Work Text:
"I think he has fangs," Torgaddon said, using a small towel to wipe the sweat from his brow. Neither he nor Abaddon had said anything as they’d left the Blade School for the showers. Abaddon would often contemplate the patterns as his heart rate slowed, and he knew Torgaddon did something similar.
"Do you now?" he asked, keeping his voice low. They were not yet out of range of hearing of those currently in the Blade Schools. Well, at this distance at a normal speaking voice.
Torgaddon had the decency to continue the volume. "You didn’t even ask whom I was talking about."
Abaddon’s hearts skipped a beat at the thought of the Ninth primarch. Multitudes would prostrate themselves before the aura of a son of the Emperor, but for Sanguinius… Abaddon could only wonder how his power would grow, once he knew how to control it.
"Who else is new to living aboard the Vengeful Spirit?"
"I’ll ask Maloghurst for a manifest," Torgaddon said. He grinned, throwing his dirty towel in with the laundry as he started to strip off his fatigues. "But truly, you’ve not noticed?"
Abaddon followed suit. "No, I’ve not been staring at his mouth."
"I’ve not been staring, I’ve been appreciating."
"Of course."
"Are you not otherwise entranced?"
Abaddon hesitated. "It’s his eyes that have me," he said finally. "And his wings."
Torgaddon nodded. "Beautiful. Deadly. The wings are something we’ve not seen."
"Makes me wonder if there will be others who share it."
"Leman has fangs too."
"That is true, but have you ever heard of an angel with fangs?"
"We all know angels aren’t real, Ezekyle," Torgaddon said.
Abaddon wasn’t so sure. Truly, the primarchs had not seen such beauty since Fulgrim’s discovery. "And yet they’re already calling him that."
The water of the pulse shower was hotter than a human would be able to stand. Torgaddon chose the shower next to Abaddon, and turned his own water on as well.
"What do you think, then?" he asked. "A friendly wager? To see if he has fangs or not."
"Depends on the odds," Abaddon said. "What do you propose?"
"If I am wrong, I will go 48 standard hours without telling a joke that will make you groan," Torgaddon said. "And… if I am right, you need to admit your crush to Sanguinius."
"Absolutely not. Your pride is not so wounded, Tarik, that such a time limit on jesting would be serious payment."
"It’s perfectly fair, if you truly believe you’re right," Torgaddon said.
"Try again."
"I mean, we could suggest something boring," Torgaddon said. "We could do each other’s paperwork for a week."
Abaddon sighed in pleasure as he massaged shampoo into his hair’s roots, working the lather down his long black hair. "Just paperwork?"
"Unless you have a better suggestion."
Abaddon glanced at Torgaddon out of the corner of his eye. His brother had decided to start washing his body first.
"I think it’s only fair to do like for like," Abaddon said. "I propose the same to you, Tarik. If you lose, you have to confess your own crush."
With all of his bluster, and the steam of the showers, Abaddon was still able to see a small blush grace Torgaddon’s cheeks at that. Abaddon grinned. "Does that make you nervous, Tarik?"
"...a Luna Wolf shows no fear," he said.
"I said nothing about fear," Abaddon said.
"I would be amenable," Tarik said. "So, a week of the other’s paperwork, and a confession?"
"Yes," Abaddon said. "And for you, you have to admit you thought that he had fangs but was wrong."
"Ezekyle!"
"Consider this the extra leverage for suggesting such stilted odds at first." It was going to take at least a week of travel in the Warp before they reached their next destination. This would certainly be more than enough time to prove Torgaddon wrong.
"Fine," Torgaddon said, "challenge accepted."
Though they’d shaken on the deal, it wasn’t completely committed. There was another matter that needed to be addressed with something such as this. It was the reason that both Abaddon and Torgaddon had asked to speak with Horus privately following the next meeting with the Mournival. Fortunately for them, Sanguinius had also not sat in on this meeting.
"A curious request," Horus said, sitting back in his overstuffed chair. "What do you wish to speak of that is not fit for your Mournival brothers’ ears?"
"A surprise," Torgaddon said.
"Oh?"
"Of sorts," Abaddon said. "Something personal, and not a matter of military significance." Horus arched an eyebrow.
"Ezekyle and I wish to have a friendly wager, but there is an aspect that would require your approval," Torgaddon said.
"Most curious."
