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Were his eyes always this gentle and dreamy? Ravion couldn't remember.
He watched Indris move through the crowd, not toward him yet, but wandering in that aimless, loose-limbed way that suggested the wine had finally hit. Someone had convinced him to celebrate. Good, Ravion thought. The Captain was wound so tight most days it was a wonder he didn't snap in half.
But that wasn't how they'd gotten here. Not yet.
Pull back: earlier. An hour ago, maybe less. Ravion had been bored.
He'd tried cards at the palace – Velara had been there, all sharp edges and sharper words, and Thador's lackeys kept giving him looks like they were planning his accidental death for the third time this month. Tiresome. So he'd left, wandered through the noble district with its too-clean streets and crystalline lights casting everything in that faint purple hue that made Sal'thorin look like a dream someone forgot to wake up from.
The sound had pulled him in: laughter, rough and genuine, spilling from one of the smaller taverns near the garrison. Guards, then. Off-duty, celebrating something or other. Ravion pushed the door open and let the noise wash over him – warm bodies, cheap wine, the kind of ease that came from not having to perform for nobles who'd gut you for looking at them wrong.
He spotted Xera first. She was easy to find – tall, broad-shouldered, her laugh carrying over the din like she owned the place. She probably did, in every way that mattered. Deputy captain, Indris's right hand, the kind of competent that made Ravion's job easier by doing most of it for him.
And there, just behind her: Indris.
Sitting at a corner table, back straight even though he was clearly trying to relax. Someone had pressed a cup into his hand. He was holding it like it might bite him.
Ravion leaned against the doorframe and watched. This was entertainment enough – seeing the Captain try to navigate social situations like they were tactical exercises. Drink when expected. Smile when appropriate. Laugh at the right moments, even if the timing was slightly off.
Gods, he was trying so hard.
Xera said something Ravion couldn't hear, gestured broadly. The guards around the table erupted in laughter. Indris smiled – small, careful– and took a sip from his cup.
Then another.
Then he drained it.
One of the guards refilled it immediately. Indris didn't seem to notice, or maybe he did and was too polite to refuse. He drank again, slower this time, but still drinking.
Ravion straightened slightly. Ah.
Indris didn't drink. Everyone knew that. Duty, discipline, whatever excuse he gave that week. But also, and this was the part Indris never mentioned, he was a lightweight. Ravion had seen his file, heard the stories. One glass and the Captain got unpredictable. Erratic, someone had said. Unhinged, another had whispered with the kind of delight that suggested they wanted to see it happen.
Ravion had never pushed. There were lines he didn't cross, even when he wanted to.
But watching Indris now, loose and warm in the amber light, something in Ravion's chest pulled tight.
The second cup disappeared. Then a third.
Xera noticed, of course she did, and tried to swap Indris's drink for water. But Indris waved her off, smiling that small, careful smile, and someone else laughed and poured him more.
Ravion should have walked over then. Should have extracted him, brought him water, sent him home before this became a problem.
He didn't.
Instead, he slipped into the tavern properly, found a seat near the bar where he could watch without being obvious about it. Ordered something dark and expensive that the barkeep didn't have, settled for something local and forgettable. The cup was warm in his hand. He didn't drink.
He just watched.
Indris's shoulders had dropped. Not much, just enough that Ravion noticed. The rigid line of his spine softened into something almost human. He laughed at something one of the guards said, and it wasn't that careful, measured sound he used in the palace. It was real. Surprised out of him.
Beautiful.
Ravion looked away, took a sip he didn't taste, looked back.
Indris was standing now. Unsteady – just slightly, catching himself on the edge of the table. Xera reached for him, concerned, but Indris shook his head. Said something that made her frown.
Then he turned.
And saw Ravion.
The tavern noise didn't stop, but it might as well have. Everything narrowed to Indris's face: the surprise flickering across it, then something else. Something softer.
Indris started walking.
Toward him.
Oh, Ravion thought distantly. Oh, this is new.
