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Fuck Cariott, Sion thinks vehemently as he walks out of the training hall. And fuck his giant lion made of flames especially, no matter how amazing of a spell it is.
What’s even more amazing, is the fact that Sion is still standing – albeit shakily – after an entire day of what the fire Magia Vander considers training – vague instructions and weirdly threatening smirks and all.
Even so, pride thrums deep beneath his sternum with every pull of the burns darkening his arms, the sharp sting a reminder that of all the new recruits, he is the one Cariott chose to train. To Sion’s dismay, however, pride alone doesn’t lessen the pain nor the exhaustion lingering in each step he manages towards the dorms, the smell of burnt cloth and hair filling his sinuses as he walks.
It makes him wrinkle his nose in disgust. A fire mage covered in bruises and burns – talk about pathetic.
Absently, his eyes flicker down to the hastily tied off bandages wrapped around his forearms and he grimaces at the sight of crimson blotches.
Sion can feel any sense of gratification fading, slowly replaced by a much more familiar bitterness churning in his gut. He thinks about going to the infirmary, after all – if only to make tomorrow's training the slightest bit more tolerable – then wonders if he deserves the help in the first place if he can’t even manage to protect himself.
Lost in useless musings as he is, Sion misses the last step. He catches himself with an awkward half-stumble and a desperate grip on the railing, the skin of his forearms feeling like it’s been set on fire again. With a sharp hiss through his teeth, he lets his arms go lax and silently vows to wipe the smirk off Cariott’s face one day.
“Rough day?” He hears from a few paces away, and it speaks volumes to his current state that he hadn’t even noticed anyone nearby.
Sion lifts his gaze to meet Wignall’s, the elf’s eyes trailing down to his arms immediately, and he has to stop himself from trying to cover them up. “You try producing a black flame guardian – see how you look afterwards,” he retorts, not in the mood for more hollow words and even emptier smiles.
When Wignall doesn’t react beyond a slight frown, that unnaturally green gaze of his still glued to Sion’s forearms, he almost groans in frustration.
One more push, he tells himself. After that, he’s reaching for his wand. “What are you even doing here? Don’t you have elf things to do?” Sion lets the mocking cadence of his words warm his blood, feels a grin tug at his lips. “Have you filled your daily quota of arrogant remarks yet? Wouldn’t want to fall behind more than you already have, now, would you?”
“How original,” Wignall says drily, arching a dark eyebrow and finally meeting Sion’s eyes. “Now that that’s out of the way, will you allow me to look at those horrid bandages?” he asks, and Sion glares at him reflexively.
He crosses his arms over his chest, grits his teeth to keep himself from wincing. “I’m fine. And as hard as I find it to believe, I’m sure you have something to do other than bother me, so…”
“If this is your definition of 'fine', then I believe you should reacquaint yourself with the dictionary,” Wignall simpers, completely ignoring the rest of Sion’s sentence. He takes a step closer and reaches for Sion’s forearm, the concern in the furrow of his brows at odds with his tone. “You shouldn’t leave them like this,” he says, and Sion moves out of his reach with a scoff.
The bandages are more red than white at this point, and Sion knows Wignall is right. Still, “I don’t need your help.”
“Well, you’re getting it, regardless,” Wignall retorts, a hint of frustration souring the airiness of his voice. “Look, you'd benefit from being in good shape for tomorrow’s training, right? Moreover, I… need someone to practice healing spells on, and I’d hate to bother Lihanna with something so trivial,” he adds, and though his logic may be surprisingly sound, the faux polite demeanor ruins it.
Sion feels a familiar stab of irritation as he listens to the elf. He thought they’d all moved past useless pretenses back on the eleventh floor of the dungeon, but apparently, it had been a mere temporary farce.
His frown deepens, and somewhere deep down, Sion is aware that he’s only widening the rift between them by acting like this, knows that Wignall really does want to help – whatever the reason for that may be. “Oh, I see how it is. You won’t waste Lihanna’s precious time, but you’re okay with wasting mine,” he says, watches Wignall’s eyebrow twitch as his ears flick back a little. “How about this? You can rest easy having fulfilled your daily good deed by offering to help me or whatever, and now you’ll go on your way and leave me alone. It’s a win-win, really.”
