of you, I wouldn't know what to do without that support; I'm not strong enough.”
(Coward, a voice chided, lilting in an accent he faintly remembered; an old childhood friend, disappointed and warning.)
Surprisingly, Strohl only laughed, a quiet, warm sound that made Will’s stomach flip. “I think you'd find it to be an impressive feat for any of us to leave you behind,” he hummed, eyes soft as he watched Will work. “Besides, I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this– you're not getting rid of me that easily.”
Will felt so ashamed at how his heart fluttered, Strohl once again side-stepping the pitfalls of Will's clumsy attempts to hide his feelings.
“You're allowed to hurt, you know, and to be afraid– god knows I am sometimes– but we're here – I'm here, Will,” Strohl continued, unabashed and steadfast; Will thought he might combust. “I… always feel braver when you're by my side, if that's any consolation to your anxieties.”
Will's fingers trembled as he tied off the bandage, shame heavy on his tongue as his skin warmed under Strohl’s words. “And yet I hurt you while at your side,” he said quietly, eyes falling to his lap.
Strohl sighed, and Will braced himself. “I knew you'd be like this,” he said, and Will's eyes burned. “Your heart's too big for you at times; your greatest asset, until it comes to turning it toward yourself.”
Will shook his head, forcing his tears away. “I– I don't know what you mean,” he blustered, overwhelmed and off-kilter until a hand fit against his cheek and shocked him back into focus.
Strohl was smiling, sad and yet shimmering with something unfamiliar, unnameable, and Will was… adrift. “You have such a beautiful heart, you know that?” he said, and Will's breath caught. “Why won't you let anyone help protect it?”
Forgive yourself.
Will felt a bit like a fish out of water, caught in a puddle amidst his familiar surroundings. Strohl was always gentle around Will, clumsy but kind in his brashness and chivalry, but this was something new entirely as a thumb carefully swept away the tear tracing down Will's cheek.
This was something dangerous, something that silly heart of his yearned to lean into, for despite his wounds, Strohl was nothing but relieved at the prospect of having Will by his side again.
“I don't blame you for what that demon did to me, so don't you dare blame yourself for whatever may happen to me, now or in the future; I will go where you follow, no matter how dangerous.” It was a vow, one that sang all the way down to Will's bones as Strohl fit each word as clearly and precisely to his teeth so nothing would be misunderstood. “Trust me.”
Will's lips parted as he leapt to argue, so used to promising support and ensuring that another's wounds weren't bleeding before tending to his own that he folded under Strohl's conviction.
I will stand by your side.
His fingers were still warm on Will's cheek, and Will felt himself bend and break.
He let himself collapse into Strohl, who only pulled him against his chest to let him cry as Will curled a hand around the wrist of Strohl's injured arm. Surely he wasn't worth such kindness, so selfish and indulgent, when he fought with his whole soul to serve as a vessel of peace for Euchronia; he was a weapon, a stepping stone, a purpose made flesh.
In this fragile moment, though, he was only a boy, full of hurt and fear and guilt in the arms of the person he loved; just a boy, his fragile heart, and the light that illuminated them both.
“I'm so sorry,” Will gasped into Strohl’s shirt, apologizing for too many things all at once.
“Don't be; you're no burden to bear,” Strohl hushed, arms warm around Will, and Will sobbed.
(Outside in the main room, Heismay's ears twitched, face falling. “In taking strength from the mountain, I fear we have forgotten to ensure that the mountain had enough strength for itself to remain standing,” he said, regret coating his tone as he stared into his drink.
It was true– when was the last time Will took time for himself without running off on some task or another for someone without batting an eye?
Eupha patted his arm, expression sad but bright. “The mountain won't crumble so easily with the sun to warm it,” she added, and Heismay laughed as she continued his metaphor.
“And thank goodness for that,” he said, raising his cup to everyone at the table. “To our selfless Will.”
“Here here,” Basilio chirped, making the table laugh despite the fog over them.
They all drank, filled to the brim with gratitude and apology.)
Strohl let Will hide in his embrace until his tears died down, quietly rubbing comforting patterns across his spine as Will fought for breath. Will wasn't used to such closeness, and felt so selfish in his indulgence until Strohl pulled him closer as if hearing his thoughts.
They were like that for a few more moments until Strohl’s arms tensed, a faint grimace escaping his lips making Will’s head pop up in a heartbeat. Strohl, sensing the alarm, only shook his head, leaning back enough to press a hand to his side. “I’m alright, just–” Strohl sighed– “I hate to ask one more thing of you, but would you be able to help me with this last wound before I bleed on your shirt?”
Will’s eyes went wide in realization as his gaze flew down to Strohl’s stomach, fingers already prying at his shirt in his effort to examine the injury. He stopped when a strangled noise left Strohl’s lips, and when he realized the, well, implication of Will yanking up his shirt without preamble, Will let him go like he'd scalded him. “I am so sorry, I didn't mean to–”
“Oh, hush, you're fine, I just wasn't prepared,” Strohl chastised, lips quirked in a grin that barely distracted Will from the pink on his cheeks. “I, ah, suppose I should give you enough space to work, though, so let me–”
And with that, he leaned back from Will just enough to struggle out of his undershirt, wincing as the action jarred his arm. Will’s eyes skipped to the tattoo on his arm before falling to the still-bleeding wound slowly staining the bandages pressed against it. Like this, the ring of purpling, finger-shaped bruises around his throat stood starkly on display, and Strohl's throat bobbed when Will lifted a hand to gingerly trace them, eyes blown wide when Will finally met them.
