Chapter Text
“Occtis?”
There is hot breath against the back of Occtis’ neck, trying to warm skin that will never be warm again, not properly. There is an arm over him, holding him close against another, possessive in a way he’s only ever known one man to be. There are dark curls everywhere, shining in the morning light. Occtis blinks out of his trance, not quite asleep, but not quite awake, either.
“Hm?” he hums, twisting his head to try to look at the man behind him.
“Change your name.” It’s not a request. It’s a demand, as most things are from the mouth of Julien Davinos. Short, to the point, and utterly incomprehensible.
“I- I’m sorry, what?” Julien is still pressed close, drowsy, and paying no attention to Occtis’ attempts to roll over aside from resolutely not letting him. Bastard.
“Change your name. Should be simple, no?”
“Julien,” Occtis huffs, giving up and speaking mostly to the empty space in front of him. “You know that simply repeating the statement does not mean I suddenly understand what you are trying to say. You need to explain.”
Julien sighs behind him, shifting. Not answering. As Occtis has already established many, many, many times over; bastard. Occtis can picture his smug grin, although the image doesn’t quite line up with the way a finger runs up and down his vivisection scar. Julien is rarely so gentle.
“Julien. Why should I change my name?”
Julien sighs again. The hand stills.
“Well, when I say I have personally rid the world of all Tachonis heirs, I want to be right.”
“My family disowned me,” Occtis replies. Flatly. His family killed him.
“You are still a Tachonis,” Julien retorts, just as matter-of-factly.
This time, Occtis is able to roll over, face to face with Julien. Of all the places he thought he’d end up when Thaisha Lloy had asked for his assistance in Venatus, lying in bed with the notoriously promiscuous Sir Julien Davinos was not one of them. The fact he is here out of choice, and because he wants to be, would have been so far out of believability to be laughable.
And yet here he is. Of all the people in the world to feel understood by, it is a cocky, vassal house knight who has filled the space where Occtis’ heart was taken from his chest.
“Your point?” Said cocky vassal house knight is being obtuse on purpose.
For the third time, Julien sighs heavily. He does that a lot. Perhaps he’s trying to make up for all the air Occtis can’t breathe.
“Look, Occtis,” he begins, and the arrogance is gone from his voice, and the eyes that meet Occtis’ are earnest. Searching.
“I’m listening,” he replies, something softer. Perhaps Julien isn’t just making a bad joke.
“Your family abandoned you. They abused you, you said it yourself. They didn’t care about you, they cut your heart out and tried to turn you into some… fucking angel of death, or some bullshit. But you- kept going. You are still here, and we all know you shouldn’t be.”
“That is true,” Occtis agrees, smiling a little. His heart does not beat. His chest does not rise nor fall. His eyes do not blink, because he is not telling them to.
“Why do you still carry their name? They are gone, Occtis. You never deserved them, they never deserved you. Why carry on a legacy you do not care about?”
Occtis thinks for a moment. He has no family left, Julien is right about that. Julien took care of that himself, and, really, were they even family in the first place? He has a point.
“I don’t know,” Occtis says, furrowing his brow. “I guess I never really, eh… thought about it.” It’s just his name, he’s never considered it could be anything different. After all, who would ever want a sorcerer without any sorcery? Who would ever want a Tachonis?
“Well, think about it now.”
Julien’s hand finds Occtis’ hair, brushing it out of his face. He keeps looking at him, he keeps looking at him, no arrogance, no pride, no possessiveness. He studies him, and Occtis tries not to shrink back. It’s a habit that has been absurdly difficult to break, the instinct to make himself small and unnoticeable when he’s uncomfortable, or when he feels like he’s being watched. He’s definitely being watched right now.
“What would I change it to?” He could be free of them. He could be his own person, fully his own person, and they couldn’t stop him if they wanted to.
“Davinos.” Julien’s answer is simple. To the point.
Occtis laughs.
But there is no cocky grin where Occtis expects to see it. No twinkle in his eye, no laughter joining him.
“Wait-” Occtis chuckles a little again, much more nervous. Is this- no, surely not. “Are you proposing?”
“And what if I was?” Julien retorts, still much too serious to be a joke. It is an answer in and of itself. “Would you say yes? My family is… well, you know, not much of a legacy to carry on, but anything is better than the Tachonises, surely.”
“Thaisha is going to kill you when she finds out.” Occtis is laughing again, pressing his forehead to Julien’s, reaching up to hold his face in his hands. He kisses him, just for good measure. Still grinning, he presses their lips together, and Julien’s arms snake around his back, pulling him close until they are chest to chest, warm skin to perpetually cool. A hand fists in Occtis’ hair and Julien deepens the kiss, always so hungry for more.
They go until Julien runs out of breath. He always complains that Occtis doesn’t have to worry about such things, only one chest heaving to fill its lungs. Julien does not let go.
“You still haven’t answered me,” he whispers, practically speaking the words into Occtis’ mouth.
“What- yes, you idiot,” Occtis hisses back, leaning in to kiss him again. But-
“Good.” Julien is pulling away, rolling onto his back and reaching over the side of the bed, as if he hasn’t just asked Occtis to marry him.
“Hey!” Occtis protests, sitting up and scrambling over.
Julien’s found what he was looking for, the sound of rustling fabric and something metallic clinking as he pulls it up. His belt, shaken a bit so it fully frees itself from the loops on his trousers. He hauls himself up to a seated position too, blowing his hair out of his eyes, and Occtis sees him reach under his pillow to pull out his knife.
There are seven notches on Julien’s belt. Occtis can name for whom every single one was made, and when. And why. He watches as Julien pulls the sheath of his knife off with his teeth, rests the blade against the leather, and deftly scores an eighth notch.
And then he throws the belt and knife aside with absolutely no care for where they land or Occtis’ protests that there is a knife in their bed, and he leans over, a hand on either side of Occtis, that cocky grin on his face.
“So, Occtis Davinos,” he says, voice low and eyes lidded.
“Not yet,” Occtis argues, a grin on his own face. “Really, you couldn’t have waited to do that until after the paperwork?”
“Fuck the paperwork.” Julien’s lips are on his, his body on top of him, breathing the air into his lungs and the warmth into his body, and here, caged in the arms of the man he loves, Occtis has never felt freer.