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Sion reaches the first stratum in record time.
He hears Colette before he sees her, traces of magic surging around her as she drives back Gohtia forces with brute force and power he hasn’t seen from her before. His chest tightens at the sight – the feeling old and mostly just reflex at this point – but then the moment passes and Sion remembers that the Tower is under attack.
Without thinking, he conjures his new guardian.
The magic is demanding, tearing at his reserves unlike any spell he’d cast before but worth it as he watches the falcon soar ahead and rain fire down on the mage-killer wielding bastards.
He slumps forward with his hands on his thighs to suck in a few ragged breaths, then grits his teeth and continues making his way through the rubble and enemy corpses littering the ground. His leg catches on something soft and he barely manages to steady himself, whirling around on high alert expecting dark robes and a mask, only to see a colourless mage propped up against the remains of a wall.
“P–please,” the man – boy, really, since he can’t be much older than Sion himself – says around a wet cough, lips desperately gasping for air.
Sion is on his knees and next to him before he even realizes what he’s doing, the other’s pure white uniform stained with the Fire Faction’s colours in a way Sion will remember in his nightmares. He presses his palms against the blood–soaked fabric, feels his stomach lurch when the boy’s chest caves in under the pressure and more blood trickles from cracked lips.
“I’ve got you, you hear me? You just have to hold out until help arrives,” he says, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth when that half-lidded gaze meets his.
“I won’t ‘ake it.” The words are so soft Sion is surprised he hears them at all over the helpless rush of blood in his ears, and they make something ugly and hot settle between his lungs.
If he’d managed to get here faster–
“Heed my call, o healing forest. Grow and flourish–”
Sion whips his head towards the too-familiar voice, the incantation falling from Wignall’s lips in a steely tone he hasn’t heard from the elf in a while.
“Alfheim Ringhul,” Wignall calls out, and Sion can feel the ache in his knees disappear as the uneven ground is replaced by impossibly soft grass, the mess of blood and bones under his palms stitching itself back together as the boy sucks in a breath that sounds like he’s come up for air after hours underwater.
He’s looking at Wignall with something close to reverence, and Sion can’t even so much as scoff because that was–
“Incredible…” the other breathes out, patting at his chest in awed relief.
Sion pushes himself to his feet, all of his previous exhaustion seemingly gone, and he makes a mental note to ask Wignall where the fuck he’d been hiding such a spell until now. “If you want to thank him, don’t get killed out there,” he says as he pulls the other to his feet, then shoves him in Colette’s direction. “Now go support them!”
“Y-yes, sir,” the colourless mage manages in a squeak, looking ready to salute him on reflex.
Sion arches an eyebrow at him and he finally sets off to re-join the fight, but just as he moves to follow him, he hears a snort behind himself. He turns around, only to see Wignall bracing himself against a half-crumbled wall.
Sion takes a few steps towards him, but falters when he sees the state the elf is in.
Wignall looks exhausted. His skin is too-pale, hair sticking to his face with sweat and delicate hands trembling at his sides, even as a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. “You certainly took your time getting here,” he says, and Sion feels himself bristle on reflex.
“Well, I’m here now, so you can sit back and relax,” he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest to keep himself from reaching out to steady Wignall. It’s not his fault the idiot looks ready to collapse at any moment. “Don’t you dare get in my way.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be that simple to order me around,” Wignall simpers, the golden trimming of his uniform catching the light as he adjusts his cloak and the–
Sion wordlessly crosses the remaining distance between them before grabbing Wignall’s arm and turning it so that the brooch bearing the Fairy Faction’s emblem on his shoulder is in front of him.
“Sion?” Wignall says, wide-eyed and with a hint of panic bleeding into his voice, which– Sion should probably feel insulted by that.
He shoots the elf a glare as he raises his wand, then mutters a quick Crims Serbe under his breath to destroy whatever mechanism is inside. For good measure, he throws the charred metal on the ground and stomps on it. “There,” Sion says, glancing up at Wignall whose eyes are flickering between Sion’s face and wand and who is… much closer than Sion had thought.
