Archive of Our Own

“Oh, come on,” Gordon scoffs, pointing his fork at Sion accusingly. “It’s not like we’ve ever seen you actually woo someone–”

Sion opens his mouth, ready to argue, but Gordon talks over him without pause.

“–and no, asking someone for a dance at one of your fancy galas doesn’t count. I mean a proper ‘go out with me’. Or did the Colette thing–”

“Okay, fine I get it!” Sion snaps before anything else can be brought up, his hand itching to grab his wand and shut this whole conversation down with a swift Dragos Nowl.

He won’t, of course, but only because the owner of the café deserves better than having to deal with a burned-down building. And maybe he’d miss the honey cakes they serve here – no one needs to know that, though.

“But I would still fare better than you,” he adds, because if he can face down Cariott's oversized feline of a guardian, then by Mercedes he's not going to back down in an argument against Gordon fucking Baret.

Before his fellow Fire Faction mage could reply, Lyril lets out a low hum that draws both of their attention. “I wouldn’t underestimate the power of the Ulster name if I were you,” he says, arching an eyebrow at Gordon as he takes a sip of his coffee.

Gordon seems thoughtful for a moment, then suddenly turns back to grin at Sion with a devilish glint in his eyes. “Prove it, then,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest and looking beyond proud of himself.

“And how, pray tell, would you like me to do that?” Sion doesn’t even bother trying to keep the disdain from his tone; knows that whatever will come out of the other’s mouth will be headache-inducing at the least.

Lyril is already giving Gordon his patented eyebrow of judgement, and Sion mentally readies himself for the impeding loss of brain cells.

“It's simple, really. Ask out the next person that walks in that's from a family of the same or higher standing than yours,” Gordon says, self-satisfied grin still firmly in place as he leans back in his seat.

Sion rubs at his temples with a sigh. “Are we really going to sit here for hours just to–”

He's interrupted by the chime of the entrance bell.

“That was almost concerningly well-timed,” Lyril says quietly, and Sion lifts his gaze to look at the disbelief on his face, then the glee on Gordon's, before finally shifting his attention to the door.

He sees the pointed ears first, the familiar fall of green second, and he barely manages to keep himself from burying his face in his hands. His heart is somewhere in his stomach, the heat of a blush already an uncomfortable weight on his skin as he says goodbye to his dignity.

Wignall gives him a nod of acknowledgement and sits down at the small corner table, most likely to wait for Lihanna.

Gordon pats Sion’s shoulder in mock-sympathy. “An elf is even better honestly – Ulster or not, it won't have any effect here. Now off you go, my liege,” he says, making a grand sweeping motion and almost knocking his drink off the table in the process. “Time to put your money where your mouth is.”

Sion smiles through gritted teeth. He feels his eyebrow twitch at Lyril's badly hidden snicker and places his hands onto the table sharply. “If he says yes, you’ll take care of every errand Logwell gives me for a month,” he says, quiet enough for no one else to hear.

“If he rejects you, you'll do that and my laundry for two,” Gordon responds with a laugh and holds his hand out.

Sion winces, curses his stubbornness, and gives Gordon's hand a firm shake. “Deal.”

So. There's no way Wignall is going to say yes.

With heavy shoulders, Sion gets up from the table, mentally kicking himself for sabotaging one of the two civil relationships he has within Lihanna’s party.

Honestly, the almost indifference between Wignall and him had been a welcome respite from the emotional tax of being constantly exposed to the laggard and Colette, from the irritation bubbling up in his chest whenever Julius opens his mouth, and he still can’t believe he’s about to do something this stupid–

Each step he takes towards where Wignall is sitting feels heavier than the last, and Sion wills himself to ignore the stares burning the back of his neck.

He comes to a stop at the other's table and swallows thickly.

Wignall has yet to look up at him, seemingly so engrossed in the book in his hands that he's oblivious to someone standing right next to him.

Sion squares his shoulders a little, then clears his throat.

The reaction is instantaneous, and Sion barely bites back a laugh at the way Wignall jumps in his seat before giving him a wide-eyed look. “Sion? I didn't quite see you there,” he says with a slightly awkward chuckle, marking the page he's on and putting the book down.

Despite the situation he’s managed to land himself in, Sion lets out a quiet snort. “I kind of figured.”

“Can I help you with something?”

“Yes, actually,” Sion replies immediately, not giving himself time to back out. “I wanted to… well, uhm, ask you something,” is what he manages, his voice more of a mumble than he would've liked. Despite his best efforts, he feels heat filling his face, and he can only hope he doesn't look as ridiculous as he feels.

He clears his throat again at Wignall's curious head tilt, trying to force himself to meet the other's eyes – distantly, he realizes he somehow never noticed just how ridiculously green they are.

Wignall arches an eyebrow at him. “Sion?” he asks, a gentle nudge.

The moment Gordon’s smug face flashes in his mind, it gives him the push he needs. “Go on a date with me,” Sion blurts out and promptly dies a little on the inside. “I mean– would you? Go on a date with me?”

Sion is already calculating the time he needs to wake up at to fit Gordon's Mercedes-damned laundry into his schedule, when he's brought back to the present by a quiet chuckle falling from Wignall's lips.

His eyes catch on the dusting of pink across high cheekbones and the – dare Sion say it – almost… bashful look on the elf’s face. Pleased, even.

“Yes, I would,” Wignall says, and it makes Sion freeze where he had been ready to turn on his heel and bolt for the door.

He blinks at Wignall slowly, waiting for the punchline or for him to start laughing or something. When he doesn't, Sion tries to figure out where he's supposed to go from here and makes a mental note to give Gordon a piece of his mind about vague bet conditions later.

Sion is also pretty sure his mouth is still hanging open, and what even is this situation—

“Okay,” is what comes out of his mouth, surprisingly composed. “I wasn't expecting that response, so,” he continues, and realizes he's not even lying this time. “–we could talk about the details after the meeting tomorrow?”

Wignall gives him a tentative smile. “I'd like that,” he says, and Sion is saved from having to come up with a way to excuse himself by someone walking into the café.

He glances at the entrance only to see Lihanna already headed towards them with a hint of confusion in her gaze as the bell placed above the door quivers to a stop.

“I'll leave you to it,” Sion says when she reaches them, then points behind himself at the two idiots he unfortunately thinks of as friends. “Those two are going to be even more annoying than usual if I keep them waiting longer.”

Wignall gives him a smile, but Sion turns around before Lihanna could start asking questions.

No, he's not running away. If anything, it’s a mere tactical retreat to save himself from more embarrassment.

Sion makes a motion at Lyril and Gordon that he hopes translates into ‘let's leave, and quickly’, his mind still stuck trying to comprehend Wignall’s response as he leaves enough coins to pay for all three of them on top of the white tablecloth.

“I hope you look forward to your new duties, Baret,” he says as soon as they step outside.

The taste of victory is short-lived, however, as instead of whining and grumbling about his loss, Gordon gives him a grin that somehow looks even more troubling than earlier. The taller mage then throws an arm around his shoulders, and Sion’s stomach sinks.

“Four months of doing your errands and laundry if you actually get through an entire date without him storming off,” Gordon says, the challenge in his eyes clear as day.

Sion spares a moment to lament his inability to back down – somewhere at the back of his mind, he hears his mother’s exasperated voice telling him his pride is louder than his reason and no, Sion, darling, that is not a good thing.

“You know what? Deal,” he says, feels his grin sharpen as he shakes Gordon’s hand with a decisiveness he knows is only temporary. “I hope you look forward to all the archive sorting you'll soon be doing, Baret.”

Lyril gives them both the judgmental eyebrow of doom. “I feel like it needs to be said that this is a bad idea,” he says, and deep down, Sion knows he’s right.

