Chapter Text
“I love you.”
Avery freezes.
They are not words he’s unaccustomed to.
He is, rather, horribly and painfully familiar with them.
D3rlord says them often. Too often. Dropping them like snowflakes in the middle of a winter storm. He doesn’t think when he says them. He just does it, never expecting anything back but still looking disappointed all the same when Avery doesn’t recuperate.
But how could he?
Avery doesn’t know D3lord.
Not really.
It has hardly been a week since Avery found the golden helmed knight, left abandoned in the ruins of a mine, bleeding a deep red blood that shimmered with iridescence and gold dust. And Avery had taken him home–because of course he had, because how could he not–and bandaged his wounds, cleaned the not quite human blood from his skin, had him sip on potions and water and broth until he was strong enough to sit on his own.
“...you don’t,” Avery says.
He finishes corking the potion he’s just brewed–because D3rlord is still not quite healed, still bleeds that strange blood most days no matter how tightly Avery stitches shut the tearing of D3rlord’s flesh–and sets it high on a shelf before turning to look at the knight.
Yes.
There it is.
A hunch to D3rlord’s strong shoulders–subtle, perhaps, but not unknowable.
Something about it makes Avery’s heart ache.
D3rlord is kind. Patient. Understanding. Never pushing Avery towards this strange future he claims to know even though he’s grown worse at hiding his frustration over Avery’s own stagnation.
Or maybe Avery has just gotten better at reading him.
“I do,” D3rlord says, sure and confident.
Avery wants to believe it.
He really, truly does.
Avery has read the stories. Grown up with the fairytales. A knight in shining armor, full of devotion and adoration, ready to lay down their life and slay the beasts lurking around dark corners and shadowed halls.
Who doesn’t want that?
Avery, apparently.
At least…not like this.
“You don’t love me.” Avery speaks softly, kneeling on the wooden floor beside the bed D3lord has not yet left–strong enough to sit up, yes, but anything more strenuous than that is still a ways away–placing a hand on the knight’s shoulder to gently ease him back into lying down. He’s bleeding again, this time from the cuts that are scored along his ribs. It is not bad enough to change the bandages right away, but it will have to be done soon. D3rlord’s blood looks like ichor in the torchlight, golden and resplendent, smeared across his skin as oil paints on slick canvases. “You love whatever version of me is in your head.”
D3rlord reaches for Avery’s hand.
Holds tight.
Avery doesn’t pull away.
“That is you,” D3rlord says it with convection enough that Avery almost believes it.
He only shakes his head, and D3rlord does not push him, but the hurt in his pretty golden eyes is there all the same.
Avery looks away.
He has to.
Maybe one day it will be. Maybe whatever future D3rlord has seen will come to pass, and when he tells Avery he loves him Avery will smile and laugh and say I love you too.
But right now the Avery in D3rlord’s head and the Avery kneeling beside his sickbed are not the same.
And the Avery kneeling beside the knight’s sickbed is here to play nursemaid.
Nothing more.
“You, sir knight, need to eat–then we’ll get that…perpetual bleeding situation of yours squared away.” Avery pulls away and gets back to his feet. D3rlord lets him go, but not without great reluctance. Avery hesitates for a moment, but then he smiles as if nothing is wrong, tucking his hands behind his back, lacing his fingers together and squeezing tight. He risks a glance back at D3lord. “Wanna try something solid today? I made some bread last night.”
D3rlord takes a moment to answer.
He looks Avery over. The hurt in those lovely golden eyes is gone, filled with apple sweet adoration and fondness.
“If that’s what you want, Avery,” he says. “Then I will.”
Avery’s smile tightens.