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“You really don't need to do all of this.”
“The meaning behind your phrase bewilders me, esteemed friend. Now, if you could kindly unfold your leg.”
After a long, exasperated grunt, Boothill admitted defeat and stretched out his remaining functional leg. The knight had already been courteous enough to take off his belt for him; he effortlessly helped Boothill to stand up with one arm and, with the other, pulled his pants down, allowing them to slide the rest of the way until they fell on the floor.
“You're not tryin’ to be sexy about this at all, huh…” Boothill murmured, eliciting a hearty laugh from Argenti.
“No, dear Boothill. I am not.” He sat Boothill down at the crate again and knelt down to pick up the pants. Then, there was a pause. He looked up. “Would it please you if I did?” He asked, allowing his eyes to suggestively wander down Boothill’s face, his collar, his chest - all the way down to...
“Like this?” Argenti asked, nuzzling his face against Boothill's thigh and smiling up at him, not looking bothered in the slightest by the icy sting on his skin.
Boothill realized his throat was way too dry when he tried to swallow. “That ain't necessary”, he blurted out, averting his gaze.
Another laugh. “As you wish.”
While Argenti folded the pants and searched for an appropriate place to put them aside, Boothill stared down at his bare mechanical legs, tracing the metallic details of the broken one and trying to find anything out of place.
Despite how shameless allowing someone to undress you inside a deserted warehouse sounded, things were really not as promiscuous as they seemed.
It all started with a bounty. Something nice and easy. All he needed to do was to catch the burglar who was all up and down causing trouble in Dreamflux Reef, take him to Micah, and then it was all his: 10,000 credits. That was, what, five bottles of Sousa Juice?
Which, yes, wasn't of the highest quality, but he was still in debt with Jessie, so as long as it fooled his alcohol deprived mind, he had no business playing the connoisseur.
Looking back on it now, even an entire gallon of syrup wouldn't be worth the amount of headache this bounty brought him. To start with, he couldn't shoot the guy; any amount of pain inflicted on him would cause the Reverie's alarms to sound off and the staff would come to wake him up, which would only help him escape. All Boothill could count on was using his small knowledge about the layout of the city to try and chase the thief into a dead end.
It was going well, up to a certain point.
He didn't really know what caused it. Maybe it was the humid environment or maybe he shouldn't have gone hell for leather, but just as he was about to fire a warning shot near the bastard’s feet, he heard a sudden, sharp "clank” accompanied by a screeching noise. Just like that, his right leg failed him and caused him to topple over the edge of the passageway, only managing to latch on to the fire escape at the very last second.
His leg had broken.
He had been faced with life-threatening situations countless times before. He was used to the thrill of battle. He even yearned for it, in a way. The lingering, familiar scent of gunpowder; the metallic taste in his mouth from all the running; the way his heart would beat like a hammer inside his chest.
But in that moment, while staring down at the endless abyss under his dangling feet, there was no rush of adrenaline — only the agonizing sensation of his lungs being drowned into numbness.
His leg had broken for no reason at all. Did it rust? Was he that spent already? After so many years of fearlessly diving head-first into battle, was that how he was going to meet his end?
It was just his luck that Argenti happened to be passing by at that exact time and spotted him hanging on the grid like a sheet on a clothesline. He didn't know how long he'd have to wait until someone even noticed he was there, so it was truly fortunate.
What wasn't fortunate was the fact that he had to swear on both his fathers that he would start adhering to Idrila — whatever that was — at least ten times before Argenti finally agreed to pull him up.
What was even less fortunate was that his leg had gotten into such a bad shape that he had no control of it whatsoever and couldn't stand up on his own. His stumbling didn't escape the knight's keen eyes, and before he could protest, he had already been gathered up in Argenti’s arms and was getting carried away like some sort of overly muscular, poorly dressed and very discontent bride.
“Have you identified the anomaly?” Argenti's voice stole his attention back to the present. The man was now standing right in front of him. From the looks of it, he had been watching Boothill mindlessly caressing his broken leg while ruminating for quite a while.
“There ain't a single nail loose.” Boothill replied, even going as far as slapping the tin twice, the metallic noise sounding somewhat comical.
“How interesting. It might be an internal problem, then.” Argenti pondered. “Have you ever experienced similar injuries before, dear Boothill?”