“For all you know, he already suspects something is up and is just pulling Sion's leg,” Gordon drawls with a laugh, and Lyril immediately follows up with his own ideas of why Wignall said yes that have Sion scrambling to try and defend himself.

─────────────────

Somehow, inexplicably, the date goes… well.

Sion fights the urge to put a question mark at the end of that thought, his face still uncomfortably warm from the kiss Wignall had pressed to his cheek before they parted.

Because that’s a thing that happened. A mere couple of minutes ago. Certainly not long enough for his skin to stop tingling where those surprisingly soft lips had touched it – Wignall’s gaze refusing to meet his as he mumbled out a hasty goodbye and set off towards his own stratum.

Dazed, Sion makes his way to the door, the dorm building looming in front of him. His mind is whirling with how good Wignall’s undivided attention had felt, the way those green eyes had lit up when Sion let him try his meat skewer before his face flushed bright red, tears springing to his eyes as the spiciness hit and–

“Well, I’ll be damned,” a too-loud and unfortunately familiar voice calls out from the common room. Gordon is grinning at him over the back of the couch, the look on his face expectant. “You made it back in one piece.”

Lyril appears in the doorway and gives Sion a quick once-over. “So? How did it go?” he asks, walking over to one of the armchairs and nodding towards the empty space on the couch.

Sion throws them both a sharp look, then plops down and crosses his arms over his chest with a huff. “It went fine.”

Gordon nudges his thigh with his foot, thick eyebrows wiggling ridiculously. “Oh, come on! We deserve more than that. What did you do? Where did you go?”

“We just walked around the Night Market,” Sion says, and the looks they send him make it clear that it’s still not sufficient. He groans, sinking into the cushions as he glares at them. “Neither of us has ever actually had any of the food there and Serfort swears by it, so we figured we might as well try. It was… surprisingly adequate. We talked. I paid. Happy now?”

Lyril pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. “Ah, they grow up so fast,” he says, and Sion considers setting his hair on fire right then and there.

Gordon nods empathically in response, stroking an imaginary beard as he lets out a long hum. “Mhmm, the twinkling lights, a relaxed atmosphere but not too intimate, sharing food… not bad at all,” he muses out loud, and Sion would already be telling him to shut the fuck up, Baret if he wasn’t so busy remembering how the warm light of the lanterns had made Wignall’s skin glow, how he stuck closer to Sion than he normally would to avoid bumping into anyone, how–

“I didn’t think you had it in you, honestly,” Gordon adds, snapping Sion out of his reverie.

Lyril turns to Gordon with a mock-sympathetic look on his face. “We shall remember you fondly once you disappear under yours and Sion’s combined workload,” he says, and the words hit Sion like a bucket of ice-cold water.

His hands clench at his sides, the bite of his fingernails sharp enough to pull his attention away from the heavy feeling in his chest.

“Don’t write me off just yet,” Gordon says, and his tone spells nothing but trouble as he grins at Sion. “If you get him to–”

“Gordon.” Lyril’s voice holds a note of warning.

Gordon waves him off without pausing. “–ask you to the Fonsoria, then I’ll do your laundry for a year.”

“I don’t…”

“Oh? Are you perhaps sweet on him already?”

“No! Of course not,” he says, maybe too quickly. “I don’t understand why I should bother with this any further, is all. I made it through the d–date, so just accept your loss.”

Mercifully, Gordon ignores Sion’s stutter. “I mean, I don’t blame you for hesitating – he’s obviously too pretty for you. Probably has more than enough suitors for the banquet already. Either way, I guess I’ll get ready to be at Logwell’s beck and call and you can–”

“Okay, deal,” Sion says before he could really think about it, his mind having screeched to a halt at Gordon’s words. The too pretty for you keeps echoing inside his brain, unpleasant with how hot it makes his chest feel.

Lyril’s hand on his shoulder stops his train of thought. “Sion, wouldn’t it be better to tell him before–”

“Why would I even need to tell him? I’ll turn him down when he asks me, and that’s it,” he scoffs, then pushes himself to his feet and levels Gordon with a glare. “You’d better be ready to lose.”

─────────────────

“Fuck,” Gordon says as soon as the door to Sion’s room slams shut, audible even over the three stories currently between them.

Lyril looks ready to throttle him. Not that he blames him. “‘Fuck’ is right, you colossal idiot,” he says, pointing an accusing finger at Gordon. “What were you thinking?”

“Sion never would have agreed to the date if he wasn’t at least attracted to him, so I just wanted to goad him into realizing it! Not this! Oh, Mercedes help him he’s going to fuck it all up,” Gordon says, and buries his face in his hands in despair. He just wanted to give Sion a nudge in the right direction, not… this.

“Yeah but he’s also stupid when it comes to feelings, so I don’t know what you were expecting, honestly. It’s like his brain switches off whenever someone insinuates he can’t do something.” Lyril throws his hands up and starts pacing in front of the couch. “Do we tell the elf? Maybe if we explain…”

Gordon raises his head, meeting Lyril’s half-hopeful expression with a sigh. “No, he wouldn’t take it well. I think. Sion has to be the one to tell him. Or he could realize how stupid this all is and call off the bet to ask Wignall out for real, but…”

“It wouldn’t be Sion if he made things easy,” Lyril sighs, and Gordon can’t help but silently agree.

“Fuck,” Gordon says again, with extra feeling. He sees Lyril pinch the bridge of his nose out of the corner of his eye and is inclined to believe he shares the sentiment. He lets himself sink into the couch cushions, unable to help the dread that overcomes him when he thinks about the mess he’s made.

─────────────────

Sion leans forward a little, Wignall’s almost-pout making the corners of his own lips twitch with the urge to smirk. “You really think Cariott would beat the Erleaf Canaan in a duel? Shouldn’t you be on your own faction’s side?”

They’re thankfully seated at a corner table, the chandeliers’ light glinting off the ornate décor of the ceiling above and Sion’s back to the nearest table so no one can see how he fails to keep a flat expression the more animated Wignall becomes.

“We’re discussing a hypothetical situation. If it were a real battle with no restrictions, then nothing could match fantasy magic, of course,” Wignall says, a little testy and very entertaining – both things that Sion never would have expected from him.

He stirs his tea before taking a sip, and Sion catches himself staring at his throat as he swallows, his own mouth parting to suck in a sharp breath.

Wignall places his cup down, its bottom clinking against the delicate porcelain of the saucer. “Besides, even a well-cast Inanis Lana can be enough to incapacitate a much stronger foe. Imagine how many useful spells we miss out on due to the Academy’s insistence on only using golems as training dummies.” The way he says it sounds like something he’s discussed before, and Sion imagines Wignall talking to Lihanna with the same earnest expression, his bangs brushing the slightly flushed skin of his cheeks with every movement of his hands.

The thought makes a strange knot tighten beneath his sternum – right where the last pair of true ribs connect to the bone.

Sion leans back in his chair, pushing the feeling down to be revisited later. Or never, ideally. “Agreed on the praxis dummies, I think they should’ve had us sparring more.”

Wignall lets out an amused huff. “Of course you do,” he says, and it’s only the fondness in his voice that makes Sion bite back the retort he could already taste on the tip of his tongue.

“I’ve never heard of that spell, though. Sounds like wind magic, but that’s as far as my guess goes,” is what he says instead, desperate to get rid of the weird warmth in his chest.

When Wignall doesn’t immediately continue, Sion raises an eyebrow at him before lightly nudging his leg under the table. The contact seems to snap the elf out of whatever place his thoughts have wandered off to, but the smile he shoots Sion is strained, the usually pristine slope of his shoulders suddenly drawn in.

“Oh, it’s an, uh, a spell my kin wouldn’t approve of…” Wignall lifts his gaze from the marble tabletop, hesitant and shadowed by the thick fall of his lashes, flitting from Sion’s face to his hands as if gauging his reaction.

