Chapter Text
Terminology:
Fallen/ falling into the red: A sentence commonly used to describe a rush of adrenaline, usually uncontrollable rage, or a vampiric blood surge. It gets its description from when one's scleras turn red.
The candle flame popped gently beside the perfectly polished desk of golds and oak, a sound Szordin Tarr -Dr. Tarr, he had preferred –found oddly soothing. His first name had been associated too much to his past wrong doings, guilt welled up like a brine pool of acid at the bottom of his stomach whenever he had heard someone calling him ‘Szordin.’ He had little patience to correct, opting for a downturned glance without the bat of his eye. However what he certainly would do is correct the broken nose in front of his face.
The cardinal had shuffled in, red-eyed and trembling, with Thaddeus anchoring him to an empty chair Dr. Tarr had directed them to. The silence of the bed-chamber pressed down on him, though the place gleamed of meticulous order. He had been unhappy the moment he saw the dreaded silhouette of the cathedral against the blood red sky. Only a couple decades ago had he been dragged unwillingly into its foyer, and now again. Decades had not dulled the memories of this place: the flames, the ruin, the home he had built burning away in front of his eyes. The gods may have written purpose in dragging him back, but he would have preferred if Thandoril and Brahms had been spared of this.
The smell of blood brought him back to reality once the dampened cloth had been soaked with it. Tarr would be ashamed to admit the pity he felt for Nicolas Amato, he too once felt the same torment Saerion was capable of giving to another. The Pope's stench clung to him, heavy and sour, proof there had been no fairness in that scuffle. The doctor could barely stand the sight the Cardinal was in: “The cuts will mend without scaring. Keep the wounds moist with balm, and take a tonic to ease the swelling. The itching will come as they heal.” He explained while discarding the cloth to the side, wiping his hands down with an anti-septic before unpacking a new pair of gloves. If infection found its way into those wounds and then to his broken nose, it would not be mercy that claimed the cardinal–but a slow, agonizing death.
Nicolas had nodded, and Tarr slipped the dark latex over his hands, pausing only to adjust his glasses that now sat lower on the bridge of his nose. The cardinal's nose was broken– in three different places. His trained eye could see how the bone structure had shifted itself, one between his brow, the brunt of it where it curved off, the worst was where Saerion had hit him. It could only take one who studied this field to know that this nose had been broken many times before.
“I think I’ll be able to correct it myself, Thank you.” Nicolas had spoken again and Tarr remained fixed on the mangled mess on his face.
“No.” Dr. Tarr's disheveled tone cut through the room like a knife through butter.
Nicolas sank back like a deflating sack of potatoes, as if he had been scolded by his mother. “That nose never healed right from whatever you did.” The doctor leaned in with a narrowed scolding look, his attention fully drawn on the broken nose before him, “-and never will.” Nicolas had winced when Tarr raised his hand, and the Doctor stopped so Nicolas could see that he was not about to strike him, “Relax.” The doctor, though still firm, had a more gentle tone to his voice.
The touch was light. Still, it landed with the weight of agony, pain burning across Nicolas’ face. Tarr pulled back, unwilling to prolong the man’s suffering.
“Here,”
The voice cut through the silence, too familiar to drown out. Thandoril, he had been ignoring him since he had entered not long after Thaddeus and Nicolas. Dr. Tarr was not one for crowds while working– least of all when an old lover lingered at his shoulder. Yet –what more could he do. It was like Thandoril could always sniff out trouble and never failed to rush to aids hand.
He had placed down a vial of Idoine, its lid slightly unscrewed as Tarr always struggled opening lids in this style. He did not acknowledge his past assistant's presence, afraid he'd enter some hypnotic trance and spoil the work at hand.
A small cotton swab was dipped in the orange mixture, held between the steel handed forceps. He gave no warning as he smeared the anti-septic across the nose that belonged to Nicolas. He seemed less pained as Thandoril had advised he take two painkillers moments ago, at least the Doctor thought he heard the other man say that.