In all the months – years, if he was being honest – that he'd known Indris, the Captain had never once sought him out. Not unless duty demanded it. Reports, briefings, formal check-ins where Indris stood at attention and called him "Your Highness" like the title was a wall he could hide behind.
But now Indris was crossing the tavern, weaving slightly through the crowd, eyes fixed on Ravion like he was the only thing worth looking at.
Were his eyes always this gentle and dreamy?
Ravion set his cup down carefully. Straightened in his seat. Kept his expression neutral, amused, nothing that would spook the moment.
Indris stopped in front of him. Too close, close enough that Ravion could smell the wine on him, sharp and sweet, mixing with something earthier. Leather. Soap. Indris.
"Your Highness," Indris said, and his voice was steady. Mostly.
"Captain," Ravion replied, letting a smile curve at the edges. "This is unexpected."
"Is it?" Indris tilted his head slightly, like he was considering this. Then, quieter: "You're always where I don't expect you."
Ravion's smile widened, but something in his chest twisted. "Am I?"
"Yes." Indris swayed slightly, caught himself. His hand brushed Ravion's arm, accidental, maybe, or maybe not. It stayed there. "You came."
"I was bored," Ravion said lightly. "Your guards throw better parties than the nobles."
"Good." Indris's fingers tightened slightly on Ravion's sleeve. "I'm glad you're here."
Oh, this was dangerous. This was drunk Indris, unfiltered and honest, saying things he'd never say sober. Ravion should laugh it off, deflect, make a joke about the wine talking.
Instead, he said: "Are you?"
"Yes." No hesitation. Indris's eyes – violet, dark in the low light – held his. "I'm always glad when you're here. Even when I shouldn't be."
Ravion's breath caught. Just for a second. Just enough.
Around them, the tavern was still loud. Guards laughing, cups clinking, someone singing off-key near the back. But here, in this small space between them, it was quiet.
"Indris," Ravion said carefully. Not Captain. Just his name.
Indris leaned in slightly. Not enough to be improper, but enough that Ravion could feel the warmth radiating off him. "I'm fine," Indris said, answering a question Ravion hadn't asked. "I'm—I'm good. This is good."
He wasn't fine. He was very drunk. And people were starting to notice.
Xera was looking over, her expression somewhere between amused and concerned. A few of the other guards were whispering, glancing their way. This would be gossip by morning. The Captain, all over the Prince. Did you see? He could barely stand.
Ravion made a decision.
"Come on, darling," he said, standing smoothly and catching Indris's elbow before he could sway again. "Let's get you somewhere quieter."
Indris blinked at him. "I'm fine here."
"I know. But I'm not." Ravion guided him toward the door, keeping his touch light but steady. "Humor me."
Indris went, because of course he did. Because even drunk, he was obedient. Infuriating.
Xera intercepted them near the exit. "Your Highness," she said, and there was a question in it.
"The Captain needs rest," Ravion said smoothly. "I'll see him home."
Xera's eyes narrowed slightly – she knew exactly what home meant, and it wasn't the barracks – but she nodded. "Of course. He did good work this week. He deserves a break."
"He does," Ravion agreed.
Indris didn't protest. Just let Ravion guide him out into the cool air of Sal'thorin's noble district.
The streets were quieter here. Fewer people, more space between the elegant buildings with their arched windows and carved stone. The crystalline lights cast everything in soft purple, and the air smelled faintly sweet, fresh water, mineral, something almost floral from the gardens that clung to the balconies.
Indris took a deep breath, then stumbled slightly.
Ravion caught him. "Easy."
"I'm fine." But Indris was leaning on him now, warm and solid against Ravion's side. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry for having a good time." Ravion adjusted his grip, steering them toward his residence. "When was the last time you actually relaxed?"
Indris was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then: "I don't remember."
"Exactly." They turned down a narrower street, away from the main thoroughfares. Ravion's residence wasn't far, just far enough that he had to half-carry Indris the last stretch.