Sion keeps himself from frowning in response, the nervous air around Wignall reminding him of how Lyril used to be when he first met him – afraid of saying the wrong thing, always expecting scorn. Instead of pressing Wignall about the matter, Sion leans over and taps the side of his wrist with what he hopes is a reassuring look.

Another beat passes, but then Wignall’s posture loosens somewhat, and he gives Sion a small smile. “It cuts off the airflow to an opponent’s lungs, though one has to be within a certain radius to cast it with enough precision, so it really is more hit-or-miss than anything,” he says, voice easing back into its earlier lilt.

Sion grimaces. “Remind me not to get on the Wind Faction’s bad side, yeah?”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t use it on you.” Wignall is still smiling as he says it, the curl of his lips just shy of patronizing as he hands Sion his fork.

Sion raises an eyebrow at him and cuts off a piece of the honey cake slice between them. “Am I supposed to take offence at that?”

“Take it as you wish, Lord Ulster,” Wignall drawls, now fully back to his usual self. Or well, the version of him that Sion gets to see during these… outings. The one that he finds himself wanting to spend more time with.

He resists the urge to shake his head to rid himself of the thought. “See, now that just sounds wrong. Don’t make me think of my father when we’re– uh, on a…”

“Oh, my.” Wignall’s tone is positively delighted, elegant fingers twirling a lock of his hair around as he rests his chin in his palm. “Are you perhaps still too shy to call it a date?”

Sion feels heat rush to his face, unseemly as ever. “You– shut up! If I recall correctly, you were the one who was a blushing mess last time,” he says, and points his fork at Wignall accusingly before showing another piece of cake into his mouth.

He doesn’t like how that single word instantly reminds him of the bet.

It makes a clammy, mud-like feeling settle low in his gut, forcing everything else aside with terrible ease. Because Sion should be trying to woo Wignall, not discussing duels and spells with him like they’re merely two third years debating their favourite Magia Vander. He shouldn’t be letting the elf fluster him or worry him or–

For the briefest moment, Sion considers telling Wignall about the bet right then and there, but then he makes the mistake of glancing up from the plate and taking in the wide-eyed look Wignall is giving him, the way his arms flail as he sits up straighter in his seat with his ears twitching endearingly.

“I was not– that was different!” Wignall cries, visibly trying to compose himself and failing.

Throwing propriety and years of etiquette lessons out of the window, Sion rests his elbows on the table and leans forward with a smirk. “Different how? Because it certainly seemed like you were flustered to me.” He finally feels like he’s regained some footing, and he drops his voice into a low drawl to add, “Even though it was you who kissed me after I had bid you goodnight.”

“No! I mean, I did but– I’m just trying to say it’s difficult to maintain my composure when…” Wignall trails off, and starts fiddling with the ends of his sleeves as he averts his gaze.

In the next moment, the background murmur of the café crests when a group of Wind Faction members enters, more than one pair of eyes straying to their table as they walk past – mild-disinterest turning into something decidedly appreciative when they land on Wignall.

It leaves a sour taste in Sion’s mouth and an ugly heat in his chest, his hand clenching involuntarily around the smooth silver of the fork’s handle.

Just as he’s imagining setting all of their robes on fire, Wignall clears his throat, drawing Sion’s attention back to himself.

“…your voice. I– it’s really pleasant, alright?!” Wignall’s eyes flicker up to meet his, ears flushed bright red and almost flat against his head, the slightest hint of a pout on pink lips as he practically dares Sion to make fun of him.

Not that Sion could if he wanted to. His brain is empty save for Wignall’s words, face burning hot enough that it has to be visible. “Why do you say that like an insult?!” he retorts on reflex.

“It’s not! You–” Wignall clamps his mouth shut and his gaze turns accusing. “You’re just fishing for compliments now, admit it.”

Sion almost throws his hands up in frustration. “No, I’m not,” he says, slow and level as he wills his heartbeat to slow down. He never would have expected Wignall to–

Sion’s voice is normal – not as deep as his younger self would have wanted, but not high, either. It’s… fine. Adequate.

Certainly not worthy of putting that… expression on Wignall’s face.

“Wait, was my voice the reason you said yes when I asked you out?”

“I mean, it certainly wasn’t your sparkling personality,” Wignall says, his usual attitude and mock-polite smile back.

Sion’s eyebrow twitches and he snatches up the rest of the cake, making sure to chew extra harshly. “Why, thank you.”

“Though, I do have to admit that you clean up rather nicely.”

“Oh.” Sion tries to will down the blush already warming his face – knows he fails when Wignall’s smile widens. His eyes flicker from Wignall’s raised eyebrows to the high collar hugging his neck, the subtle embroidery decorating the doublet drawing Sion’s attention to the way it wraps around the elf’s narrow waist. “That’s… you’re not too shabby either,” he mumbles, his own shirt’s collar suddenly constricting.

Wignall’s expression eases into something Sion can’t quite identify. “Well, look who’s a blushing mess now.”

“I will end you,” he retorts, flat as he can make it.

“But then who would tell you that it’s really quite a becoming look on you? Red truly is your colour,” Wignall says, his eyes flickering to the empty plate, then to the nearby tables likely in search of a waiter.

“How original.” Sion can feel the corners of his lips twitching up even as he tries to cover it up with a scoff. “Just you wait, I’ll catch you off guard one of these days.”

“Mhmm, I’m looking forward to it.”

─────────────────

Lyril catches him just as he’s leaving his room. “Heard you went on another date,” he says, and Sion swivels towards him.

“How the fuck– I got back twenty minutes ago!” He pinches the bridge of his nose, holding up his palm to keep Lyril from replying. “No, you know what? I’m not even going to ask – Carriot called me in for a meeting, so that’s enough of a headache for today.” Sion turns back to his door and locks it, then walks over to the staircase.

Lyril falls into step beside him and gives him an unimpressed look. “You were literally the one asking me to keep an ear out for anything suspicious right after we graduated. Besides, it’s always important to have connections,” he says airily, lips pulled into a smirk as they step outside.

“More like you just enjoy knowing all the gossip,” Sion mutters, and glances back to check if the door closed properly behind them – he’ll be damned if he lets any seniors use the opportunity to snoop around – since one of the new recruits had managed to wrench it open hard enough that sometimes the self-locking mechanism doesn’t take, and an artificer has yet to arrive to repair it.

It also makes one wonder where the surplus he had spied in the annual accounts last year went if their faction can’t even afford to fix a Mercedes-damned door.

“Fair enough,” Lyril chuckles, stopping when they reach the end of the street and pointing behind himself. “I’m headed to the first to meet up with Gordon and Jorhua for drinks, and they’ll have my head if I don’t bring news, so…” He grins, and Sion knows he’s not going to like whatever comes out of his mouth next. “How was the date?”

Sion stiffens on reflex, but recognizes when something is futile and so he crosses his arms with a huff. “It was fu– fine. It went… fine.”

Fun is what he’d been about to say, and the realization is jarring enough that Sion barely even notices the lack of teasing for his slip up.

He must make some kind of face because Lyril’s gaze turns serious. “Sion,” he starts, pausing while a group of older mages passes by, then heaves a sigh before looking at Sion with determined eyes. “You know you can tell him, right? You don’t have to wait until the banquet to–”

Whatever Lyril is trying to tell him becomes irrelevant the moment the word banquet registers in Sion’s mind. “Shit,” he spits out, dragging a hand over his face. “I forgot to pick up my mom’s gown for the Kilgard gala. And I don’t have any free afternoons left this week.”

“Ramoux on a weekend? Good luck,” Lyril drawls with zero sympathy in his voice, and Sion could swear he wasn’t always this much of a little shit. Then, “You should take your elf as moral support.”