Wignall seems to notice this too as he takes a small step backwards, a dusting of pink on his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
“It was a listening device,” Sion says quickly, a rumble a few streets over serving as a harsh reminder of just where they are and why he shouldn’t be thinking about how unfairly prominent Wignall’s cheekbones are. “Apparently, the Gohtia were the ones spying on us this entire time. Cariott told me just before I headed here from the fifth.”
Wignall’s breath hitches. “Then Julius–”
“Yes,” Sion cuts in before they could go down that road, watches Wignall’s jaw tighten and his lips press into a thin line. “Look, we can wallow in guilt later. Spread the word and destroy as many as you can,” he adds, already turning on his heel to where he felt his guardian take a hit, the wildfire beneath his skin itching for release.
“Would you stop ordering me around?!” Wignall calls after him, and despite everything, Sion feels a faint smirk tug at his lips while he keeps running.
By the time the Gohtia forces retreat, Sion can barely breathe, so worrying about elves that should be able to take care of themselves becomes the last thing on his mind. This doesn’t prevent him from freezing in place when he spots Wignall next to the ruins of what used to be a square, a magic circle quivering at the tip of his wand as two colourless mages and a vaguely familiar woman in Fire Faction black get bathed in the glow of yet another Alfheim Ringhul.
Sion lets out a huff when Wignall smiles at one of them, the expression doing nothing to hide the stiffness of his movements.
As the mages leave, Sion scans his surroundings for someone – ideally Lihanna or the laggard – who’d be willing to make sure the idiot sits down before they have to haul him to the sixth, but comes up empty. He starts making his way over to Wignall with a heavy sigh, only for the elf to suddenly sway on his feet, a dazed look in his eyes as he fumbles for something to lean against, and Sion doesn’t even notice he’s broken into a run until he finds himself standing right in front of him.
Wignall lilts forward and Sion grabs his shoulders on reflex, heat rising to his face when those long eyelashes flutter over glassy green eyes struggling to meet his.
“Sion?”
Sion barely keeps himself from scoffing at the surprise in the other’s tone. “Don’t sound so overjoyed,” he mutters, earning himself another slow blink before some sharpness starts to return to Wignall’s gaze. “Next time, I’ll let you fall flat on your face.”
The words seem to snap Wignall out of whatever daze he’d been in, his lips curling into one of his usual empty smiles as he pulls away from Sion and straightens his back – with more difficulty than the action should require.
“Your assistance was unnecessary,” Wignall says, somehow managing to look poised even with blood and dust all over his uniform. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s still a lot to be done that doesn’t require setting things on fire,” he adds, turning on his heel with a flutter of his hair and cloak behind him, and Sion vows to let him collapse the next time Wignall decides to exhaust his magic on healing every cut and scrape like the fool he is.
Not that he’s expecting Wignall to keep it up, anyway. The rest of his faction will put a stop to such charity soon enough.
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Except it does keep happening.
Fight after fight, whenever his limbs start growing heavy or his vision blurs with blood from an injury he can’t even locate in the adrenaline-fueled haze clouding his mind, Wignall is there, voice curling around that Mercedes-damned spell like some paragon of selflessness and elven superiority.
Worse yet, every time Sion spots him in the post-battle chaos, he looks just like he did during that first attack – skin frost-white and arms shaking like a leaf caught by a Verdes Lana, a weird, floaty look in those green eyes that makes Sion grit his teeth around the worry annoyance coiling low in his gut.
He’s not sure why he’s so hyper-aware of it; knows he should be glad they have a healer in the field at all.
It gets a little better after Julius reappears, his clones much more powerful than before and providing vital support – not that Sion would ever admit so out loud. And while he’s still planning to give the smug asshole a thorough talking-to for letting them believe he was dead, Sion is grateful for the extra bodies on the battlefield.