The building appeared through the gloom: part noble mansion, part elegant ruin. Black marble veined with gold framed the entrance, the door carved with abstract patterns that might have been flames or waves, depending on how the light hit. Ravion had chosen it specifically because it didn't look like the palace. Because it was his.
He got the door open, guided Indris inside.
The interior was mismatched in that deliberate way that only worked if you had taste and didn't care what anyone thought. Expensive furniture next to pieces Ravion had found at the markets. Silk curtains over windows that overlooked the gardens. Soft rugs over stone floors. Low light from crystalline fixtures that hummed faintly.
Indris looked around like he'd never seen it before. Maybe he hadn't. Ravion didn't bring people here.
"Your place," Indris said.
"Astute as always, Captain."
"It's—" Indris swayed again, reached out to steady himself on the back of a chair. "—nice."
"Sit," Ravion said, guiding him toward the low couch. "I'll get you water."
"I don't need—"
"You do." Ravion disappeared into the small kitchen, found a clean glass, filled it from the cistern. His hands were steady. They were always steady. He came back to find Indris sitting exactly where he'd been left, hands folded in his lap like he was waiting for orders.
"Drink," Ravion said, pressing the glass into his hands.
Indris obeyed. Drained half the glass in one go, then paused, breathing carefully.
Ravion sat beside him. Not too close. Close enough.
The silence stretched. Indris swayed slightly, caught himself, then looked down at the glass in his hands like he'd forgotten it was there.
"You didn't have to—" He stopped. Frowned. Started again. "You didn't need to bring me here."
"I know."
"I would've been fine." Indris waved his free hand vaguely toward the door. "I was fine."
"You were about to become the most interesting story in the barracks."
Indris blinked slowly, processing this. "Oh." Then, quieter: "I'm always gossip."
"Not like that."
"Like what?" Indris tilted his head, genuinely curious in that hazy, unfocused way drunk people got when they'd lost the thread but were determined to find it again.
"Like the Captain who got so drunk he couldn't stand straight." Ravion leaned back, let his head rest against the couch. "The nobles love talking about you as it is. Ravion's favorite. The pretty commoner. Did you know he only got the position because—" He waved a hand. "You know what they say."
"I do." Indris's voice was flat. He was staring at the glass again, swirling the remaining water like it held answers. "They say—they say lots of things." He paused. "Do you say things?"
"What?"
"Do you say things?" Indris looked at him, eyes unfocused but earnest. "About me. To people."
"No."
"Not even to your—your noble friends?"
"I don't have noble friends."
Indris laughed, a short, startled sound. "That's sad."
"It's practical."
"Still sad." Indris took another sip of water, misjudged the distance, and nearly dropped the glass. His fingers fumbled, caught it just before it tipped.
Then it slipped anyway.
The glass hit the carpet with a dull thud, rolled once. Water spread in a dark stain across the woven fibers.
"Oh." Indris stared at it. "Oh, I'm—sorry. I'm sorry, I'll—" He leaned down to pick it up, swayed dangerously, couldn't quite reach it.
Ravion caught his shoulder, steadying him. "Stay there."
He retrieved the glass himself, set it on the low table out of reach. The carpet would survive.
When he turned back, Indris was watching him with that same hazy focus. "You're always—always picking things up after me."
"Am I?"
"Yes." Indris nodded seriously. "Reports I drop. Mistakes I make. You—you fix things." He paused. "Why?"
"Because it's my job."
"No." Indris shook his head, too fast, winced. "No, that's not—it's not just that. You're—you're nicer than you pretend to be."
Ravion felt something in his chest twist. "I'm really not."
"You are." Indris leaned back against the couch, movements loose and uncoordinated. "Everyone says you're—what do they say? 'Frivolous.' That's the word. Frivolous and—and self-indulgent. But you're not. Not really."
"You're drunk."
"I know." Indris smiled, small, crooked. "That's why I can tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"That you're good." Indris's eyes were half-closed now, drifting. "Better than them. All of them. The nobles who—who look at me like I'm—" He waved his hand vaguely. "—like I'm something they bought."
Ravion's jaw tightened. "They look at you like that because they're afraid of you."