Sion’s face warms. “He’s not my– oh, shut up.” He throws Lyril a glare that stopped being effective nearly a decade ago before… actually considering his words.

It’s not like it’s an entirely bad idea. It would let Sion kill two birds with one stone, for one, but–

He clears his throat and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Since I’ll be near anyway, do you want me to take something to your mom’s office?” he asks, because like hell is he going to contribute to Lyril’s head getting any bigger.

“I’ll let you know if I do. Think about what I said, though,” Lyril says, his grin knowing, and turns his back to Sion before he could so much as open his mouth for a response. “–and don’t forget that you owe me for the date idea,” he calls out with an infuriatingly lax wave, not even bothering to look back at Sion over his shoulder.

“You–!”

─────────────────

The streets of Rigarden are bustling, people stepping too close to his toes for comfort every other moment, and Sion wholly regrets waiting until the last minute to pick up his mother’s order.

Her favoured boutique was positively swarming when he and Wignall got there, and it was only thanks to the magimemo he had sent in advance that Louise had his package ready by the time they arrived. Under different circumstances, Sion wouldn’t have been so keen to leave, but he didn’t want to subject Wignall to the noblewomen’s matchmaking tendencies.

He would never understand why they thought he would spontaneously say yes to ‘dinner with my niece, Lord Sion, she’s such a lovely girl and I’m sure our families could benefit from a potential union’.

One of them does manage to sneak up on him, but it thankfully turns out to be Countess Riegel just wanting to inquire about Syrene’s health.

“I didn’t know you have a sister?” Wignall half-asks once they’ve stepped back outside, the throngs of shoppers still too dense for Sion’s liking.

“Yeah, her name’s Syrene and she’s a little menace,” Sion says as they step off the main road. “Could always see right through me. If she had attended the Academy, I’m pretty sure she would have ruined my reputation within the first week.” The words are out his mouth before he realizes what he’s said, and his steps falter slightly.

Wignall doesn’t seem to notice it, his head tilted back to look at the clear sky above them. “She sounds like a delight. I sometimes wish Ellenor acted more like her younger self. She used to be so small and sweet.” His voice takes on a wistful note towards the end, green eyes fluttering closed for a moment before he shakes his head as if to dismiss a thought.

“No offense, but I can’t picture your faction leader being sweet,” Sion blurts out, and it startles a chuckle out of Wignall.

“None taken,” he says with a hand over his mouth, eyes bright and crinkled at the corners. “Though I imagine her and Colette would have gotten along back then. Will too, if…”

“If your people weren’t such snobs?”

“Hey, that’s–”

Sion huffs out a laugh, cutting Wignall off before they could delve into that tired topic. “Syrene would get along with all of you.” He kicks a stray pebble out of the way and absently notes a smudge in the polished leather of his shoes; isn’t sure why he adds, “Much better than me.”

“Sion…” Wignall gives him a look that’s all concern – lips pursed and brows furrowed in a way that has Sion staring at the pavement like it’s the most interesting thing around.

A movement at the edge of his vision makes him glance at Wignall out of the corner of his eye, the elf’s hands hanging between them awkwardly like–

“So, which store to next?” Sion says, and grimaces at how clumsy of a topic change it is. He really needs to get a grip.

Wignall, of course, doesn’t let him. “What does she like?”

“Huh?”

“Your sister,” Wignall clarifies, polite enough to not comment on Sion’s earlier slip-up. “You should pick something out for her.”

The way he says it is so… earnest that it makes Sion pause. And since he’ll be going home anyway– “I saw her embroidery the last time I visited,” he says before he could talk himself out of it. He keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead. “But I’m not sure whether she actually enjoys it. I remember how much she used to complain about constantly pricking her fingers when she was younger, so maybe she’s forcing herself to–” he cuts himself off, his hand tightening around the gift bag’s silk strap and most likely crinkling it beyond help.

“Sion?” Wignall asks, and it’s nothing but gentle. Patient.

If nothing else, Sion can try.

“She’s been ill for a long time, you see.” He swallows thickly, discomfort nipping at his skin like a stray lightning spell. “Would constantly tell me to go play with my friends or train or anything else, as if–” Sion meets Wignall’s eyes and manages to force some firmness into his voice. “I’m just worried she still thinks she’s a burden for our parents. Pretending like she’s fine all the time and doing everything they suggest to make them worry less.”

Wignall stays quiet for a long moment, doesn’t ask for details or offer empty solaces with that mock-sympathetic almost-frown all nobles seem to have perfected – their pity as hollow as everything else that comes out of their mouths.

When Wignall breaks the silence, it’s with a tentative, “How about crocheting, then?” When Sion doesn’t immediately react, he adjusts his sleeves nervously, ears twitching where they’re half-hidden behind the intricate braids looping around Wignall’s head and trailing down his back.

Absently, Sion finds himself wondering who had helped Wignall with them, his fingers twitching with a sudden urge to touch.

“Lihanna once told me about a cousin of hers who lost the ability to walk during a mission and was always restless unless he had something to keep his hands busy.” Wignall takes a step closer and pries the bag from Sion’s grip with careful fingers. “And from what you said, she strikes me as someone who would enjoy making things for others. Regardless of where that desire comes from, it might still be something that brings her joy,” he says, still in that lilting tone as he looks up at Sion.

Too-green eyes blink at Sion before a flash of panic crosses Wignall’s face, and he scurries back like he’s just realized how close they were standing. “I apologize if I– I didn’t mean to overstep.”

Sion bites at the inside of his cheek, something stuck sticky and hot in his larynx. “…it’s not a bad idea.” He chances a glance at Wignall’s expression and crosses his arms over his chest with a scoff at the amusement that greets him. “Lead the way, then, your Excellency.”

The only response Wignall graces him with is an exaggerated eye roll, but he helps Sion pick out yarn and needles, anyway, and argues so vehemently against the blood red gift box Sion finds that he ends up buying a powder blue one just to appease him.

Sion doesn’t remember the bet at all until well past midnight, and when the realization does hit him, it is even worse than before. The pressure in his chest persists, and he considers banging his head against the headboard to rid himself of thoughts of quicksilver smiles and gentle hands.

He doesn’t sleep much that night.

─────────────────

Following a, very nearly disastrous, run-in with Gordon and Lyril in his hurry through the fifth stratum, Sion makes his way to the building specified in Wignall’s magimemo.

The reason he says disastrous is because he did, in fact, set Gordon’s cloak on fire after a comment about Sion ‘rushing to his beau like a hungry Lantadotl’, but managed to round a corner before Logwell started berating Gordon for his still-smoking attire. Which, serves him right.

Still, the last thing Sion would have expected is to find himself leafing through Fairy Faction reports.

“Anyway, what is it that you called me here for besides helping you sort through paperwork? I have things to do other than be at your beck and call, you know,” Sion says, unable to muster the usual bite in his voice as he takes in Wignall’s thoroughly ruffled appearance.

Wignall brushes his bangs back from his forehead with a heavy sigh, the strands falling back limply while some keep sticking up in a way that reminds Sion of the red spider lilies near his mother’s favourite pavilion. “Oh, excuse me for interrupting you during what I assume was your daily arson session,” Wignall needles, mock-serious. He finally puts his quill down and turns to Sion. “I have to go down to town to pick up a shipment of new uniforms from Les Ailes, so I was wondering if you would like to accompany me. I’ll treat you to fairy floss for your troubles.”

A strange warmth fills Sion’s chest. He had off-handedly mentioned needing to replace a shirt maybe once, and yet Wignall…

But the moment his brain catches up with the elf’s last sentence, he feels his stomach drop. “W–why would I want fairy floss?! Who gave you that idea?” It must have been Lyril. The little shit has suspected Sion’s secret ever since he found his marshmallow stash in the dorm’s–

“You are so obvious,” Wignall says, not even bothering to hide his amusement. “You think I didn’t notice how you inhaled that honey cake last week? Although to tell you the truth, I realized it back when Lihanna first called all of us to Knight, and you were the only one besides her who even touched the dessert trays.” He gives Sion another knowing look while fastening his uniform cloak, the golden trimming catching the light streaming in through the window.