An astartes belonged to their primarch, in body, mind, and spirit. And when it came to matters of personal pleasure, there were no clear roles that the astartes had to follow - as long as they did not interfere with their duties. There were plenty of cousins who engaged in intimate fraternization, when their legions crossed paths.
Primarchs coupling with their astartes was also not strange. But there was a line between a primarch and another primarch’s astartes. Even if they got along as well as Horus and Sanguinius’ blossoming relationship.
"Tarik proposed to me a rather silly idea," Abaddon said. "He states that he believes that Lord Sanginius has fangs."
Abaddon could tell that Horus was trying to hold back a smile. "Oh really?"
"Correct. And I said that I didn’t believe he did."
"And you wish to make a wager over this?"
Both astartes nodded.
"I could answer your question for both of you right now, you know."
"But Sire," Tarik said, "where would the fun in that be?"
"True enough. But now I wonder why you are asking my permission."
At this, both of them blushed, and found their voices difficult to summon. While they had agreed they needed Horus’ permission before proceeding, they had not discussed the particulars of the meeting.
And while Tarik had proposed the idea, it remained a fact that Abaddon was First Captain. He should be the one to voice the query.
"It has to do with the wager itself. Tarik and I have agreed to do the other’s paperwork for a week in the event of a loss, but an additional condition was also added."
Horus snorted. Paperwork was a common wager among the Captains and Sergeants, since they did not have a more physical currency with which to gamble. "But the issue isn’t with that."
"No," Abaddon said, "it’s not. We also wanted a condition added, that the one who loses the bet must admit their crush to Lord Sanguinius."
Horus looked at them both for a long moment.
"I’ve suspected that you both have one," he said finally. "The way you look at him when you think he isn’t paying attention."
He laughed at their surprised expressions. "My dear brother is a novice in many areas, but perception is not one of them. He has his own reasons for his discretion and previous abstinence, which are not mine to share. I do think he’d tell you, though, if you ask.
"I will grant my permission, on a few conditions."
"What are those, my lord?"
"First, I can tell you that Sanguinius has interest, though he is still a bit shy. Please keep that in mind when making jests. If he decides he wishes to return your affection, let him set the pace."
The idea that a primarch might be ordered around by an astartes was almost too ridiculous to consider. And yet, suddenly, Abaddon wanted to feel a little ridiculous.
But he couldn’t think of that now. Horus was demanding a response. "Of course, sire," Torgaddon said. Abaddon nodded in agreement.
"The other condition is, no matter who wins, you are both to be present when making the confession." He smiled. "Had you not presented me with such an amusing scenario and such high stakes, I would encourage you to both speak to him now. But the rules are set, and let us see who the victor will be."
It was a matter of pride, after all.
With that, the wager had been made. Torgaddon and Abaddon decided on a period of five days with which to come to a conclusion. Horus had sworn that he would say nothing of the wager to his brother.
The first meal after the wager had been finalized was lunch. Lunches were often less formal aboard the Vengeful Spirit, and were rarely required attendance by Horus. Meals where Horus would want the ear of his Mournival were often dinners, sometimes breakfasts.
If one of the other primarchs were aboard the Vengeful Spirit, they would be invited to these meals. When Fulgrim and the Emperor’s Children had fought together on campaigns while the III built up their strength, he split his time between his brother and his legion when it came to meals.
Sanguinius did not have the same situation. His legion was in the process of being gathered, but none of them were currently among the Luna Wolves. He trained on the Vengeful Spirit, and he’d been at every meal that Abaddon had also been at.
Today Sanguinius was also the only one at the table, so far.
Abaddon nodded respectfully as he took his usual seat - to the right of where Horus would sit when he was in attendance. In the same manner, Sanguinius sat to Horus’ left.
"Hello, Ezekyle," Sanguinius said, his chin elegantly resting on his hand. His wings were furled close to his body, in a manner he’d once described ‘good wing etiquette.’ Abaddon had always wondered whom Sanguinius might compare wing behaviors to, to figure out what was and was not proper. But the best he’d had it explained as, there were some homeworlds the Guard came from that found having elbows on a dining table to be in bad manners, and holding his wings more languid would be seen similarly.
"Good morning, Lord," Abaddon said. "You’re looking well."
