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After hearing footsteps at the Pantheon, Ash escapes to Prawdziwa Polska II, a secret place Ewron showed him. The afternoon breeze blows through the lavender field, carrying its scent to the man's nostrils, relaxing for a second, before he recognizes how wanted his head seems to be.
Ash's gasp of relief, as he bends to support himself on his knees and catch his breath, is due entirely to Ewron. After all, if it weren't for him, the supreme leader wouldn't know where else to hide and could be either dead or getting imprisoned again. "It should be safe here," he said to the wind, more breathless than he cared to admit.
They almost got what they wanted.
Threats has been growing proportionally to all the "we need to talk" messages. “It doesn’t matter,” he tries to soothe himself, ending up repudiating his own cowardice instead.
I should’ve killed him.
It takes time to disentangle from the spiral of anxious thoughts that consumed his mind until he decides to scan his surroundings for resources, in order to get some sort of advantage. Perhaps, next time, he could strike back.
The leader then sets off to scour the unexplored biomes near him, taking into account how incredibly far away he is.
. . .
Ash only returns at nightfall, empty-handed and clearly frustrated by his luck, only to spot a man, whose white overcoat adorned with red details he would recognize from any distance, sitting on a log, split in half to serve as a bench, in front of a campfire.
Ewron.
“Ash!” The assassin shouts with a characteristic animosity as soon as he sees the friend arriving by the lake in a wooden boat, immediately getting on his feet to head towards the shore.
“Ewron!” The anxious voice opposed the ginger’s joy. “We need to talk,” he warns, docking and stepping onto the wet stones. It's always ironic when it’s Ash saying that infamous phrase.
Ewron's smile faded. "Did something happen?"
"Someone tried to ambush me earlier at the Pantheon," sighs.
"What?" A thirst to avenge blurred his sight. "Who?" he threatened.
“I don’t know.” The name Aldo shouts in the back of his mind. “I heard footsteps of someone invisible right behind me,” he hesitates to finish, “but managed to escape in time.” Shame compels him to avoid the sorry blue eyes in front of him, in search of a sunset sinking onto the water.
"But, are you alright? Are you hurt?" Ewron's concern doesn’t meet Ash's expectations for a lecture over how weak he acted. “I’m fine, but,” he forces his eyes to reply, “Can I sleep here tonight?”
"Why are you asking my permission, Ash? You know this place is yours, right?" The man reprimanded.
“Yeah.” He played with the stones under his feet, trying to escape the awkwardness. “Just making sure everything is okay. Anyways, thanks, bro.”
“No problem. Everything that’s mine is yours, you know? Now, come.” A gentle grin grows on the hooded man’s face when he turns around to guide the taller one to the campfire area. “Please sit down, my friend, I’ll bring you some food.”
Ash obeys, sitting on the bench, watching the redhead lean his body next to his to reach for an empty bowl, ending up with their faces meeting a little too close, so Ash swallows nothing and Ewron's felt his heart skip a beat.
The shorter man then turns his back on the reason for his sudden shyness, carrying the bowl to the cauldron, hung by an iron tripod above the flames high enough just so that it heats its bottom. He takes a ladleful of what seems to be soup, pouring it into the container once, twice, three times before handing it to the dark-haired man. “It’s not perfect, but it’s better than yesterday’s.”
Ash accepts it, nodding in gratitude. He carefully leans the bowl towards his mouth, trying to sip without burning his lips. "Since when do you know how to cook?" he praised, risking a gulp that warmed his throat just like a shot of alcohol on his most miserable nights.
“Did you like it?” Ewron smiled, sitting next to the leader, pleased with himself. “I’ve been trying ever since I moved here,” he picked up a long branch from the ground to poke the embers. “You should have tried the one I made yesterday, I almost threw up,” he laughed.
“To be honest, I have no right to mock you since I’ve never learned it myself,” Ash admits, taking confident sips now that the soup is starting to cool down. “Not that I’ve had many chances anyways.” He pushes away the memories of torture and boredom from being kept a prisoner.
Ewron recalls that Ash once told him he doesn’t know where he came from or what he is, but hadn't brought up anything else on that matter since, so Ewron won't insist. Nevertheless, his hints never leave good ideas to imagination. Guilt chokes the assassin that decides to cut to what matters. “So, Ash,” he began, “who do you think it was?”