"Afraid?" Indris laughed, but it came out bitter. "They're not afraid. They just think I'm pretty." He touched his own face, clumsy. "That's all I am. Pretty. And good at—at following orders."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" Indris's eyes found his again, suddenly sharp despite the wine. "You promoted me because I'm—because I'm—" He fumbled for the words. "Because I look good standing next to you."
"No." Ravion said it firmly. "I promoted you because you're brilliant."
Indris laughed again, louder this time, disbelieving. "You don't mean that."
"I do."
"You're just—you say nice things. To make people feel better. To make them easier to—to—" He snapped his fingers, searching for the word. "—manage."
Ouch. Fair, but ouch.
"And you think that's what I'm doing now?" Ravion asked carefully.
Indris's face scrunched up, thinking hard. "I don't know. Maybe?" He tilted his head. "Are you?"
"No, darling. I'm not." Ravion turned to face him fully. "Do you want to know what I really think?"
Indris blinked at him. Didn't answer. But he was listening.
"I think," Ravion said slowly, "that you're the only person in this gods-forsaken city who actually gives a damn about doing the right thing. Not because it benefits you. Not because someone's watching. Just because you think it matters."
Indris stared at him for a long moment. Then: "You're mocking me."
"I'm not."
"You are." Indris's hands curled into loose fists on his knees. "You—you don't take anything seriously. You can't. So why would you—" He stopped. Frowned. "Why would you take me seriously?"
"Because I do," Ravion said quietly. "Even when I wish I didn't."
The words hung in the air between them.
Indris looked lost. Confused. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
"I don't understand you," he said finally. "I never—I never understand what you want."
"Right now?" Ravion held his gaze. "I want you to believe me."
"About what?"
"About all of it."
Indris's breath hitched. He swayed slightly, and this time he didn't catch himself. Just leaned – slowly, inevitably – until his shoulder bumped against Ravion's.
He stayed there. Warm and solid and too close.
"You smell nice," Indris mumbled against his shoulder. "Why do you always smell nice?"
Ravion couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him. "Expensive soap, darling."
"That's not fair." Indris turned his face slightly, breath warm against Ravion's neck. "Nothing about you is fair."
"What do you mean?"
"You're—" Indris pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused. "You're so—" He reached out, clumsy, and his fingers found Ravion's jaw. "I want to—"
"What are you—" Ravion started, but Indris was already pulling at the ornate metal, tugging it free before Ravion could stop him.
The mask came off.
Ravion froze.
Indris held the mask in one hand, staring at Ravion's face like he'd never seen it before. Maybe he hadn't. Not properly. Not without the barrier.
"Give that back," Ravion said, reaching for it.
Indris pulled it out of reach. "No."
"Indris."
"No." Indris was taller, broader, drunk and stubborn. Ravion couldn't take it from him without a fight, and he wasn't about to start one.
"Be a good boy," Ravion said, letting a warning edge into his voice, "and give that back to me."
Indris's eyes went dark. Not with fear. With something else.
"No," he said again. Quieter.
Then his fingers were on Ravion's temple. On the scales.
Ravion flinched hard. Tried to pull back, but Indris's other hand caught his shoulder, holding him still.
"Don't," Ravion said tightly. "They're—they're ugly."
Indris traced the edge of one scale with his thumb. Gentle. Curious.
"They're not," he said.
"You don't—"
"They're like little jewels." Indris leaned closer, breath warm against Ravion's skin. "Pearlescent. Why do you hide them?"
Ravion didn't have an answer. Or he had too many answers, none of them good enough.
"Everyone hides something," he said instead.
"Not from me." Indris's thumb brushed across another scale, and Ravion's breath caught. "Not now."
"You're drunk."
"I know." Indris smiled, small, devastating. "That's why I can do this."
Then he kissed him.
It wasn't smooth. Wasn't practiced. Indris was drunk and clumsy and his mouth tasted like wine and something sweeter, and Ravion…
Ravion let him.