Placing down the tools, Tarr had stood, retrieving a large, capped syringe that could have frightened anyone out of a medical chair. Nicolas audibly gulped and Tarr turned to him once the syringes needle had been unsheathed, "It's a general anesthetic, if you want the full experience of passing out in that chair, then I can pass on this.” He flicked the base of the syringe and sat back down.
“No sir, apologies, I have just not seen a needle of that size.” Nicolas stuttered.
“Just call me Tarr.” The doctor had sneered, almost like he hated being addressed that way. Nicolas only nodded and the Dravhen took a firm grasp of his chin and the cardinal had a visceral reaction. He winced out and Tarr quickly let go of his face. Nicolas was not in pain– it was fear.
Patience only waned so far with the Doctor: squirming children, needle fearing grown men, a persistent woman barking orders for her painkillers. Tarr had seen and dealt with it all, but he also knew when a response had been associated with trauma. Suddenly he smelled the sickening emotion straight from Nicolas.--
“I need to hold your face if I am to numb you properly.” His tone was flat, as usual, but Thandoril knew there was a different layer to how his ex-husband showed concern for another, “If you squirm I could hit an artery, and you surely won’t ever be able to smile again.” He was firm, but he meant his words. Now, Thandoril had moved over behind Nicolas.
“It’s alright.” The cardinal would prefer hearing Thandoril's voice over Tarr’s any day, “I wouldn’t want to be touched by Szordin either.” and he placed a gentle hand under Nicolas’ chin, right where Tarr had grabbed him. Hearing the doctor's first name also had felt unusual, and it earned a grumble as Tarr leaned forwards with a precise and steady hand as he began his work. A stifled chuckle came from Thaddeus who had now long claimed his spot on the guest bed, reclining slightly as he had been watching the three.
A renowned doctor was what Tarr certainly was. The brush of the needle tip had not been felt, only a slight pinch by where most of the damage was. Otherwise, Nicolas had felt worse. It had only taken a moment since Tarr set down the syringe that a weird tingly sensation had spread across the middle of his face.
Thandoril had now moved beside Nicolas, a hand placed at his shoulder as he knelt down. He had also begun examining the bruises welling up on Nicolas’ neck, eyes moving from the purple welts to the orange stained stripe across his fractured nose. He swallowed bile, Saerion was certainly responsible for this. Recalling how much pain Nicolas would have been feeling if he had been alone, much like he had, tied to that wooden pole with rough rope cutting into his skin, choking and spitting up blood, cold and alone after both he and Tarr had been taken by the church-cult. Except he had no one to care for him.
“Can you feel this?” Tarr had used his index and thumb to squeeze the cardinal's nose, and the lack of response was telling.
“No.” Nicolas could get used to the feeling. His face was numb, and it felt weird to blink. Again, Tarr stood, now towering over Nicolas with such immense size it had him questioning if he was even a Dravhen at all. Rharkaivian, they were called, but they had been long extinct, such a savagery war had claimed their race in a bloody war:
‘(Genesis 1:1) “Sol descended unto the punished, and lo, they were bathed in the blood of Khoth.” (Genesis 15:6) “And Khoth forsook his people, and delivered them unto hunger; and did they consume the flesh of their brethren.”’ Nicolas recited the Lindiel script in his head. It was a part of Sol’s cleansing to have these people return to the Hells. A quick jerk to his head snapped him out of it.
Tarr had given no warning. In a flash his nose had been realigned. One might swear the doctor was born of witchcraft, and the man ran a firm pinch to the nose, feeling where the structure had been snapped back into place. It was loose, another strike and Nicolas would never breathe properly again without the hand of a surgeon. “I need a splint.” Tarr had muttered, voice tight as Thandoril moved quickly to fetch one.