Sanguinius’ eyes sparkled a rich indigo, and his slow smile made Abaddon feel as though he were several stone lighter. He was grateful for an excuse to already be sitting, so as to not betray any instability on his feet. The Angel’s eyes glanced briefly to the chronometer on the wall, and looked a little sheepish as he spoke next.
"Logically, I’m aware of different traditions in the telling of time," he said, "but this one bothers me dearly."
It had come up before - the distinction of two different sorts of ‘morning’ in Aenokhian.
"Would you prefer I used your words, Lord? Though I’m sure my Cthonian accent would make them sound garish."
"Your noble intentions suit me much more than the Gothic lack of nuance," he said. "I can understand why the Luna Wolves keep Cthonian on their minds and lips, and in their hearts. And I think it is a dimension of your success that is often overlooked."
"Are you certain?" Abaddon asked. "We are often painted as brutes, and boorish," he said. "Refusing to completely give up our native tongue has been seen as uncultured."
"And who can boast more laurels than the XVI?"
"None."
"Exactly. As I said, it is not the secret to your success. But it speaks to my brother’s wisdom in encouraging the practice."
Sanguinius moved some of the steak tartare from the platter onto his plate. "Do you think Horus would mind terribly if we started without him?"
Abaddon shook his head. "In private company, no. Not for you. I know he’d wish for his Mournival to wait until you had had the first bite."
Sanguinius gave him a slow smile. Were his canines sharper than that of the average primarch? How could they be compared to each other? But in the blink of an eye, it was gone.
"Well then," he said, "I’ve always had a voracious appetite."
When Abaddon had sought out the reason for his father and brothers’ absence at lunch, he came to doubt the veracity of the timing. Torgaddon had a valid reason to miss, as Sergeant Megiddo sought him out at the last minute for opinions on new drills for 2nd Company.
But the next day, Abaddon found himself in a similar situation. He was pulled aside by Apothecary Tel Hazor, and knew that by the time they had been done speaking that lunch would be half over.
He found out later that Sanguinius and Torgaddon had had lunch alone, together.
The next time he saw Horus, his father was not hiding his cryptic smile.
Abaddon’s vox-bead chimed, indicating one of the few private channels he frequently used. This particular channel was often only used by the Mournival.
"Yes?" he responded.
"You need to get to the training cages," Torgaddon said.
"Oh? What happened?"
"He’s in there right now."
"As is his right."
"Of course it’s his right," Torgaddon said. "But how often are we going to see such beauty?"
"At least a year," Abaddon said. That was the current estimated projection to assemble the entire Immortal Ninth to a single location.
"Don’t tell me you’re going to turn down the opportunity, Ezekyle. Even without our wager, he’s magnificent to behold."
"Is there even any standing room?"
"Our brothers will always make room for the First Captain," Torgadden said.
Abaddon could hear cheers in the background before Torgaddon continued. "You should hurry. He just took off his robes. He’s only in a loincloth now."
There were many reasons that Torgaddon had been in the Mournival for so long. There were many reasons he was Captain of the 2nd Company. One of the most significant of these was knowing exactly how to reach someone.
Abaddon changed his direction and headed towards the training cages.
Of all the training cages in the Blade School, there were a handful of cages reserved for Horus’ personal use. He enjoyed training among his sons, but it couldn’t be denied that his size required different accommodations.
It was no surprise that any brother staying as his guest would have full access to the primarch cages. But unlike so many others Abaddon had seen in them, this was something different.
It hadn’t been designed for wings.
Sanguinius had his hair loosely pulled back, exposing his neck and the bead of sweat trickling down it. In the close quarters, Abaddon was reminded of the way many animals with tails would use that tail for balance. The Angel’s wings were close to his body, and he could not maneuver them like he often could in the field.
If the Angel’s eyes had entranced him before, now it was the muscles of his shoulders and back. Abaddon was reminded of his Ultramarine cousins, and their fondness for theorticals and praticials. Of course the theory of a winged primarch would be that their back muscles would be greater than their brothers who could not fly. The practical was in the cage before Abaddon, robbing him of his breath.
Sanguinius gritted his teeth before the next attack pattern began, and Abaddon couldn’t quite see his teeth from his angle. And while none of his brothers would impede his path on purpose, it still wasn’t easy to clear a path in such close quarters. With a flurry of feathers, Sanguinius moved to meet the attack, and the hint of sharpness was gone.
