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"Talked around before we left, 'bout fifty injured, fourteen dead."
"Any of them wished to follow us?"
"Just a couple, two young'ns. One of them knew how to fix up machines so I gave him the go ahead."
"Toll on our side?"
"Ten resting, three dead. Got their corpses back in one piece, Zorba said he had somethin' he could do with them."
"Anyone notable?"
"Not that I could tell."
The squelch of wet leather against polished wooden floor was the only company between the two as Fidelio followed behind Louis like a wolf following the pack leader. He was well aware he was leaving a trail of blood behind him, and if he wasn't, Louis sure was, the trails of his coat absolutely soaked with deep red, the stains already beginning to brown at the edges. Fidelio feels a large drop drip down his brow, to his chin, and into the fabric of his turtleneck.
"Sent us off with gifts, too. Really thankful bunch."
"Did they, now?"
"Just rations and whatever left of what their smith had made. Had Basilio manage hauling it all onto the ship."
"And you checked for-"
"Went all over it, nothing suspicious. No stowaways, either."
Louis hums in approval, bringing a hand up to brush the golden locks ticking to his face to the side. "Very good, Fidelio."
"Mm." Fidelio winces to himself, sighing in frustration. "Ugh, it's seeping into my socks."
"And here I thought you would be used to it by now." Louis' tone is playful, teasing, like Fidelio had stepped into a puddle and not the remains of a beast. The Human attack they had intercepted had ended as it usually did: Louis calmly on top of the whole situation as he drove his blade into the creature's vital points, splattering the grass with torrents of viscera. A thankful border town saved, more supporters of Louis' cause secured, and everyone who had been standing at his side thoroughly drenched.
"Doesn't mean I can't bitch about it." Fidelio fires back flatly.
"Were you wanting to-" Louis is cut off by a burst of rancor from below, loud enough to pierce through the floorboards and come out audible an entire floor above. Fidelio can sense that the invincible and untouchable Louis Guiabern seems to have had the wind knocked out of him for once from this last fight, the bags under his eyes more visible than usual, his tongue stilled by such a simple interruption. Regardless, Fidelio doesn't need to hear the rest of the question to know what Louis is asking (and implying); had it been asked months ago he would have sputtered out a request for clarification out of shock, now he simply hums, thumbing at the outline of his suspenders through his jacket.
"Sure," Fidelio puffs out a sardonic laugh. "God knows the communal room's gonna be clogged for hours." Louis gives him a smirk, one that lasts only for a moment before he waves a hand to brush the guards to his room aside. They stare at Fidelio and he shoots back a look of smugness as they move aside for Louis, still tailed by his officer into his private quarters.
Louis' room is always composed to an eerie degree whenever Fidelio is allowed in. Nothing out of place, neat and tidy, the composition of the stationary on his desk and decorations practically symmetrical at first glance. The exhaustion in Fidelio's body and the faint beginnings of a headache in the back of his mind make the thought of foregoing their usual song and dance to just dive into Louis' bed and ruin his pristine white and washed sheets with blood and gore all too appealing, if only for a moment. as he stands there in the doorway trying to get the crick out of his neck he can hear the rumbling of the Charadrius' pipes from Louis drawing a bath in his adjacent washroom, and he decides it's not worth it to try and end the day early.
(The idea of waking up feeling much stickier and tacky than he already does doesn't help either.)
It's hard to call Louis' washroom just another bathroom, hard enough that Fidelio debates if a regular man would be scandalized by someone like him stepping in for any reason other to clean it. Sterile white tiles coated the room from floor to ceiling, a stark contrast to the red smears left behind by Louis' footsteps. His breastplate had already been discarded upon the white marble counter, hanging above the basin of one of two undermount sinks. Louis stared at himself in the wall-length mirror, checking his face for scratches or a hair out of place as it slowly began to fog up. The tub on the other side of the room, made of fine porcelain and wide enough for two people, slowly being filled with readily hot water from a faucet in the wall, one of two knobs turned all the way to the left. A magla lamp in the ceiling cast a warm glow on the whole scene, almost making Louis' pale blonde hair shine underneath layers of muck.
It's one of those rooms that reminds Fidelio that the Charadrius hadn't been made to Louis' tastes specifically. So high class and refined for a room only one man would see on a regular basis, so unlike Louis, who rarely seemed to care much about the aesthetics if they weren't practical.
All the stranger but all the more sense at the same time that he found it prudent to invite Fidelio to follow him in on what has become a regular basis.
"You look like shit," Fidelio lets it escape his lips without a second thought as Louis strips himself of his jacket and shirt, peeling away the fabric to reveal the stained and bruised and scarred skin underneath. What few new scratches and cuts he had sustained looked back enough to caused Fidelio to wince, wondering how much of the blood coating him was the human's and how much was his own. "You need me to stitch them up this time?"
Louis' reflection frowns before the man himself looks over. He looks wide awake. "No need. I'll go over them in a moment." Louis scans over Fidelio top to bottom, taking in the exhausted slump in his shoulders. "Were you hurt at all?"