Wignall lets out a sigh. “You are truly infuriating, I hope you’re aware,” he says slowly and without any heat, for some reason not taking the bait like Sion had expected him to.
It leaves a strange taste in his mouth – the lenience in Wignall’s tone, the almost fond curl of the corners of his lips – and not for the first time, Sion wishes he were able to extend that sort of patience to others.
But he knows he’s just too difficult for it.
Something must show on his face, because no sooner does the thought flash in his mind, Wignall’s gaze softens into one of understanding, and Sion finds himself unable to move in the face of it. His mind keeps ringing with his father’s voice; the ache of an old wound.
Wignall wraps his fingers around his wrist with a gentleness he can’t place. Somewhere at the back of his mind, Sion is aware that it means the other respects him enough to do so. He’s not quite sure how to feel about it.
“Come. I will even treat you to a drink afterwards.” Wignall gives him another quick once-over and grimaces, biting down on his lower lip like he’s trying not to laugh. “Or five. You certainly look like you’ll need them.”
“Ha ha, aren’t you just hilarious,” Sion says, but it comes out half-hearted at best.
Wignall’s responding chuckle is feathery and unguarded, the distance between them shrinking with the sound. “You said that, not me. Let us make haste, now – unless you wish to wait until those bandages match your hair, that is,” he says, and pulls Sion along as they walk towards the dorm building, his grip light the entire time.
Those slender fingers are just as careful when they start cleaning Sion's wounds, the hopeful whisper of Alheim echoing in the stillness of his dorm room as the bed cover rustles underneath them with every shift.
When Sion glances at him, the furrow between Wignall’s brows is full of the sort of helpless frustration he knows all too well – makes him feel like he's looking into a mirror.
Sion can't help but avert his eyes from the sight, and any words of solace get caught in the fold of his vocal chords as Wignall moves onto his left arm. His jaw tightens with the burn of rubbing alcohol on his tender skin, the touch suddenly too much. “I might as well have gone to the infirmary if you're not going to use your fancy healing magic,” Sion bites out, smothering the ‘thank you’ deep in his chest with the familiar weight of a smirk.
Wignall's movements falter for a moment, long ears twitching. His lips press into a thin line as he rubs the burn salve into Sion's skin harder, then lets out a slow breath. “Not all of us can be prodigies,” he says nonchalantly, betrayed only by the suddenly taut line of his shoulders.
“Believe me, I know.” It’s as close to an apology as Sion is willing to give, and he bites back a yelp at the first brush of bandages against his still-tender skin. He doesn’t manage to force down the next one, pain flaring hot and sharp when Wignall pulls the fabric too tight.
The elf glances up at him through dark lashes, the curl of his lips just shy of mean. “Oops,” he says, drier than the sands of the Drasier as he ties off the wrapping.
Sion huffs out a laugh despite himself. “Your bedside manner really needs some work.”
“You just cannot help yourself, can you?” It’s more of a statement than a question, somewhat amused if the half-smile Wignall shoots him is anything to go by.
A surprisingly comfortable silence settles between them while Wignall keeps bandaging his right arm, overgrown bangs brushing the tops of his cheeks. He shifts closer once he reaches his elbow, their thighs nearly brushing now, and Sion has to keep himself from leaning closer to that warmth. Then, like an afterthought, “You're welcome, by the way.” Wignall doesn’t look at him as he says it, and yet there’s an edge to his tone that leaves Sion's tongue feeling heavy in his mouth, the beginnings of anger purring in his chest.
He rips his arm from Wignall's hands the moment the wrapping is secure. “I didn't ask you to do this. In fact, I specifically told you not to.”
With his jaw tight and ears pinned all the way back, Wignall gets up and glares at him down the bridge of his nose. He opens his mouth to say something before seemingly thinking better of it, then lets out a sharp breath. “Let’s go,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest almost petulantly. “I still owe you a drink.”
“…what?” Sion asks dumbly.