Bodies that never require healing, which–
Sion doesn’t care. Tells himself the feeling in his chest is just the relief of not having to keep an eye on Wignall as much as before.
And if the elf still looks ready to collapse after every battle, well, he’s only one of many. After all, they’re all doing their part.
(Sion just doesn’t understand why Wignall insists on acting like his is all there is to him.)
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Sion can’t sleep.
His eyes flicker to his newly-issued brooch – lying discarded on his desk next to a Riegel Detector – because how can they be sure the Gohtia aren’t listening in, how do they know someone isn’t trying to get to the Control Panel right this moment–
He lets out a frustrated sound and throws off his blanket. With a flick of his wand, he brings over a fresh pair of socks and a pair of pants, pulling them on before walking over to the coatrack and wrapping his cloak around his shoulders. He grabs the closest pair of shoes and makes his way downstairs, careful to avoid the creaky floorboard in front of Lyril’s room.
When the entrance door closes behind him, Sion lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding. He looks up at the fake sky as he walks through night-empty streets, the late Luchsmoon air nipping at his cheeks and nose hard enough to make him regret not bringing a scarf.
One would think the Fire Faction’s stratum would be warmer than the rest, but alas.
His feet carry him south, the buildings giving way to greenery and ever-blooming red dahlias as he reaches the floor’s gardens. Unwittingly, his eyes catch on the flowers, an odd heat rushing to his cheeks.
‘They represent perseverance’, Wignall had said when he first saw them, one of their group meetings held right here for reasons Sion hadn’t cared to ask after. Those too-green eyes had then flickered to him and ‘a fitting choice’, the elf had added, full of something Sion still hasn’t been able to identify.
Just as the beginnings of annoyance well up in his chest, a sharp intake of breath makes him look up from the flowerbed.
“Sion?” Wignall looks startled, his cheeks and nose bitten red from the cold and a fur-lined cloak draped over his narrow shoulders.
Sion blinks at him. “Did you sleepwalk here or something?”
“No,” Wignall says with a huff, then walks over to sit down on the nearest bench. He winces when his hand touches the white stone and wraps his arms around himself instead, every movement oddly sluggish.
The bench is cold when Sion plops down next to him. “What are you doing here, then?” he asks, glancing at the elf out of the corner of his eye.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Wignall says after a pause, barely above a whisper and sounding like the words are a physical effort to get out. Then, “And this stratum is… less overwhelming.” He’s not looking at Sion, eyes downcast and fixed somewhere in the distance as the moonlight catches on the sharp curve of his cheek.
Sion doesn’t know what to do with the haze in Wignall’s gaze, nor the grim line of his shoulders – can’t quite bring himself to tear his gaze away from either. “That’s one way to say your lot’s floor is gaudy,” he says, relief lodging itself sticky-sweet in his larynx when that faraway look is replaced by flashing green eyes and pursed lips.
“I did not say–” Wignall starts, still in that weirdly subdued tone.
“You didn’t have to,” Sion cuts him off. “Are you okay?” he asks before he could stop himself and has to scramble to make it sound less sincere. “You’re not as snappy as usual, I mean.”
Wignall arches an eyebrow at him. “That’s rich coming from you.”
That’s… fair enough. “Don’t deflect, I’m too tired to take the bait,” Sion says, running a hand through his hair and realizing he forgot to comb the left side back like usual when the loose strands start tickling his cheek and ear uncomfortably.
“Oh, so he is self-aware,” Wignall says brightly, the smile he gives Sion nothing short of smug. He adjusts his cloak a little and lets his eyes wander to the flowerbed behind them. “And I’m fine, just… thinking too much, I suppose.”
They both stay quiet after the admission, the ever-present hum of magic draping over Sion’s skin like a blanket, and he can practically feel the tension bleed out from his limbs as he lets himself breathe in the silence.
A sudden gust of wind disrupts the muted moment, and his hair ends up in his face again. Sion curses under his breath as he tries to tuck the flyaway strands behind his ear, only for them to come loose a second later.
