You Can Do Better

by LandOfMistAndSecrets

Summary:

Falling is easy.

Landing, though? Whole different story.

Notes:

Spoiler Warning - This fic runs through a lot of the major events from Alfyn Chapter 3.

He was staring, again.

He could feel himself doing it, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

The tavern was bustling around them, brimming with patrons with full pockets and humming with conversation ripe for eavesdropping. There were a dozen productive things he could have been doing, but instead he was just folded into himself on a bench, tucked around a mug of cider, staring across the table at Alfyn godsdamned Greengrass. He didn’t even know why. It wasn’t like he’d never been attracted to people, before. He knew what that was, what that was like. He's had his share of one night trysts, working tension or frustration or plain old distraction out of his system just fine.

This didn’t feel like any of that. The guy was fun, sure, affable and apparently unruffled by any unkind thing Therion had ever said to him. He could hold his liquor well enough, and he was the most inclined of their little adventuring party to stay up late with him in the common room. Their conversations had been stilted and awkward, at first, but throw in enough liquor, and even Therion eventually got to talking. Alfyn knew how to get him going, now, what to say to provoke a reaction…

He shook his head. None of that weighed out to actual attraction. Alfyn was kind of plain, frankly. Backwoods. Laughed too loudly. Smiled too much. Asked annoying questions. Smelled like burnt bread and honey and over brewed tea. His hair stuck out everywhere, the cut uneven, like he hacked it down himself with a butterknife… or maybe that axe of his, even. He was ridiculous -- a medicine man, an apothecary, and still he had shoulders like a woodcutter and an axe to match, it was absurd. A guy like that picking flowers and mixing potions, it was like a big damn joke.

But he did it. And he was damn good at it, too.

Therion flexed the fingers of one hand around his cup, dragging his eyes with effort away from Alfyn to examine the linen strips wound tight around his forearm for at least the thousandth time. A remnant of their most recent adventure. A reminder that he wasn’t invincible, and carelessness could cost him his life. The salve had stung, at first, but now he felt hardly anything, neither from the medicine nor from the wound itself. The clean bandage was a far cry from the dirty, gin-soaked rag he'd been fixing to disinfect the wound with before Alfyn had grabbed his arm, his face a bug-eyed mask of horror, and demanded to know just what he thought he was doing.

And now he couldn’t stop staring. Like that was all it took to unlearn a lifetime of lessons. A bandage and a salve and an oh-so-concerned look, gentle fingers and broad shoulders and a damnably infectious laugh. Unbelievable.

Eventually -- inevitably -- Alfyn's eyes caught his, and his whole face lit up with a grin so guileless it turned his stomach. It should have been criminal to be so cheerful all the time. Alfyn lifted his brows (too thick, come on) and raised his mug and sloshed mead on the table because he was already four pints in and running on less sleep than he should have been, and Therion had no choice but to begrudgingly return the gesture. Their cups clanked together, Alfyn winked at him, and Therion tried to tell himself it was the drink warming his cheeks, but he knew better. Prim shot him a knowing look. Tressa giggled in his ear. Cyrus peered between them, eyes narrowed, and Therion stood too fast, face hot.

"I..." he began, but he’d forgotten to think of an excuse before he stood, so now he had seven sets of eyes on him and nothing to say. He lifted his mug and drained the rest of his cider in one go, and in that moment the numbing rush of it was especially appreciated.

"Hey now," Alfyn laughed at him, and suddenly he was standing, too. "Is that a challenge? You won't beat me that easy!" He lifted his own mug and began to drink. Therion's eyes fixed helplessly onto the way his throat bobbed, swallowing in gulps. He hadn’t shaved, today. (Lazy oaf.) His skin would have been rough with stubble, scratching against him while they clung together, and...

Fuck. Fuck, since when was he into any of this?

He dropped his eyes, far, far too late. Prim was smirking at him, one eyebrow raised, lips twitching like she wanted to laugh. Therion ignored her and Alfyn both, slamming down his empty mug with no further comment. He turned and hurried off.

"Good night, Therion!" Tressa called, and he was pretty sure she was teasing. He lifted an arm and dropped it, a little unsteady on his feet as he made for the door.

"Sweet dreams," Prim added, a statement met with audible tittering, and then another mug hit the table with a heavy thump and Alfyn was yelling after him, too.

"Hey, what gives?" he called. "Therion!"

But he was already out the door. The cool air outside was a blessing, a sharp contrast to the stuffy, smelly innards of the tavern at his back. He hurried through the streets, slinking through shadows and alleys out of habit, and when he felt he'd put enough distance between him and the object of his irritation, he settled down on an empty bench and ran his fingers through his hair and turned the whole thing over in his mind.

Or tried to, anyway. His mind just kept skipping back to the way his name sounds when Alfyn says it, and that was exactly the opposite of the sort of thoughts he wanted to pursue.

He shook his head, slouched back with a self indulgent, overly dramatic sigh, and flexed his fingers against the pull of the bandage and the memory of Alfyn’s fingers wrapped tight around his wrist.

Pathetic.

*

For awhile, he made himself scarce. He toyed with the thought of leaving in the night, putting these people and this inexplicable mess behind him. He had enough to worry about without them complicating his life.

But the more he withdrew, the more they seemed to want to engage with him, like they had all made it a personal goal of theirs to befriend him, somehow. Worse, something in him just wouldn’t let him cut the threads they were winding around him, tangling them all up together. He wanted them to do it.

He tried to goad them into it, insulted them and ignored them, withheld his opinions unless he knew they'd cause offense. He needed them to do it, to get fed up, to push him out, to tell him to fuck off, they could handle their lives without his smug attitude and sticky fingers and shitty commentary. It was the only way to be free without that nagging voice at the back of his head whispering what if. What if you'd stayed longer. What if you'd tried harder. What if you'd trusted them, what then?

Dangerous thoughts.

Persistent dangerous thoughts, because none of them give him what he wants. Ophilia sighs at him and clucks her tongue, and sometimes he catches her staring at him with her big sad eyes so full of something like pity, but she always keeps her temper and saves a seat for him at dinner no matter what awful things he's said. H'aanit sends Linde to bother him while he's lurking at the edge of their nightly campsites, arms crossed, concentrating fully on perfecting his air of cocky unapproachability. Linde nuzzles his arm and forces her giant, sharp-toothed face under his hand and growls at him until he has no choice but to scratch her ears, and H'aanit just watches the whole while wearing a soft expression that makes him want to run.

Cyrus takes his barbs in stride and smiles, and despite his fancy clothes and highborn accent, he never speaks a word of judgement, never dresses him down, never goes out of his way to make anyone feel like less. Tressa invades his personal bubble to show off the things she's legally acquired. Therion threatens to steal them off her. She crosses her arms and shakes her head and clucks her tongue... but her eyes are always sparkling like they're in on some mutual joke, only he doesn't know the punchline. And he suspects whatever it is, it's at his expense.

Olberic gruffly asks him how he's faring, like he could possibly genuinely care, and Prim... Prim always finds him at his worst, hovering on the edges of town, wavering on the edge of just going, after all, and she links her arm in his like they've been friends their whole lives and tells him about her day, the interesting and the mundane, the things she wishes he'd been with her for and the things she's glad he missed.

And she never drags him back. She leaves him there at the edge of town to decide for himself. "See you in the morning," she'll say, patting his shoulder and slipping back among the buildings at the their backs.

He can’t bring himself to disappoint her. Or any of them. It turns his stomach. It's pathetic. He knows better. Prim... No, Primrose won't care if she wakes up to find him gone, if she never sees him again. None of them will, and if they do, they'll get over it fast.

And then there’s Alfyn.

Therion stops meeting him in taverns. Avoids him completely, for awhile. Responds to him in monotone single syllables, doing his best to push him away. He does his best not to stare when no one else is looking. In this group, someone else is always looking.

"Therion," Alfyn said one day, reasonably, seating himself on a log next to him. He lifted his hands to warm them over the smoldering coals of their shrinking campfire. Everyone else had gone to bed, but Therion knew enough about everyone's habits by then to know that Alfyn liked to stay up late and sleep in, if he could get away with it. "Now, I've done my best to try and work out exactly what I've done to upset you, let me say that right off to start. I've mulled it over more times than I can count! And maybe this is just your way, and I'm reading too much into stuff that hardly matters at all, but I feel like you've been avoiding me --"

Therion coughed. He shifted away from him, keeping his eyes carefully on the fire. "Pretty presumptuous of you to assume my avoiding you isn't just a natural outcome of me avoiding everyone, don't you think?"

He said this as rudely as he possibly could, voice barbed and dripping with disdain he didn’t really feel. It was just an easy habit to fall into, a tried and true way to shove someone away in an emergency, when they were trying to edge in a little too close and he was all out of better ideas.

But Alfyn just sucked in a breath and laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd heard all day. "Well, shucks, Therion," he said, in that charming backwoodsy way he had, "I'm not gonna push, or nothing. If that's just what makes you comfortable, then you go ahead and keep on how you like. But I thought..." And his voice changed, there, lost a little of its customary jovial lilt, "You know, I thought you and I had a good thing going, at least for a little while.”