“Course I have. Getting roughed up every now and then is old hat to us Rangers. I’ve even had to replace some pieces a few times.” Boothill answered, unfazed, before his face contorted into a scowl. “But not being able to walk is a first.”
Argenti analyzed Boothill's face for a few seconds. His celadon colored eyes seemed uncharacteristically cautious and calculating as he tried to come up with a solution.
“Would it inconvenience you if I were to inspect it?”
“What?” Boothill questioned, voice almost accusatory. “Why?”
Argenti flashed him a smile that radiated with pride: “My knowledge about machinery may not be as extensive as I would like it to be, but perhaps I can provide a fresh perspective.”
At first, Boothill let out an incredulous scoff, as if the idea itself was nonsensical. To his demise, however, not only did Argenti's determination remain unwaveringly strong, but he also suddenly began detaching his gauntlets and pauldrons.
“What do you think you're doing, pal?”
The sharp, clattering noise of armor falling on the floor echoed in the warehouse. One piece after the other, discarded as nothing more than impediments.
Argenti kept removing them without breaking eye contact with Boothill — not because he was so used to doing it by now that he no longer needed to pay attention, since he was visibly having a hard time to remove the cuirass. But judging from the oddly fond way in which he looked down at the Galaxy Ranger and his soft smile, it was almost as if...
As if he couldn't look away.
As if tearing his eyes off of this rare, vulnerable version of Boothill was beyond inadmissible.
“The armor's weight hinders my efficiency.” He answered. “Furthermore… I want to be gentle.”
That last remark left Boothill speechless for a good while. Not as much out of appreciation as for embarrassment. It just… had been a while ever since anyone had treated him with such…
Care? Was that the right way to describe it?
Heck, it'd been forever since someone had even seen him without his clothes on — so long that, back then, his skin was still fragile and soft.
He supposed that there was nothing he should be ashamed of anymore. It was just metal.
Once Argenti had gotten rid of all his upper armor, he sat down at the crate beside Boothill and turned his attention to the broken leg once more. “If you'll excuse me, my friend.” In one swift motion, he had brought it to rest on top of his lap. Boothill wondered if it would've been cozy, were he still able to feel warmth.
Argenti lowered his head and tapped at Boothill's knee.
“There appears to be a fissure.”
“That ain't the problem.” Boothill shook his head, “I've had that for ages. It looks bad, but it hasn't cracked another inch in months.”
From his knee, Argenti's hand slid towards the calf. There were a few more defects there, but Argenti, for whatever reason, did not comment on them. Even once he reached the ankle, he still hadn't uttered a word.
Upon realizing the likely reason for Argenti's silence, Boothill cleared his throat awkwardly. “I know. I should have swapped it for a new one already.”
Argenti didn't say anything. He stayed perfectly motionless, staring down at the leg in silence.
Boothill had no clue about what could possibly be going through the knight’s mind. Was he being judgmental? Boothill had never met another Knight of Beauty, so he didn't know if it was some sort of religious practice or if it was a personal preference, but Argenti’s armor was always polished and sparkling, no matter when or where. For someone who took such good care of himself and his appearance, seeing Boothill's leg in the state it had reached was probably revolting.
“No wonder it broke, right? I'll just…” He began pulling his leg back, “I'll just get it replaced. Should've done it sooner.”
The feeling of Boothill sliding off his lap seemed to finally startle Argenti awake. He instinctively held the leg in place and searched for Boothill's eyes, confusion written all over his face.
“Have I caused you discomfort?”
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” Boothill murmured. “No use beatin’ a dead horse. Besides, you folks following the Beauty are all about grace and perfection. Dealing with junk doesn't suit someone of your caliber.”
That statement seemed to offend Argenti. Even though he wasn't the type of person to wear his emotions on his sleeve, he still frowned and protested: "The conception of beauty I espouse, dear Boothill, transcends the vacuity of unblemished perfection. Scarred flesh, in fact, embodies the essence of Idrila's ideals more intimately than you suppose. For us, Knights of Beauty, who valiantly take up arms for all we deem worthy of admiration, what greater value can be placed upon the indelible marks of our trials?"
“Bearin’ scars with pride is one thing; callin’ ‘em beautiful’s another thing altogether. I mean, this bad boy right here?” Boothill casually flicked his finger at his own abdomen, “It's the real deal. Hella resistant. If anything’s strong enough to leave a mark, it's gotta be a story worth tellin’. But the mark itself ain't as flattering as you seem to think.”