“You should feel only pressure.” Tarr said as the metal cap was handed to him. Nicolas nodded faintly. The device settled over the bridge of his nose. Yet, when locking into place, there had been no pressure at all. A glass bottle had suddenly been placed between his hands and Thandoril now stood between him and the doctor as Tarr moved away, beginning to clean up the tools splayed out across the desk.
He listened to Thandoril explain the use of the painkillers but paid not even an ounce of attention to it. He had never been the one for giving out prescriptions, It was never his job unless a nurse had been away for the day. Nicolas would recover surely, not if Saerion repeated his actions from earlier.
Tarr thought of what it would be like to sink his fangs into the neck of that Pope. Would that blood run bitter, spoiled as the soul it carried– or would it taste of nothing at all? He found himself gritting his teeth, and with a sudden snap he slammed the brief shut. Saerion had taken so much from him, now he stood within his holy cathedral.
Would it not be a damned shame if the Pope woke up to the smell of hellfire choking him– clawing, gasping, as Brahms had once done in their burning family home. The thought tightened Tarr’s chest. He muttered something, words lost even to himself.
The candle light caught his eyes, and he looked over as Nicolas began to get up, Thaddeus too. The man was not safe. Tarr’s vow - trampled under the sounds of his lover being beaten before his eyes– he had fallen into the red. He would kill him before dawn, before anyone would stir from their beds. Would Saerion remember? It mattered little, Szordin would make use to remind him.
“Thaddeus will escort you back to your room, I think it's best for you not to be alone tonight.” Thandoril had explained with his hands clasped together, never losing that tone of professionality. Nicolas had a pill bottle in hand, and Thaddeus was standing directly beside him.
Tarr ran a hand over his brow and down the length of his glossy curtain of hair. It brushed the floor as he crouched to place his brief once more beside the desk. His gaze lingered on the used instruments spread before him. Thandoril was now escorting the pair to the door, just as he had in the doctors personal office in Cirdanth.
It suddenly hit him how much he missed that place with Thandoril there. How the silence enveloped them as Thandoril said his departing words and returned to him alone. Only then Tarr would relax.
“I'm sure I will be alright, your generosity is more than I can repay.” Nicolas' voice drifted back from the hall, now outside the room. Tarr ignored it, he wished they would just leave, gratitude always seemed endless, cloying, and he had no patience for it.
The door shut at last after a few more exchanges. Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the flicker of flame– something he had long welcomed.
Tarr gathered the bloodied swabs and wiped his instruments clean, sealing the rubbish away in a waiting pouch. Thandoril had walked over, taking the try of drying tools and moving them over to another secluded desktop. Tarr’s gaze lifted in surprise, having expected that Thandoril left with Thaddeus and Nicolas, his expression painted in dismay as Thandoril's back was turned to him.
He did not speak, and instead sat back down after carefully circling the desk with a sanitary wipe retrieved from his doublets pocket. This had not been the quiet he wanted. In Cirdanth, their moments alone had been intimate, here, the room felt colder, exposed.
Tarr watched Thandoril with careful attention. The subtle arch of his shoulders, the way he paused before speaking– Tarr had come to learn his gestures by heart, learned by years of close observation. Instead today, Thandoril huffed softly, pivoting just enough to reveal his face. Candle-light danced across his skin, softening the edges, giving him the fragile glow of porcelain. Tarr had always remembered him like this– beautiful, untouched by the ruin, without the deep sunken eyes that suggested Thandoril had gone back to his old ways of unhealthy sleeping habits.
Thandoril had only stared back for a moment, it was like it hurt him physically to look at Szordin. His gaze averted and it felt like a knife had driven itself right between his ribcage.
“Nicolas needs to come with us tomorrow.” Thandoril finally spoke and Tarr swore he had felt the urge to vomit. Was he serious? He knew what type of relation Nicolas could have had with the monster who destroyed their relationship. Tarr had gone to get up but Thandoril's sharp tone held him in place, “Don’t you even start with me,” he snapped, “Don’t sit there and tell me no, The Szordin Tarr would not abandon someone who was helpless.” He was pointing at him, scolding him like the two had not shared a bed for two millenia.