Ash felt a chill run down his spine as he recalled the footsteps sounding so close—enough to warrant his death, or worse. He could be in Multi's lab, being experimented on, again. He could be used as a bargaining chip, getting dragged out back to the Feds labs. He could have a chip in his brain, controlling him and exposing Ewron and this place. Our place. He could even be hurting Ewron if Multi wanted to. That last possibility made Ash’s stomach twist.
“Both Aldo and Multi want me dead, and right now, they seem to be working together.” Ash pauses, listening to his thoughts. “I feel like Aldo is more likely to try something like that. Multi doesn’t seem good enough at fighting so it would be too risky, but at the same time, that sounds just like a Multi’s plan.”
The burning desire to avenge his master paints Aldo being torn apart by the Assassin's Blade in Ewron's imagination, certainty and rage narrowing his eyes and furrowing the space between his brows as the flames take him away. "Multi sent Aldo."
“Probably, but what matters now is that we grow stronger. The war has begun, Ewron.” He stared at the soulless blue pupils, fixed on the burning, snapping the ginger out of a frenzy. “Now, more than ever, we can’t let them find out about—” Ash breaks eye contact when he realizes how he seemed to be referring to some kind of secret romantic affair between them, ending with an awkward: “—us.”
The pause, however, only emphasized the "us" responsible for quickening Ewron's heart in reaction to his fertile brain. “I know, I know, I know,” disguised, letting slip a premature impatience, “I’ll be more careful, but your safety is the most important thing right now.” An irresistible idea seduces his judgment. “Why don’t you stay here for a while? I can build us a house and bring your stuff, at least until things calm down.” His tenderness aims for a yes.
“Ewron.” Ash shook his head in disapproval. “I can’t keep running away from them. I need to end this with honour.”
“For what is your 'honour' if you're dead, Ash? Tell me.” The redhead crossed his arms, ready to refute the most stupid arguments ever invented.
Ash's lips part, but the words don't come out, so he glues them back.
He doesn't understand.
How could he? He's just a “cockroach” who does anything for his own benefit. That's what keeps him alive, after all.
Besides, a while ago he would have been calling me a "pussy" if I did what he's suggesting right now. What’s wrong with him?
He argues mentally, too tired to start a fight, opening his mouth only for one last sip.
“Stay,” Ewron pleaded, immediately regretting how needy he sounded.
The request caught the leader's attention, whose gaze wavered to his blade’s lips for a millisecond of carelessness, leaving him wary.
“I just don’t understand what difference that would make. Trust me. It’s better this way,” the man said, standing up and walking around the campfire to a basin of clean water with a block of soap on top of a sponge near it, where he crouched down to wash the dirty bowl.
“Okay, then. Feel free to come back when you’re dead, Supreme Leader,” the assassin mocked, raising his voice to make sure he could be heard at the other side of the flames.
The corners of the dark-haired man's mouth curl against his will, and a muffled giggle escapes—the one he does whenever he finds something cute. "So dramatic!" Ash yells back, shaking the extra water from the bowl after cleaning it.
Ewron can't help but bite his cheek for a brief second, taking in the pleasure that rushes inside him when he hears the chuckle that melts him every goddam time.
When the dopamine wears off, however, he notices how quickly it got dark, getting up in a jump and going for his backpack like his life depends on the camping mattress held around the straps by knots he struggles to loose. Suddenly, he feels Ash poking his left arm with the now dry bowl, which Ewron quickly grabs and stuffs into the first compartment it fits.
Watching the ginger untie his sleeping mat, Ash glanced at the horizon. The orange sunset that once painted the lake was getting replaced by darkness, making it difficult to discern where the water even ends, the remaining shades of dark blue in the sky getting blacker by the time. He must be afraid, inferred, studying how distressed the man was trying to get the mattress out.
Ash decided to accompany him, picking up his backpack, when he saw Ewron pass by and unfurl his bed facing the shore, where there’s a small, flat, and empty area, whose short and trampled grass made the perfect spot.
That’s how the dictator understood where he should settle, used to the blade's requests to sleep nearby in order to calm him down from his fear of the dark—something Ash never really understood, but stopped questioning over time.
“Liege wie?” The hooded man called, preparing his bed near the embers' warmth, dying down already.
"Coming." Ash got up and took the sleeping mat with him, placing it next to Ewron's, far enough to not get weird.
The shorter man, on the other hand, couldn't fight the discomfort of seeing their beds so separated. His pulse was quickening as darkness enveloped the sky, it’s getting difficult to see around the camp. "Ash, can I move my bed closer to yours?"