He gave him an opportunity to respond. Therion, of course, said nothing. Alfyn sighed and started again, the melancholy forcefully evaporated, this time. “You're the only one that really indulges my love of mead, for one."

"The only one who pays for it in ridiculous quantities, you mean."

"I figure the others gotta cut me off at some point, since no one else can just wiggle their magic fingers and come up with a fistful of leaves like you can."

It was hard to keep his face straight, his expression still. "It's not magic. It's skill. Years and years of practice."

"And I mean," Alfyn went on, heedless, "That's fair. A fella can't expect to drink on charity all the time. Tressa's got a head full of ideas for how I can turn a profit here and there, but none of it feels right to me, and..."

"So my paying your tab with stolen money seems somehow less ethical to you than you charging a leaf or two for an elixir that will literally save a life." He still hadn’t taken his eyes off the coals. He heard Alfyn sigh dramatically beside him. Heard the log creak as he shifted his weight, the silence stretching out between them.

"Is that why, then? My accidental but kinda on purpose devotion to eternal poverty?" Alfyn asked this softly, almost a little sadly, and a shiver crawled up Therion's spine. Alfyn was a fiery kinda guy. Loud. Emotional. This quiet sort of resignation falling out of his mouth was unnatural. Disturbing, even.

"Why what?"

"Why you've decided to cut me off, all cold turkey? And I'm not talkin' just the drinks, you know."

He made the mistake of looking up. Alfyn's eyes caught his, and they were big and sad and wouldn’t let him go. He was frowning, his shoulders slumped, he seemed genuinely put out, and Therion realized then with a whole host of mixed emotions that he'd finally managed to successfully hurt someone's feelings, and it didn’t feel like a victory at all.

He flexed his fingers. His wound had long since healed, but he hadn’t forgotten the gentle way Alfyn had taken his hand, the way he'd brought his arm up and furrowed his brow and prodded with murmured apologies at the raw, weeping edges of the gash. The way he'd held fast when Therion had tried to pull away and shot him a lopsided smile while he curled their fingers tight together. "This is gonna sting a bit," he'd said. "Hold tight."

It had (but not as much as the gin would have) and he did (maybe too tight, in retrospect) and he'd spent the whole time thinking, while Alfyn blabbered on cheerfully about changing bandages and checking up in a day or two and whatever else in his pleasant physician voice, that there was no fucking way the guy actually cared about any of this. His surface level kindness was just a cover, a useful front for his profession, something.

He'd also thought for a long time that night, tossing and turning in his bedroll, about how it had felt to have someone ghost their fingertips over his skin and look at him like they gave a damn.

Which was ridiculous, because Alfyn was just a guy doing a job, and Therion was just a useful asset they were keeping around for as long as it was convenient, and if there had been any concern it had probably just been for his continued usefulness to the group. No one wanted to lug around dead weight.

"Therion," Alfyn said, and he blinked, startled out of his spiraling, confusing thoughts.

"I just don't see the point in acting all chummy with each other when we all know none of this is going to last past when we need each other to get where we're going."

Now it was Alfyn's turn to blink, and he did so, a little wrinkle forming between his brows. "Now, hold on," he said. Therion held up a hand.

"It's been convenient, I'll admit that much. I'm not the only one with a few useful tricks up my sleeve, I know. But it doesn't mean anything, and I don't want anyone getting the idea that I think it does. So that's your answer, and you can stop flagellating yourself on the whipping post of your own existential anxiety, now."

Alfyn laughed again, ruefully, bringing a hand up over his eyes. He shook his head. "Gosh, you've got a line prepared for everything, eh?" He peeked at him between his fingers, and Therion could see, incredibly, that he was smiling.

"What do you mean?"

"Just that your excuses all seem a little bit rehearsed, yeah? Like you've spent some time preparing yourself for the moment you might have to fend some vagrant friendship off like -- well, kinda like we're a pox and a sourpuss line or two is the only cure you know."

"I'm not interested in friendship," he said, automatically. The guy wasn’t wrong, exactly, and that was irritating as anything.

"Ah, Therion," Alfyn sighed. He dropped his hands. "I wish I knew how to..." he waved his hands nebulously in front of him. "Poultices and tinctures and a good old elixir or two are fine and dandy if what's ailing you is something physical, y'know? Scrapes and cuts and bruises, infection, disease...."

"Does this have a point?" A stupid question. He knew exactly where this is going. He hated it. His stomach was churning and his heart was ramping up into a full galloping panic. Here it was. The pity over how broken he was. "Because if I wanted boring lists recited to me by memory, I'd go to Cyrus, no offense."

"Sorry. Just, what I'm getting at is, I wish the soul and spirit were as easy to mend as an old fashioned scrape. I'd pull all that poison out of you if I could, and not because I want to be friends! Though, I mean -- I do. But the reason I'd do it is because no one deserves to go around hurting, no matter what kind of pain they're dealing with."

"I'm not sick," Therion said, sharply. His mouth was dry, and his voice sounded loud in his ears. "I'm not hurting, either. I'm perfectly fine. If you want some pet project to practice your soul healing on, or whatever --"

"I don't!" Alfyn held his hands up, palms forward, fingers spread wide. "I don't see you like a project. Or a convenience, for that matter. I see you as a person, Therion, and and interesting one, too." He let his hands drop and stood up. "A guy I was having a lot of fun pallin' around with across the continent, but like I said, I won't push. I guess I just wanted to say, I think about you a lot, and I miss your company, even when we were just sittin' together long past a reasonable hour not sayin' much of nothing at all."

It would have been right, he thought, to say at that point that he missed it, too. That he'd genuinely enjoyed himself, most nights. That he'd try harder. That he'd be better.

But he knew he wouldn’t, so instead he just said nothing at all.

The fire popped, Alfyn sighed, and Therion listened to the rustle of cloth as he stood and to his heavy footfalls, retreating back to his bedroll, leaving him alone at last.

He told himself that the hollow feeling in his chest was normal, and convinced himself that what he was feeling was relief.

*

True to his word, Alfyn didn’t push.

But he shot him these looks, sometimes, when he thought Therion wasn’t looking. He squared his shoulders and took a breath and looked like he was about to say something, and then invariably seemed to think better of it, deflating right there on the edges of his peripheral vision. They passed through towns and hardly spoke. Their companions whispered behind their backs, struggling with whether or not they should try to intervene. It was ridiculous. Laughable, really. When had he and Alfyn become the most premium source of gossip in the group?

Eventually, they trudged their way into Saintsbridge -- a proper city, the perfect place to get lost in, for awhile. Everyone busied themselves with their own priorities -- Ophilia had a flame to light, Tressa had business to conduct, Alfyn could find sick people to fawn over godsdamned anywhere, and the others all had rumors to chase, including him. He took his leave. Contact became blessedly scarce, at least for a few days. Saintsbridge had plenty of alehouses, and he spent his time carousing them in turns, picking pockets and absorbing information until eventually, a snatch of conversation turned his head.

Something about a murderous thief and a naive apothecary and a lodge on the outskirts of town. Something about a scandal, clucked tongues and pinched faces and do-gooders too dense to know when they ought to just let nature take its course. Something about a knife and an infection and how some people get exactly what they deserve.

Something that sounded suspiciously to do with Alfyn.

And he told himself he wouldn’t act on it, that it went in one ear and out the other, that it was none of his business and whatever was happening, he would just be in the way.

He told himself this all day, too distracted to absorb anything useful from the afternoon crowd.

He told himself this all evening, while he pulled his cloak around him tight and crossed the great bridge that connected the two halves of the town.

He told himself this while he was standing on a grassy overhang, looking down at an old hunting lodge, windows alight with a telltale glow.

He sat there and told himself it was none of his business right up until he heard a door slam open, wood banging against its frame, and a shadow crept out into the night. The shadow slunk into the street and became a man, hunched over slightly, breathing hard. There was a glint in the moonlight as he held a curved dagger up in front of his face like he was appraising the damn thing, and Therion's heart clenched in his chest, his brain clinging to one reasonable thought -- the blade was clean. Alfyn was probably all right. Probably.

Hopefully.

He was going to kill this guy, if not.

The man tucked the dagger under his coat and hustled down the road, and Therion scrambled down the hill as quietly as he could, slinking around the lodge from the back. He peered in through the windows. He saw a bed of straw, an array of buckets and bloody bandages. Alfyn's satchel, hanging on a nail. He popped the window open, easy as anything, and climbed through without a sound. The bitter scent of burnt herbs lingered in the air, and the antiseptic poultices crusted on the discarded dressings had gone sour in the night.

No doubt the guy owed Alfyn his life.

Turning a corner, he stopped short and sucked in a breath, and for a second -- just one second -- he thought Alfyn was dead, after all. He was slumped into a chair, head bent at what had to be an uncomfortable angle, and there were bloodstains on his shirt. He rushed forward, bile rising in his throat -- like he was some green kid who’d never seen a dead body before, come on, fuck. He was about to grab him by the collar and shake him, but Alfyn picked that moment to snort a noisy breath in through his nose, snoring loudly. He murmured something unintelligible in his sleep, shifting in the chair. He stank like blood and sweat and medicine.

