Chapter Text
It’s one of those nights when Occtis almost appreciates that his physical shell doesn’t ask for sleep anymore. As much as it would have been nice to escape reality in favour of dreamless slumber, a day like the one just past calls for a couple of hours of quiet meditation. A lot to process. Plus, it’s not like his sleep has ever been that restful anyway, even when liquid blood still coursed through his veins.
The house is quiet, but the city isn’t. The Rookery stays alive with street food vendors and various nightlife appreciators, a little bit of strumming coming from a roadside busker. Distant caws of the city’s avifauna.
Occtis relaxes on the windowsill, his body not feeling as supple and flexible as it used to, but at least almost incapable of actually sensing the discomfort. Side of his forehead rested against the cool windowpane, he notices an unexpected sound coming from inside Hal’s house.
He follows the sound of trickling water downstairs - where Hal’s family’s bathroom is. Perhaps with this many guests in the house, one of the family members has decided to have a very late bath? None of his business, really. He turns on his heel to walk back up. Nothing that needs further investigation.
Wait, what is that? Is that… sobbing? I don’t need to deal with that, he thinks to himself, very aware that people skills are not his forte. Unless the person is sobbing because they are struggling with how to properly structure the sources for their Archanade thesis. He might be able to offer some input there.
And yet, the faint flicker of what must be multiple candles and the sound of water mixed with the sounds of deep, guttural discomfort coming from behind the closed door tug on his sense of curiosity.
Pale thin fingers materialise a thin, green, smoke like ribbon that travels to the door - and unlocks it with only a whisper of a sound that is drowned within the rest of the ambience. Occtis’ light frame lends him a worryingly inaudible step.
The bathroom is covered in dark brown and brick orange tiles - steam has made them glisten in the candlelight. Along the ceiling, a long thin shelf houses dozens of little planters populated with moisture loving dark green vines. The floor is fitted with a couple of decorative drains, which collect water that has been running over the edges of the tub, all because someone seems to be hellbent on rubbing the very skin of their body off in an attempt to become clean again.
Wicander’s eyes are cycling between being shut in an expression of pain and shame, and pointing up toward the sky in the expectation of some higher power coming to smite him any second now. He sits in the tiled tub, folded into a ball of limbs, hair limply falling into his face.
Occtis lingers behind the crack in the door, barely visible behind the wall of steam. His gaze is pinned to the Halovar Heir.
He is statuesque in a way that omits every single sharp edge a man’s body could ever possess. His shoulders wide but rounded, arms muscular but softened by a life of pampering. His skin would be flawless if it wasn’t for the panicked, haunted vigour with which he’s trying to rub the phantom remnants of blood off his arms and chest.
Occtis feels a bite of bitterness, suddenly aware of his own body being a collection of wounds, cuts and cavities. Neither of them is quite human: Wicander inheriting the blood of celestials, himself, a self aware corpse. Each one of them teetering on their own edge of what mortality really means.
He can hear Wicander’s breath hitching, trying to recover from crying, long and hard. At first, it disgusts him. And yet, giving himself a second to sit with the judgement, he finds a little bit of himself in the scene he’s observing. He too has spent many a night crying himself to sleep after surviving yet another harrowing father-son moment with the one and only Primus Tachonis.
Occtis takes a step further into the room, almost without realising what he’s doing. Wick’s peripheral vision registers the shape moving through the mist, making him instinctively pull his knees towards his chest in an attempt to stay at least a little decent.
“Who.. who’s there? Hal is that you? I’m sorry I’ll be out in a second!” he starts apologising, squinting into the steamy haze.
“Oh… Occtis?” he eventually deciphers the jet black hair and white shirt. His shoulders relax.
Occtis doesn’t know what to say. He barely knows why he’s in this room.
They stare at each other for a long moment. Wick’s eyes are red and a little puffy. He looks utterly pathetic. Occtis’ gaze is widened with the realisation of not having the faintest idea of what he’s supposed to do or say. Eventually he softens the grip on his own wrist which he’s spent the last minute holding in front of his chest like a little shield.
“When I need to clean myself I use this…” he reaches down to his belt pouch. He carries one vial of formaldehyde, one of pure alcohol. Wicander’s body is way too alive for the former, and his mind might not be willing to try the latter. No matter, Occtis knows this is more of a distraction, perhaps a little placebo, for this man is already so clean his skin is almost raw.
Wicander catches a whiff of the sharp, burning scent.
“Is this… is this alcohol? I… I can’t…” he starts to protest.
“This is medicinal,” Occtis replies without an ounce of emotion and soaks his embroidered handkerchief with a generous amount of the transparent liquid.
He reaches out to grab Wick’s hand and pulls it over the edge of the tub, all while he’s sitting himself on a small wooden stool. He starts gently wiping the alcohol-soaked handkerchief over his forearm, the back of his hand, then his palm, each one of his fingers.
Wick watches Occtis go focused, quiet. He feels the urge to fill the silence with something, anything, but his mind is so, so very tired. Occtis’ grip on his wrist is strangely grounding.
On the other end of the exchange, Occtis becomes aware of the overwhelming warmth emanating from the Halovar boy, feeling his pulse, tuning into the rhythm of his breath. Sure, everyone around him possesses these functions, often making Occtis aware of his own… physiological shortcomings.
But Wicander, so willingly extending his arm and sitting through this ritual of care, it’s almost like he’s sharing with him. It is unlikely that he has the level of insight needed to be aware of this.
“I thought you hated me.”
Maybe he does.
“I am starting to become privy of some of your positive qualities,” Occtis hums to himself, avoiding eye contact. As soon as the words leave his bluish lips he realises that could be read into very differently than what he actually means. That’s if it was anyone but Wick.