Let Indris's mouth find his jaw, his throat, the curve where his neck met his shoulder. Let him press close, all that controlled strength turned loose and wanting. Let himself make a sound he'd never made before, low and caught.
Indris's hands were everywhere, on his face, his neck, tugging at his shirt. Too much. Not enough.
"Indris," Ravion managed, but it came out breathless, wrecked.
"Don't stop me," Indris whispered against his skin. "Please. I don't—I don't want to stop."
Ravion's hands found Indris's hair, his back, pulling him closer even as his mind screamed that this was a terrible idea. That Indris would regret this. That tomorrow everything would go back to careful distance and "Your Highness" and pretending this never happened.
But right now, with Indris's mouth on his throat and his body warm and solid against him, Ravion couldn't make himself care.
He let Indris push him back against the couch. Let him settle between his legs, all that weight and warmth pressing down. Let him kiss and bite and leave marks that would fade by morning.
His shirt was half-open. He didn't remember that happening.
Indris pulled back slightly, breathing hard. His eyes were blown wide, dark with want, and his hands were shaking.
"I can't—" Indris started, then stopped. Tried again. "I don't know how to—"
"Shh." Ravion reached up, cupped his face. "You don't have to know."
"But I want—" Indris's voice cracked. "I want this. I want you. And I hate that I do."
Ravion's chest twisted. "Why?"
"Because—" Indris's hands tightened on Ravion's shoulders, almost painful. "Because I'm grateful to you. For everything. For seeing me when no one else would. For giving me this chance. But I hate you for it too. Because now I'll never—" His breath hitched. "I'll never be your equal. I'll always be Ravion's favorite. The commoner who got lucky. The pretty one who—"
"Stop." Ravion's voice was sharper than he meant it to be. "Stop that."
"It's true."
"It's not." Ravion sat up slightly, forcing Indris to meet his eyes. "You think I don't see what it costs you? Every day, proving yourself. Being twice as good as everyone else just to be considered half as worthy. You think I don't notice?"
Indris stared at him.
"I promoted you," Ravion continued, "because you're brilliant. Because you're skilled. Because when I watched you work, I saw someone who actually gave a damn. The nobles can say whatever they want. It doesn't change the truth."
"But we'll never—" Indris's voice broke. "I'll never be your equal. Not really."
"No," Ravion said quietly. "You won't. Not in this system."
Indris flinched like he'd been struck.
"But that's not your fault," Ravion continued. "It's theirs. It's ours. The whole rotten structure we're trapped in." He reached up, brushed Indris's hair back from his face. "You want things to be black and white. Good and bad. Fair and unfair. But they're not, darling. They're grey. They're messy. And they're cruel to people like you, people who still believe things can be better."
"Then why—" Indris's hands were shaking harder now. "Why do you keep me around? If you think I'm naive. If you think I'm—"
"Because I like you exactly as you are." The words came out too honest, too raw. Ravion let them anyway. "Your impossible goodness. Your stubborn righteousness. The way you actually try to fix things even when it's pointless." He paused. "The world will never be fair to you, Indris. I wish I could change that. I can't."
Indris made a sound, small, broken. Then he was pressing his face against Ravion's shoulder, breath hitching in a way that suggested he was trying very hard not to cry.
Ravion wrapped his arms around him. Held him. Let him shake apart in the quiet of the room.
"I'm tired," Indris whispered against his shirt. "I'm so tired of—of having to—"
"I know."
"No one sees it. They think because I'm good at my job, because I don't complain, that it doesn't—that I don't—"
"I see it," Ravion said quietly. "I've always seen it."
Indris's hands fisted in Ravion's shirt. He wasn't crying, not quite, but he was close. All that pressure, all that performance, finally cracking open.
Ravion held him through it. Stroked his hair, his back, kept his touch gentle and steady. Let Indris break down in his arms without judgment, without expectation.
Eventually, Indris's breathing evened out. The shaking stopped. He stayed pressed against Ravion, warm and heavy, like he'd forgotten how to move.
"I'm sorry," Indris mumbled against his shoulder.