Therion staggered back, relief hitting him like a physical blow. His limbs all felt too heavy, and for a second he couldn’t move at all. He just stood there, breathing hard. Fucking idiot. Who was that guy? Why was Alfyn in here, treating him alone?

Fuck.

None of his business.

No need to complicate things by sticking around. Alfyn would probably be annoyed come morning to see his patient had cancelled his own treatment, probably against doctor's orders, given the hour of the night. Let him drown his sorrows over that himself.

He was halfway to escaping when the door handle jiggled a split second warning, and his dagger was out and ready by the time the thing swung open, admitting Ophilia into the lodge.

He froze, their eyes met, and her face went blank with shock. She dropped the basket of rolled blankets and towels she'd been carrying with a whump. They went rolling across the floor in tight bundles, some bouncing against Therion's boots. He jolted back into himself, lowering the dagger with a sheepish scowl.

"Good gracious," Ophilia snapped at him, sounding just as winded as he felt. "You scared the absolute living daylights out of me! What do you think you're doing?"

"I was just going," he said, truthfully. He stepped forward.

She moved to block his way. "Yes, but what I am asking you is why you were here in the first place!"

He scrambled for an excuse. "I heard a rumour," he said, finally. Might as well stick as close to the truth as possible. "Some idiot apothecary on the outskirts of town, busting his ass to save some miscreant's sorry life."

Her face softened, just a tiny bit. "Were you worried about him?"

"The miscreant? Will you lecture me if I say no, not especially?"

She rolled her eyes at him, shook her finger, and then bent down to start piling the fallen linens back into the basket. Therion moved to help before he could think better of it, and she flickered her eyes toward him, clearly surprised. "Thank you," she said, quietly. "Also, you know perfectly well I'm not asking you about Miguel."

So the wayward patient had a name. "Heard a few things about that guy. A real charmer."

She lifted her chin. "Everyone has a story, Therion. I should think you of all people might be empathetic to this particular cause."

"Wow. Ouch."

"Not that I'm implying all of you are the same --"

"All of ... who, exactly?"

"Well -- all, I mean, obviously -- all thieves," Ophilia said, her voice a squeak. She at least had the grace to blush. Then her jaw visibly tightened, her shoulders straightened, and Therion steeled himself for the verbal blow he could feel coming. "Miguel, for instance, has a family. A wife and three children he loves very much. His misdeeds were all for their sake, and he's sworn to use his second chance to seek a more noble path from here on out. Alfyn worked so hard to save that man, even when everyone thought he should just let him die, and by doing so he's taken just a tiny bit of bad out of this world and replaced it with an equal, and perhaps eventually greater, amount of good." She shifted the basket on her hip and flounced past him, toward the sickroom. "I think that's very inspiring."

"I think it's stupid," Therion said, though even he knew he was being petty and petulant and lashing out at her because the implication that this Miguel guy had been more worthwhile than him because of his family and his stupid oath to magically be better had -- not hurt his feelings, obviously not, but certainly annoyed the shit out of him.

She just looked back at him, over her shoulder, face implacable. "Were you worried about him, Therion?"

"So what if I was?"

A flicker of a smile. Therion flinched away from it. "I'll tell him you stopped by."

"Please don't."

She tilted her head. "Whyever not? He's missed your companionship. He talks about you all the time, you know. He'd be glad to know you cared enough to check on him."

"He talks about me?" Shit. Wrong question. He held up a hand. "No, don't answer. It doesn't matter. Don't tell him. Look, I just -- I don't want him to get the wrong idea. Just because I don't want him dead doesn't mean I want to ..." He trailed off. Waved his hands. Come on. This wasn't hard to piece together.

But Ophilia wasn't paying attention to him, anymore. She had reached the sickroom and dropped the basket, and for the first time, she seemed to realize that their patient was missing. She spun around.

"Where did he go?" Her eyes were wide.

"Snuck out not half an hour ago," Therion said. "Watched him slip off myself." He wondered if he should mention the dagger.

"Is that so?" Ophilia worried her bottom lip, looking from the door to the straw bed and back again. "Well. Alfyn won't be happy about that."

"Then forgive me if I get the hell out of here before he figures it out," Therion said. He went for the door, eager to be out of there, away from Ophilia and her implications and subtle suggestions and judging gaze.

"Therion," she said, and he froze with his hand on the doorknob, jaw clenched. "He really misses you," she said, softly.

He walked out.

*

His first clue that something was very wrong came early the next morning, in the form of half a squadron of the city guard clanking hurriedly down the main thoroughfare. People scrambled out of the way, gaping after them, and whispered rumors flew at lightning speed from one corner to the next, everyone eager to know the details.

No shame in wanting to know, Therion thought, stepping cautiously through the crowds. Truth be told, he had a sinking feeling in his gut. His mind kept replaying the image of that man, Miguel, holding up his dagger in the moonlight.

Snatches of conversation whispered past him. Commotion in the town square. Something about a hostage? He thought of Alfyn, or maybe even Ophilia, and he quickened his pace, following a steady throng of rubberneckers along the sidewalks to survey the situation for himself. As they drew closer, he danced through the crowd, darting through the narrow gaps between bodies to get ahead. The guard tried to dissuade the bulk of the crowd from crossing into the square, but Therion slipped around the blockade with relative ease, the uneasy feeling in his gut growing heavier by the second.

The scene revealed itself, worse than he'd imagined.

A woman, sobbing and screaming on her knees. The man from last night, Miguel, that curved dagger he'd so admired now held in shaking hands at a weeping child's throat. Frozen bystanders and useless guardsmen, all standing back in a ring and afraid to move for fear of forfeiting the child's life. The man shouted hysterical demands, and then, through the ring of bodies around the square --

Alfyn and Ophilia, marching grim-faced onto the scene. Therion swore softly under his breath.

"What's happening?" A voice whispered behind him. He glanced back over his shoulder. Primrose and H'aanit, the former's eyes narrow and focused, the latter's wide with concern. "Therion," Prim hissed, waving toward the scene.

His first instinct was to be annoyed that she'd just assume he knew -- he had no good reason to know -- but then he heard the sobbing woman scream again and the petty annoyance evaporated into embarrassed guilt, instead. "I think Alfyn and Ophilia might have saved a life they shouldn't have?"

Prim's brow creased in confusion, but H'aanit stepped forward, surveyed the scene, and nodded once, tightly.

"T'would seem the man liketh not the idea of facing his saviors in this sorry state," she said. Therion turned back to the scene in question.

Miguel was already gone, and presumably, the kid had gone with him. Alfyn was kneeling beside the weeping woman, and Ophilia stood with a hand on her shoulder, wearing the grimmest expression he'd ever seen on her. Primrose shouldered past him. "H'aanit," she said, voice like ice, "It would seem we’ve stumbled upon a worthy hunt."

"Apparently so. Linde and I will assist as we can," she said, and then they both turned and looked at him.

"I’ll have a message sent to the others. Are you coming?" Prim asked, in a tone that clearly indicated he could refuse only at his own peril.

"Obviously," Therion snapped back at her. There was a moment where he thought Prim was going to challenge him on it, really call him out, but then she snapped her mouth shut, nodded once, spun on her heel and marched away. H'aanit regarded him somberly.

“What?” he growled at her, hating the faint echo of worry in her expression.

“Nothing at all,” she said, and then she too turned to go, whistling sharply for Linde to follow.
Therion had no choice but to trudge after them, anxiety humming through him like a physical force.

*

Alfyn was angrier than he'd ever seen him.

Therion tarried near the back of their group, leaving H'aanit to guide them through the forest Miguel had allegedly disappeared into, and he busied himself with studying Alfyn's back, mind churning.

The thing was, he wanted to say something. He understood on some level how he must be feeling. He'd trusted someone and paid the price. But he couldn't think of anything that didn't sound trite, or judgmental, or like some asshole "I told you so," and even he had the sense to know none of those things would be helpful or appreciated. An old scar inside him ached as they picked their way further through the trees.

Prim stepped close in to Alfyn and said a few soft words to him, and though he did try -- he couldn't help himself -- she spoke too quietly to overhear. Alfyn muttered something in response, Prim patted him sympathetically on one shoulder, and nearby, Ophilia twisted her staff in her hands, wringing calluses into her palms with the anxious motion.

He felt, not for the first time, that he shouldn't have come. Why had he come? He couldn't track outlaws through the woods, certainly not any better than H'aanit and Linde, and he didn't have Prim's ability to reassure or Ophilia's inextricable proximity to the situation. It wasn’t like they were going to rob this guy. They were, judging from the look in Alfyn's eyes, going to serve up some good old fashioned vigilante justice.

He was still turning this over and over in circles when Ophilia began to fall back, slowing her pace until she was walking with him, side by side.

He felt like she expected him to say something, but he couldn't imagine what. Eventually, she gave in and spoke first. "I owe you an apology," she said.

