Chapter Text
Sometimes, love isn't a thing that needs to be spoken out loud.
It isn't a thing that's shouted on the wind or whispered in the night. It isn't a thing that requires kissing, hugging, touching, more - sometimes, it is a thing that simply exists, suspended between two people, passed between them in a glance, a smirk, a roll of the eyes, a flick of the wrist.
It is in the dance.
You hear a call - 'Move!' - and then they're on you, black, terrifying, with a cold that sucks and tears at the bonds between you, your homeworld (long gone), the partner behind you, the blade in your hand, and the tentative spark that glistens inside. A sweep of the oversized blade, a whoosh and rush of darkness and cold that somehow empowers and strengthens the feel of something that tugs at that spark, pulling it towards the sudden warmth at your back as he's there, holding you up, not propping but simply affirming your own strength.
A sarcastic remark. You smirk, chuckle, shake your head. He tosses his hair - you can see it in your mind's eye - and then the blades are arcing, scything, rending through flesh-that-isn't and sending gleaming hearts back to rejoin their source, empowered by a smaller, stronger light somewhere on the battlefield, one that blinds, washes out the tiny spark inside you.
The light behind you, though... that light has never felt overwhelming.
There are hundreds of small shadows before and above and all around you but you aren't afraid. The dance, the words that pass between you, they feed into the invisible strings that tie the two of you together until you're choking with the power of it, a power you swore to yourself, you would never feel again. Ties that bind and wrap around and at the beginning you pulled away, yelling, screaming, fighting, pushing away, and yet... yet... you can't bring yourself to fight them anymore. Because they also comfort. They also bring joy, whatever sadness happens when they're severed too soon.
Soon enough the battle ends. The brilliant light has won this battle, and your shadow-dimmed spark can rest. The sword in your hands has long ceased to feel heavy, but it feels nice to lay it down. The one behind you, the one whom your awareness of has never waned, also lays his weapon aside, resting it against his shoulder and turning towards you.
Love isn't always something that needs to be spoken. It's transmitted through the clap on your shoulder before he walks back to the city, the small nod and smile you give him that you wouldn't give anyone else.
One never wonders if he feels the same way. Both of you are far too proud to say a thing, but it's in the little things, in the small interactions, a glance, a moment, things others wouldn't even notice are even out of character for the two of you. But you notice.
The moment passes. You go on your separate ways. Searching for pockets of darkness to root out, him going to celebrate victory, you going off on your own because celebration doesn't suit.
Maybe later tonight you'll find each other again. Sit in silence - because love doesn't need words when it exists between partners.