"Don't be."
"I shouldn't have—"
"Don't," Ravion cut in. "Don't apologize for being honest."
Indris was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I won't remember this tomorrow."
Liar. Ravion could hear it in his voice, Indris would remember every second, every word, every touch. And he'd regret it.
But Ravion said: "Then I won't remind you."
Indris pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted. "Why are you being kind to me?"
"Because I want to be."
"That's not a reason."
"It's the only reason that matters."
Indris stared at him like he was trying to figure out if Ravion was lying. Then, slowly, he leaned in and kissed him again.
Softer this time. Slower. Like he was memorizing it.
Ravion kissed him back. Let himself have this, just this, knowing it would be gone by morning.
When Indris finally pulled away, he was swaying. Exhaustion and alcohol catching up all at once.
"Come on," Ravion said gently. "You need to sleep."
Indris didn't argue. Just let Ravion guide him up the narrow stairs to the bedroom.
The room was quieter than the rest of the house. Darker. The window overlooked the lake, and faint light from the water cast rippling patterns across the ceiling. The bed was large, soft, rumpled in a way that suggested Ravion didn't make it most mornings.
Indris sat on the edge of it, swaying slightly.
Ravion knelt in front of him, started unlacing his boots. Indris watched him with hazy, half-focused eyes.
"You don't have to—"
"I know." Ravion pulled the first boot off, then the second. "Lie down."
Indris obeyed. Stretched out on the bed, still in his uniform, and closed his eyes.
Ravion pulled a blanket over him. Stood there for a moment, just watching.
Indris's breathing was already evening out. He'd be asleep in minutes.
Ravion should leave him. Should go sleep on the couch, let Indris have the bed, maintain some semblance of propriety.
Instead, he slipped into bed beside him. Not touching. Just close.
Indris shifted slightly, made a small sound, then rolled toward him. His arm came around Ravion's waist, heavy and warm, and he pressed his face against Ravion's shoulder.
Ravion stiffened. "Indris—"
But Indris was already asleep.
Ravion stared at the ceiling, at the rippling light from the lake, and tried to ignore the way his chest ached.
This doesn't mean anything, he told himself. He's drunk. He won't remember. And even if he does, he'll regret it.
But Indris's arm tightened around him, and Ravion let himself have this. Just for tonight.
He fell asleep holding something he knew he couldn't keep.
***
Morning came too quickly.
Ravion woke to the sound of movement, quiet, careful, someone trying not to wake him. He kept his eyes closed, breath even, and listened.
Indris was getting dressed. Armor buckles clicking softly. The rustle of fabric. A muttered curse when something – a boot, maybe – hit the floor too loudly. Ravion cracked his eyes open just enough to see.
Indris had his back to him, already half in his uniform. His hands were shaking, just slightly, fumbling with the straps on his chest plate. He wasn't looking at the bed.
Ravion watched him for a moment longer. Saw the rigid line of Indris's shoulders, the too-careful way he moved, like he was afraid of breaking something. Then Indris turned slightly, and their eyes met.
Indris froze.
Ravion sat up slowly, letting the blanket pool around his waist. His shirt was still half-open – he hadn't bothered to fix it – and the fabric slipped off his shoulder. Indris's eyes went to his neck. To the kiss mark there, dark against pale skin.
Indris's face flushed. He looked away quickly. "Your Highness, I—"
Ravion's chest twisted at the title. "Don't."
"I need to apologize—"
"You don't."
"I do." Indris's voice was tight, controlled. Back behind his walls. "My behavior last night was inappropriate. I—I drank too much, and I said things I shouldn't have. Did things I—" He swallowed hard. "It won't happen again."
Ravion pushed the blanket aside, stood. Crossed the room slowly, giving Indris time to retreat if he wanted to. Indris didn't move. But he didn't look at him either.
"Indris," Ravion said quietly.
"Your Highness—"
"Stop calling me that."
Indris flinched. "It's your title."
"I don't care." Ravion reached out, but stopped before he could touch him. "Look at me."