Wignall’s chuckle makes his head swivel towards the elf in the middle of another failed attempt, but before he could tell him off, a cold hand nudges his out of the way and then somehow gets his hair to settle down.
When those slender fingers brush the shell of Sion’s ear, heat floods his face, and Wignall retracts his hand with a cough. “Why aren’t you in bed?” he asks, the tips of his ears glowing bright red as he keeps his gaze fixed on his lap.
“Why? Worried I’m not getting enough beauty sleep?” Sion retorts in a desperate attempt at retaining their usual rhythm.
Wignall gives him a slow once-over that manages to make Sion wish he’d laughed instead. “I’m glad you’re aware that you’re in dire need of it.”
“Have you looked into a mirror recently?” Sion snaps back on reflex.
“Excuse you, it is not my fault your taste lacks refinement,” Wignall mumbles, but he reaches up to comb through his bangs and tucks some of the longer green strands behind his ears in a way that, if Sion didn’t know better, would almost look… self-conscious.
Unfortunately, some of his amusement must show on his face because Wignall shoots him a swift glare before turning back to the front with a huff. He doesn’t stop fiddling with his hair.
Sion lets out a snort that’s entirely unrefined; finds that he can’t quite bring himself to care as he looks up at the sky. “Don’t worry, you’re still pretty,” he says, leaning back on his arms and absently regretting not putting on something long-sleeved when the cold air hits his skin. “You just look like a first year during exam sea–” he tilts his head to look at Wignall, a smirk ready on his lips, only to be met with unblinking green eyes and a truly spectacular blush.
Which is also when Sion’s brain catches up with what he had just said. “I mean– pretty as in, uh, I don’t–”
His words and thoughts of course decide to fail him all at once, and Sion has never wished for Cariott’s overgrown cat to swallow him whole more than in that moment. With any luck, some healing magic would manage to put him together afterwa–
“Wait. Healing magic. You had the same… floaty look on your face when you sat down that you get post-battle!” Sion blurts out, and whatever softness had been on Wignall’s face disappears with a whirl of green as he shoots to his feet to glare down at him.
“If you’re about to lecture me–”
Sion doesn’t let him finish, standing up and wilfully ignoring how Wignall is still taller than him. “You bet your–” his voice dies in his throat when one of those Mercedes-damned flowers behind Wignall catches his eye, that gentle voice saying a fitting choice flashing in his mind and making him bite back a groan. He crosses his arms and lets out a huff, then, “I should. You’d deserve it.”
Wignall scoffs, the sound so ugly it’s like it came from someone else. “Let me guess, I’m not worth the time of the great protégé of Great Mage Cariott himself–”
“You are,” Sion cuts in loudly, and it’s enough to shut Wignall up. “But I came out here to clear my head, not deal with stubborn elves who don’t know when to quit.”
“Pot, meet kettle,” Wignall says dryly.
Sion opens his mouth to argue; closes it just as quickly. “Fair enough,” he settles on with a sigh, rubbing at the back of his neck. Some of his hair comes loose, and he almost wishes Wignall would tidy it again. “Just… don’t make me have to come save your sorry ass because you collapsed from exhaustion or something equally stupid.”
“Duly noted.” There’s a hint of a smile in the words before Wignall turns to walk away, pausing to look back at him over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Sion,” he adds, voice smooth as it curls around his name, and Sion decides to chalk up the fondness in it to the late hour.
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Sion manages to hold out until the last Gohtia mage has stepped through their portal before rounding on a white-clad mage who looks downright refreshed after having Wignall heal a gash on his arm.
“You could’ve dodged that last attack!” He doesn’t bother trying to keep his voice down, stalking towards the Ice Faction member with his magic flaring wildly beneath his skin. For a brief moment, Sion allows himself to indulge in the fantasy of setting the fool’s eyebrows on fire.
