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Gina’s tavern, sometime during their first weeks at the Tower
Wignall is trying to keep himself in check, but Lefiya and Filvis had been particularly harsh today, his hands are still trembling from casting spell after unsuccessful spell as his mind rings with the unsaid 'not good enough' in the elders' glares, and Sion is still giving him that infuriating look–
“Like I’ve said numerous times, there is absolutely no indication of the traitor being from the Fairy Faction,” he says through gritted teeth, fighting for the smile to stay on his face.
Sion scoffs at him. “But of course there isn't,” he drawls, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back in his seat. “The great wonder elf is here to vouch for them, after all.”
“If anything, it's your faction leader that's acting suspicious,” Wignall snaps, his patience gone with the first edges of Sion's smug smirk. “But I suppose you're not as willing to accuse him as you are others. Whatever could the reason be... loyalty? Fear, perhaps? Are you scared, Ulster? Or are you simply so arrogant that you can't see past your own hypocrisy?”
Wignall’s breathing is loud to his own ears by the end, his fingers twitching on top of time-worn wood. Realizing what he just did, he winces, then braces himself for what he’s sure to be a fiery response.
“So you can make that kind of face too,” Sion says, calm as anything, and Wignall feels himself deflate because what?
The fire mage leans forward and rests his chin in his hand, his expression losing that irksome smugness. “Don't you feel better? You see, despite what you may think, letting loose once in a while does help,” he says with an arched eyebrow, crimson eyes soft under the tavern's warm light.
Wignall opens his mouth, his hands flat on the table and a retort on the tip of his tongue, but freezes. Because, inexplicably enough, Sion is right. He feels... lighter, almost. Less frayed. An outburst like this would be met with nothing but scorn at his own faction – a testament to his lack of self-discipline, they’d whisper, further proof of his lack of a place among them – and yet here, with Sion Ulster of all people, it’s like he’s being given the go ahead to continue, which is just–
He clears his throat instead, smoothing his robes down to give his hands something to do. “You may be right,” he allows, not willing to add to the Ulster heir's already sizeable ego. “But you shouldn't allow me to take my frustration out on you, anyway. It was uncouth of me, and I apologize for the manner–”
“Oh, save the pleasantries – I already hear enough of those from other nobles,” Sion grumbles, his expression returning to something Wignall is more used to seeing. “Besides, it's refreshing to see you without the goody-two-shoes mask. I was wondering where that sharp tongue of yours had disappeared to lately,” he adds dryly, most likely referring to their first few interactions. Back when Wignall’s mask wasn’t so thin and crack-woven.
The words make a strange warmth settle between Wignall's lungs – the fact that Sion noticed the change at all more than a little surprising and horribly touching.
(And isn't that just pathetic. How he is so starved for affection that something so insignificant has him ready to–)
Wignall averts his gaze, suddenly feeling on-edge. Vulnerable. “What would you have me do, then?” he asks, and has to consciously keep his hands from fidgeting with the hems of his sleeves.
“Whatever you want,” Sion says, like it’s that simple. “I feel tense just looking at you. Just… relax, or something. Drop the pretense.”
Wignall scoffs. “Like you? Shall I start yelling at anything and everything that annoys me, too?”
That finally seems to strike a nerve, a glint brightening Sion’s eyes as he reaches for his ale. “Careful, I can still set you on fire.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Wignall retorts with a huff. To his surprise, Sion only lets out a snort, the momentary tightness disappearing from his expression, and Wignall gets the strange urge to preen at drawing out such a reaction.
Before he could ponder the thought, Sion’s voice interrupts him. “Sounds like a plan,” he says, and Wignall must make some kind of face because Sion then continues, “Fancy a spar sometime? I take it your faction’s not too keen on combat training, and I could use someone who can patch me up afterwards.”
Wignall blinks at him. Then blinks again, trying to reconcile the person sitting in front of him with the version of Sion he’s had filed away in his mind until now. “…sure,” he settles on, because he can always use the extra practice.
Sion flashes him a smirk – a sharp, quick thing that makes an unfamiliar warmth curl right beneath his sternum.
(Wignall doesn’t know it at the time, but it’s that conversation that marks the moment from which his gaze begins to stray to Sion during their group meetings, his mind filled with the sharp cadence of that orotund voice as he climbs into bed night after night, thoughts heavy with fabrications of what it would sound like whispering in the dark–
He tells Lihanna in a fit of desperation, his hands fisted tightly in his tunic and voice shaking like a stray leaf in the wind.