Will dropped his hand, instantly getting to work before guilt (or something else) distracted him further.
As light glowed in his palm when he placed it on the neat sword-gash below Strohl’s ribs, Strohl let out a sigh and leaned forward to rest his forehead on Will’s shoulder, seemingly content to just bask in his company. Will’s heartbeat sky-rocketed, his spell wavering for a moment, but Strohl either didn't notice or chose not to comment on it as Will worked. He didn't speak as Will continued to tend to him, the higher-end healing potion sealing up most of the wound before Will bandaged it shut once more, and for a moment, Will worried he’d done something wrong.
Oh, how mistaken he was when he announced he was finished and asked Strohl to check on it, and Strohl– after pressing hesitant fingers to the edges of the bandage– grinned like the sunrise. “Thank you for your aid, truly,” he said, before leaning forward to press an appreciative kiss to the apple of Will’s cheek. Will squeaked, caught off-guard, and Strohl laughed, reaching for another bandage and half-used potion. “Now, let's see to you,” he hummed, taking Will’s hand, and Will was… silent.
This was the first time someone other than Gallica tended to his wounds– barely able to be called that compared to the injuries he'd just healed– and he… wasn't sure what to do.
Strohl only mumbled a little ditty to himself as he wrapped the gouged skin of Will’s wrists (from when you tried to strangle him, he reminded himself bitterly) with the utmost care, and Will felt something deep behind his breastbone thaw and flutter.
“There, all done,” Strohl announced cupping Will's hands between his own with a beam before it dimmed as he let out a breath. “I hope they won't scar; I'm sorry I hurt you.” Then– silently, reverently– he brought Will's hands to his lips, brushing a gentle, apologetic kiss to his knuckles, and Will's brain screeched to a halt.
Helpless, Will huffed, ears warming as his heart squeezed. “We've–” his voice cracked, and Strohl stroked amused thumbs over Will's fingers– “um, we've, ah, gone in a circle now, haven't we?” he teased, grinning when Strohl went pink. “I forgive you; they don't even hurt.”
“That's good,” Strohl replied, and Will couldn't help but smile, happy despite the tear-stained redness around them.
Stubborn thing, thinking he needs me by his side to be strong when I would've failed that day at the tower so many months ago without him.
What came out of his mouth instead was “By the way, you should probably put your shirt back on– aren't you cold?”
And Strohl, who never bore any trepidation about nudity before, blushed, and Will was horribly endeared.
With wounds bound and clothes back in place and apologies heard, the two of them continued to talk as the hours went by, no one bothering to disturb them until nighttime fell without either of them emerging. Heismay chuckled to himself after cocking his head to check in, Gallica and Hulkenberg electing to return to their room after they realized they were missing certain members of their party for far too long. “They'll be alright,” Heismay assured, taking a long sip of his drink as Hulkenberg opened the door and paused at what she found. “They're in safe hands.”
At some point during their conversation, Will and Strohl had ended up on their sides, bare inches apart as they curled into each other deep in sleep. They faced each other, and Will's hand latched onto Strohl's shirt as if afraid he'd disappear despite his vow.
Gallica heaved a sigh as she fluttered back towards the table, and Hulkenberg shook her head with a faint laugh. “Good for healing, I suppose,” she ceded with a smile, shutting the door on them to leave them in peace.
(She didn't mean their physical wounds, now safe and bound much like the bleeding hearts before her.)
⊹₊ ♛ ₊⊹
A week or so later, Strohl found his laundry neatly folded on his bunk in the gauntlet runner. Perplexed– usually laundry was a team effort– he pulled his overcoat toward him to put it away, only to pause when something caught his eye:
Darning, clumsy but spirited, right where the slash at his wrist was from their battle with the treasure demon.
Heart squeezing, he reached for one of his undershirts and found the same cautious handiwork on the sleeve and torso of the shirt. It wasn't perfect by any means, but the holes were repaired, the stitches a bit wiggly despite it; he ran a thumb over them, fond.
He could hear Will laughing in the other room at something Junah said, and Strohl– the fool he was– felt his eyes burn with overwhelming gratitude as a helpless smile overtook his face. He hid it in the repaired shirt, feeling rather silly, but despite his cherry ears he couldn't do anything but smile against the fabric.
Stubborn, kind thing; you're too good to me.
(Gallica laughed in his face when she found him a few moments later; he retaliated by tossing the shirt at her, only to lament that he'd undone Will's careful folding, much to Gallica's further teasing.
He'd get a handle on his foolish heart soon enough; it was simply a work in progress, alongside everything else.
He'd be just fine with his hope by his side.)