Indris didn't.
"Please."
Slowly, reluctantly, Indris raised his eyes. There was nothing gentle or dreamy in them now. Just careful, painful distance.
"I'm sorry," Indris said again.
"Don't be."
"I have to be. I crossed a line. I—" His jaw tightened. "I took advantage of your hospitality. Your kindness. I said things that were—that weren't appropriate for someone in my position—"
"Stop." Ravion's voice was sharper than he meant it to be. "You didn't take advantage of anything. You were honest. For once in your life, you let yourself be honest. That's not something to apologize for."
Indris's hands curled into fists at his sides. "It can't happen again."
"I know."
"I'm serious—"
"I know," Ravion repeated. "You have your duty. Your position. Your reputation to protect. I understand."
Indris looked stricken. "It's not—I don't—"
"It's fine, darling." Ravion smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "We'll pretend it never happened. Back to normal. Whatever you need."
"That's not—" Indris stopped. Started again. "I'm not sorry it happened."
Ravion's breath caught slightly.
"I'm sorry I let it happen," Indris continued quietly. "Because now I—" He looked away again. "I need to go."
Ravion sighed. "Of course."
Indris moved toward the door. Stopped with his hand on the frame. Didn't turn around.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For—for everything."
Then he was gone.
Ravion stood in the empty room and listened to the sound of Indris's footsteps on the stairs, the front door opening and closing. The silence that followed. He looked down at his shoulder, at the fabric that had slipped during their conversation. At the kiss mark barely visible in the morning light.
It would fade by tonight.
***
Three days later, Indris came to give his report.
He stood at attention in Ravion's office, back straight, hands behind his back. Every inch the perfect soldier. "Your Highness," he said formally. "Patrol reports from the western district. No incidents. Everything is in order."
Ravion leaned back in his chair, studying him. "Anything else?"
"No, Your Highness."
"Then you're dismissed."
Indris nodded once. Turned to leave.
"Indris."
He stopped. Didn't turn around.
"You did good work this week," Ravion said lightly. "As always."
Indris's shoulders tightened fractionally. "Thank you, Your Highness."
Then he was gone.
Ravion sat alone in his office, surrounded by reports he didn't care about, and thought about gentle, dreamy eyes that were neither gentle nor dreamy anymore. Just careful. Distant. Safe.
A week passed. Then another.
They fell back into their old patterns – Indris reporting, Ravion deflecting. Duty and distance. The way it had always been.
Except sometimes, Ravion caught Indris staring at him. Just for a second, when he thought no one was looking. And sometimes, Indris's hand would drift to his own neck, fingers brushing the place where he'd seen the mark on Ravion. Then he'd catch himself. Drop his hand. Look away. Ravion never said anything.
Late one evening, Ravion stood in his residence, looking out the window at the lake. The crystalline lights cast everything in that familiar purple glow, and the water rippled gently in the underground breeze. His mask sat on the table beside him. He'd taken it off as soon as he'd gotten home, like he always did.
He thought about Indris's fingers on the scales. The way he'd called them beautiful. Like little jewels.
They're not, Ravion thought. But I wanted to believe you.
He thought about the weight of Indris in his arms, the way he'd broken down, the things he'd said. The kiss. The mark that had faded days ago. The way Indris looked at him now, like they'd gone backwards. Like they'd never moved forward at all.
Feels like we only go backwards, darling.
Ravion touched his own neck. The skin was smooth, unmarked. Like it had never happened.
But it had.
And they'd both carry it.
He picked up his mask. Turned it over in his hands, tracing the scale-like motifs etched into the metal.
I decided long ago, he thought. But you… You keep choosing duty. And I keep letting you.
The lake rippled. The lights hummed softly. Sal'thorin breathed around him, beautiful and suffocating. Ravion put the mask back on.
Tomorrow, Indris would come with another report. He'd stand at attention and call him "Your Highness" and pretend that night had never existed.
And Ravion would let him.
Because that's what they did. Backwards. Always backwards.
Even when every part of him said go ahead.