He frowned. "You don't."

"No, I do. You were right. And more importantly, I shouldn't have said those things to you about... implying that -- it was wrong of me to try and guilt you for what I perceived to be bad behavior by unfavorably comparing you to a man who, in the end, had no intention of bettering himself at all." Her lips twisted, the staff turned in her hands, and she shook her head, voice hitching. "Though, even if he had, I should not have said it. You have been unkind at times, perhaps, but you have always been there when we needed you most. I was just upset at you on his behalf." She indicated Alfyn, still walking stiff-backed ahead of them, simmering with hurt and fury. “I let that color my words, and I am sorry.”

"It’s fine," he said, awkwardly, staring down at the dirt path winding on and on ahead of them. He cleared his throat. "Well. At least this little adventure will probably take care of his lingering fondness for thieves."

She shot him a look, and for a second he was absolutely certain she was going to wind back and actually clock him with her staff. "Don't joke about this, Therion, please!"

He just blinked at her, utterly baffled. "Who's joking?"

She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, H'aanit pierced the air with an ear-ringing whistle, and their group paused as one. He reached for his weapons, nervous energy thrumming through him. It was only one guy. He'd be an idiot to fight them. But Alfyn was going to be the one at the forefront of the confrontation, and Therion knew firsthand how little it took to take a life.

"Miguel!" Alfyn's voice, shaking with emotion, reverberated through the trees.

"I won't let him be hurt," Ophilia murmured beside him, like she could read his mind. She had her staff held at the ready, her face shining with determination and righteous fury.

Therion swallowed hard, and his answering nod was almost imperceptible... but grateful, all the same.

*

In the end, none of them were hurt -- physically, at least.

Miguel was dead, the child he'd abducted returned safely home, all of them lauded with gratitude laced with the bitter knowledge that Alfyn was the only reason the man had lived long enough to perform his lact act of villainy at all.

No one took it harder than Alfyn himself.

Their last night in Saintsbridge looked to be a somber one, each of them distracted, quiet and reflective. Most of them gathered around a map, discussing their next destination with little enthusiasm. Alfyn sat apart from the rest, taking solace in a continuous supply of overflowing tankards, while for the first time in weeks, Therion slipped the barkeep coin to keep them coming. It seemed like the least he could do. If Alfyn noticed or cared, he didn't let on -- Therion couldn't remember ever hearing him speak so few words in one night. It was disquieting. Brooding didn't suit him at all.

Eventually, Cyrus rolled up his map, their next destination decided, and with a worried glance at Alfyn, bid them good night. The others followed suit one by one, though Ophilia took Alfyn's hand and squeezed it tight before departing, and Tressa actually flung herself against his back in what would have been a vicious bear hug if she’d had the frame to squeeze him properly. Alfyn seemed to brighten a little at that, though Therion could tell at a glance from the flush in his cheeks and the way he swayed in his seat that he was reaching a constitutional threshold fast.

Probably best to cut off the tab, then.

He stood to do so, but the second he was up, Alfyn swiveled around and looked at him, and he just looked so godsdamned miserable -- what could he do? What could he say? His life and Miguel's weren't so divergent. Slightly different circumstances, and maybe somehow he could have been the one desperate and divergent enough to hold a knife against a child's throat. He couldn't imagine the specifics of how, but... for most people, thieves and highwaymen and banditry of all kinds were one and the same.

"Therion," Alfyn said, finally, his voice surprisingly clear. "Would you just sit down for a second?"

He sat down. He took a deep, deep drink. When he set his cup down, Alfyn was just looking at him, a completely unreadable look on his face. Uncomfortable, really. He was usually such an open book.

The silence stretched the space between them thin. The awkwardness of it settled like an itch between his shoulder blades, until finally he couldn't stand it any longer. "Okay," he said, sucking in a deep breath. "I get it. If you want me to go, I will. No hard feelings."

Alfyn looked at him like he'd spoken in another language entirely. "What… the heck are you on about, now? Criminy, Therion, I know you haven't spent much time in groups and all, but -- go? Where would I want you to go?"

"I don't know." A pause. He shrugged. "Away. Anywhere. Thieves are thieves are thieves, right? They all betray your trust, eventually. I figured you'd want to have as little to do with any of us as possible, after this mess."

"Don't compare yourself to him," Alfyn said. His voice was soft, but his expression was anything but. "Don't you ever do that again, you hear me?"

"I," Therion blinked at him, taken aback. He took another deep drink to hide his... what? Relief? This was the same heavy, too-warm feeling he'd had when he'd found Alfyn sleeping in that lodge, alive and unhurt. So -- yeah, relief. "Uh. Sure. I hear you," he said.

"You're nothing like him. He was a miserable, evil, two faced son of a..." Alfyn slammed his tankard down, hard enough to make the table shake. A few glances shot their way, a disquieted murmur shivering through the remaining patrons. "You're just a guy making the best of a bad hand."

"Well. That's a pretty damn rosy conception of my life you've got there. Glad you have me all figured out."

"No, but I know someone hurt you," he said. Therion swallowed again, staring into his cup like the dregs of his cider was the most interesting shit in the world.

"So what. Most people have been hurt at some point, and everyone who hasn't will be, eventually. It's not a unique story."

"Everyone's story is unique," Alfyn insisted. "And it's not just what happens to a person. It's how that person reacts to their pain that matters most, you see? You don't have to let it shape you into the same sort of monster that hurt you in the first place. You can do better! Everyone can do better..." He deflated, right there in front of him, shoulders slumping, chin coming down to rest on one hand. His eyelids fluttered, half-closed. "Even me."

"By letting people die because something about them seems off? That doesn't sound like you."

Alfyn’s eyes opened, again. They were red-rimmed and raw, like he’d been crying. He refused to think too hard about that. "Everyone would have been better off if I'd let him bleed out in the road."

"Everyone except you, maybe."

"I don't feel like I'm much better off, right now." he mumbled this around another mouthful of mead, draining the tankard. "I feel... awful."

"Yeah, well. You are pretty drunk, as far as I can tell."

Alfyn narrowed his eyes at him, just for a second, and then sat back and nodded. "Guilty," he agreed. "Looks like someone decided to renew my credit line. Gotta thank him sometime, probably."

Therion crossed his arms. "Don't thank him too fast," he said. "I think he might be cutting you off."

Alfyn just waved at him, pushing the empty tankard toward the edge of the table. Then he set his elbows where the cup had been and put his head in his hands, and his shoulders did this little spasm thing, and for a second Therion thought he was crying, and his entire body sprung up tight like a spring, ready to flee the room. He couldn't comfort anyone. He couldn't even deal with his own emotions, for fuck's sake. But then Alfyn took a deep breath, seemed to regain control of himself, dropped his hands and looked up. His eyes were a little wet, but Therion could look past that... mostly. For now. He sat awkwardly across from him, back stiff.

"What could I have done different?" Alfyn looked at him like he honestly thought he might have the answer.

Therion mulled over it, turning his tankard nervously in his hands.

"...It's pointless to ask," he said, finally. Alfyn flinched, but Therion held up a hand, thoughts racing. "I used to ask myself that same question all the time. I mean it. I’d pore over all my personal tragedies, cataloging them as carefully as Cyrus does his damn mobile library. I kept trying to pinpoint moments... you know, the moments where everything changed... or could have changed, if I'd done something different. I was obsessed with that, for awhile.”

Alfyn hummed softly, his eyes still locked on Therion’s face, making him squirm in his seat. He really did have amazing eyes, red-rimmed or no.

Fuck -- what a stupid thought. He kept talking, if only because it kept thoughts like that at bay.

“It never helped me any. Turns out, no matter how much you think about it, no matter how much plotting and planning you do to try and figure the best outcome... you can't go back and use any of it. All you can do is let it make you feel stupid, pathetic, naive, whatever. And in the end, you still won't know what would have happened if you'd done things differently."

"If you're telling me to just let it go, not to think about it at all --"

"I'm not."

"It sure sounds like you are!"

"I'm just saying that fantasizing about changing the past is pointless. You can't. The best thing you can do with any bullshit you've endured is use it to inform the way you act in the future."

"So, next time, I let the guy die."

"Alfyn... come on."

"Isn't that what you're saying?"

"I'm saying next time, maybe don't put so much trust in a total stranger. That doesn't necessarily mean let him die."

Alfyn chewed on this for awhile, expression pinched, eyebrows furrowed.

"Therion..."

"...What?"

"What happened to you?"

A tight feeling in his chest. Cold panic in his guts. He shook his head. "I put too much trust in someone once, too."

"And you can't go back and tell yourself not to trust them, so you let that one dirty backstabber, whoever they were, make it so you never trust another soul again, ever."

He shrugged.

"Do you trust me?" Alfyn asked.

Yes. What? No -- fuck no! Why would he?

Why wouldn’t he?

He decided to hedge.

"I don't think I'm the type of person who inspires a lot of loyalty."

"I trust you," Alfyn said, simply, his bright eyes boring directly into his, and it was too much to take in, too much to process, so he dropped his eyes and shoved his chair back and stood, heart hammering.