"Nah. I was tailing you the whole time. Bastards seem to have it out for you more than me, that's for sure." With no overt dismissal in Louis' tone, Fidelio takes it as the go ahead to begin undoing the buttons of his jacket. His backpack slips to the ground with a dull thump as he throws his coat towards a straw basket in the corner, letting it hit the side with a wet noise and fall to the bottom. He makes a mental note to volunteer for laundry duty; foot soldiers don't need to start asking questions as to why his clothes are among Louis', and those with good enough pattern recognition especially don't need to start realizing that his and Louis' overcoats are always tangled together after particularly bloody excursions.
Fidelio turns around to dig through one of the drawers in the vanity as he listens to the clink of Louis beginning to undo his pauldrons and belts. He digs out a chalky, round stone, wincing at the smell before tossing it behind him, ears perking up at it clacking against the basin of the bath before hitting the water and beginning to fizz. The doctor that made it, recruited god knows how long ago, had described it as a sort of antiseptic potpurri; a combination of minerals and herbs and plants made to both disinfect any wounds the Count had sustained and keep him from smelling like a corpse.
Louis always heals himself up instead but still seems to actually use them, so Fidelio bares through the sting in his sensitive nose and ignores the way Louis holds back a grin at his face scrunching up as an overwhelmingly floral scent floods the room a moment after.
It's hard to put into words the feeling Fidelio gets every time his lord strips down in front of him. Louis doesn't even turn to look at him, rather busy with finagling the belts on his greaves. The more skin of Louis' that he sees, the less the man looks like himself. Guiabern was a man who valued first impressions, and the first impression he gave most was always of an armor-clad, holy knight, shrouded in light with a flaming sword. Louis without his chestplate, without his white clothes, without the high ground and without the wind flowing through his hair reminds him of a snake having just shed its skin; all the same, just as dangerous, identical to before, and yet something about the image felt fragile and unfamiliar. If he reached out and tried to touch it, it would break and bite him.
(He doesn't need to wonder if Louis would bruise and bleed if he sunk his fingers and claws into his thigh. He's confirmed that firsthand.)
The feeling of being exposed doesn't end with Louis, and the humid air hitting his naked body causes the reality to sink in as it always does. He doesn't get why this ritual started and he's even more confused as to why he lets himself go along with it, lets himself bare his scarred and open body in front of a man as powerful as Louis. All it would take for the man to punish him for transgressions or disappointment is two hands around his neck or on the back of his head shoving him underwater.
Fidelio dumps the rest of his filthy garments in the basket before he goes to get in the tub before Louis does, the water filled up to three quarters of the basin and tinted gray from the remedy. The moment his foot touches the water red erupts from around his ankle, the scent of metal suddenly noticeable again (and frankly, preferable to the tacky flowers). He lets the fatigue in his body take over for a moment, dropping drown with a splash and taking in the feeling of warmth in his aching joints and muscles, the faucet pouring on top of his head and washing away the grime from his body.
Fidelio cranes his head to stare at his reflection and Louis' form, his hands glowing faintly with magla as he runs them over his wounds, listens to how the rumbling in the pipes just ceases as he reaches to turn one of the knobs on the wall and the water stops. Faintly, he can hear the sound of the party downstairs, a celebration of a perfect mission; here in Louis' private chambers completely unprotected, Fidelio wonders if he would feel just exposed as in a soiree of both strangers and friends. At least then if an attack came it wouldn't be from someone whose face and touch he has memorized.
The water's evened out to a shade of faded red when Louis finally comes to join him, painting the warmth around Fidelio a deep crimson as Louis lowers himself to his level. Despite enough room for the two of them to sit at completely opposite sides of the basin, Louis takes Fidelio's place sitting against the wall while Fidelio lets himself move slowly to press his back to Louis' chest.
They slot together like they always do and yet Fidelio always feels his heart spike at this part; sometimes from arousal, sometimes from a different feeling in the pit of his stomach, most often anxiety.
Silence washes over them, and Fidelio cranes his head slightly to listen to Louis' heartbeat. Louis raises his arms, wrapping them around his shoulders and Fidelio wonders if he's finally decided to drown him for such a moment of weakness before Louis slots his face in the space between Fidelio's ears, huffing out a content breath.
Every time he comes in this room he's on edge, wondering if Louis intends to stain the wood on the floor and walls of his bedroom with his blood when his guard is at its lowest and where nobody can see or hear him, and each time Louis seems eager to pull the rug out from under him instead. The man is passive to a fault, borderline sweet to his officer in a way that's disarming and confusing and so, so unlike him. He's sitting between the thighs of a violent man who's felled giants, feeling the fingers of a pariah comb through his hair like a lover. The water is warm around them and yet it's still bloody, their bodies still stained red, a reminder of what brought them here and that no amount of gentle caresses and dead flowers bobbing on the surface can change that.