Wignall gives him an eye roll. “Did Great Mage Cariott give you a concussion, too?” he asks with a flat look and an even flatter tone. “I said I would treat you to a drink if you allowed me to help, so treat you I shall. Besides, you’ve left me in need of one, too, so we might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
Even as confusion keeps pulling at his brows, a sense of relief washes over Sion as he gets up from the bed to walk over to the door. “Sure you don’t want to change your mind?” he asks, an out as much as a silent question – an are you sure you want to spend more time with me? that’s stuck in is throat.
Wignall pulls the door open with a pointed look, gives him a smile that’s almost gentle. “Yes. I wouldn’t have offered otherwise,” he says, and Sion imagines he’s replying to the words he couldn’t voice.
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Three days later, Sion walks outside sporting a fresh set of burns and a steadily throbbing bruise on his jaw, wondering how he’s going to bring up the fact that Cariott somehow knows about the traitors to the others at their meeting tomorrow. He reaches the top of the staircase, only to groan at the sight of a familiar figure sitting on the second-to-last step.
It must come out louder than he had intended, because Wignall tenses slightly before turning around and shooting to his feet. He meets Sion’s eyes immediately, the look on his face nothing short of self-satisfied as he dusts off his uniform – the green fabric a sharp contrast to the dark stone expanse of the Fifth Stratum.
“Rough day?” the elf echoes from the last time they had met here, and Sion lets out a sigh when he reaches him.
He doesn’t even bother pulling his sleeves down, ignores the way the Wignall’s gaze keeps flickering to his jaw. “What do you want?”
“Though I’d prefer not to, we can repeat the whole back and forth from the other day. It’s either that, or” – Wignall pauses, motioning towards Sion’s arms – “you can allow me to treat those without arguing. I have yet to grasp Alheim, but I stumbled across a spell for burn treatment yesterday that could–”
“Come on,” Sion cuts him off and walks on without bothering to check if Wignall is following him. He throws a glance back over his shoulder, unsurprised to see Wignall on his heels. “I have some wine in my room, to pay you back for last time.”
Wignall falls into step next to him, tilting his head a little and giving Sion a contemplative look.
As they pass the administration building, Sion can feel his eyebrow twitch when Wignall’s stare doesn’t leave his face. He bites back the first three reactions that come to his mind and resists the urge to flick one of those pointy ears. “What,” he says through gritted teeth.
Wignall at least has the decency to give him a sheepish smile before looking away. “I’m merely surprised that you relented so quickly. And there’s no need to repay me – though far be it from me to refuse something from the Ulster cellar.”
“I hope you’re ready for disappointment, then,” Sion drawls with a derisive scoff even as his hands clench at his sides. “Mercedes forbid my father waste something like that on me of all people. The only bottle he’d give me would be a poisoned one, so that he could finally get rid of his failed son and make my sister his heir,” he says, forcing a grin onto his face to at least try to conceal the hurt anger boiling under his skin.
The way Wignall's hand hovers in the air between them – thin-boned and paler than Sion's – would be funny if it wasn't for the sharp longing clawing at Sion's insides for the fleeting comfort it offers.
Wignall lowers his hand, the fervour in his gaze wholly unfamiliar. “We'll drink whatever you have,” he says, and his voice is so earnest it makes Sion's cheeks fill with heat. “Shall I tell Lihanna to greet your father with a Sagius Cesse at the next Owenzaus ball?”
Even Sion is left surprised by the laugh that tumbles past his teeth at the words. “As much as I would enjoy hearing about that, it's better if she doesn't,” he says, trying and mostly failing to force down another grin. There’s a nagging voice somewhere in the back of his mind – one that sounds suspiciously similar to his sister’s and simpers at him for being disrespectful towards father – which Sion willfully ignores.
“That's not a no,” is Wignall's immediate response, all warm amusement as the corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile. In the late-afternoon light, he looks like something out of a dream.
The sight has Sion swallowing around a suddenly dry throat, and he recognizes the pull low in his gut – the horrible vulnerability that comes with someone’s smile making his breath catch, the way he always, always, falls for the honeyed words dripping from their lips, never learning to look beyond his hunger for that warmth to be directed at him. His steps falter with the terrible clarity of his realization, and he has to force himself to give Wignall a nod to answer his concerned glance.