Argenti finally released his steel grip that was holding Boothill in place and, gently, like a feather, his hand traced its way back up to the knee. “Each mark, whether wrought by valorous deed or dire misfortune, should be seen as more than just a reminder.” He explained, caressing the fissure lightly. “Much like fine brocade, its existence and the meaning surrounding it are woven together in an intricate pattern that I consider beautiful.”
Boothill let out a self-deprecating snicker.
“What's beautiful about a man who can't wear his scars on his own skin?”
The hand on his knee froze.
He instantly felt a pang of guilt. He’d long decided that the loss of his original body was the end of a cycle and, like he'd been taught to face death in general, should be respected as such. Mourning was only expected, but no life was a waste. His life hadn't been wasted. Still, now that his body made out of iron failed him as well, he just couldn't help that bitter, spiteful misery taking over his words.
“... Sorry.” Boothill murmured, pulling the brim of his hat down in order to cover his eyes.
The feeling of some extra weight being supported on his legs was all the warning he got before Argenti leaned forward and reached for his hand, still holding the brim of the hat, and carefully pulled it away. In his confusion, Boothill himself searched for Argenti's eyes, rendering his hat useless as a coverup.
He was met with a gentle, reassuring smile.
“Enlighten me, dear Boothill. When you envision beauty, what comes to your mind's eye?”
Boothill was at a loss for words, but Argenti didn't seem the least bothered. He awkwardly collected his hand back to himself and cleared his throat. “You mean, my type?”
“Do you remember the first time you landed your eyes on something and was awestruck by how beautiful it was? Do you remember what it was?”
Boothill stared up at the ceiling and tried to recollect such a thing.
He remembered the first time he saw a gun and was startled by the noise of it going off, but with Nick laughing in his face and Graey assuring him that there was no need for fear, his uncertainty about the weapon quickly turned into fascination. Adoration, even. But that had nothing to do with beauty.
Then, maybe the first time he witnessed a foal being born? The entire thing was pretty gross and nerve-wracking, but after it was done, Graey allowed him to name the newborn and tasked him with looking after it. Boothill remembered being confused at how his eyes would water up every time he looked down at the animal, like some sort of fatherly instinct was suddenly taking over. Though he was amazed at the gift of life, the foal was pretty funny-looking, so that didn't count either.
Then.
“I got used to it, so I don't know if it counts as ‘the first time’. But… what I think of when I envision beauty and the feelin’ of being awestruck? That would be my home planet. The lands there were breathtakin’. Green as far as the eye could see, birds chirpin’ over our heads all day long, the carpet of shadows cast by the tree leaves, the clear, blue skies above…” Boothill took a deep breath, as if the air from so many years ago was one inhale away. “Whenever I looked up, watchin’ the clouds flyin’ by so fast would make me dizzy as hell. I think it would make me feel really meaningless… but in a good way. Bein' small ain't so bad when you're part of somethin' bigger'n yourself.”
Argenti nodded. “That does sound like a veritable haven of tranquility. A future visit is certainly amongst my sincerest wishes.”
Mine too, Boothill thought. Though that's impossible now.
“What about you, then?” He asked. “What comes to your mind?"
“You may find it insensitive.” Argenti answered in a smaller voice, returning his attention to Boothill's leg. “To me, my hometown’s cemetery seems like the most fitting answer.”
“…?”
“You see, dear Boothill, my hometown endured many years of brutal warfare and persistent temptation. Those who didn't fall in battle eventually fell in sin and turned on their own allies. It was…” He lowered his head, allowing his thick hair to cover his expression in mystery, “... Devastating. I’d be awakened in the middle of the night by desperate screams, but I was too young to discern the words in them. When venturing out of my hiding spot to search for food, I was often met with bereaved individuals mourning the loss of their loved ones. The streets were stained with blood and our hearts with the lacerating anguish of constant fear.”
These words were followed by heavy silence.
Boothill was familiar with that description. He knew the sensation of seeing death in every corner, of hugging despair to sleep and fearing how weak he was in the grand scheme of things. He remembered watching over his daughter while she was fast asleep and bitterly coming to terms with the fact that, with the men in black causing havock in his planet as they were, every night could be their last.
He’d never talked about it before. Whenever he tried, he'd feel his throat closing up and his eyes would water up in a way he wasn't used to. It was almost as if he unconsciously believed that not talking about something would mean that it never happened — blissful ignorance, at least until it inevitably caught up to you.