He was defeated, teeth clenching for ever following along to the dreaded golden gates of Soliel Levant– they should have been in Korril by now.
“You misunderstand what some of those measures would cause upon us.” Tarr argued. He had a point. Under the fiery light, Thandoril's cheeks had grown red with frustration, he wanted to lash back but he was struggling to find the words tangled in his throat.
“Have you forgotten whose roof we stand under, whose hands rule this place?” Now, Tarr rose abruptly, circling the wooden desk until he stood before Thandoril. His posture was threatening, and Thandoril did not take to it lightly as his delicate features turned rigid in defence. He did not fear Szordin.
“He will do nothing but slow us down, either the nightfell claim us first or we awake tied to a pole with fire lapping at our feet.” He was inches away from Thandoril, “Remind me. Surely you could tell me again what that was like?” —
He was right, but it did not stop Thandoril from grabbing the collar of Szordin's doublet, dark hands of the doctor catching him, the latter unable to budge him. “So we leave him then? To eventually die cold and alone because– he– struck him just a little too hard?” Thandoril spoke hushed, eyes glassy as he glared up at Szordin. He was caught like a fly in a spider's web, forearms locked against the doctor.
“Yes.” Tarr had answered, but it was the truth, not everyone could be saved, he learned that over and over again. Thandoril broke away with a hitch to his breath, biting his lip as he too knew there wasn’t an option to ever sway Szordin from what he wanted. He had his back turned again, and brought his index to his lip, always a posture he had held when he needed comfort.
Tarr had stepped forwards but Thandoril had swung around before he was able to embrace the other man. The anger, betrayal in his eyes froze Tarr in his place.
“I don’t even know who you are anymore.” It was like Thandoril had spit daggers at him, but he too agreed, a part of himself had died long ago. The blonde man had suddenly stormed over to the door of Szordins temporary room. The other man was quick to follow, grasping his shoulder firmly and spinning him around so they could be face to face, but Thandoril slipped free by ducking – grabbing the door handle and pulling it open before it had been slammed shut again by Szordins palm.
“Let me go!” The blonde had hissed out.
Again, Thandoril had attempted to pull open the door, only slightly cracking it before Szordin leaned his full weight onto its frame– slamming it again. A picture frame on a far wall rattled. The ruckus was going to draw attention.
“Enough.” Tarr grabbed Thandoril again, and he had sworn the man was about to cry, many times he had seen this but under different circumstances. He looked defeated and he opted to lift the crushing grip off his shoulders to caress the face he had loved for many years.
Thandoril had grown more emotional after what had happened years ago on the quiet border between Slyvaria and Kilthion. There, in a lakeside town much like Riverbury in Cirdanth, just quieter, and protected by Quamara’s law, had briefly been free of war. That home became their sanctuary. Together, Thandoril and he built that place along the waters of Lake Tenzar by the nearby town that went by the same name. Where its streets thrived and plentiful supplies of herbs, crafts, livestock, and trades were on display. Villagers had come to welcome them with smiles and gifted offers from the couple's hospitality in the medical field. They had even grown fond of Brahms when the pair had adopted him. In Tenzar, they had found the only place that truly felt like home.
But Tarr had wished that he had never let himself become so vulnerable, karma always found a way to hunt him down, and it had arrived in the form of Earmaethor Saerion.
Now it lay in ruins, its cobbled streets and bustling markets buried beneath rubble and ash. Quamara, too entangled in its war with Grothis, had abandoned the town to its fate.
Szordin shook his mind free from the days of hell that followed after. The pads of his thumbs brushed the undersides of Thandoril’s eyes, and the helpless man before him had looked to be fighting himself internally. It was what he needed, to be cradled, even just for a moment to feel secure again in this group of strangers.