She doesn’t laugh at him, but he almost wishes she would. Maybe then, he could smother the relentless hope taking root between his lungs, growing stronger with every glimpse beyond that fiery temper – at the sincerity and determination underneath.
Still, as he watches Sion’s attention turn to Will time and time again, it serves as a sharp reminder of how foolish he is.)
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The Fifth Stratum’s library, a day after Sion’s realization
“I don't know, man,” Gordon says once Sion is done vaguely recounting the previous day's… events. He rests his chin in his hand, a thoughtful frown drawing his brows together. “Sounds to me like you like him.”
“Or are very attracted to him, at the least,” Lyril adds with a shrug.
Gordon swivels towards him sharply before giving him a skeptical look. “Of course he is, he wouldn't have gotten it up otherw–”
“Okay, that's enough of that,” Sion says, and silently wishes he'd just kept his mouth shut.
(Still, he can’t exactly bring it up to anyone else, so – as useless as it might prove to be – this is the only outsider advice he’s going to get.)
“I still don't understand why this has you looking like you're about to set something on fire – more than usually, I mean. You have a crush, so what? To be honest, it would be weirder if you didn't after getting to touch all that, you lucky bastard. Seriously, have you seen him?”
Lyril raises both eyebrows at that. “...is there something you would like to share with us, Gordon?”
Gordon just waves him off, not even looking in the younger mage's direction. “What I mean is, you two have been hooking up for months, so this isn't surprising at all,” he says with a tone of finality.
“As much as it pains me to say it, he’s right,” Lyril says, and ignores Gordon’s offended ‘hey!’ as he fixes Sion with a serious look. “Plus, I think it will be good for you to finally move on from Serfort.”
Sion feels himself go tense all over, heat already curling in his chest; acrid and all-consuming. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion on that,” he bites out.
Lyril’s hands fly up in surrender. “Sion, I...”
“No,” Gordon cuts in before Lyril could backtrack, his voice sharp. “It needs to be said. Sion, you either need to confess or move on or just do something. This… obsession isn’t doing you any favours at this point. It may have been a good motivator while you were in denial back at the Academy, but now it’s just painful to watch,” he says, and the uncharacteristically grave expression on his face leaves Sion grappling for a response that doesn’t involve setting something on fire. “As your friends–”
Sion lets out a snort, loud and ugly. “Oh, so that’s why you think you can tell me what to do.” He’s going to make use of this opening, the inexplicable tightness in his chest can wait. “See, just because I humour you two at times doesn’t mean that we are friends,” he spits the word out like it’s something foul, feels his frown waver in the face of the resignation in Lyril’s eyes. Still, he needs to nip this in the bud. “I strongly suggest getting that through your thick skull, though I realize it might be difficult for you.”
To his surprise, Gordon doesn’t storm off, nor does he fire back with insults. For some reason, he laughs. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that. I don’t know how your elf puts up with you, honestly,” he says, and gets up from the table. “Come find us once you’re done with the temper tantrum, yeah? Oh, and don’t forget you’re on clean-up duty next week.”
“I bet you’re missing the times we took you at your word now, hm?” Lyril tells him as he stands up to follow Gordon, his tone light. He doesn’t wait for an answer before turning on his heel and joining the blonde.
Sion can only stare after them, a strange burn spreading through him as Gordon’s words replay in his mind. Your elf, he said, casual as anything, and Sion refuses to think about why it has his heart stuttering in his chest.
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The Fourth Stratum’s dorms, two days since Wignall realized that Sion is avoiding him
Lihanna opens the door, takes one look at him, and moves to close it in his face.
It is only thanks to him half-expecting it that Wignall reacts in time, wedging his foot in the way with a desperate “Wait! I just–”
“No,” she says, decisive.
“I haven’t even said anything yet, what do you mean ‘no’?” Wignall asks, and if his voice comes out in a whine, well, no one is around to hear it.
Lihanna pulls on the handle again, but Wignall’s grip is firm. She gives him a look. “’No’, because I can tell something happened with Sion. Again. And you’re here to complain and cry about it to me. Again.”
“I resent that,” Wignall says, fighting the urge to argue. “I don’t cry, just…”
“Whine, then.”
His teeth grind together around a retort, but one glance at Lihanna’s dry expression has him deflating. “Oh, come on.” He’s fully whining at this point, and the unamused eyebrow raise Lihanna gives him makes a sigh escape his lips. “Have a heart?” he tries, attempting to sound pitiful enough to be allowed in.