“I’m glad even someone like you can appreciate a man of illuminated values,” Wick straightens up in the tub a little, somewhat proud.
Occtis turns to him, visibly revolted.
“Feeling a little more like yourself, Wicander?”
Wick’s face falls again and he slowly turns to pin his sights towards the other side of the tub, teal strands of hair falling back over his browbone.
“No… I actually feel more removed from myself than I thought was possible.”
Here it is again, the invisible grasp of conscience, perhaps empathy, twisting Occtis’ empty, functionless stomach.
He reaches up to Wick’s jawline to turn his face back. The eye contact between them lasts a mere second before Occtis drops his sights somewhere around Wick’s chin and chest and dutifully proceeds to clean his neck and collarbones.
There is nothing he can tell him to make him feel better, he can only offer this gesture of, well, perhaps not friendship, but a strange camaraderie between two people victimised by the same power hungry piece of shit paternal figure.
“According to certain academics in social sciences, sometimes you have to cross a threshold of suffering to allow yourself the pursuit of a better path.”
“One who emerges from the shadows may find the strongest awe of the Beam,” Wick nods.
“Wicander I swear,” Occtis shakes his head, his frustration painting a mental image of just grabbing him by the neck right here, right now. That’s it, no more attempts to console him. He can’t take this holy nonsense.
Wick stays quiet for a bit.
“I hope you’re right,” he whispers eventually. Under the layer of what Occtis sees as nothing but religious brainwashing, there perhaps is a genuine capability to think.
“This is not a world in which any of us will stay unchanged. You will have an easier time if you make peace with that,” Occtis raises the handkerchief to Wick’s cheekbones, suddenly realising the alcohol will probably sting his sore eyes. He wipes the salt off his face with his thumb instead, getting a feel of the texture of the filament tattoo. To Wick, Occtis’ touch feels surprisingly firm - this is because his undead fingers struggle to pick up sensory signals like a living person’s would.
Wick leans into the touch. He finds himself distracted by it, letting his eyes shut.
Cradling Wicander’s face in his long, slender fingers, Occtis can’t help but feel a little like he’s just acquired a pet beast: one that either isn’t fully aware of its power or just chooses to keep it under covers for the sake of connection.
“I hear you… have wings now.” he utters out of academic curiosity.
Wick opens one of his eyes.
“Would you ever be willing to show me? I’ve never… I’ve only ever read of Aasimar.”
“I don’t think I can do it on command just yet,” Wick replies apologetically.
Occtis shifts up from his seat and moves behind him - placing both his palms on his back as if he’s after any muscle or bone structures pointing to Wicander having celestial anatomy.
Occtis’ fingers trace his back muscles inquisitively, observing them connect to each other with the same boring tendons and fascia as anyone else’s. With a frown, he slides his hands lower, under the water’s surface. His hands find the small of Wick’s back, his thick obliques, ever so gently padded hips.
Wick’s eyes are fully open again, and a light whimper escapes his lips as the young Tachonis lets his digits dig into his sides.
“Sorry I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Occtis utters, emotionless, lightening the pressure. While Occtis has become used to a firmer touch to simply register anything through his deadened senses, Wicander is barely any less sensitive now than he was when he was six years old.
“No physiological element, seems to be simply… inherited magic,” the young wizard assesses eventually, lifting his hands up and shaking the bath water off them.
“Excuse me?”
“The wings.”
“Ah…” Wick shrugs, seemingly not disappointed, “yes, I guess underneath the robes and the family name… just a regular boy.”
“I didn’t say that,” Occtis mumbles, more to himself than as a part of their dialogue. He turns away for a moment, drying his hands on a fresh towel folder over a greenish copper hand rail attached to the closest wall.
As he turns back he is met with the entirety of his counterpart’s body as Wick finally emerges from the now tepid water.
Occtis scans him briefly, for science, yes, when is he gonna get this sort of opportunity next? To see an Aasimar up close, to inspect and analyse. He finds himself completely transfixed.
Is this all a part of the celestial design? Are his eyes, still remembering being mortal, trapped in some sort of irresistible sense of awe? His knees buckle, almost as if they want him to fall to the ground.
What the Creed’s architecture and grand triptychs aim to make mortals feel, Wicander Halovar at his most pure, most stripped down, can do to him effortlessly. His immortal bloodline, now no longer concealed by family lies and human robes, inspires unsettling reverence.
Wick has only noticed the intense stare now as he’s finally thrown a large cotton bath sheet around himself. Having taken spa days around his family members his whole life has made him surprisingly unbothered by the fact that Occtis can see him exactly as he was sculpted by his divine heritage.
“Thank you Occtis,” he holds onto the knot that keeps the towel in place around his waistline, “Out of all the people who I could’ve imagined making me feel a little better tonight… willing to make me feel a little better tonight… I’ll admit you were not anywhere near the top of the list.”
“I’m sorry this had to be the one thing we have in common.”
“What do you mean? We have plenty in common!” Wick places his hand on Occtis’ shoulder, with that signature naive boy-like tone of voice.
Occtis stands quietly in the realisation that to Wick, they are equals. He doesn’t see him as a child, as a runt, as a reject, in spite of having plenty of insight into just how invaluable he is to Primus as an heir.
Perhaps he’s right, but not in the way he thinks - at the end of the day they were always meant to be tools to their respective families. Even years ago when Occtis was still but a half-child and Wicander already a fully grown man, they were already tied by having the same purpose, one they had absolutely no control over.
“I hope next time we see each other it’s gonna be as friends,” Wick pulls his cold body lost in thought into a tight hug.
To Occtis it feels… not warm like two human bodies embracing should feel. It feels hot like remembering you shouldn’t sit too close to a bonfire. Distinctly a sensation signalling danger - and yet he leans into it.
It’s the strongest he’s felt anything since his own death.