Colette makes a grab for him but Sion is quicker, her voice too-loud when it cuts through the post-battle dust. “Sion! Stop, you’re scaring–”
“I don’t care,” he bites out, turning on his heel to face her and some of the braver onlookers. “Wignall’s healing should be a last resort, not– you all keep letting him put you back together again and again and again, taking it for granted like he’s some bottomless magic source!” Sion throws his hand out towards Wignall, his chest tight with something he refuses to name. “Look at him, he’s–”
“Sion.” The call of his name is so strained it makes his teeth snap shut, his gaze shifting to Wignall in helpless frustration.
The elf is leaning on Will for support and looks even more spent from up close. “Everyone is doing their part,” Wignall says – stern; a little desperate. “Mine just so happens to be this, so please refrain from acting like I can’t tell where my own limits lie.”
But you can’t, Sion cries in his mind, the words sticky with worry and clogging up his throat, that’s the problem!
“Besides, you were among those who sustained the most injuries again. Maybe think about that before you berate others next time.” It’s with those words and a weary look that Wignall turns to give the laggard a nod before slowly walking over to where Colette and Lihanna are talking to the mage Sion had yelled at.
For a brief moment, Sion contemplates calling after him, grabbing one of those rich-green sleeves and forcing Wignall to face him, but–
His nails bite into the flesh of his palms as he turns his back to the others and walks away.
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The dust hasn’t even settled when Wignall collapses against the remains of a building.
Sion has half a mind to yell I told you so! at everyone that he rushes past – if only to distract himself from how his heart is pounding against his ribcage like it seems to every time Wignall does something stupid–
For a split second after reaching him, Sion freezes.
Blood is trickling from Wignall’s nose, vibrant and smudged around his lips where the elf must have tried to wipe at it, and it has Sion’s thoughts turning into white noise as his knees hit the ground next to the torn edge of the elf’s cloak.
There are traces of magic lingering in the air all around Wignall, but he feels colder than ever before. Drained.
Without warning and with Sion’s hands still hovering between them helplessly, Wignall hunches in on himself, a horrid, wet cough tearing from his throat that leaves the stone between them flecked with blood.
Sion grabs those trembling shoulders, the panic in his voice foreign to his own ears. “Hey– hey, look at me! You Mercedes-damned idiot, you stupid, stupid–”
He doesn’t even notice his own body shaking until Wignall’s glassy eyes trail up his arms and to his face.
“…Sion?” he murmurs, blinking up at him with clear confusion.
“No, Julius,” Sion snaps, and cleans some of the blood up with the end of his sleeve, his grip on Wignall’s shoulder tightening when the elf lilts forward at the contact. “Do you have a concussion, too?” he asks as he pushes himself into a half-kneeling position before hooking an arm beneath Wignall’s legs and the other around his back.
Wignall’s reply is barely louder than a whisper. “’m fine. Just… empty,” he manages, and lets out a low sound of protest when Sion lifts him.
“Your head is what’s empty, you oversized daisy,” Sion says, and adjusts his hold on the too-light body in his arms, Wignall’s head lolling against his shoulder in a way that has his molars grinding against each other almost painfully. “How much of your magic did you use up, huh? Did you even think–? Oh, wait, of course you didn’t! Because you’re an idiot that doesn’t know when to stop–”
“An’ you’re loud,” Wignall mumbles with a weak little smile on his lips, blood still trickling from his nose and pooling in his mouth.
Sion wishes he had a free hand to wipe the horrible tint away. Wishes he could give what he has left of his own reserves to Wignall to get some colour back into his skin, to pour some warmth into those cold limbs.
“I will drop you,” he bites out instead, brittle with worry. With an all-too-familiar anger. At himself, mostly; at Wignall’s recklessness, too.
If only he’d been–
Wignall makes a noise that under different circumstances, Sion would classify as amused. “You h‘ve so much fire ‘n your mouth,” he mumbles, tongue tripping over the words as he keeps blinking up at Sion blearily. “–an’ a stick up your ass.”
Sion very nearly misses a step.