Lihanna remains unmoved. “No.”
“I brought snacks and wine?”
That gets her attention, and she pushes the door open wider. “…is it a Ravelle?”
“Of course,” Wignall says, biting back a scoff at the insinuation that it could be anything but.
“Éclairs from Arter’s?”
He reaches into the bag he has tucked under his cloak, the paper bag crinkling as he grabs it to present it to her. “Who do you take me for?” Wignall asks, arching an eyebrow. He knows he won the moment Lihanna snatches it out of his hand.
“Fine, come in,” she says, barely audible over the sound of her reaching into the bag.
The door clicks shut behind them, and Lihanna plops down on her bed while Wignall grabs two glasses before stealing one of her cushions to sit on the floor at the foot of the bed. “What happened this time?” she asks around a mouthful of pastries.
Wignall wastes no time easing her into it – she knows him well enough by now to expect the worst. “I may have taunted him about Will not paying attention to him… on the same day he saw him with Great Mage Elfaria and which he was quite upset about. Understandably, of course. But when he was leaving, he seemed more on edge than usual, almost like he needed to… get away.” His voice turns embarrassingly choked up towards the end, and he pauses to clear his throat and collect himself.
The memory of Sion not even meeting his eyes as he left in a flurry of stilted responses and tense shoulders is stark in his mind, the ache between his lungs just as piercing as it had been when the door slammed shut behind the fire mage. He had looked so–
“The point is, I’m not quite sure where we stand now,” he says, and it sounds even more pathetic said out loud than it had in his mind.
“Wignall, I don’t know how to tell you this nicely,” Lihanna says after a beat, her gaze bright. “You’re an idiot,” she deadpans before biting into another éclair.
Wignall spares a moment to lament his third year self’s taste in friends, then waves his wand to uncork the wine. “Oh, thank you,” he drawls, sickly-sweet on his tongue as he pours himself a glass. “That truly lifted my spirits. What’s next? You’ll remind me of how I’m still a failure as a healer, too? Or how hopeless my infatuation is?”
“It wouldn’t be if you just confessed,” Lihanna says airily, holding out her own glass with an expectant look.
Wignall barely manages to bite back the frustrated groan bubbling up in his chest. “I just told you!” he cries, and lets himself fall back against the mattress. “He’s still hung up on Will, what good would confessing do? At least like this…”
“He can use you to his heart’s content?” Lihanna asks, though it sounds closer to a statement – quick and stinging like her favoured spells.
Hackles rising, Wignall feels himself tense up. “It’s a mutual a–”
“Mutual agreement, yes, of course,” Lihanna says, waving a dismissive hand at him, a half-eaten éclair held precariously between her elegant fingers. She then turns to face him with a suddenly serious expression. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not hurting you. I still don’t understand what you see in him” – she makes a face, and Wignall doesn’t even bother defending his choices (not like this of all things had been much of a choice, really) – “however, I hate seeing how… torn it leaves you. You’re really not hiding it as well as you think.”
The words make whatever response he was about to give die in his throat. “Do you think he–” he cuts himself off, swallows down the panic at the thought of Sion knowing...
“You’re safe, don’t worry. He’s even more oblivious than you are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Lihanna says – too quickly – but before he could push the matter, she shoves the (almost empty) paper bag in his face. “Now eat. You should have told me right away you brought these and I would’ve let you in.” She gives the last three pastries a wishful look, and Wignall nudges her hand back with a smile.
“Good to know I’m worth less than sweets,” he says dryly. “And I’m not really hungry so…”
Lihanna’s eyes light up. Then, as soon as she realizes she may seem too excited, she schools her expression into one of her usual calm detachment, though a light flush remains high on her cheeks. “More for me, then,” she says, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.
Despite the tight knot still stuck in his throat, Wignall can’t help but let out a laugh. “Lihanna?” he says, and gets a questioning head tilt in response. His chest warms. “Thank you.”
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Somewhere near the Thunder Faction’s secondary training ground, a week after the realization
Almost an entire week passes before Sion runs into Wignall. He sees the out-of-place flash of green just as he’s on his way to the training ground Lihanna had specified in her–
Wait.
“Are you here to meet Lihanna?” Sion asks, sharper than necessary, all things considered, but unable to help it.
Wignall’s posture is tense, his cloak swaying as he takes a step closer to Sion. “I take it you also got her message,” he mutters with a sigh.