Had it just caught up to Argenti? Is that why he couldn't continue?
Boothill reached out and carefully held a thick strand of Argenti's hair before tucking it behind his ear.
Argenti seemed surprised by the gesture. He didn't say anything, but upon realizing the Ranger’s intentions, he laughed through his nose and leaned into the cold hand, holding it with his own.
“Years later, I returned to my hometown in order to bury a friend.” He continued. “The battlefield which once reeked of blood and terrified our lives had then been reduced to a ruined cemetery to the Knights of Beauty. Whether I was the young boy hiding in the alleyway from the ghost of the Triple Demon or the knight watching over the tombs of the countless many who preceded me, I felt just as small and insignificant. However…”
Argenti closed his eyes and smiled.
“I could only feel that way — I was only alive to feel insignificant — because they sacrificed themselves to protect the common people. In all my helplessness, I motivated them to persist in their fight, and in turn, they overcame their own weaknesses to grant me a future. I also felt part of something bigger, something that's only so big and strong because we are so small and weak. That moment struck me as one of the most beautiful things I've encountered in my journey to date.”
“At the end of the day, the sky that covers both the green lands and the makeshift graveyard is the same. It has covered the battlefield long before the first drop of blood fell on the ground, and it will keep covering the lands even if one day they are no longer green. The state of tranquility we find comfort in is transitory, so I would rather find beauty in the meaning surrounding everything than to judge solely based on how pleasing it is to the eye… and to the heart. That's how I seek beauty, and that makes your entire being, from the pitting limbs, to the aging scars, to the rotting memories — painfully, excruciatingly beautiful, my dear…”
Argenti removed Boothill's leg from his lap, leaned over the Ranger, held his face in place and gently pressed their noses together.
“My dearest silver cowboy.”
Boothill was in a trance for longer than he would like to admit. He didn't know who was to blame — the intimate, vulnerable speech? Or the affectionate nickname? Or the childish gesture that despite being so silly still left him embarrassed?
Argenti didn't wait for him to find out. In a second, he was already up on his feet. “Come now. Let us return. You have a bounty to finish.”
The knight was standing in front of him, gesturing him to follow with his hand. Boothill tried to support his weight on it, but then Argenti pulled his hand away.
“No, dear Boothill. You must do it yourself.”
“Remind me why you carried me here again, partner?” Boothill murmured begrudgingly.
Argenti didn't look offended, but the argument also seemed to fly right over his head. He turned around and crouched down to pick up his armor while speaking in a wise manner: “Time is of the essence. The proprietor's morning arrival promises an interesting encounter, given your, shall we say, informal attire.”
… His pants!
Boothill extended his hand, voice dropping to a threatening tone. “Don't even think about that, partner. Give ‘em back. Now. If you don't want to—”
“To?” Argenti asked, impressively tranquil for someone currently pointing Boothill's gun at its owner.
“...”
“...”
“Where did you—”
“Shh.” While still pointing the gun at Boothill's forehead with one hand, Argenti reached his other one out. “Come.”
This time, he allowed Boothill to support his weight onto his arm - except, when Boothill pushed himself up, he got up way more easily than expected and nearly lost his balance. His arm was pulled forward in one swift motion and Boothill found himself walking into Argenti's embrace.
What the.
“My leg’s workin’.” He said.
“So it seems.” Argenti nodded. He handed the gun back to Boothill, “There you have it.”
“Wait. What did you do? How?”
“It was never broken in the first place, dear Boothill.” He said, walking away for a bit before returning with Boothill’s pants and handing it to him as well. “Allow me to remind you that physical changes within the dream are caused solely by our minds — it reflects what it senses in one’s reminiscing thoughts.”
“Then…” Boothill grunted. “You knew from the start, didn't you.”
“I had a hunch. This was my attempt at confirming and solving it. I hope you won't hold a grudge against me, esteemed friend.” Argenti explained while starting the arduous task of putting on each piece of armor again. Then, he stopped. “May I ask you a favor?”
No more words were needed. Despite not looking exactly content, Boothill threw his pants over his shoulder and quietly aided Argenti in putting the armor back on.
“Partner.”
“Yes?”
“Next time you go about pulling a man's pants down, be a dear and don't steal their footin' along with it, will you?”
A chuckle. “I’ll try my best, dear Boothill.”