“You– really? This is what you’re going to waste your breath on?” he asks, the dense knot pressing down on his lungs untangling when Wignall huffs out something that sounds like a chuckle in response. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you swear,” Sion adds after Wignall takes too long to respond, his breathing starting to even out as the cold from his magic-depleted body slowly seeps into Sion’s skin even through his uniform.
Those too-green eyes flutter open. “Don’ get used t’ it,” Wignall says before burying his face into Sion’s shoulder. Then, a muffled, “You sm’ll like smoke. ‘s nice.”
“You are so out of it.”
“Mhmm, I–” Wignall starts, but another harsh cough cuts off whatever he’d been about to say.
Sion doesn’t even realize he’s picked up his pace until the building start to blur around him, mages of all factions moving out of his way as he rushes to the sixth stratum. “Hey, try not to make it worse, yeah? Your faction’s going to fix you right up,” he says into Wignall’s hair, his hold on him tightening to a point that has to be uncomfortable.
“You’re so w’rm,” is the last thing Wignall manages before he goes limp.
“Wignall? Hey, don’t you dare–”
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It takes an entire day for Wignall to wake up.
Sion spends the majority of that time pacing the infirmary’s third floor, then insisting to be let into Wignall’s room – much to the Fairy Faction’s annoyance, made very clear by the glares and scoffs they keep sending his way – and it takes the combined efforts of Lyril and Colette to get him at least down to the cafeteria, Sion, you need to eat something or you might as well take the bed next to his.
It earns them a glare from Sion and an I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t complain about being closer to the elf from Gordon, which– no. Sion refuses to go there.
He wolfs down two platefuls of stew in record time, stomach twisting in on itself more with each minute that passes with him away from Wignall’s bedside.
“It’s not like he’ll get up and leave if you take a minute longer to finish,” Colette drawls, the glint in her eyes much too amused for Sion’s liking. “You can chew, you know,” she adds, pulling a snort from Julius.
Sion – very pointedly – swallows the food in his mouth before giving both of them and the laggard a glare. “I just want to be there when the idiot comes to so that I can yell at him,” he says as he stands up, then reaches for his tray. He has no reason to hurry, but even if it was only a severe case of magic depletion, that doesn’t mean Sion can’t give Wignall a piece of his mind.
“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” Colette says brightly, making Sion’s hands clench around the tray while Will’s eyes flit between them nervously.
Julius lets out a loud scoff. “Leave him be, Colette,” he says, his smirk as infuriating as ever. “The denial is what lets him sleep at night.”
Sion feels his eyebrow twitch but refuses to fall for the bait, turning to leave before they could say anything else.
When he makes it back to the third floor, Lihanna is waiting in front of Wignall’s door.
“They told me he should wake up any moment now,” she says without prompting, and Sion has probably never been more grateful for her no-nonsense attitude as he reaches for the doorknob.
Those sharp blue eyes follow the movement, then Lihanna’s gaze snaps up to his. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she says, and leaves before Sion could so much as open his mouth for a retort.
He watches her disappear behind the nearest corner and runs a hand through his hair with a sigh, trying not to think about what she meant by something stupid – does she expect him to set Wignall’s hair on fire? Not that the idiot wouldn’t deserve it for the stunt he had pulled, but still.
With a shake of his head, Sion pushes the door open, only to almost trip over his feet when Wignall’s eyes – half-lidded and hazy with confusion – meet his.
“…Sion?” Wignall murmurs, his voice an ugly rasp.
The door clicks shut behind Sion with a soft noise, his heart hammering against his ribcage in something that feels dangerously close to relief.
Sion walks over to the bed. “I see not even the Fairy Faction could do anything about your lack of brains,” he says, dropping down onto the chair he had dragged in from the hallway.
Wignall’s lips twitch into a smile. “Yes, you’re Sion, alright.”
“And you,” Sion says, jabbing a finger at Wignall’s chest pointedly. “–are a fucking idiot.”