Sion crosses his arms over his chest. “Maybe I was just being polite,” he mutters, and pretends to study the greenery decorating seemingly every free inch of the office.

“Sure. If those weren’t the most cavity-inducing treats in the whole of Rigarden,” Wignall drawls with an arched eyebrow. “Their tea is excellent, though, it’s a shame you didn’t try it last time.”

Sion opens his mouth to retort, realizes he doesn’t have one, then promptly closes it and glares at Wignall instead.

“Now, don’t make that face. There’s no shame in having a sweet tooth. Honestly, it’s… quite charming,” Wignall says, smile easing into something Sion doesn’t dare look at for too long.

Then Wignall’s words register in his mind and he almost chokes on his tongue. “Charming?”

“That is what I just said, yes. Now come on before Master Erlan catches me slacking off.” Wignall doesn’t bother to wait for a response, walking ahead like he’s certain Sion will follow him.

(He does.)

By the time they’ve made their way to ground level, Sion has somewhat made peace with the fact that Wignall has an ace up his sleeve against him now, but as they walk down the familiar path to the store, a thought keeps nagging at him.

“Shouldn’t someone else be doing this? I mean… your faction could have gotten anyone from the first stratum to pick those up,” he says before he could really think about it, and watches Wignall’s shoulders stiffen as he gives Sion a strained smile.

“Oh, it’s… you know.” There is something too close to resignation in Wignall’s voice for comfort, the way he hunches in on himself slightly making Sion’s jaw tighten. “The majority of my faction wasn’t particularly happy about having to let me join in the first place. In their eyes, I’ll always be a disgrace, so when there aren’t sufficient opportunities to tell me outright, they make sure to remind me in other ways.”

Sion blinks at him slowly. “A disgrace? You?” His voice comes out in an incredulous half-shout as he resists the urge to grab Wignall by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. “Why? You were the second–”

“Second best in our grade, yes,” Wignall cuts in with that same hollow smile. “But have you never noticed how no other elf ever stayed at the Academy for more than a year or two? I was the only one of my kin to ever need the full six years to reach the Tower,” he says, and although he tries to keep his tone light, it sounds like he’s reciting something he knows by heart.

Sion had never noticed, no, but now that Wignall has said it, he realizes that it is true.

He’s also never been good at comfort or platitudes, so he does what he’s always done and scoffs loudly before saying, “You just have to show the arrogant pricks how wrong they were to doubt you.”

“I thought I was an ‘arrogant prick’ too?” Wignall asks, the furrow between his brows deepening.

Sion vaguely remembers calling Wignall that during one of their group meetings at The Hen and the Beanstalk. He flicks Wignall’s forehead lightly, satisfaction warming his belly when that tense frown turns into indignation. “Oh, you absolutely were. Insufferable, really,” he says, and bites back a grin at the eye roll it earns him. “But the rest of your lot still doesn’t see us Lyzance as equals. You do. Even Will.” He ignores how strange the name feels on his tongue, focusing instead on the wide green eyes blinking at him in clear surprise. “That alone already makes you better than all of them.”

Wignall’s face does something complicated, and it takes everything in Sion to keep his blush down when the elf just keeps looking at him afterwards.

Right when the silence is about to become too much, Wignall lets out a thoughtful hum next to him. “You know, you’re not the worst company when you stop posturing for more than five seconds,” he says, and Sion feels a pressure lift from his chest.

He sidles closer to Wignall, relishing in having the upper hand. “That and my irresistible voice, right?”

Wignall buries his face in his hands in response, the tips of his ears flushing bright pink as he stops at the end of the side street they’re on, a dozen or so steps from Aligon square. “I never should have told you about that,” he groans into his palms.

“Actually, it’s the best thing you could’ve done,” Sion says, his heart pounding against his ribcage when he realizes Wignall didn’t deny it.

Green eyes peek out from between Wignall’s fingers. “I take it back, you’re horrible.”

“Hey! That isn’t how you should speak to your–”

Sion doesn’t know what he’d been about to say. He’s not sure he wants to.

Wignall lets his hands drop to his sides and gives him a tentative smile. “We don’t have to put a name to it. I… I enjoy spending time with you,” he says, soft and sincere as his eyes flicker between Sion’s face and the pavement, the look in them more vulnerable than Sion deserves. “That’s enough for now, no?”

Sion’s heart skips at least three beats, and though he may not deserve to, he can at least try to meet Wignall halfway. “…me too.” He wills himself to get a grip, damn it, and lets the familiar weight of a smirk twist his lips. “You’re actually decent company when you lose the attitude.”

“You just can’t help yourself, can you? No– don’t answer that, you’ll ruin the moment even more,” Wignall says, rubbing at his temple like Sion is a headache he wishes he could will away.

Sion arches an eyebrow at him. “I wasn’t aware we were having one.”

“Well, we certainly aren’t anymore.” Wignall harrumphs and crosses his arms, but his attempt at looking serious is ruined by the smile he can’t quite bite back.

Wignall does end up getting him fairy floss later, and Sion doesn’t even bother wrinkling his nose at it before diving in, Wignall’s startled laugh echoing in his ears long after they’ve parted ways.

─────────────────

Their first real kiss happens exactly a week later.

“Okay, it’s Colette’s turn. Anyone have their names ready?” There’s a small smile lingering on Lihanna’s lips as she looks at a still-fuming Julius.

“Workner-sensei, Edward-sensei and Eliza-sensei,” Will says before Sion could so much as open his mouth, intent on getting revenge for the abysmal options she had thrown at him a few minutes ago. Who even comes up with something as twisted as Logwell, Carriot and Aaron?

He glares at the side of Will’s head, for once in agreement with Julius when the ice mage lets out a groan and loudly complains that, “Why does she get off so easy? I demand different options!”

“Guilford, Rodge and Sarissa.” Wignall’s voice is calm as ever, but he flashes Sion a knowing look when Colette’s grin dims slightly.

“There, that’s much better,” Julius says with a satisfied huff, then raises his glass to his lips. There’s already a dark flush across his nose and cheeks, and Sion is starting to realize that the rumours about his nonexistent alcohol tolerance were not exaggerated, after all.

Colette levels the Reinberg with a sharp look, then gulps down the remainder of her drink. She slams the empty glass down on the table they had pulled closer to the bed and crosses her arms over her chest with a scoff. “To show you cowards how it’s done, I’ll do both.”

“We’re all ears,” Sion calls out from his place at the foot of Will’s bed.

“Fuck Sarissa and Eliza-sensei, marry Guilford and Workner-sensei, and kill Rodge and Edward-sensei.”

“I am both surprised and somehow not at all,” Lihanna muses, tilting her head a little as she continues snacking on a plateful of fruit jellies.

Julius lets out an unrefined snort. “You would marry Guilford just to get closer to Wi–”

“Anyway!” Colette cuts in loudly, and shoves the ice mage hard enough that he almost spills his drink. She uses his momentary distraction to give Wignall a smile that’s entirely too sweet. “Wignall, since you were so quick to throw me to the Gastaurs, you can go next. Same ones you gave me.”

The elf lets out a thoughtful hum while he puts his glass on top of the nightstand, then answers without hesitation. “I would marry Rodge, lie with Guilford and kill Sarissa.”

“Hear that Ulster? Seems like his Excellency has a type,” Julius drawls with that one specific, infuriating tone of his, twirling a lock of his hair and grinning like making Sion’s eye twitch is his greatest pleasure in life. “And it’s fire mages.”