The assassin's low, hesitant voice wasn't exactly what the leader was used to, only when he wanted something that involved investing time, effort, or something valuable. However, this time he sounded like a child wanting to sleep with his parents. It was almost adorable, if it didn't threaten the good night of sleep Ash had been fighting for.
“Why? There’s plenty of space left on your side,” he raised his voice, incredulous at how audacious Ewron can be.
“Ash, we talked for too long and missed bedtime. Now, it’s too dark, kurwa!” he instantly gives a tantrum, inflating as the words slip out of his mouth so quickly it’s almost hard to keep up.
There it was, the bratty and bossy attitude Ash was used to. Still, he couldn't bring himself to refuse helping Ewron when it came to something so vulnerable and silly. "Oh, my fucking god" He whined.
The redhead joined their bed before the Ash could even suggest a better spot, unwilling to listen to his complaints.
“I swear I don’t wanna argue today, but if you disturb my sleep, Ewron, I swear to God, we’ll have a problem.” The man rubbed his eyes, already stressed by the cockroach’s potential tricks.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Ewron ignored, waving his right hand, in sign for him to shut up, while walking by to return to his backpack.
Ash rolled his eyes, making his bed.
He sat down once ready, to remove the unnecessary clothes. First, he freed his feet from the black leather moccasins, keeping the white socks to warm him. Then, he loosened the lateral purple cape held by his right shoulder’s epaulette, removing the left one right after. Next, he unbuttoned his black coat, decorated with golden medals on each pocket, revealing a gray silk shirt, whose red tie got loosened and discarded. Finally, Ash let his collarbones breathe as he unbuttoned one or two buttons.
Ewron struggled not to turn around and peek, brushing his teeth for longer than it was necessary. A futile effort, considering he turned his head every ten seconds, admiring the curves of the muscles in his arms stretching the fancy cloth, the exposed skin of his chest, the defined collarbones, how elegant he still managed to be just in a gray shirt and black pants.
He’s so charming.
The thought was immediately suppressed, but it slowed Ewron down when Ash suddenly turned around, catching him staring blankly with a toothbrush in his mouth.
"I was going to ask you if you wanted a toothbrush, but then I remembered who I'm talking to, so, never mind," he laughed, the improvisation making adrenaline pump through his veins.
“What?” The taller one frowned, clearly insulted. “What are you talking about? My breath doesn’t even smell.” The statement sounded more like a question. “Does it?” he puff on his own hand to verify.
Ewron has been unable to defend himself against the complex emotions whenever Ash gets insecure over whatever nonsensical reason. At first, he would get annoyed by his lack of maturity. However, at some point, he started to contain himself from hugging the man, wanting to assure there’s nothing wrong with him—because there isn't.
“Can you take one joke?” criticized. The killer put the brush back in his backpack. “Do you want one or not?”
“No, thanks, I have mine,” Ash replied, trying to sound indifferent, as he finished folding the clothes that he left spread around on the blankets, getting up to put them in his bag and go brush his teeth.
It was Ewron's turn. He began by pulling the hood back down and unbuckling the leather holsters around his torso and left shoulder, which held a sided cape, white on top, but red under it. Finally, he unwrapped the also red strip belt, letting the overcoat open and slide off his shoulders, revealing a beige linen long-sleeved shirt and dark brown pants.
Ash is caught off guard when he turns around to go back to bed. The sight of the strands, choppy hair flying in the wind, made him want to know what it would feel like to have them between his fingers. Wanted to know how warm his skin would be under his imaginary kisses, from the nape to the upper middle of his back, vaguely exposed by the loose shirt.
Daydreaming, the crackling of a weakened tongue of fire awakens him, as if to remind him to add more firewood from the pile Ewron had gathered. He does so, poking the embers with a stick, before slipping under the covers next to the assassin’s back, already laid down on his side.
It wasn't difficult to find a comfortable position. However, Ash's thoughts wouldn't give him any rest, especially with the ginger so close to him.
They were lying there, side by side, under stars.
Ewron felt so strangely calm with his master beside him, making him feel a little more confident, like he’s a talisman.
Ash, on the other hand, didn't want to admit that watching his blade sleep was comforting, since the main reason for his recent insomnia has been his strong paranoia about an imminent attack—confirmed today. He couldn't allow anything to happen to him. He wouldn’t bear it.
"Ash," the redhead whispered, breaking the uneasy silence.
"Huh?" Ash lifted his head from the pillow, praying that this would be only a brief chat.
“Promise you won’t die when you get back,” the man said. “I don’t know how long I can protect you without Multi’s pills, you know?”
The fear in his voice was unrigging.
"Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself. I just need you to be safe while we search for a cure."
"I’m your blade, but you’re the one protecting me most of the time."
"What's the problem?"
"There isn’t a problem. I just wanted to be useful. That's all."
"Look, I’d probably be dead without this place. Also, you help me a lot by telling me all the stuff happening on the island, on the Regime. I appreciate it, man." Sadness escaped his tone by the end of the phrase, remembering how badly he treated Ewron for this very reason.
Ewron remained silent, reflecting on how that was probably Ash’s way to apologize for their fight days prior, and that was, honestly, enough for him, knowing how hard it is to get that man to apologize.
"Now, go to sleep."
“You didn't promise me.” Ewron insisted.
“I promise.” Ash lied, knowing he probably won't make it if his situation doesn't change for the better soon.
“Liege wie.”
The fact that, even involved by darkness, Ewron had fallen asleep, relatively, quickly made him wish his leader were there every night and then, but that would be asking too much. Yet, sometime, in the middle of the night, he woke up, turning to find Ash wide awake, admiring the stars in the dark sky.
“Ash?” he whispered, failing to avoid spooking him. “What are you still doing awake, kurwa?” his voice was sleepy, husky.
"I can't sleep," the dark-haired responded, sounding defeated.
"What is it?"
Silence erupted for long seconds. Ash was battling his own mind from doing something stupid.
"Ash? Are you good?" He called the leader, confused by his lack of response, struggling to get on his elbow just to take a better look at him.
I'm not going to die. I'm not going to die. Don't be an idiot.
Ash felt like a bomb about to explode. He needed to do it, if he wanted to be at peace with the idea of finally dying.
The Supreme Leader didn't know how he got to this point, but he did. And it was only by playing with death that he realized what he really wanted from life.
His body betrayed him, partially lifting the torso, using the right forearm as support to roll his hips until he came face-to-face with Ewron.
The assassin felt his heart skip a beat, realizing how frighteningly closer the leader got to him, all of the sudden. His gaze was unlike any Ewron had seen before: vulnerable, sincere about something the redhead couldn't comprehend—but he did—he just didn't believe it. Not until witnessing the purple eyes dropping to his mouth and resting there for too long.
I almost died.
“Ash?” he whispered, breathlessly, feeling his cheeks and ears burning as his eyes couldn’t decide between his master's eyes and mouth.
Ewron's freckles were painted a rosy red, accentuated by the dim light of the bonfire. Ash never imagined that someone would be capable of making the cockroach taste his own medicine, let alone that he himself would be the one responsible for it.
The achievement, however, backfired, since it only made the prick even more handsome—something Ash didn’t knew it was possible.
Ewron's androgynous features always caught the dictator's attention: his sharp and straight nose is perfectly sculpted, slightly upturned; his defined jawline balances with the feminine chin; his light freckles adorning the high cheeks; his straight eyebrows and long eyelashes frame a hunter's gaze, penetrating like a rapier; his eyes resemble a blue topaz, crystalline and grey with greenish brushstrokes here and there.
A true work of art.
Ash would say that the blade's eyes are his greatest weakness if he hadn't memorized the triangular shape of his thin lips, highlighting the most beautiful cupid's bow he'd ever had the privilege of witnessing, painted in a pastel salmon shade the leader wished he could turn red after kissing for hours and hours.
He’s too fucking perfect, Ash accepted, cursing how cruel that blush masking his cheekbones made him so unbearably irresistible, to the point the dictator loses it.
His body impulsively, yet slowly, closed the distance. His eyelids grew heavy. Their breaths started to mingle together. And then, he finally confessed on Ewron's lips.
It's harder to show love when you're programmed to find pleasure in killing. Ash never felt this way for anyone, nor should he. He knows it's wrong to crave waking up with the scent of the red hair lingering on his chest. He knows he shouldn't want to keep someone close wherever he goes, let alone feel the warmth of his skin or imagine the taste of his lips. But above all, he shouldn't feel this duty to protect him from all harm. This duty to care for him.
Too late.
Despite the lingering kiss on his lips, Ewron needs all the time in the world to process everything that’s happening.
He'd been long gone, but Ash only noticed when he pulled away, scanning for any signs of rejection, only to find a lost look on the other man’s eyes, completely mesmerized by the leader’s lips, instinctively searching for his way back until they fit perfectly.
The contrast between Ash's initiative and Ewron's response takes the leader by surprise, as the assassin embraces and guides his lips with enviable confidence and mastery, taking his lower lip in a deep kiss that sends a thousand butterflies fluttering through his stomach.