“You shouldn’t,” he said.

"Don't go," Alfyn replied, like he hadn’t heard.

"It's late."

"Guess so."

"We should both go. The others are going to want to hit the road bright and early, like usual."

Alfyn stood, wobbling on his feet, and gripped the table with one hand to steady himself. Then he staggered around, reached across and snatched up Therion's hand in his. The gesture was so unexpected, Therion just stood there gaping at him, not even bothering to try and shake him off.

"Come with me," Alfyn said, his voice low and husky with intent and emotion. "Back to my room."

Ah, fuck. Therion knew it was a bad idea, it was an awful idea, it was a horrible, incalculably disastrous idea… but the request was so plaintive, direct, demanding. A finger of heat flickered to life in him at the words and all the implications that went with them. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it. ...Extensively.

"You're drunk," he said.

"You've had a few yourself," Alfyn shot back.

"You can barely walk."

"Then I guess I'll need some help if I'm gonna make it back up the stairs, won't I?" Alfyn blinked at him, feigning innocence. Therion growled at him... and privately, he studied his face.

He remembered that not too long ago, he'd told himself that Alfyn wasn't that attractive. That he was downright plain, really, nothing to write home about. Not worth the effort or the drama or even the sore muscles, afterward, and certainly not worth the risk that he might want something more than one misguided night when all was said and done.

The thought seemed laughable, now.

He squeezed Alfyn's fingers, still tangled in his. "I'll take you back to your room," he said. "But that's it. Got it?"

"Deal," Alfyn said, but his happy little sigh and the way his lips quirked up into a smirk said everything his words didn't have to.

*

They stood in front of Alfyn’s room, the door locked in front of them, and Therion tried very hard not to acknowledge the warmth of Alfyn’s body, which was presently leaning heavily against him. “Keys,” he snapped, nudging him with an elbow. Alfyn’s eyes, which had fluttered shut at some point, cracked open just a smidge.

“Aren’t you supposed to be some famous master thief?” he teased, and Therion let out an irritable grunt, spinning them around to lean Alfyn against the wall, instead.

“Don’t tell me you lost them,” he groused. Alfyn made a vague gesture. Therion allowed himself a single, self suffering sigh, and then he set about searching Alfyn’s pockets. He had a lot of them. Too many, really. Alfyn snickered softly, but kept very still.

“Never been robbed by someone I liked half as much before,” he said. Therion glared up at him.

“I’m not robbing you,” he said. “For one thing, if I were robbing you, you wouldn’t know it.”

“To be honest, I thought you were just going to pick the lock, or something. Never in a million years thought I’d get a personal pat down. Not that I’m complaining, ‘course.”

“Shut up,” Therion groaned, and then blessedly, his fingers closed around the cool metal of a keyring hanging inside his satchel from sewn in strap. He picked through the keys, brows furrowed.

“Nice work,” Alfyn practically giggled. “Sure you don’t want to keep going? Might have all kinds of other goodies hidden somewhere, you never know.”

“Your pockets are full of lint and old candy,” Therion informed him, sourly.

Alfyn blinked. “Not even one leaf?”

“Not even one.” The lock clicked, and he pushed the door open, hauling Alfyn through by the arm.

“Well, ain’t that bleak,” Alfyn said, staggering along amicably enough. “Worse off than I thought. A checkered reputation and not a leaf to my name, what a life. Zeph would be so disappointed.”

Therion snorted. “Maybe we should just ship you back to Clearbrook and let him sort you out.”

“Oh, I couldn’t…” Alfyn’s face, which had been picking up a little of its customary cheer -- liquor fueled though it was -- fell again. “He’s got so much to worry about already. If he knew what was happening out here… I couldn’t burden him with that, Therion.” He reached out and clutched Therion’s arms tight. “Tell me you won’t tell him.”

Therion shook him off, pushing him away, toward his bed. “Why would I? I don’t know the guy.”

“No, but you should. He’s a great guy, that Zeph.”

“I know. You’ve talked about him, before. At length.”

“Have I, now?”

“Almost enough to make a guy suspicious.”

Alfyn peered at him, his brow wrinkling. “How so?”

“About your feelings for the guy, come on. You know what I mean.”

Alfyn went quiet again. He sat on the edge of the bed, face implacable. Therion hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to stay or go. He should probably go. Alfyn wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t take care of the rest from here, and staying…

Well, that was just a fantasy. Not even a very good one. A stupid fantasy, that’s what it was.

He cleared his throat and took a step back. “Look. I said I’d bring you up here, and I did. I’m… sorry about what happened. You’d better try and get some sleep, because --”

“Are you jealous of him, Therion?” Alfyn interrupted him, face tilted up, frowning.

“I -- what?”

“Are you jealous of Zeph?”

“Why the hell would I be jealous of some guy I’ve barely met?”

“What if I said I was head over heels for him, and I’ve barely thought of anyone else since I first lost sight of Clearbook through the trees?”

Ouch. He flinched away from that, twitching back toward the door. The lingering warmth in his middle that had been whispering at him that sometimes bad ideas turn out fine evaporated into icy mist. “I’d probably tell you to think about going home to him, then. I’m not sure seeing the world has been all that good for you, after all.”

“And you wouldn’t care at all, huh? Is that how it is?”

“Is that how it is, Alfyn?”

Alfyn held his gaze for a few tense moments, and then he slipped his eyes shut and fell back onto the bed with a great big exaggerated sigh. “No,” he said. “Zeph is like family, to me. I love him to death, I’d die for him in a minute, and I do miss him every day… but not like that.”
Relief, again, heavy and warm and unmistakable. Therion swallowed hard, searching for something to say to diffuse the unmistakable tension tightening the air around them.

“...Glad to hear it,” he said, finally. Softly. Barely audible.

Alfyn pulled himself back up into a sitting position, groaning with effort. His face was a mask of solemnity, a look that didn’t suit him at all. “I’ve been wondering… Whoever hurt you, was it someone you loved?”

“No,” he said, immediately, everything in him recoiling at the thought. It hadn’t been like that. Not with him and Darius. Not that he hadn’t thought about it -- he’d always been a pathetic, overly sentimental clinger, apparently -- but Darius hadn’t had time for more than the odd meaningless tryst, and if Therion had ever sent any clumsy signals, they’d gone ignored, and obviously, there was a reason for that, a few pretty fucking good reasons, obviously --

“Therion,” Alfyn said, his voice urgent. “Hey.” He got back up to his feet and started toward him, surprisingly steady. Which was funny, really. Had he been exaggerating his inebriation to convince him to help him up the stairs? To give him an excuse to lean on him like that? It felt petty to begrudge him a little white lie, but he couldn’t help but think of all the things Darius had said, little things, little indicators of what was to come, things Therion had given him a pass for because they didn’t seem important enough to start a fight. “Therion,” Alfyn said, and suddenly his hands were on his face, his fingers light against his cheeks, his eyes blinking down into his. “Look at me.”

He tilted his head up. His face felt hot, but there was ice running down his spine, and his stomach was churning, and it was nothing. It was just like this, sometimes, when he thought too hard about -- things.

“You’re all right,” Alfyn said, softly. “You can put all that away. I won’t bring it up again, all right? You’re just fine.” His thumbs moved lightly over his cheeks, and his fingers slid up sweetly into his hair, feathering through it. Humiliating, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell him to stop, so Alfyn just went on touching him, soft and sweet and gentle and like nothing he’d ever felt before.

He found his voice again, eventually. “You’re not half as drunk as you were letting on,” he said, refusing to so much as acknowledge any of the other confusing things that came to mind, or anything about what had just happened.

“It ain’t much fun to get drunk alone, especially when you’re…” he paused, and then he dropped his hands to Therion’s shoulders, instead. Therion bit his tongue to keep from protesting. “Listen. I like you, Therion. I like you a whole damn lot, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, and I’ve tried to be patient and I’ve tried to be respectful, because I do get that you’ve got a past and some boundaries and if anyone’s gonna get through, they’re gonna have to go slow.”

“Gods,” Therion winced. “You make me sound like some fragile wilting violet type.”

“Oh, no,” Alfyn said. “You’re not a wilter, Therion. You’re a runner. And I’ve been afraid for weeks now you’d start running and running and we’d never find you. That would have been been a tough pill to swallow at the best of times, but right now… you know, I don’t know if I could stand it.”

“I’m not --” he began, but Alfyn squeezed his shoulders and shook his head, and he stuttered back into shocked silence.

“Let me finish, first.”

He nodded.

“So I think it’d be best if I just said plainly that I like you, and yeah, I want you to stay! And one day, I want to prove to you that you can trust me, too. But until that day comes, I’d be glad if I could just talk to you, spend time with you again, flirt with you over the tavern table and sit next to you by the campfire… And maybe, just maybe kiss you now and then, if that would make you as happy as it’d make me.”