Colette lets out a laugh. “Rodge at least seems like less of a fire-hazard… But honestly, Wignall, I expected you to have better taste,” she says, and Sion swivels towards her with a glare.

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?!”

She opens her mouth to answer, but Will’s voice cuts in before she could add insult to injury. “Okay, maybe let’s play something different?” He looks around with a strained smile, hands flailing awkwardly until his familiar plops down in his lap and demands ear scratches to occupy them. “Any ideas?”

“I’ve been told truth or dare can be effective for strengthening bonds,” Lihanna says, destroying whatever chance Sion had of getting back at Julius and Colette.

Will lets out a half-chuckle. “I’m not sure–”

“Let’s do it!” Colette says at the same time, grabbing an empty bottle and placing it in the middle of their makeshift circle. “And no backing out if someone picks dare, yeah?”

“I feel like we should offer the option of exchanging a dare for a truth.” Will gives Colette a smile that has her grip on the bottle faltering, and really, she’s so obvious about her feelings that Sion can’t help but wonder if the laggard is ignoring the signs on purpose. “Just so that no one feels pressured to do something they really don’t want to.”

Albeit reluctantly, Colette nods and stutters out a, “F-fine, but no refusing the truth afterwards!”

“Of course,” Will agrees, seemingly oblivious to the effect his idiotic smile is having on Colette as he leans down to give the bottle a spin.

They all watch the blur slow down until it comes to a stop on– “Looks like Julius is first,” Lihanna says, and Sion could swear there’s a hint of amusement in her ever-flat tone.

“Dare. Do your worst, Loire,” Julius says, raising his glass in a mock-toast and leaning back against the drawer behind him with a smirk.

Colette’s grin widens with dangerous glee. “I dare you to compliment Will. Genuinely.”

“That’s a good one, Colette,” Wignall says appreciatively, looking at Julius’s rapidly darkening blush with a hand over his mouth. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes give away the smile he’s probably trying to hide, making Sion’s own lips twitch at the corners.

Colette giggles, and Sion is hit by the sinking realization that if she gets the chance, she’ll hit him with something just as horrible. If not worse. The thought has him gulping down the rest of his wine in record time, and he can't help being silently grateful that they decided to forego anything stronger tonight. 

“Thank you,” she says, and raises an expectant eyebrow at Julius.

Julius, who – for all intents and purposes – looks like someone about to head to the gallows, pours himself another glass and gulps down at least half of it before clearing his throat dramatically.

“…you’re… reasonably competent.” Julius glances up, and whatever he sees on Colette’s face makes his lips curl in disdain as he turns back to Will. “And your tenacity is… admirable,” he forces out, his ears glowing as they all try and fail to smother their laughs.

Will gives him a bright smile and even the familiar jumps over to bunt his thigh with a pleased purr. “Thank you, Julius! That’s very kind of you–”

“Shut up!” Julius explodes before taking another gulp of his Merlot.

Will winces. “Uhm, maybe you should slow down?”

“Oh, so you think you’re better tha’ me at drinking too? Huh?”

“N–no, you’re just really red, so I thought you could at least have a glass of water?”

While Julius continues angrily sputtering at Will in the background, Lihanna lets out a sigh and reaches for the bottle. “Since it doesn’t seem like Julius will be able to properly spin the bottle, I’ll do it.”

The glass spins on, then starts slowing before wobbling to a stop with the neck pointing straight at–

“Oh, you have to be kidding me,” Sion groans, letting his head drop back against the mattress with a soft thump.

“What’s the matter, Sion? Scared of a little dare?” Colette’s taunting tone makes the muscles in his jaw tighten, and he lifts his head to glare at her.

Briefly, Sion thinks about where his pride had gotten him the last time he refused to back down in a similarly stupid situation, and knows what his answer is going to be even before he opens his mouth. “Bring it on. Dare.”

“I dare you to kiss Wignall,” Colette says immediately, her grin sharp. “We’ve all heard the rumours, but a little smooch to ease our curiosity wouldn’t hurt. No tongue, though, please,” she adds, but Sion is barely even registering her words at that point.

“K–kiss? I–” Sion turns towards Wignall, the panic in his chest coiling into a dense knot at the base of his throat.

Wignall, who Sion is beginning to think enjoys seeing him flustered, merely gives the others an easy smile. “I don’t mind,” he says, voice even and steady, the flushed tips of his ears the only thing betraying his nonchalance as he crosses his legs under himself and leans back against the headboard.

“You can switch to tru’h if it’s too much f’r you, Ulster,” Julius slurs, his face redder than Sion’s hair by now.

Sion’s eyes flicker to Wignall’s lips, then back to the unreadable expression on his face. He grits his teeth and pushes himself to his feet, rounding on Wignall with his heart somewhere on the back of his tongue. He turns his head to the side sharply to glare at Julius. “Don’t underestimate me!”

He doesn’t wait for anyone’s reaction before tilting Wignall’s head back and leaning in to kiss him in one swift motion.

Soft, is the first thing his mind registers, a gentle tug on his shirt pulling him closer as Wignall’s lips move against his slowly.

The elf’s cheek is warm beneath his palm, his teeth a flash of pressure as he tugs on Sion’s bottom lip a little and Sion doesn’t know when he had closed his eyes, but he can’t quite focus on anything beyond the stuttering of his heartbeat and the feeling of Wignall’s hands against his chest.

Just as he reaches up to tangle his hand in Wignall’s hair, the silence he had barely registered is broken by a loud cough.

Sion’s eyes snap open and to the side, zeroing in on Julius with no difficulty. He lets his hand drop to Wignall’s shoulder and glares at the ice mage. “Do you have something to say?”

“No, no,” Julius says with a dismissive wave of his hand, his face redder than Sion’s uniform cloak. “Feel free t’ cont’nue traumatizin’ us.”

Colette snatches the wine from his hand and looks about ready to bring the whole building down on him. “You can be such a jerk! It was sweet, so don’t you dare make them feel bad,” she huffs, keeping the glass out of his grasp as he tries to reach for it while maintaining his balance without the drawer’s support.

“You have to admit it’s surprising to see Sion so… affectionate,” Lihanna says, and it sounds mostly like she’s just thinking out loud.

Still, that doesn’t mean Sion has to appreciate them talking about him like he’s not right there. “Hey! Who asked for your–”

“Yeah, this is more like him,” Colette says right over him with one hand on Julius’s shoulder to keep him down. “Maybe Wignall is some sort of Sion whisperer? Look, he still hasn’t let go of him.”

Sion retracts his hand like he’d been burned, heat filling his face as he tries to look anywhere but at the other occupants of the room. He sits down on the mattress and crosses his arms over his chest with a harsh huff.

“There, there,” Wignall’s voice croons, and despite himself, Sion feels his embarrassment ebb away almost as if on reflex when those slender fingers start brushing through his hair.

“Is anyone else seeing this?”

As laughter rings out around him, Sion can do nothing but bear it, and luckily, they all have enough sense of self-preservation to not mention how he doesn’t pull away from Wignall’s touch.

─────────────────

Sion is talking to the new recruits Cariott left him in charge of when the back of his neck starts prickling, and he turns on his heel only to come face to face with–

“Sion. Can I have a moment?” Lihanna asks, but the look in her eyes tells him it’s merely a formality.

He jerks his head at the group to dismiss them, then follows her to a half-lit archway.

“What are you playing at?” she asks, her gaze sharp.

“Excuse me?”

“I may have not revealed my concerns to Wignall out of consideration for his feelings, but you’re not the type to be upfront about your feelings.” Her voice is as flat as ever yet the words have his grip on his arms tightening into something almost painful. “So let me ask you again – what are you playing at? And keep in mind that Wignall is my friend when you answer.”