“If this is some kind of–”
“Oh, calm down” – Wignall rolls his eyes, unclasps his cloak and turns to walk over to a nearby bench – “she probably just wanted us to stop avoiding each other,” he says, giving Sion an unreadable look over his shoulder.
Sion huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. He should leave. It’s not like anyone is forcing him to–
“Sion? Could we… talk?”
For a brief moment, he thinks about telling Wignall of all the times he’s thought of him this past week, of how he’s not even sure that what he feels for the laggard is anything but a comfortable ache anymore – one he can’t bring himself to let go of.
He shakes his head to rid himself of the idea. As if he were naïve enough to do something that stupid.
“Sure, but make it quick. I don’t have all day,” Sion snaps, watching Wignall smooth down his uniform almost nervously. His teeth grind together, a dense knot forming in his chest at letting someone else do the heavy lifting for him yet again as he waits for Wignall to continue.
The elf clears his throat, more awkward than he’s been around Sion for… quite a while, now that he thinks about it. “About last time. You… Did something happen? Because I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been avoiding me, and it got me thinking and um… maybe you’d like to talk about it? I’m here to listen if–”
“What makes you think I’d want to?” Sion says before Wignall could offer him something he can’t say no to, his grip on his arms tightening. “More importantly, I distinctly remember us agreeing not to drag feelings into this whole thing, so why do you sound like–” he cuts himself off, his voice cracking around the sudden lump in his throat. “…like you care.”
To his credit, Wignall looks straight at him when he says, “Because I do.”
“Well, you shouldn’t,” Sion retorts, but it comes out strained. Too honest.
“And yet…” Wignall’s smile is wry as he hunches in on himself a little. “We don’t exactly pick and choose who we care about, now, do we? For me, it just so happens that you wormed your way deeper than I could have ever expected,” he says, and it sounds oddly fond. He then takes a deep breath, his hands tight in his lap like he’s steeling himself for whatever he’s about to say before giving Sion an apologetic look. “As for the ‘no feelings’ bit, I’m afraid they have been there since the start on my part, and I understand it wasn’t fair of me to agree to our arrangement.” Wignall’s eyes are downcast as he shatters the last of Sion’s composure with the rehearsed-sounding words. “I hope you can forgive me,” he adds, and Sion finds himself frozen in place and staring down at the elf with wide eyes.
“I don’t understand— why would…” He tries to find some semblance of reason in, well, all of this, but is left grasping at empty air filled with more questions than he knows what to do with. His heart is oddly loud in his chest, and he searches Wignall’s face for any hint of deceit.
When Wignall lifts his gaze and meets his, Sion almost stumbles back, the vulnerability in those too-green eyes making his breath catch. There’s hope in them, too – clear and so familiar it would be funny if it wasn’t so pitiful – and he feels like he’s looking into a mirror in the worst way possible.
Sion looks off to the side, his voice an ugly rasp when he speaks. “Why would you do that when you knew how I– how I felt about–” he snaps his teeth shut, still unable to even say it out loud like the coward he is.
“Because it’s you,” Wignall says softly.
Sion has the sudden urge to grab him by the collar and shake him. At least until any of this starts making sense. “What kind of answer is that?” he cries, throwing his hands up and taking a step closer to that infuriating–
“I don’t know,” Wignall says before Sion’s hands reach him, conviction ringing clear and inexplicable in his voice. “But it’s the only one I’ve got.”
Sion lets out a sigh, unable to muster his usual harshness. He’s not sure he even wants to. Instead of responding – not that he has any idea how to reply to… that – he throws himself onto the bench next to Wignall, most likely crinkling his cloak where it gets stuck under him.
“That was the shittiest confession I’ve ever heard,” he blurts out, hyper-aware of how warm his face feels; of the way his heart won’t stop stuttering.
The corners of Wignall’s lips twitch, a ghost of a smile lightening his expression. “You say that like you received any other ones.”
“Oh, shut up,” Sion retorts, but there’s no heat in it beyond the sudden skip in his heartbeat. Before he could talk himself out of it, he reaches out with his left hand and rests it over Wignall’s, blush rising to his ears as he keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead.
There’s a moment of stillness, then slender fingers slip between his own – slow and tentative like Wignall is expecting him to pull away any second.
They are both silent, the sounds of the Thunder Faction’s training echoing in the distance as they teeter on the edge of something new and unfamiliar and guileless–
Wignall gives his hand a gentle squeeze, pulling Sion back to solid ground with the same infuriating hesitance he does everything, and something dangerously close to relief fills Sion’s chest.