It was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It was supposed to just be -- meeting eyes, surreptitious nods. Two bodies and a cheap room and a universally understood agreement, easily fulfilled. Stale breath and old scars and an unfamiliar voice mingling with his for an hour or two, until they’d gotten all the satisfaction they were likely to get from one other and parted ways for good.

Cheap and quick and easy.

But when he thought of treating Alfyn like that -- using him and discarding him and never seeing him again -- it could never have been that way, all the rules be damned.

“I had a little more in mind than just kissing,” he heard himself say. “But that sounds like a fine start.”

Alfyn grinned at him -- like the sun breaking through the clouds -- and leaned in without another word. His fingers traced a gentle path up the nape of his neck, his eyes slid shut and his lips pressed softly against his. Too softly, really. Therion put his hands on Alfyn’s hips and pulled him close, earning him a small surprised hum, and then he parted his lips and deepened the kiss, prepared for the taste of secondhand mead on his tongue. Alfyn reciprocated enthusiastically, apparently content to let Therion take the lead.
Therion guided him backward toward the bed. Familiar heat pooled in his middle, but instead of feeling urgent and hurried and desperate to be rid of it, he tried his best to let himself enjoy it, instead.

And it was enjoyable. The bed hit the back of Alfyn’s legs, and they parted briefly to rearrange themselves. Alfyn squirmed up the mattress on his back, and Therion followed him on hands and knees, draped himself over him, and resumed with kissing. Alfyn made an appreciative sound, dragging his fingers up his back and moaning into his mouth, and Therion took a deep, unsteady breath, straddling his hips. He let his hands crawl under Alfyn’s shirt and across the warm, solid expanse of his chest.

Alfyn turned his face to one side, breathing hard, and Therion stopped immediately, unsure.

“You okay?” he asked. He sounded so worried, he hardly recognized his own voice. He’d never done it this way before, never cared if the other person enjoyed it as much as him. He’d never touched someone so carefully, and certainly never had such gentle hands on him.

“Gods, yes,” Alfyn sighed. He turned his face up, beaming. “I just want to make sure, Therion --”

“I want this,” Therion cut him off, anticipating the question. It was long, long past time for pretending otherwise, and besides, he had a feeling if he was anything less than perfectly enthusiastic about it, Alfyn would call this whole damn thing off.

Alfyn’s face flushed too dark a shade of red for exertion to account for it alone, and that was… surprisingly gratifying. “Yes,” Alfyn said, still smiling, “And so do I, so much -- so much! But this is fast, and I just want to be sure it’s not something silly like you giving me what you think I want so you can get out of all the rest.”

“The rest,” Therion repeated, confused.

“Therion,” Alfyn chided him. “I don’t want to do this and then… you know. Be done. With each other?”

Oh. -- Oh. The rest. Right.

“The talking and the flirting and the holding hands, you mean.”

Alfyn nodded. “And the kissing, don’t forget the kissing. Very important.”

“And maybe some more of this, too?”

“Well, that depends.” Alfyn winked at him, actually winked, what the fuck. “I’m reserving judgement on that until I know more about what to expect, here.”

“If I’m any good or not, you mean.”

“If this is any good or not, more like.”

Therion peered down at him, something clicking in his brain. His whole body went hot, pins and needles prickling the nerves all down his spine. “You’ve… never done this before,” he realized. He couldn’t decide if it was better or worse. No past experience to live up to, but…

Alfyn wrinkled his nose at him.

“Don’t look at me like that! I’ve -- Now, I’ve got some experience, here and there, but you’ve seen the size of Clearbrook! Everyone knows everyone, and there’s no such thing as a secret, especially not one like this, so you can’t just go all willy nilly about it--”

Therion sat up, running his fingers through his hair with a gruff little growl, and Alfyn made a pained sound, sliding his hands down Therion’s sides to rest on his hips, gripping just a little too tight, like he was trying to prevent him from climbing up and off him entirely.

Therion looked down at him, considering. He shook his head, lips quirking into a teasing little smile.

“I have to ask, then. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go hit up Albright? I mean, I’m not much for teaching, and he is the professor, around here --”

“Cyrus?! The man who told H'aanit not five days ago without so much as blinking that she should try introducing S’warkii garb into the fashion of Atlasdam, since the ladies were sure to enjoy how the cut of their vests flatters the chest?”

He couldn’t help it; he tipped his head back and laughed, genuinely laughed. “I honestly thought Prim was going to stab him.”

“I can’t believe she didn’t! I had a poultice ready to go and everything.”

“I bet you did.” A pause. He looked down. Alfyn was still smiling up at him, and -- Gods, how had he ever, in a billion fucking years, ever thought he was anything less than gorgeous? Even his hair was appealing, right now, spilling out every which way over the pillows. “Hey,” he said.

“Heya,” Alfyn replied, as if on cue.

“If you just wanted a distraction from what happened, the other day… I get that. I can take care of you without having to go that far. We don’t have to…”

But Alfyn was already shaking his head. “Not that I don’t find that offer, um, intriguing…”

“You should, yeah.”

Alfyn was blushing again, but so was he. “I’m a pretty quick study. And I’ve read, uh, books.”

Therion’s eyebrows climbed. “Books.”

“Lots of books.”

He bit his lip, trying so hard not to start right back up with the laughing. “Like, anatomy books?”

“Well, those too, but… uh. Do we have to talk about the books?!”

“I want to know.”

“Well, I want you to get down here and kiss me some more, so how about that?”

“Hm.” He settled back down against him, holding their faces inches apart. Alfyn licked his lips. Therion watched his tongue, letting the familiar languid heat build back through him, slowly but surely. “You drive a hard bargain,” he said. “Tressa would be so proud.”

“Oh my -- Therion! Can we not talk about Tressa, right now, when--?!”

Therion bent down and shut him up with another kiss, deep and thorough, with the full weight of certain intentions behind it. Alfyn melted beneath him, opening his legs for him, wrapping his arms around him. Therion pressed his hips forward, grinding slowly against him, feeling him out and teasing him with that dry, clothed friction until he he could feel Alfyn’s body responding. Their breaths came quicker, mingling together between frantic, wet kisses, and Alfyn’s hips moved in rhythm with his, seeking his own pleasure.

“Good so far, then?” Therion teased, speaking softly into his ear.

“Good,” Alfyn confirmed. “It’d be better with less clothes, though, I’d be willing to wager.”

“Well, shit, you figured it out. You’ve got good instincts, you know, for a virgin…”

Alfyn groaned, and then he reached up and grabbed the second pillow beside him and smacked him upside the head with it. Therion didn’t even bother to dodge it. He just laughed. Laughed, and sat up, and slipped his shirt and cloak and all of it off over head in one quick, smooth movement. Alfyn inhaled sharply beneath him. His face, which had been wearing a relaxed, eager expression, froze into a mask of plain concern.

Right. Should have warned the fucking apothecary about the scars, stupid.

“Therion, he breathed, softly, reaching up like he was going to touch him, then pulling his hand back like he’d thought better of it. Which was comical, actually. What did he think, really? That he’d taken them this far without wanting to be touched? It was his turn to grab the extraneous pillow, this time to smack Alfyn with it.

“I’m going to guess you probably don’t look like this, under there,” he deadpanned, and Alfyn shook his head like he was taking the joke literally.

“I mean, I have some scars left from… uh, well.” He hesitated.

“From when you were sick? Fair enough. Let’s see them, come on.”

Alfyn roamed his eyes over Therion’s chest and shoulders one more time, then wiggled up and yanked his shirt off over his head, letting it drop over the side of the bed. The heat in his middle throbbed, taking in the sudden expanse of exposed skin. He shifted uncomfortably -- he was going to need to get this pants off soon, too. Alfyn was as well muscled as Therion had figured he’d be -- that is to say, far more than his lanky ass -- and if he looked carefully enough, he could pick out old, mottled scars here and there, remnants of the disease that had nearly killed him as a kid. Therion slid his hands up his sides nonchalantly, letting his thumbs brush over his nipples on their way up. Alfyn twitched beneath him, looking for all the world like he was somehow worried.

“You look good,” Therion assured him. He wanted to lean over and kiss his stomach. What the fuck? He’d never wanted to do that to anyone, before. It had always just been rote. Routine. Most of them, they’d never kissed at all. He ran his fingers lightly through the dusting of hair on Alfyn’s chest. He’d called that one, at least, first thing. Less than he imagined, though. More intriguing were the dark curls of hair down beneath his navel, leading the way beneath his waistband.

“Can I touch you?” Alfyn asked softly, voice small. Therion’s eyes flicked to his, surprised.

“If you… want to?” People rarely did. He was used to his body being mostly off putting, at least once the clothes started coming off. He’d taken stock of a vast range of disgust, in his time.

But Alfyn bit his lip and started at his shoulders, running his thumbs along his collar bones, sliding his hands over his shoulders and pulling him down insistently. Therion complied, mostly out of curiosity, and Alfyn rewarded him with a gentle kiss, ghosting his lips down the side of his neck, over the joint of his shoulder and down. Simultaneously, his fingers traced old scars down his sides, curving around occasionally to tease circles into the skin over his stomach, which was suddenly more sensitive than he could ever remember it being, before. Alfyn nipped lightly near the hollow of his throat, and a little groan escaped him before he could clamp it down.