It’s almost embarrassing, in all honestly, how starved Sion is for the sort of attentiveness Wignall seems so ready to waste on him.
The feeling only gets worse once they’re sat on his bed, the early Serzamoon light spilling in through the window as the curtains flutter with the cool breeze outside. The chill wafting in makes Sion shiver, or well, that’s what he chalks it up to rather than the gentle way in which Wignall grips his wrist.
“Are you sure this is going to work?” he asks with an arched eyebrow, trying to regain his footing. “I would really like to keep both of my arms, you see–”
Wignall tugs at his arm in retaliation, a sharp movement that makes Sion yelp in pain. “I make no promises,” he says, and before Sion could protest, his wand glows green as he begins the incantation.
When thin roots and vines slowly wrap around his arm and start mending his skin back together, Sion lets out an audible gasp, the ache fading into numb relief while warmth trails all the way up his shoulders, leaving him loose-limbed and unusually exhausted.
“There,” Wignall says once Sion’s arms are no longer a raw and red mess. “And both of your arms remained intact.”
The words and playful look pull a snort out of Sion, fatigue making even lifting his gaze to meet Wignall’s eyes a monumental task. It must show in his movements, because Wignall’s expression turns apologetic as the last of the vines dissolve into shimmering particles.
“The spell was originally invented for field medicine and utilizes less of the caster’s magic,” he explains, and Sion wants to curl up in the lull of his voice–
He banishes the thought as soon as it forms.
“It’ll make you feel tired for half an hour or so. But before I let you take a nap” – Wignall leans closer, hands settling at Sion’s jaw and tilting his head to the side to inspect the bruise Cariott gave him as a parting gift for today – “let me just...”
Before Sion could lean into the touch like his weary body so desperately wants him to, his mind kicks back into gear and he tears himself away from Wignall. “Don’t–” let go, he doesn’t say, the bite of his teeth sharp on the inside of his cheek. “Aren’t you getting a little too comfortable? And with a lowly Fire Faction lyzance of all people.” His mouth is running on autopilot now, the hastily built levee around his heart not letting anything close to it spill over. “Or do your superiors not mind since it’s you?”
The words hang in the air between them, harsher than Wignall deserves, and yet Sion is unable to take them back.
Without a word, Wignall stands up, hands falling limply to his sides. Unlike last time, he refuses to meet his eyes, but the fall of his hair doesn’t manage to hide the hurt that flickers across his face.
“Do try to make it to the meeting tomorrow in a more respectable condition, yes?” Wignall says, lifting his head and looking at Sion. His expression is tight, full of what seems like disappointment rather than the contempt Sion had been ready for, and he doesn’t manage to come up with a response before Wignall’s back is turned towards him, the door swinging shut behind him with a loud thud.
Sion feels strangely hollow as he listens to Wignall’s footsteps fade down the hall.
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It takes four days until the small, guilt-ridden part of him – the same one that burned that paper off the laggard’s back all those years ago – wins out.
Sion’s steps grow more hesitant the closer he gets to the dorm building. The click of his heels is loud against the polished floors of the Sixth Stratum, his grip tight around the bottle hidden under his coat. He looks straight ahead as he passes an older elf, and tries to keep his face impassive.
When Lihanna’s instructions carry him to the last door on the fourth floor, he pauses, muscles locked in place and heartbeat a loud verset for what he is about to do, and why did he even come here, he should’ve just–
Sion knocks. Two raps of his knuckles – short and sharp against dark wood – that echo unduly in the empty hallway.
His palms start feeling sweaty when the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door reaches his ears, and he has the split-second urge to hightail it out of there after all. Before Sion’s feet could so much as shift, the door swings open to reveal a slightly rumpled looking Wignall with his hair in a loose braid thrown over his right shoulder.
“What can I– oh. It’s you.”
The way he says it is an insult on its own, but Sion bites back his first response with only mild annoyance welling up in his gut. “Hey, can I uh” – he clears his throat, cheeks warm – “Can I come in?”
“Why are you really here?” Wignall asks with narrowed eyes, and shifts a little to block the doorway.
Sion lets out a sigh. His frustration starts ebbing away as he takes in the rigidity with which Wignall holds himself, as if bracing himself for whatever Sion is about to say, and that’s–
He doesn’t want to be the cause of that.