With the odd contrast from the original offer upon a loss, it was not Abaddon’s imagination that Torgadden was telling more of his terrible jokes. He heard more than one of his men telling others in low whispers and chuckles.
Abaddon managed to catch up with Torgaddon to ask him about it, while waiting for the primarchs to arrive at the weekly logistics meeting. It promised to be deadly boring, as usual—the fluorescent lights of hololiths hummed, and the smell of old recaff hung heavy in the air.
"Firstly, the jokes I’ve been telling are not terrible. I find that egregiously offensive, Ezekyle," Torgaddon said. "They are but neophytes taking their first steps into compliance. Works in progress that have yet to mature. Gems cut in the rough, not yet sent to the jeweler."
"I thought you fancied yourself a wordsmith," Abaddon said. "Why throw these trials at the Angel?"
"We lack time," he said simply. "Working on the chronometer that we are, I do not have the luxury to craft the perfect joke that I know will make his mouth fall open in laughter. I must go for quantity, and hope that I have something that will do the job."
"And when he laughs this big laugh of yours, you shall have your proof?"
"I will," Torgaddon said. "And when I do, you should be ready to pucker up."
"We said nothing about kissing, Tarik," Abaddon said.
"You didn’t," Torgaddon agreed, "but Horus did. At least, implied it."
"The bet’s not over yet."
"And thank the Throne for that," Torgaddon said, "I’m having a wonderful time."
At the other end of the Stradigem, Sanguinius spoke with an imperial army general, who was the head of logistics. He smiled when he saw their approach.
"Lord Sanguinius!" Torgaddon said with a raised voice as they were still closing the distance, "have I ever told you the story about the bear?"
Abaddon groaned.
"Stasis is truly one of the most remarkable technologies I’ve been introduced to," Sanguinius said. "Had we been on Baalfora, this would have needed to be dried or smoked to save it for any length of time."
Abaddon nodded. "It was the same on Cthonia. For us, we needed food that didn’t spoil easily, since the gangs were frequently on the move."
"I did notice the fondness for jerky among the Luna Wolves," Sanguinius said. "Scorpion doesn’t make good jerky on its own on Baal. We tend to save lizards and snakes for that."
He looked to the glowing coals between them, with skewered scorpions resting above the heat on a wire rack. "We don’t kill the giant scorpions for meat." The marinade sizzled as a few drops hit the coals. "By that point they’ve absorbed too much radiation. It’s a matter of population control, and also protecting our settlements, to leave the carcasses of those too old for the carrion birds."
"How old are these ones, then?" Horus asked, indicating the ones roasting over the coals.
"As a rule we try not to eat any over five years old. These ones were about three years old, maybe three and a half"
A ginger and soy marinade had been used on the skewers, its fragrance filling the chamber. "We'll need to pick up more tarantulas when we visit Cthonia next," Torgaddon said. The tarantulas leg-span were larger than an astartes’ hand, and their roasted legs were a popular Cthonian treat.
Abaddon nodded. "I'm interested to see if they have a similar flavor."
"I will try most anything once," Sanguinius said. "And if they have the same sort of crunch, I'm not sure I could resist."
"You will love them, I’m sure of it," Horus said. "Will they be done, soon?"
Sanguinius took in a deep breath through his nose, savoring the aroma, then nodded. "Yes, soon." He smiled.
Abaddon could see his teeth.
His canines were no bigger than Horus’ were.
He could see out of the corner of his eyes that Torgaddon had seen it too.
While they waited for their food to cook, Sanguinius shifted back in his chair. "Do you think it might be possible - sometime after my Debutant Ball - that we might make our way back to Baalfora? Scorpion just isn’t the same if it isn’t cooked under the open sky."
Abaddon caught Torgaddon’s gaze and raised an eyebrow, silently questioning him. Torgaddon subtly shrugged, his expression almost apologetic. It was clear that he regretted initiating the wager. Feeling pity for his friend, Abaddon chose not to press him for a confession at that moment.
Both Torgadden and Abaddon missed the glimmer of mischief in the primarchs’ eyes.
"Truly, I was not expecting to see either of you so early this morning," Sanguinius said, a soft smile on his face.
When Torgaddon and Abaddon arrived at breakfast that morning, they were surprised to see that they were the only ones there. An inquiry to the serfs informed them that the primarchs had slept in, and intended to have their breakfast in Sanguinius’ quarters. Torgadden, not being one to put off an obligation once he had it in his mind to fulfill it, suggested that they visit immediately.
