Work Text:
[doresain binding salvador's wounds. stitches maybe, gauze?]
Doresain is silent, as he carefully unwinds gauze from the larger roll. Though Salvador can't see the man's expression (the All-Father provided, but sight of the soul did not convey the fine details of facial expressions), Salvador knows from the heavy silence that the other man is. . . displeased.
A slow, heavy sigh. "I do wish you wouldn't do this to yourself. But I understand your faith compels you to strip yourself to bone for the sake of others." The man's voice is low, and elegant, but there is a tight tension in it. His soul, silvery-hued and pearlescent, wavers as the man's emotions shift and settle. He raises Salvador's wrist, cold lips pressing gently against the thin-but-deep cut. There's a soft sting of pain, at the pressure, but Salvador dismisses the pain with practiced ease. What can't be so easily dismissed is the cold of Doresain's lips upon Salvador's skin, the cool mist falling around Salvador and Doresain both. The kiss is not gentle but it is tender, moreso than Salvador might have thought the other man capable of, had this been those months ago when first they met.
Salvador keeps his silence. How to reply to those words, spoken with such a mournful tone? (For all his knowledge of mourning and death, Doresain is a man who sounds mournful only rarely — hearing that tone to his voice, seeing the way the man's soul trembles with it, is something Salvador knows not how to reply. Is he to be understanding? Forgiving? Apologetic? It is easier, with others, but the All-Father's guidance fails Salvador when it comes to the other man.)
Doresain pulls away, briefly, and when next he speaks Salvador can hear the smile. "I have a request of you, Bishop, if you'll indulge me?"
"Of course." Salvador replies, evenly. The faintest increase in pressure, as Doresain's fingers tighten just slightly, above the open wound and pressed over old, faded scars. "All aid that you may need, I will gladly give."
A laugh. The soft susurrus, as Doresain shifts, long hair rustling against draped clothing and skin alike. The mist's thickness increases — Salvador swears he can taste it on his tongue. (Like the dew upon grass in the morning, or the fog of graveyards late at night — this mist, too, is familiar as Doresain is, halfway visible with how much of the ghoul's soul seeps into the mist itself.) "You understand that I am a ghoul. I am no stranger to blood or bone — I merely ask that, should you once more cut into yourself and sacrifice flesh and bone for others, you come to my side, to allow me to dine on whatever is left." His fingers loosen — his fingers press just above the wound, and Salvador feels more strongly the pain, feels the welling of blood from the cut, feels the way the blood beads at the edges of it.
"Is it merely blood and bone you request?" Salvador rumbles, and Doresain throws his head back and laughs.
"No! I would take whatever you are willing to give, my dear Bishop, but I know you well, so I will ask only this — allow me to drink what blood flows freely from your wounds, and no further. A good king does not demand more from his subjects than they have to give — though a subject of mine you may not be, such principles are easily applied elsewhere, would you not agree?" Doresain's soul is alight in brilliant silver, those pearlescent colors shifting and dancing in a way only Salvador (and, perhaps, the All-Father) might see, and it is. . . beautiful.
Rustling fabric, soft humming. Cold, stiff, corpselike lips once more pressed against Salvador's wrist, just above the still-bleeding cut. The pressure of Doresain's fingers has lifted not an inch. "So, dear Salvador," Doresain murmurs, low and quiet in the evening air. "Will you grant me this request?"
". . . if it is within my ability to aid you, then I shall do whatever is required of me." Salvador swears he can taste something bitter and faintly floral on his tongue, as he speaks. Each inhale brings lungs full of that mist, ever-present around the King of Ghouls — cold, cold, cold enough to chase away the choking smoke that fills Salvador's lungs when his thoughts stray too far to that terrible, terrible night.
The curl of Doresain's lips is easily felt. (Pain is a familiar companion, but touch from another — even now, even now, Salvador cannot help but be attuned to every point at which Doresain's skin touches Salvador's own. Fixated upon the fingers and lips on his wrist, fixated on the way that Doresain's chest leans so closely towards Salvador's own, the way that Doresain sits near enough that Salvador's tail could drape over the man's lap if he wished — he wouldn't, he wouldn't, for Salvador would not impose upon the man that way, but he sometimes wonders.) "Many thanks, dear Bishop." He laps at the wound like a parched man laps at an oasis — Salvador cannot help but shiver at the sensation, unfamiliar and at the same time almost pleasant. Strangely, the pain seems to numb. Salvador finds himself almost dissappointed, when Doresain finally pulls away.
"Will you come to me, after you aid others?" Doresain asks, conversationally, as he finally begins winding the gauze around the now mostly-cleaned cut. "I'm afraid I do need a promise."
"I promise that I shall seek your side, to aid you, as you wish." Steady, steady. Salvador betrays none of his emotions within his voice — only calm, steady certainty. If he may aid Doresain by allowing the man to bind his wounds, then even if it makes Salvador shy away, want to insist that others are more deserving of that attention, then he will do so. (Perhaps, the man's attention has grown. . . comforting, to Salvador. Months of time spent with another, even in small moments, does make a sense of familiarity, of companionship.)
Snipping, the rustle once more of fabric against fabric. Doresain sighs, but a satisfied sigh. (Though words could not explain, Salvador has taught himself to discern the different. . . flavors, he thinks Doresain would describe it, of the man's sighs and soft noises. Much meaning is found in the things left unsaid, with Doresain.) "Thank you." Cold fingers finally, finally leave Salvador's wrist, though Doresain does not move far from Salvador's side. "If you are not opposed to it — sit with me, for some while?"
The subsequent silence is soft, but not unpleasant. Salvador finds it comforting. (It is. . . a good evening, all considered.)