Mind made up, he reaches under his coat to pull out the wine. “I still owe you a drink. And I came to– well, apologize,” he manages, meeting those wary green eyes head on. “If you’ll have me, that is.”
For an uncomfortably long moment, Wignall stays silent, and it makes dread slither miry and cold up Sion’s spine because of course he can’t even apologize right–
“I hope you didn’t cheap out, at least,” Wignall says at last, voice softer than Sion deserves. His shoulders relax a fraction before he moves aside in wordless invitation.
The smile on Wignall’s lips is small but there, and Sion can’t find it in himself to push down the relief that swells in his chest as he walks inside.
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He doesn’t want it to become a thing, but when he sees Wignall waiting for him at the entrance to the training hall a week later, he can’t force the usual vitriol past his teeth.
And so Cariott’s sessions don’t let up, the days gradually turn into weeks, and weeks mean a routine, and by the time Sion notices any of it, he’s already in too deep. Case in point as Wignall’s still-erratic healing magic makes him let out a sharp hiss, and he glares up at him while fighting the urge to pull his leg away.
“Oh, for Mercedes’ sake – would you please hold still?”
Sion kicks at Wignall’s thigh, leans back on his arms further. “I am holding still,” he taunts, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips at the unimpressed look Wignall gives him.
“I cannot believe they let children join the Fire Faction nowadays. What is Great Mage Carriot thinking? I’d better consult Master Logwell about– will you stop kicking me?!” he lets out just as Sion retracts his foot, voice an almost whine and long ears twitching in annoyance. There’s a hint of a pout in the curl of his lips, and Sion feels his grin widen at the sight.
Wignall huffs, pinches the bridge of his nose like Sion is a headache he can will away. “Despite what you may believe, I do need to concentrate for this,” he says, though there’s no bite in his tone like there would have been before.
It makes Sion’s insides despairingly warm.
“You’ll get wrinkles if you frown so much, oh wonder elf,” Sion drawls, but keeps himself still after settling his leg back on Wignall’s lap, the gash running almost from ankle to knee – courtesy of the oversized claws of Cariott’s guardian – now reduced to a dull throb. “Just relax, will you? You suck less than you did a month ago.”
“You really could not have worded that less encouragingly,” Wignall deadpans, and Sion has to bite at his lip to keep himself from snickering. “Also” – his hand wraps around Sion’s ankle, wand glowing green as he resumes the spell – “the words ‘just relax’ coming from you of all people are particularly difficult to take seriously,” he says, casual and only a little infuriating.
“Touché,” Sion says as he watches his skin knit itself back together over the cut with mild fascination, the feeling less unpleasant than one would expect.
Almost as if he jinxed it with the thought, Wignall’s control slips in the next moment, and the sudden burn of the injury forces Sion to grit his teeth to keep himself from crying out in pain. He sucks in a sharp breath, squeezing his eyes shut and gripping the bedsheets in tight fists.
Wignall’s voice comes out in a fragile whisper, “I’m sorry, I– I swear I didn’t mean to.”
Ever so slowly, Sion breathes out, then opens his eyes to see Wignall’s face right in front of his, the green of his eyes bright with wet worry. He could say something harsh, something that would make that guilt-ridden expression shudder with hurt. It’s what Sion is good at; what he should do–
“I know,” Sion says, trying to make his voice sound reassuring and most likely failing. “It didn’t even hurt that much – just surprised me, is all,” he mutters, then shifts a little, only to let out a groan when the motion jostles his leg.
Wignall’s hands fly to Sion’s shoulders. “Careful there!” His frown turns disapproving. “That didn’t sound like surprise to me,” he chides, but Sion can’t focus on anything beyond the warmth of Wignall’s touch even through the fabric of his shirt as he lets his weight drop forward, the day’s exhaustion seemingly hitting him all at once.
The sheer care with which Wignall steadies him makes Sion’s breath hitch, and it earns him another concerned look – all wide eyes and flattened ears and–
“Stop looking at me like that and make yourself useful,” Sion mutters, feeling his face flood with heat from more than just the pain. He can only hope it isn’t as visible as it feels. “Don’t you have a numbing spell somewhere in that empty head of yours?”