It had never even occurred to him that this… could be like this. That anyone would want to give anything, when you could just take and take and take until you were done. That he’d ever want to give anything, but here he was. He wanted to make Alfyn moan oaths to all the gods, make him gasp his name like a prayer. He wanted to hear him beg for more, feel him cling tight to him and come apart, wanted to kiss him while his body shuddered beneath him, wanted to taste his tongue and his skin and his pleasure.

He slid his hand down between them, pressing his fingers and the flat of his palm over the obvious lump in Alfyn’s pants, feeling the heat of him through the fabric. A thrill went through him like nothing he could remember feeling, not since the first time, when all of this had been new and he hadn’t known how to temper his expectations.

“Can I touch you?” he whispered back, echoing Alfyn’s tone, and in response, Alfyn opened his legs just a little wider for him, pressing himself enthusiastically up into his hand. Just the way he moved for him so eagerly was enough to drive him a little bit mad. Therion worked the buttons deftly, opened his pants and drew him out, stroking the full length of him with a practiced grip. Alfyn gasped and squirmed at his touch, and Therion chuckled low in this throat and gave him a squeeze, considering. “You seem like you’re having fun,” he said.

“You may not be the best teacher,” Alfyn breathed back at him, curled half up with his chin against his chest so he could watch Therion pleasure him, “But you were clearly a pretty decent student at some point, huh?”

Therion laughed and leaned over him, stroking faster. Alfyn fell back against the pillows, face red, breathing hard. “A decent student at touching myself regularly for, I don’t know, the past decade or so, sure.” He paused for just a second to spit in his hand before resuming with even more enthusiasm. Alfyn covered his eyes and titled his chin up and laughed between his gratified moans, his legs wrapped around Therion’s waist, his hips moving in steady rhythm.

“Don’t tell me that’s how you’ve done it your whole life,” Alfyn gasped. “Oh, gods -- not that it isn’t good, Therion, but --”

“But?” He slowed his pace, intrigued.

Alfyn lifted his hands off his face. “Let me get my satchel,” he said..

“Oh, no. No, no, I don’t think so. Whatever you’re thinking --”

“I promise you’ll like it --”

“Remember that time you put the wrong herbs in the wash, and you and Tressa had that rash for days --”

“Remember?! She still hasn’t forgiven me for it!”

“So you’ll forgive me if I’d rather spare my --”

“Therion,” Alfyn laughed, pulling away from him. “Just let me get my satchel!”

“You are not putting any weird sex medicine on my dick,” Therion informed him, very seriously. Alfyn just winked at him again, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and kicking his pants the rest of the way off. Fuck. He was so cute. This was so stupid. This was so much, so fast. Not the sex -- the feelings. He was staring at Alfyn’s ass while he rummaged through his apothecary stash, and all he could think of was the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled wide enough.

“We’ll see,” Alfyn said, producing something, popping open a bottle and sniffing it.

“You’re killing the mood,” Therion informed him.

“Well, excuse me,” Alfyn said, arching his eyebrows, “But I’d like to be able to walk after this, so you’re just going to have to sit back and accept a lesson from a lowly virgin, thank you kindly.”

“Wait,” Therion said. Something about the way he’d said that… “Wait, what the hell have you been doing to yourself, in your spare time?”

“Oh, no,” Alfyn said, returning to the bed, this time with a pot of something in hand. “That’s a conversation that can wait for the second date. Or maybe the third. Or fifth…”

A little thrill went through him. They were doing this, talking like it was inevitable that they’d be doing this again, doing this often, maybe. Alfyn was talking like he wanted to do this again with him. What the fuck.

Alfyn snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Hey! Pay attention.”

“If this burns me…” Therion muttered, trying to sound as threatening as possible. Alfyn shook his head and scooped something out of the pot with his fingers. “Or leaves any kind of rash,” Therion added.

“It won’t.”

“Or makes my skin any weird colors.”

A little half-snorted giggle. “I’d know if it did, believe me.”

The stuff was warm and clear and blessedly odorless, holding its shape in his hand. Alfyn set the pot on the table beside the bed, and then he leaned forward and grabbed Therion by the front of his belt.. Therion made a surprised sound, but he didn’t protest, not when Alfyn yanked him forward and not when he undid the buckle, slipping his hands deftly down between his legs. Therion shifted to give him a better angle.

He’d gone half soft again at the interruption, but the sensation of Alfyn’s fingers wrapping eagerly around him pulled him back into it quickly enough. And he’d been skeptical, absolutely, but whatever apothecary trick Alfyn was using was working pretty fucking well, his fingers gliding over him, fast and slick. Therion let his head fall back, let his lips part and a soft sigh escape him, squirming to pull his pants off over his hips to give Alfyn full access.

“See?” Alfyn said, and if he sounded a little smug, he’d probably earned it. “It’s good, right? You like that?” He tightened his grip as he said this, but he didn’t slow down at all, and Therion clenched his teeth against a moan that wanted to escape and nodded vigorously, twisting his fingers into the blankets beneath them.

“Okay,” he said, voice tight, the heat in his middle stoked into a full on inferno. “You’ve made your point, you win.”

“You want me to stop?” Alfyn asked in that same teasing tone, quickening his pace like the cheeky bastard he was. Therion shivered, his hips thrusting involuntarily up into his fist.

“Honestly, no, but it sounded like you wanted me to fuck you, so if that’s still on the agenda, you might… want to slow down…”

“Mm,” Alfyn murmured, and he did slow down, but not nearly enough. “I like touching you,” he said. Therion clamped his teeth tight against another embarrassing noise.

“And that’s very flattering, but --”

“Have you ever tried it the other way?”

Therion snapped his mouth closed, and just for good measure, he shut his eyes, too. He laughed, breathlessly, a little moan escaping as Alfyn sat on the bed beside him, still working him with his hand. “Of course I have,” he said. Alfyn made an intrigued sound.

“How was it?”

“Honestly? Not my favorite thing.” In fact, no matter who his was with, it always seemed whoever ended up taking got the worse end of the deal.

“Oh yeah?” Alfyn seemed surprised, but he didn’t press. “That’s all right, then. We can stick to the plan. You know, anything is fine with me.”

He went on babbling some more embarrassing nonsense about just being happy to be doing this at all, but Therion’s mind was drifting elsewhere. The rules had been different in those earlier encounters. There had been times, rarely, when he had come close to maybe feeling something good -- something really good -- before his partner inevitably finished up or got tired or stopped what they were doing for whatever gods damned reason and left him a sticky, dissatisfied mess.

He didn’t think Alfyn would leave him at all, let alone dissatisfied.

“I just want you to know, too,” Alfyn was saying, babbling right on like a brook, “How much I love doing this for you, I didn’t think I’d ever really get to, and, gosh -- Therion, if you knew how often I’ve thought about you like this up till now -- phew, I’m not sure I can even say, it’s too embarrassing.”

“Pretty much every single thing you’ve said for the past several minutes has been horribly embarrassing,” Therion informed him with a fair level of confidence. Alfyn responded by giving his cock a hard squeeze, almost too hard to be pleasurable, but not quite. Therion gasped, hips jerking forward.

“Is that so?”

“Shut the fuck up for a sec. Alfyn. If you want to… I mean, if you want to try it, I’m not exactly opposed. We can do whatever you want.”

“But, now, hold on --”

“If I’m being honest, this has already been better than most times I’ve had, so...”

Alfyn peered at him, clearly disbelieving. “You’re joking,” he said.

Therion shook his head. His face was too hot, again. His dick was also throbbing in Alfyn’s grip, his hips squirming almost involuntarily, and if anyone was going to get fucked, tonight, they had to make a decision, soon.

“All right,” Alfyn said, finally. “If you’re sure.”

“I am. Do you want me to sign something, or are you going to get up here and fuck me?”

Alfyn sucked in a breath, looked at him with wide eyes, and pulled his hand away, wiping the mystery lube none too stealthily on the sheets. “Okay,” he said, voice high. “But first I gotta ask -- Is this real? Or is this some kinda crazy dream I’m gonna be real disappointed about waking up from, later?”

“Alfyn,” Therion growled.

“Right.” He jumped into action, climbing up and over him, and that was better, having their bodies pressed together again, skin to skin. Alfyn kept him on his back, straddling his hips, a reversal of their earlier arrangement. Except this time, there were no clothes to impede them. Alfyn ran his hands down Therion’s arms, gripped his wrists lightly, and then pulled them up and pinned them over his head in one hand. The stupid fucking manacle on his wrist clanked obnoxiously, and Alfyn made a soft little tsking sound, sliding his fingers beneath the metal band, running them lightly over the red, irritated skin there. Then he resumed with kissing him, running the thumb of his free hand in slow circles on his chest, over and around his nipples. His dick pressed insistently up into Alfyn’s abdomen, and he could feel Alfyn, too, hard against his thigh, but he didn’t seem to be in any hurry at all. He took his time, kissing his mouth, his jaw, his shoulders. He traced his scars with wandering fingers, murmuring softly about how good he looked, how much he wanted him.