“You’re awfully sure of your judgement of me, Lihanna. If it were anyone else I might’ve taken offense,” Sion says, forcing an ugly smirk onto his face. He doesn’t like how right her judgement is, how much he wishes he could go back in time and say no to that Mercedes-damned bet– “As for what’s between the two of us, I’m afraid it’s none of your business. Besides, isn’t Wignall your best friend? I’m sure he’ll tell you anything you’d like to know.” He knows it’s low but the words are out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Lihanna doesn’t react beyond a heavy exhale, and though her face remains unreadable, there is something raw in her voice when she whispers, “…don’t hurt him. He doesn’t deserve it.”

I know, Sion doesn’t say, but he’d like to believe that Lihanna picks up on it, anyway.

She gives him another long look before turning on her heel and leaving.

─────────────────

Sion finds Wignall in the Fire Faction’s cafeteria, his green robes standing out like a stray phlox in a late-summer blood grass field.

He makes his way to the table Wignall has claimed, silently pleased at how even some senior members move out of his way on reflex, and watches the elf raise a teacup to his lips and take a sip, then make a face that very nearly pulls a laugh from Sion. Well, he did try to warn him off the Mesnet tea.

Though the elf hasn’t spotted him yet – focused as he is on looking at his beverage as if it had personally offended him – Sion mentally reprimands himself for not thinking of a different place to meet up; the looks some of his fellow faction members keep sending Wignall making his blood boil. Without thinking, Sion shoots them a glare, and barely resists laughing when they trip over themselves to act oblivious.

“Wignall, look!” he says as soon as he’s close enough, startling the elf much the same way he had what feels like a lifetime ago, and presents Syrene’s gift in his palm. He’s pretty sure she only gave it to him as a joke, but she had been smiling and joking around like she used to, and he can’t quite keep the excitement from his voice as he looks at the misshapen yarn even almost a day later.

To his credit, Wignall doesn’t spill a drop of his tea, merely puts the cup down and focuses on Sion’s hand with clear interest. “I’m looking,” he says placatingly, then seems to pause. He squints a little, frowns, and looks up at Sion with a hesitant, “…what am I looking at?”

“A good luck charm, obviously,” Sion says with a huff, nudging his hand closer.

Wignall glances down at it again before letting out a considering hum. “Is there some particular reason it’s shaped like a gingerbread man?” he asks, and Sion throws himself onto the bench next to him with a groan.

“It’s a falcon!” he says in what is not a whine, placing the charm in front of Wignall as if his insistence alone would change the yarn’s shape. He slumps onto the table with his chin on top of his crossed arms and looks up at Wignall through his bangs.

The elf gives the charm a meaningful glance before raising an eyebrow at him.

“Fine, it might be a little wonky, but it’s the first thing Syrene made and she made it for me” Sion says, and his chest feels oddly tight as he watches Wignall pick it up with the utmost care. He clears his throat, unable to tear his eyes away from the fondness on Wignall’s face. “She also somehow knew the idea wasn’t mine, so I guess I should extend her gratitude to you, too.”

Wignall’s responding smile is terribly gentle. “I’m truly glad to hear that. And I believe I see it now. Yes” – he brings it closer to his face then back, then turns it upside down – “the wings, tail… And this is its beak?” he half-asks, pointing at what Sion had assumed was the bottom part.

“I think that’s the tail?”

It pulls a quiet chuckle from Wignall, and Sion sinks his face further into his arms to hide his own smile.

“By the way, I’ve been thinking…” Wignall trails off, putting the misshapen falcon down gently. His fingers start fidgeting with his sleeves the way he seems to whenever he’s nervous. “The Fonsoria is coming up, and I was wondering if you would like to accompany me? Since it’s an inter-faction event, I thought we could, uhm…”

Sion sits up straight and grins. “Strengthen inter-faction relations?”

“Yes! That is, I– oh, come on,” Wignall whines, giving him an unamused look. Sulkily, he picks up his abandoned tea and gulps it down with a grimace.

“Told you they always oversteep it,” Sion says, resting his chin in his palm. “The answer is yes, by the way. Wouldn’t want some poor soul to accidentally get stuck with you,” he adds with a slow smirk before realization slams into him – sudden and cold and merciless.

Wignall starts complaining about one of the elders but Sion barely hears him, his heart pounding against his ribs wildly as a thick lump lodges itself in his throat because–

Because Wignall had just invited him to the banquet.

(Wignall wants to go with him.)

Sion can’t even focus on how the thought makes his chest tingle, too caught up in having forgotten the bet again. He was supposed to say no. Was supposed to laugh in Gordon’s face and then try to explain things to Wignall and yet–

─────────────────

So. Sion said yes.

And now he feels like shit.

He sits down on the stairs leading to the garden behind the cafeteria building, the cold of the stone seeping into his skin even through his uniform and his hands twitching with the need to set something on fire.

Though he somehow managed to wave Wignall’s concern off, he glances around, half-expecting the elf to show up demanding answers beyond Sion’s clumsy excuses. When there’s no sign of movement, he lets himself slump forward.

A moment later, a flash of motion at the edge of his vision makes Sion tense up as the side entrance door swings open, but he feels himself relax once he recognizes Lyril’s shoes walking over to him.

“Oh no, I know that face,” Lyril says as soon as he’s close enough. He leans back against one of the pillars holding up the archway Sion has chosen to wallow in, and raises an eyebrow at him. “What did you do?”

Sion buries his face in his hands, his elbows digging into his knees. He doesn’t even bother to ask what Lyril is doing there – he probably heard about him meeting up with Wignall and rushed over to interrogate him. “I fucked up,” he says, the words muffled by his palms.

“Well, that isn’t anything new, so maybe try being a little more specific.”

Sion shoots him a glare through his fingers, but doesn’t really have the energy for a proper threat, so he just heaves a sigh. “Wignall invited me to the Fonsoria and I said yes.”

“…and why is that a bad thing?”

“Because!” Sion throws his hands up, frustration tearing at his throat. “I wanted to turn him down and then explain things to him, but I said yes on reflex! Like I–”

Lyril makes a pained sound, his expression encouraging. “Like you…?”

The coaxing tone makes Sion snap his teeth shut. He runs a hand through his hair, masseter twitching and the grind of his molars sending waves of pressure to his temples.

After it becomes clear Sion isn’t planning to answer, Lyril lets out a sigh. “Look, Sion, there’s nothing wrong with caring about him,” he says, still in that careful tone like he’s expecting Sion to storm off any moment.

“I don’t–” He honestly might – if it means getting to ignore how the words make his heartbeat stutter; how there’s something lodged at the back of his throat and an odd warmth coiling between his lungs when he thinks of the furrow between Wignall’s brows as he turned to leave. “I don’t know.”

But Lyril doesn’t let him off so easily. “You do, don’t you? You wouldn’t feel this guilty otherwise.”

“Who said anything about me being guilty?! I just…” Sion trails off, a wet pang in his chest making him pause. He thinks about having to tell Wignall about the bet again, the miry, cold feeling an awful lot like– “Oh, no.”

Lyril looks ready to start celebrating, but he barely registers it because – with a sudden, terrible clarity – Sion realizes he cares. About Wignall. Wants to talk to him, and spend more time with him, and hear him laugh again and again, and–

His voice comes out in a strained whisper when he says, “I like him.”

“Wow, and it only took two months for you to admit it,” Lyril says, sounding too calm for Sion’s frazzled nerves.

“Fuck, what do I do?” Sion can feel the first hints of panic settling in his gut, his hands tugging on his hair.

Lyril crouches down next to him and gives him a gentle look. “Just tell him how you feel.”

Sion scoffs. “Oh, sure, I’ll just walk right up to him and say ‘Hey, so I know I asked you out because of a bet, but I somehow fell for you without realizing it, so let’s just move on’,” he says, his grip on his hair turning almost painful as he realizes how stupid he’s been, how–

“I feel like you’re making this into a bigger problem than it is,” Lyril says, but it only pulls another ugly huff from Sion.