His eyes traced the features of Szordin's face: from his heightened cheekbones, to his arched nose that would once bury itself in the crease between his shoulder blades, the constant furrowed brow to calculated eyes, quickly averting to the straight lined lips that ever rarely curled into a smile.
Tarr’s eyes had followed to Thandoril's lips. The pair swaying into each other as a magnet would pull steel. Szordin's eyes had softened, and he encouraged Thandoril's face forwards with a gentle pull, desperation was beginning to gnaw away at him since their reunion in the Professors hall.
The blonde man nearly gave in. The two being inches apart before he had turned his head with a sudden sigh. Szordin let go, but without disappointment, it would have to be Thandoril to initiate what they had abandoned, he was tired of playing games. The Amran crossed his arms, now avoiding to meet Szordin’s suffocating gaze.
“Let me apologize to you first.” Tarr crossed his arms behind his back. He always stood like this, no matter the situation at hand.
Thandoril scoffed, staring at a candle on one of the desks. “I hope it's about Nicolas.” he said, there was that tone again and Szordin had to tread carefully. It was always a mind game with him. Always having to dissect him before either one exploded into another argument– it never used to be like this.
Tarr had missed the laughter at the shared dinner table– the way Brahms elaborate stories would spiral into nonsense until everyone was wiping tears from their eyes, or how Thandoril always managed to recall some awful joke one of his students had coined, told with such theatrical delivery it became funny in spite of itself. The doctor rubbed at his eyes, now growing impatient with the nab of exhaustion pulling at his strings. The ache of absence weighed heavier than sleep.
“No, at the dinner hall,” He explained. Thandoril stayed rooted to his spot. “It was inappropriate– I shouldn't have said what I did.” He paused, sliding his glasses from his face and tucking them into his pants pocket; they had no use to him now, “For Nicolas, yes. But I will not change my mind.”
Of course he wouldn’t.
Szordin took note of how the corner of Thandoril's mouth had twitched, and his face scrunched up as he thought of a harrowing decision. He left him to his thoughts, glancing at the door before he quietly moved over to his bed, pulling back the covers as he awaited Thandoril to take his leave.
“What is it that you want me to say, Thandoril? You know exactly what will come of this.” He spoke again, frustrated that the other man was standing there as if he had said something so offensive.
“He is going to be killed.” Thandoril had responded in a hushed tone, but Tarr could hear that lull of fatigue. “Shara is certainly going to bring him with us when she sees the state he is in.” Thandoril crossed his arms, as if to hold himself, “Brahms will back her up and I am damned sure Ahzyl wants another friend.”
Tarr had huffed loudly, grumbling as he drew out a long, annoyed sigh. He had not thought of Shara until now, and it seemed like whatever decision he came up with was met with everyone voting against him. Arlene seemed to have been the only one he could tolerate for any longer.
He had now wondered whether Nicolas would be against everyone's pleas for him to follow, and Tarr had silently prayed to whatever god that the cardinal would insist on staying.
Thandoril had finally moved without another word and opened the door, this time not met with any attempts to be stopped. He hesitated as Szordin remained at the bedside. He turned his head slightly to see the saddened state of the Dravhen. “Goodni-”
“-Stay.” Szordin spoke, “Come here.” It was a stern demand. Thandoril did not hesitate again and closed the door behind him. Straying over to Szordin like a kicked puppy.
“Lay down.” another command as if he really was a dog.
“I have a room.” Thandoril argued back, and Szordin shot him a side glance.
“Your room is here.” Still keeping up with that stern tone. There were underlayers to how Szordin worked, this was how he showed his affections. “I won’t sleep knowing Saerion could snatch you up, now sit down, or lay down– I don’t care.” He pointed at the mattress that had its covers stripped back. Thandoril was positive Szordin had done it for himself.
He reluctantly sat down, at the very edge before Szordin had run his hands through Thandoril's hair. Incredibly intimate for being separated, it was to move it out of the way as he untied the pleated ruff from his collar. Thandoril did not resist, not even once Szordin pulled it free and folded it neatly as he placed it at the tableside.