Wignall lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, if you have the strength to insult me, then you must be all right, after all,” he says, and through the exasperation, Sion can hear the smile in his words – indulgent and too fond to be aimed at someone like him.
“Ha ha,” Sion manages, but the way he has to stop himself from tucking a loose strand of hair behind Wignall’s ear leaves him reeling and on edge even long after Wignall has left.
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“Why do you keep doing this?” Sion asks the next time they’re sat facing each other on his bed. “It’s not like you need the practice at this point.” He keeps his tone casual, flexing his hand and turning it this way and that after the last of the burns disappear.
Wignall lets out a hum and makes a show of looking deep in thought. “Maybe I merely enjoy the company,” he settles on, ears twitching tellingly.
Sion huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, now try that again” – he leans back on his hands and arches an eyebrow at Wignall – “with a little more conviction this time.”
“My I didn’t realize you were so eager to be rid of me,” Wignall says, his mock-offended tone ruined by the smile he doesn’t manage to bite back. He wraps his arms around his bent leg, his other leg stretched out in front of him and almost brushing against Sion’s. “Why don’t you go ask Great Mage Cariott to ease up on your training, hm? You wouldn’t need me to patch you up, then,” he continues, and Sion can’t help but roll his eyes in response.
He knocks his knee into Wignall’s leg lightly. “No, thank you. The smug asshole would probably set me on fire just for daring to disturb him outside of work hours.”
“You’re lucky he isn’t here to hear you refer to him in such a manner,” Wignall drawls.
“Please, don’t jinx it. At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if saying his name three times in a row made him crawl out from under the bed like the Tower’s version of a boogieman,” he says, not expecting the sound of full-blown laughter to hit his ears.
He looks over at Wignall and freezes, not sure if he’s even blinking as he takes in the smile on the elf’s face – bright and unguarded and breathtaking – the near-giggles slipping past his teeth going straight to Sion’s heart like stray sparks from a Sagius Leo.
Wignall reaches up to wipe at the corner of his eye, cheeks flushed with mirth as he turns to face Sion. “I apologize, it's merely,” he manages between bitten-back chuckles, “the mental image of him hiding under a bed…” he breaks off into another short laugh and shifts to let his legs hang over the side of the mattress.
A lock of hair slips over Wignall’s shoulder with the movement, and Sion leans forward to tuck it behind a long ear without thinking. His other hand comes to a rest next to Wignall’s thigh, and he finds himself frozen in place.
Unwittingly, he trails his fingers down Wignall’s jaw in a slow, almost devout caress.
“Sion?” Wignall asks as he turns to face him, gaze warmed by something dangerously close to affection.
Before he could think better of it, Sion closes the remaining distance between them, slotting his lips over Wignall’s with a softness that leaves him short on air and a half-formed thought of ‘I want more’ on the tip of his tongue.
When realization hits him, it is as if an ice spell had struck him from point-blank range, leaving cold dread to rush through his veins. “I didn’t–”
He’s cut off by Wignall’s lips pressing against his clumsily, a startling desperation in the way those hands he’s grown so familiar with grip the fabric of his shirt to tug him close.
“Please don’t say you didn’t mean it,” Wignall whispers, still close enough that Sion can almost taste the words. “Not unless it is the truth.” Even as he pulls away, his hands linger at Sion’s collar.
Sion’s gaze snaps up to meet Wignall’s, and there’s a wet shine to those too-green eyes that makes him reach up to brush his thumbs over flushed cheeks – as if to keep the tears from spilling. He gives Wignall a long look, heartbeat stuttering beneath his sternum with violent hope.
“I won’t,” Sion says, and watches Wignall’s eyes widen. “I did mean it, I–” he continues, feeling his face fill with heat. “I think I’ve wanted to do that for… quite a while.”
The smile Wignall gives him in response is bright, if a little watery around the edges. His hands feel warm even through the fabric of Sion’s shirt. “I’ve wanted you to do that for quite a while, too,” he says, and before Sion could try to formulate a reply, Wignall leans back in, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from smiling into the kiss with contentment.