Sanguinius knew they were running behind schedule for the day’s itinerary. But this was, at least, a schedule that was more forgiving. The navigators anticipated at least three more days' travel in the Warp before reaching their destination.
"I’ve always prided myself on being full of surprises. Ezekyle is simply guilty by association."
"A lesser-known hazard of being brothers within the Mournival," Abaddon said in jest. His eyes softened as he could hear Torgaddon’s heart race. "But still very much a noble one."
Torgaddon nodded. "There is something I wished to confess to you, Lord Sanguinius," he said. "Something that I could not in good conscious, wait any longer to inform."
Sanguinius gestured to the chair next to him. It was the one that Horus often occupied, and surely would once he came into the main room to dine. Torgaddon looked comically small in a chair meant for a primarch, but the absurdity seemed to embolden him instead of deterring him.
"And now that I’m here all my words are evaporating. Ah, well."
"You’re welcome to come back later, if you can recall them," Sanguinius said.
Torgaddon shook his head. "No, I’ll do it now." He took a deep breath. "You don’t need me to tell you that you’re admired by many, Lord Sanguinius. This is something you’ve known long before the Emperor - may he live forever - discovered you on Baal. And I don’t think it’s any surprise that you’ve also been admired by the Luna Wolves."
From the corner of his eye, Abaddon saw Horus lean against the doorframe leading into the parlor. He was also wearing a silk bathrobe. When Torgaddon went to acknowledge his lord, Horus put a hand up to silence him, and then a gesture to indicate he should continue speaking to the Angel.
"This is true," Sanguinius said, "though I’m curious as to why you mention this now."
"It is to distinguish the difference, Lord," Torgaddon said, "in what many others feel towards you, and what I feel."
"You feel something different?" Sanguinius asked, his hand reaching for the empty goblet on the table, his fingers tracing the rim. But from the glimmer in his eyes, Abaddon realized: he was playing with them. Sanguinius knew.
Horus would have never betrayed their trust. Had they given themselves away, in some form?
Torgaddon saw it, too. "I do, Lord. I don’t believe my affection for you is defined by your beauty or your martial prowess," he said. "I can appreciate my unique place within the Mournival, and having the opportunity to know you as a person, not only a primarch. And… you are someone I would wish to know better. I have feelings that go beyond a primarch’s aura." And at that, the flush on Torgaddon's cheeks revealed his growing bashfulness.
"That is to say, I am not asking you to return those feelings, if you do not wish it. I merely wanted you to know that I had them. That I had them and they were not influenced by your aura." His words stretched on, a seemingly infinite stream of nervous pronouncements, each sentence a step closer to a judgment he clearly dreaded from Sanguinius.
Sanguinius spared a glance in Horus’ direction, who nodded. He had also, somehow, gotten a bowl of grapes that he ate with subdued relish while witnessing the tableau. Abaddon was not sure how he managed to grab the bowl without his noticing.
"You honor me with your confession," Sanguinius said. "And if I felt the same?"
Torgaddon smiled with a hint of disbelief. "I could think of a number of brazen things to say."
Sanguinius leaned in to kiss Torgaddon. For the briefest of moments, they all held their breath. Time aboard the Vengeful Spirit followed the heartbeats of Horus, and perhaps it was the Warp travel that made that feel closer to reality. So it was for his sons and brother that Horus held that moment in time, until his hearts beat again.
Torgadden’s eyes were wide with surprise. And Abaddon smelled… blood. Torgaddon’s blood.
Sanguinius and Torgaddon’s lips were only a breath apart, and he looked at Torgadden with lidded eyes.
"You’ve known this whole week?" Torgadden asked, breathless.
"Not in such exact words; my foresight doesn’t function in that manner."
The bite on Torgaddon’s lip was already starting to heal. The wound was too precise to be anything but-
"So I was right!" Torgaddon said. "But we saw you didn’t have them-"
Sanguinius lips curled back in a smile, revealing wickedly-long ivory fangs. Much longer than Leman’s. "They’re retractable."
Abaddon felt his mouth go dry, when Sanguinius turned to look at him. For the first time in his life, Abaddon was thrilled to be wrong.
"From what I understand of the wager, Ezekyle, you also have something to tell me."