“You’re not helping.” He hides his face in his hands again, his chest tight with a knot of feelings he doesn’t even know where to begin untangling.

Still, one thread stands out sharply in its acidic regret. “I should never have agreed to that first bet.”

“I agree.” The voice comes from the direction of the door – too familiar and too close and it shouldn’t be here–

Sion turns around so sharply he almost gives himself whiplash. His lips part around a gasp, chest hollowing out at the sight that greets him. “Wignall?” he chokes out, stumbling to his feet. Then, “Wait, I–”

“Save it for whatever poor soul you trick into going to the banquet with you,” Wignall says, low and so hollow that it leaves Sion frozen where he’d been halfway to his feet, his arm outstretched into the empty space left between them after the heavy wood falls shut behind Wignall’s cloak.

He doesn’t have to wonder long about why Wignall came back, spotting a rolled-up parchment next to the door that the other must have dropped in his haste to get away. When he picks it up and sees that it’s a Mercedes-damned invite, he crumples it up with a harsh laugh.

“Was that…?” Lyril asks softly from behind him.

Sion squeezes his eyes shut, the full weight of the past couple of minutes sinking somewhere to the bottom of his trachea as Wignall’s words echo in his mind. “Yes,” he grinds out, and savours the guilt clogging up his throat.

He deserves it.

─────────────────

Though Lyril and Gordon both try to cheer him up afterwards, Sion goes through the next two days on complete autopilot – every flash of green at the edges of his vision making his heart skip a beat before he remembers that Wignall is avoiding him now; that he only has himself to blame for driving him away. That he probably needs some space, Sion, just give it time.

He lasts another day before finding himself face to face with Wignall’s door.

The sixth stratum dorm building is a sharp, quiet contrast against the mess that the Fire Faction’s is at this hour, though the unnatural gleam of the marble floors and the rich décor and flowers everywhere make it almost uncomfortable to walk through.

With his heart somewhere in his throat, Sion forces himself to knock.

He has no idea what Wignall needs, but he knows that, at the very least, the elf deserves an apology. And the opportunity to yell at Sion properly.

When the wood creaks open, Sion’s first feeling is indignation on Wignall’s behalf. Because he would bet his left lung that the elves gave this room to Wignall on purpose – probably even forbade him from getting the hinges fixed. But before he could work himself up further, Wignall steps into the doorway, his eyes widening slightly as he hunches in on himself in a way he never had with Sion before.

The sight makes Sion’s breath hitch, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out around the tightness gripping his throat. “I should have told you–”

“But you didn’t,” Wignall says, even and soft – not a hint of anger in the words or a twitch of those slender fingers around the doorframe to slam it in his face.

Sion almost wishes he would. “I didn’t,” he says, because it’s true. Because he wishes he had.

Wignall gives him a considering look before he steps back to let him in. He closes the door behind Sion with another high-pitched creak, and walks over to his desk without so much as a glance.

Sion watches his hands grip onto the intricately carved edges of the wood, knuckles turning white as those too-green eyes look up at Sion.

“…was making me fall for you part of the challenge?” Wignall’s calm façade cracks, the jagged edges of hurt flickering across his face when he asks, “Was it all a game to you?”

“No! I–” Sion doesn’t know what to say to make Wignall stop looking at him like that. He just wants that expression gone from Wignall’s face, wants–

An image flashes in his mind, hazy with a then-unfamiliar fondness, the memory of Wignall’s sulky voice curling around the left ventricle of his heart like the last couplet of an ode.

He meets Wignall’s eyes. “It was real from the moment you complained about burning your tongue when I made you try cinder flakes,” he says, watches Wignall’s breath hitch, and can only hope he remembers that first evening they spent together half as fondly as Sion does. That Sion’s graceless attempt at apologizing will somehow–

“Did you ever pause to wonder why I said yes that day? When you asked me out?” Wignall asks, gripping at his arms and averting his gaze as if he can’t bear to face whatever he sees in Sion’s. A loose strand of hair slips over his shoulder with the motion, and Sion’s hand twitches with the urge to tuck it behind his ear.

He lets his nails bite into his palm instead. “More times than you’d think.”

“It was because no one ever had before,” Wignall says, the slope of his shoulders taut as his fingers crease the fabric of his sleeves. His lips curl into a smile. “You being easy on the eyes didn’t hurt either, but… it had felt right. You seemed so genuine and–” His voice cracks on the words, and the light from the window catches on the curve of his cheek, on the too-bright sheen of his eyes that makes it impossible to focus on the compliment and how it makes hope spark in his veins.

“I guess I got that one wrong, in the end,” Wignall whispers, eyelids and mouth trembling as tears dampen his lashes before he lets his gaze drop to the floor.

Without thinking, Sion takes a step forward and cups Wignall’s cheeks. “No, no, no, don’t do that,” he says frantically, brushing away the wetness at the corners of his eyes.

“I’m not doing anything,” Wignall retorts petulantly, ears twitching as he keeps looking anywhere but at him.

He doesn’t pull away from Sion’s touch.

Sion huffs out a quiet laugh. “Liar.” He brushes Wignall’s bangs away from his face, tucking the longer strands behind flushed ears, then lifting his chin gently. “I won’t hold it against you if you ask Lihanna to zap me. Or punch me. I feel like she’d prefer that.”

That manages to pull a startled laugh from Wignall, and the sound makes Sion feel like he finally did something right as he lets his hand drop to his side. “I should ask Will, that would teach you to think before you act for once,” Wignall says, still a little measured, but with his eyes dry and the usual strength back in his voice.

Sion winces, remembers how Julius had looked after taking a punch from the laggard, and lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and groan. “Fair enough.”

“Oh,” Wignall says with a surprised blink. Then, “You really are sorry.”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

Something about his reaction earns Sion another shaky chuckle, Wignall’s demeanor softening further. “If you’re willing to take a punch from your self-appointed rival, then you must be serious about this.”

“I am. I swear.” Sion hopes Wignall can hear the sincerity in his voice, then thinks about the first part of the sentence again and scowls.  “And what do you mean by ‘self-appointed’? We are rivals,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Wignall arches an eyebrow at him. “Mhmm, are you sure Will knows about it? And that the Albis Vina doesn’t? Because I would hate to see you turned into a block of ice.”

“So you do care,” Sion says, not even trying to hide his grin.

“Inexplicably enough, I do,” Wignall says, and there’s something so soft in his eyes, the weight of the words draping over Sion like a gentle caress as Wignall reaches for his hand.

When those slender fingers slip between his, Sion’s eyes snap up to gauge Wignall’s expression, an are you sure? stuck behind his teeth despite the warmth spreading from the contact and sending sparks all the way to his toes. “Enough to accompany me to the banquet?” he asks instead, quiet and tentative.

Wignall’s lips curl into a smile that Sion wishes he could taste. “Possibly. Another groveling apology might convince me.”

“I did not grovel,” Sion retorts, his thumb tracing idle patterns onto the back of Wignall’s hand. “You know, it seems like you’re the ‘poor soul’ I’ll end up tricking into going with me.”

“Don’t push your luck, Ulster, I’m still contemplating the punching option,” Wignall says with a mock-serious frown, then moves towards the door. He doesn’t let go of Sion’s hand. “Come on, there’s a new stall on the first stratum that Lihanna can’t stop talking about. Your treat.”

Sion lets out a groan but lets himself be tugged forward with no resistance. “You’re going to milk this for as long as you can, aren’t you,” he half-asks as Wignall closes the door behind them with a flick of his wand.

Though Wignall doesn’t reply, the smirk he throws over his shoulder tells Sion all he needs to know.

(He can’t bring himself to mind.)