With a roll of his eyes, Wignall pushes himself up into a sitting position and lets out a hiss. “Did you – ah – really wait for me to wake up just so you could insult me?”
“No, I plan to lecture you, too,” Sion says, trying to ignore the worry coiling between his lungs at Wignall’s pained expression – one that the elf hides with terrible efficiency and a haughty glare. Sion’s chest tightens at the sight, concern souring into frustration as he rounds on the elf. “Do you have any idea what it was like to see you go down like that? Your healing is only useful if it doesn’t kill you in the process, you absolute–”
Wignall doesn’t let him finish. “And do you know what it’s like to watch you or any of the others go down in battle time and time again? If I’m not fast enough–” he cuts himself off, green strands falling limply around his face as he clutches the sheets in trembling hands. “Last time too! You barely took a breath before throwing yourself right back onto the frontline,” he spits, raw and brittle, gaze steely when he looks up at Sion – almost daring him to disagree.
Heart in throat, Sion is unwittingly reminded of how fragile the elf had felt in his arms. How he never wanted to let him drain himself like that again. Still, “It’s not like I can just pause while others are risking their lives!”
“And that’s the problem! You– you insist on protecting everyone, but who protects you?!” Wignall’s voice cracks on the last word in a way that has Sion reaching for those narrow shoulders without thinking, the wet shine of tears in his eyes almost enough to distract him from the admissions falling from Wignall’s lips like glass shards. “You always rush in. Refuse to back down even when– You barely look my way until you do, and I– I just want to keep you safe, because you sure as fuck refuse to let anyone else do it!”
Sion blinks, his heart pounding wildly against his ribcage as Wignall’s words settle in the air between them. “That’s the second time I’ve heard you swear in the past two days,” he says, and lifts his hand to Wignall’s chin to turn his face towards him.
“Well, maybe you human mages are a bad influence,” Wignall grumbles with downcast eyes, refusing to look at Sion even when he moves to sit on the edge of the mattress.
Sion doesn’t let go of Wignall’s face, grips his jaw with clear intent instead – forcing that delicate mouth into a sneer that just makes him want to see how much more he can push the elf before that guarded demeanour of his crumbles.
“I think I like it,” he says, feeling heat rush to his face when Wignall’s eyes snap up to his; when he doesn’t move away even as Sion inches close enough to hear his throat work with his swallow. “Makes you sound less high-and-mighty.”
Wignall’s breath hitches, his voice a lovely rasp when he stutters, “S–Sion, if you come any closer, I–”
Those too-green eyes flicker to his lips – want flashing across Wignall’s face as his skin warms beneath Sion’s fingers – and it’s all he needs to cross the remaining distance between them, slotting his lips over Wignall’s with a desperation he doesn’t even try to hide. That he couldn’t if he wanted to.
Sion crowds Wignall back against the headboard, his free hand settling on a slender thigh and drawing a broken gasp from the elf that sends sparks straight down his spine. He licks into Wignall’s mouth with all the helpless frustration of the past few months simmering beneath his skin, the elf pliant and warm and perfect as he clutches at Sion’s soiled uniform – the dark fabric still smattered with dried blood and the grime of yesterday’s battle.
He pulls back just enough to look at Wignall’s face, grinning when it earns him a sound of dismay. “If I had known it was this easy to shut you up–”
Wignall tugs him into another kiss before he could finish, insistent and full of something Sion had been too blind to see for what had to have been months.
“You’re infuriating,” Wignall says, harsh against Sion’s mouth. “All pride and fire and... But then you started caring, and I didn't know what to do with that.”
Sion presses a kiss to the edge of Wignall’s jaw, then wraps an arm around that slim waist to pull him against his chest.
“I care,” Sion mumbles into messy green strands. They’re not the words pressing down on his lungs, the feeling pulsing with each heartbeat and leaving him swallowing around a realization-dry throat. “More than I know what to do with.”
Wignall lets out a chuckle, his exhale warming the skin of Sion’s neck. “We'll just have to learn, then.”