“So.” Thandoril started, and Szordin had melted down to his knees so he could better work his fingers to free the buttons of Thandorils long-coat. “Where will you be sleeping then?” He was certainly not sharing a bed with Szordin.
“The floor if that humours you.” Tarr responded, and Thandoril shimmied the coat free from his shoulders as he the taller man retrieved it, getting to his feet to throw it over a coat hanger.
“It does actually.” Thandoril responded as he watched Szordin begin to work at the clasps of his doublet, “It can give you a chance to rethink your decision.” His eyes were wandering over Szordins body. The white linen shirt hugged his body perfectly as he peeled the coat off– Thandoril had always preferred lighter colours on Szordin.
Tarr had not responded, for he no longer wanted to argue with Thandoril. Not while being half dressed as he combed his fingers through his hair, keeping it free from tangles was very important to him.
He had wandered back over to Thandoril, with a swift hand he had unbuttoned the hem of the blonde's pants. Thandoril gasped, and teasingly hit Szordin's shoulder.
“Quit,” He sneered, “lay back before you fall off.”
Thandoril shifted further back, though not nearly as much. A sharp string of curses hissed from the doctor as he leaned down, seizing the Amran’s ankles and lifted them– forcing Thandoril flat against the mattress. Szordin, however, faltered with a sudden tug yanking at his shirt, dragging him down onto the blonde in a clumsy sprawl.
Thandoril let a smile blossom on his face, sly and unrepentant, as though his little stunt was funny. He tilted his chin, wordlessly beckoning a kiss he wanted. Szordin's dark hair had spilled over them both in a curtain of ink, the wavering candlelight threading through its strands– the faint ambience of its light had caught the professor's wandering eyes.
Thandorils hands had gone to the ruff at his throat, fingers worked at the lace as his gaze searched the doctor's face, index and middle creeping up to brush against the lines of Szordin’s cheekbones, as if he had become mesmerized by the man before him.
It prompted the doctor to lean down further, their noses brushing together as the braces of their lips only briefly began to touch; Thandoril had suddenly turned his face away, letting out a strangled breath as if had been holding it. Szordin stood, getting off of Thandoril with little expression.
He was sick of the teasing and refused to indulge in it further, instead resuming the task he had been tending to before. Szordin unlaced Thandoril's shoes, sliding them off with practiced care and setting them neatly by the bedside. The Amran sank deeper into the white bedding, looking short of a mess– cheeks flushed, hair laid out in a mess, with his chest rising and falling between uneven breaths.
Something unbidden stirred in Szordin’s chest, an instinct as he brushed a strand of hair from Thandoril's forehead. He had done this many times, every night when he and Thandoril were still together.
His lips parted to speak but Tarr had shushed him, grabbing the unfinished wine glass from earlier. He wasn’t even able to get a taste of it before Thaddeus had begun pounding at his door. He inspected the liquid, giving it a swirl before taking a sip. It wasn’t like wine could spoil in under a few hours, but he needed to be sure.
It was tangy, rotten citrus with fermented cherries, and then the iron taste of blood, no doubt human– they all tasted the same.
“Sit up.” He now took to sitting on the tableside, handing the glass to Thandoril, “Drink,” That demanding tone had returned and Thandoril reluctantly took a few sips.
“Gross.” Thandoril had again scrunched his face up at the taste of it, “who knew Saerion had such terrible taste in wine.” He handed the glass back to Tarr and the man finished it off in a single gulp.
“Would you expect much from a man like that?” Szordin had asked as he discarded the glass back on the tableside. He had recollected himself, and began to snuff out the candles around the room, stealing glances at Thandoril as he made his rounds.
It was quiet again. Tarr let his thoughts drift, wondering what the morning would bring. There were things he would do before making sure the doors of this Holy house would never open again, starting with Saerion. Nicolas could follow if he chose to but Tarr made a silent promise: it would be Thandoril's duty to care for him if he were to get hurt.