What he doesn't realize, however, is that the one who guides him with "mastery" and "confidence" has just lost control of himself.
Each kiss is a heartbeat, turbulent and slow, with such violence against the ribcage that it makes the chest ache. If he were conscious, Ewron would think it was a heart attack, but all that remains is his body in agony by the passion boiling the blood, begging to find a way out of him.
Their mouths part slightly, and Ash barely has time to reposition himself when Ewron's left hand slides up the side of the dark-haired man's neck, going for his nape, grabbing a handful of curly strands, his nails scratching the scalp in desperation, pulling the dictator against him to devour his mouth, making it seem like his kisses are oxygen.
The intensity is as surprising to Ash as it is overwhelming. Feeling like he’s getting carried away by a tsunami, it's impossible to swim, so he drowns. All he feels are the redhead's soft lips and the distressed gasp that escapes him when he slides his tongue over Ash's, addicting the poor man to an unforgettable taste that makes him feel at home, for the first time in his life.
The Federation's weapon would say it's ironic, even shameful, how he witnesses his body weaken before Ewron, until it collapses on top of the killer, forcing the other to lie his head back on the pillow.
Lost in incoherence. Ewron's senses responds to only Ash: his scent saturates the air; the taste, half metallic, half salty, sometimes sweet, intoxicates the nervous system like a drug; the chest pressing against his burns the skin through the fabric of their shirts; the grunts escaping his throat between kisses make his eyes tear up; the warmth of the strong hand, squeezing his waist, sliding over his chest and going up to his cheek, left a trail of destruction behind. But it’s the tenderness of his thumb, caressing his face, that finishes killing him off.
An "I love you" would hurt less, perhaps.
Ash couldn't care less if he dies tomorrow, if he's at a disadvantage, if he's being hunted, if he sees the sun rise for the third consecutive night, or if he dies in his sleep. He's too busy lost in the way his blade devotes himself in each kiss, how he holds him with his life, how he messes his hair, how he demands him.
Paradoxically, life has never been so worthy.
Their mouths parted one last time before their eyelids opened, gracing Ewron with the mess he made, as he saw Ash handsomely disheveled and breathless, on top of him, staring into his eyes as if he'd just understood the meaning of life.
From another angle, Ash wished he could memorize the sight of his lover, completely exhilarated and flushed, sprawled on the mattress below him, looking like his heart had been ripped out.
"I'm sorry," Ash sighed, letting his head fall.
"What? Why?" Ewron felt his breathing stop, fearing the answer more than death itself.
“I should have asked”, the leader rambled on, clearly embarrassed.
The relief was unbelievable, as Ewron processed those words, making him smile with his eyes. “Oh, I’d love to tell you ‘go ahead and do it again,’ but my supreme leader needs to sleep,” he said, his eyes glancing at Ash’s mouth before returning to the purple galaxy eyes.
That "mine" made Ash think there was a heart in his chest, for a fraction of a second. He couldn't explain what happened there. The idea of belonging had never even been considered, and being loved and cared for by someone seemed so distant.
“Right,” he obeyed, rolling back into the position in which he had been caught awake. The tense expression that punished his face, however, got replaced by a deep gasp of contentment.
For Ewron, this was the same as receiving praise from his assassin. He had to bite the lower lip to avoid looking like a complete idiot, joining him in admiring the stars, noticing how unbearable he’s about to become, as the absence of Ash's warmth was already torturing him.
The assassin restrained himself for mere fifteen seconds before giving in, dragging himself little by little to the bed next to him, stealing Ash from his trance.
The man’s first impulse would be to shoo Ewron away—considering how he avoids physical contact—but he would be lying to himself if he said he didn't want a chance to wake up with Ewron sleeping on his chest. Therefore, he simply watches the man cuddle him, impressed by how powerful his warmth is to calm his nervous system down like no other sleeping pill.
The leader’s inertia towards such audacious behavior, however, inevitably feeds Ewron's ego more than any rare weapon or tamed wild animal could. Ash knows it. He knows he'll regret giving the troublemaker this freedom sooner or later. Still, he finds himself willing to deal with the consequences of feeling the weight of his head resting on his shoulder, his legs entwined with his, and his warm hand resting where the most serene heartbeats should be.
The mere touch of his faithful assassin's hand, caressing his hair, was enough to quickly lull Ewron to sleep. The same way the warm body of his blade, breathing peacefully in his chest, was everything Ash needed to ultimately fall into sweet dreams.