Of course, he'd be foolish to keep pretending that Louis does this just so they can clean up; usually on the cleaner days Fidelio could have expected to be grinding against him by now, practically searing from the steam and their combined body heat. Had it not been for their combined lack of energy he's sure that they would have been in that situation still, and yet Louis still has him here in an embrace for no other reason than he can. In between this strange ritual of bedding and being beguiled by such a capricious man Fidelio cannot help but feel a strange feeling of safety in the equilibrium between confusion and dread, wrapped in the arms of maybe the strongest man in Euchronia, caressed by hands that could wrap around his throat or his waist depending on the whims of their owner. Fidelio couldn't leave or refuse him like this and he couldn't even pretend he wanted to.
He wonders if this is how all the men in those folktales felt before they were pulled under.
"You seem lost in thought." Louis mumbles into his hair, rousing Fidelio from staring off into space.
"I'm trying to predict what breakfast Bas' gonna ask me to slather in grease tomorrow to mend his hangover." He responds without missing a beat. There's a small amount of truth in the statement; Basilio can't hold his liquor for the life of him, and Louis seems to understand his perceived plight by the way Fidelio can feel the curve of his smile against his hairline. Fidelio's eyes drift down to the scarred skin of Louis' arm, over older marks and stopping his gaze at the newer ones. "Decided they needed to break in a job well done."
Louis hums, adjusting his head to place his chin atop Fidelio's scalp so he can speak clearly, one hand brushing across his unblemished chest. "I wouldn't blame them, I suppose. Commendable work today."
"Thanks."
"Mm."
(There's some part of Fidelio that wishes Louis would talk more during these times; make himself feel less fae or like a statue waiting for a slip-up or weakness and more like a man, but in this strange facsimile of intimacy being able to imagine someone like Louis being placated with the simple feeling of enjoying his company makes him feel so much more euchronian than any suggestion Fidelio could muster.)
Fidelio must have drifted off for a few minutes or ten against Louis' warmth, as the water's chilled somewhat and the floral scent faded when Louis stirs slightly, untangling himself from Fidelio's body and hooking a hand on the side of the basin to pull himself upward. Drops of water fall upon Fidelio's head as Louis steps out, grabbing a white towel from the rack on the wall to wrap around his waist. The magla lamp in the ceiling halos his body, bathing him in light in a way that causes Fidelio's mouth to dry.
"You done?" Fidelio turns slightly, resting his head on the side as he watches how the muscles on Louis' back move. Some part of him wants to run his tongue over the back of his neck.
"I would say so." Fidelio stares at the way the towel around him tinges a light red at the edges. Louis presses a dry cloth to his face and hair, trailing water after him as he moves towards the door, taking a moment to shoot Fidelio a coy smile. "Don't take too long, Fidelio."
He listens to Louis' footsteps disappearing into his room before he lets himself scoff and fall backwards, the water splashing as he submerges himself for a moment. One hand reaches down to feel around for the plug, tugging at the chain. Fidelio holds his breath until the water level lowers around his face, trying to imagine taking with it his frustration and embarrassment and burgeoning lust.
(He opts to shower before he steps out; both to clean himself of any remaining blood and scent on his body, and to take care of the growing problem between his legs, half-mast and something he does not have the energy to chase after Louis for. There's something he thinks might be worth thinking about as to how it's easier to get off in Louis' absence than his presence, imagining the man and the danger he carries and the safety he offers and how much Fidelio trusts him regardless, a trust that seems so fragile when the man is in the room with him and coated in a reminder of his power, but whatever introspection could be made disappears with his release down the drain.)
Louis is in his bathrobe, flipping through paperwork at his nightstand when Fidelio trudges out of the washroom, wrapped up in multiple towels that get haphazardly thrown to the floor as he beelines towards the bed to weasel his way under Louis' covers. Louis simply watches as he snakes under the comforter and sheets, bundling himself up and seeking warmth in a way so decidedly cat-like.
"Feeling better?" Louis reaches a hand out to stroke between Fidelio's ears.
"Go to hell." And yet Fidelio doesn't slink away from the touch, relaxing slightly as Louis' hand brushes through his hair.
Louis clicks his tongue then, opting to turn off the lamp by his bed and fold the paper in his hands up for later. Fidelio only folds up on himself more as Louis moves to slide next to him, head tilted to the side as to not press his horns into the feather pillows. For a moment, Fidelio can convince himself the world is isolated to just him again, that the man he's chosen to lay next to is benevolent, that a man with such a warm smile and gentle touch and sweet words isn't the same man who he'll be running at the side of in due time, having to debate if the blood he'll cover himself in is of a monster or of Fidelio himself.
But still, in the dark, with the clamor of dozens separated only by metal and wooden floor, Fidelio shifts forward, seeking out another's warmth. As hard as he tries to keep Louis at an arm's length, he cannot help but tuck himself up against his chest again, listening to a faint thrumming; in his half-asleep state, the euchronian heartbeat indistinguishable from the hypnotic song of a siren.