If the perfect opportunity for revenge presented itself, it would be now. Saerion was outnumbered should Tarr fail in the act, yet he felt no hesitation knowing it was nine against one. This would not be a merciful death. Tarr would make sure Saerion felt every horrible and terrible thing he had done, inflicting as much suffering compressed into an inescapable instant. A slight tremor ran up his hand, and he grasped his fist to conceal it.
If he let his hatred linger for too long, it would awaken that dreadful eye.
He had met the bedside again from the opposite end, snuffing out the last few candles, now bathing both in blackness. Only the dim candle light from under the door was illuminating the room. Thandoril was blind but Szordin could see him perfectly.
He was staring over at the door bug-eyed, “You don’t really have to sleep on the floor.” as if the darkness would become his safety net for confessing.
Szordin only hummed in response as he finally pulled his shirt from his body, it was not often he ever let Thandoril see him shirtless, the scars along his chest– the ones he willingly gave to himself caused an insecurity after he had left Kilthion. He let the shirt fall to the ground with such little care. He disliked white, it made him feel like some glowing beacon, a light tower? Wasn’t it called? Thinking to himself as he gathered himself under the sheets.
He felt Thandoril shift away, he too had long discarded his shirt and Szordin had seen the way his shoulders tensed under his black and white vision. He felt maybe the blonde had felt the need to invite him into this sudden shared space, yet again he was wrong as he saw Thandoril turn slightly, arm moving under the sheets to grasp his hand which was urging him closer.
Szordin strained as he moved in, fingers finding their place at the other man's hips. He had always loved the way every part of Thandoril had been perfectly molded to fit against him, the way the curve of his back perfectly tucked itself against the front of his body.
The two had begun to readjust. Thandoril slightly sat up so Szordin could tuck his arm around the Amran's neck, using his bicep as a pillow while his hand traced light circles around his shoulder. The blonde snuggled back against Tarr, and he could really begin to smell the Bourbon and champa Szordin always smelled of. How long had it been since they laid like this?
Thandoril had finally felt himself burning out. “I haven’t been able to sleep since,” he paused, struggling to find his breath, “since, you know.” His breathless confession had Szordin slightly stirring, his other hand lifting from his waist to caress the side of his face.
“Your eyes painted a bigger picture.” Szordin spoke as he tucked his face behind the nape of Thandoril's neck, he breathed in, as subtly as he could. This no doubt would be a rare instance where Thandoril was just needing comfort. By morning they would both pretend nothing had happened.
“When I first saw you after all those years, I thought my heart would start beating again.” he continued, “I know you’re not sleeping, you become so irritable when you don’t.” Recalling the many times they would argue, only to discover Thandoril had yet fallen asleep that day. “I will sleep beside you every night if it means you’ll rest.” Now it had been Szordin's time to confess, “I think it was fate that Ahzyl and Kelvhan had brought us back together.”
Wrong choice of words.
Thandoril jabbed him with his shoulder as his body went rigid, and Szordin pulled his hand away from his face in fear he had poked him with his fingernails. Though, that had not been the reason.
“There won’t be an ‘us’ again.” Thandoril had assumed that Szordin thought they would rekindle their relationship, but the professor had little interest. They vowed to not see each other again, and that is how it will be.
Szordin dipped back, no longer holding Thandoril in a lovers embrace, but instead, laying there limplessly as he thought about how he may never get his ex-husband back. He became all too aware of how the wedding band on his finger felt heavy and constricting.
Szordins lack of response made Thandoril shift, pressing closer despite the distance.
”Goodnight, Tarr.” The professor whispered.
Szordin said nothing. He had not cared if Thandoril wanted them to reconcile, nor if the past could ever be undone between them. If holding him every night–even without the hopes of being together–was all he could have, then that would have to be enough.