Lies, probably, but he was worked up enough that they got him going, buzzing with warmth and want and anticipation.

Alfyn pushed the hair out of Therion’s eyes, and Therion blinked up at him, hands still trapped above his head.

“Gosh,” Alfyn sighed, running his thumb over the long scar there, a straight line from his brow and over his eye, curving down his cheek. He leaned in and and kissed the gnarled skin, and Therion winced away, but didn’t say a word. “I wish I could have been there for you, back when you got all these.”

“You wouldn’t have liked me back then,” Therion assured him.

“I’d like you anywhere,” Alfyn retorted, brushing his fingers down his jawline. “That’s just the facts.” His lips pressed against his earlobe, breath tickling his ear. “If you’re ready, do you think you could turn around, for me?” Simultaneously, he let go of his wrists.

Therion inhaled sharply. He gave a curt nod, and there was an awkward few moments filled with sheets rustling and bed springs creaking, and then he was on his hands and knees with Alfyn pressing soft little kisses down his spine. He shivered. He could feel Alfyn’s cock, stiff and pressed lengthwise against his ass. Alfyn moved his hips in slow rolling motions, and then Therion felt him pull back.

He suppressed a nervous laugh, with effort. “Wait,” he said. “Alfyn, you can’t just --”

“Hold your darn horses, now, before you just assume I’m being an idiot, hm?”

He shut his mouth, but it took all the restraint he had to keep it that way. He closed his eyes, jaw clenched, and then he felt Alfyn’s fingers -- and more of the stuff from earlier -- press lightly against his entrance. Alfyn moved in slow, gentle circles, not even pressing in, yet, just… teasing.

“Alfyn,” he finally spoke again. His skin was on fire. He couldn’t remember ever looking forward to much of anything at this point, but his whole body seemed to be quivering in anticipation for Alfyn’s fingers. Among other things.

“Impatient,” Alfyn scolded him, but there was an amused lilt in his tone, and he pressed obediently against him with one finger, sliding in slow and easy. Therion pressed himself back against his hand, and again, he couldn’t remember ever actually thinking anything like more or I want that deeper at this point in his life, but somehow, Alfyn… fuck. He wanted more, and he wanted it deep. He swallowed a desperate little whimper, but he couldn’t hide the way his arms were shaking, holding him up.

“You all right?” Alfyn whispered.

“Alfyn, damn you, please hurry up --”

A second finger, and this was usually when the pain started, fighting a losing battle with snatches of brief pleasure. Not this time. Alfyn stretched him slowly, easily, something about the way he moved and the stuff in that pot of his made this easy, and by the time he had him stretched around three fingers, spread and thrusting in and out of him, rubbing gently over a spot inside him that made his legs weak and his cock dribble fluids all over the sheets, he was practically rutting against the bed. Alfyn’s free hand slid down his hip and around to grip him tight, and he made a pleased little sound when he stroked up his length, and another when he ran his thumb over the tip of him and found the mess he was making. Ah, gods. He let himself moan, then, long and loud, though he muffled it as best he could into the pillow. Alfyn’s fingers gave him one final, gasp-eliciting stretch, and then he withdrew.

“Not bad for an ignorant virgin, huh, Therion?”

Therion lifted his head. “I’m never fucking anyone who’s not an apothecary ever again,” he responded, perfectly serious. Alfyn laughed, his hands gripping Therion’s hips tight.

“Good,” he said. “Because if I have it my way, I’ll always be an apothecary, so I’ll always be in the running, huh?”

Therion felt him, then, the thick head of him pressed against him. He ground his teeth. Alfyn made a little gasping sound as he sank in slowly, inch by inch, letting Therion acclimate himself to the size of him, the feel of him inside. Therion lifted his head and made a truly indecent sound, and when he was as deep as he could be, Alfyn bent and wrapped his arms around Therion’s chest, breathing hard and fast.

Therion laughed, though it came out wavering, breathy, utterly overwhelmed. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he teased, and Alfyn tightened his arms around him and bit his shoulder hard enough to sting. Therion moved forward, slowly, and Alfyn whimpered in his ear and followed the motion frantically.

“Do you feel good?” Alfyn asked, finally, in a small, strained voice.

“Yes, but --”

“Oh, good --”

“Alfyn, you have to move--”

“I know! I know that, I just -- hold on a sec.”

Therion knew what was going on, though, and frankly, it was the funniest shit he had ever endured. So, naturally he flexed himself around Alfyn’s cock, clenching himself around him and releasing. Alfyn jerked backward, groaning, and then actually had the audacity to slap his ass in rebuke. Therion buried a sound that was half a laugh and half a moan into the pillow, gripping the bedsheets tight between his fingers.

“Don’t do that,” Alfyn pleaded.

“You’re going to come, aren’t you?”

“No.”

He flexed again. Alfyn shuddered against his back. Then he leaned over, gripped Therion’s cock again, and began to stroke him hard and fast, with vicious, singular intent.

“Oh, fuck,” Therion breathed, his whole body lighting with the sensation. He closed his eyes -- it was incredible, combined with the full feeling, it was heaven. “Oh -- Alfyn, okay, shit, yes…”

“That’s right,” Alfyn panted. He was barely moving his hips, but his hand was another story. Therion pulled forward, forcing the issue, and Alfyn’s grip on him stuttered, especially when Therion pushed himself backward, filling himself in one smooth stroke. It felt -- incredible. Amazing.

“Alfyn,” he begged. “Come on, just --”

“Just give me a second!”

“Alfyn…”

“Ah! Oh -- Fine, but --” Alfyn let go of his cock, regrettably, but then his fingers dug into his hips and he drew back in one motion, his words dissolving into nothing. He pushed in again, slow, too slow, and Therion shook his head.

“Faster,” he gasped.

He filled him again, faster, this time. Therion squeezed his eyes shut, groaning. It had never felt like this, never. “Faster, come on. Alfyn, shit, come on!”

Alfyn sucked in a deep breath, and for a few glorious strokes, it was absolutely perfect. Alfyn yanked his hips back, pulled out to the tip and thrust in to the hilt, fast and hard, hitting that spot, that perfect spot inside him and then some. White spots bloomed behind his eyes, more fluid dripped down the length of his cock, and he twisted his hands in the sheets so tight it hurt while he begged for more, more more.

And then Alfyn made a desperate sound, his cock jumping inside him, and babbled a whole lot of humiliating nonsense as he came. Therion made a frustrated sound and tried to move, but Alfyn was holding him in place, now, pressed against him. So Therion did the only thing he could reasonably think of, and reached down and wrapped his own hand around his cock, stroking himself to completion.

It didn’t take long. By the time Alfyn regained his senses and realized what he was doing, he was already bucking forward against his fingers, making even more of a mess of the bed sheets below.

They stilled together, then. Alfyn was already shrinking out of him, the haze of pleasure and desire fading... and without that, his own ability to feel shame flooded back in. He swallowed hard, hunching forward, nearly choking on it. Holy shit. What the hell had he been thinking?

Alfyn seemed to realize there was something wrong, then, and so when Therion scrambled forward on his hands and knees, he sat back and let him go. Therion crawled off the bed and searched wildly for his clothes, snatching his pants off the floor first. He had one leg half on before Alfyn could so much as speak.

“Therion?” Alfyn said, and his voice was so hesitant, and hurt, and worried, and -- what had he been thinking.

He froze in place, and it would have been comical if he hadn’t felt so awful. Dick out, pants half on, hair a wild, post-coital bird’s nest. “We shouldn’t have done this,” he said, and he was stupid enough to look at Alfyn as he said it, and so he was treated to the eviscerating sight of his face crumpling with unexpected pain. He was paralyzed, caught between two equal and opposite urges: the one that said to bite his own tongue and fall on his knees and apologize, and the one that said to get dressed as quickly as possible, pack all his things, and be far, far away by sun up.

“Yeah, I knew it,” Alfyn said, slumping backward, covering his face with his hands. “Oh, gods. I knew it. I should have let you go before we started any of this, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Therion. There’s no excuse, but the thing is, you’re the only thing right now that makes me feel anything but awful, and I thought --”

“No, don’t -- Don’t say things like that.” He pulled his pants on, buttoned them up. “Don’t say that. That’s not true.”

“It is true.”

“Alfyn.”

“I think I know my own mind, Therion!”

He opened his mouth, thought better of it, closed it and turned away, looking for his shirt.

“Please don’t go,” Alfyn said, miserably.

“No, you don’t get it. I have to go. I can’t stay, I can’t do this. I can’t be this!”

“Be… what? You can’t be what?”

He couldn’t find the words. He bit his lip, hard, racking his brain for the right way to communicate what he meant. “I can’t be a person that depends on other people -- or who other people depend on,” he said, finally. “I can’t. I’m too… there’s too much…”

“But you already have been, and you already are,” Alfyn said.

His heart was beating too fast. He felt light-headed, and his stomach was churning. He froze up again, standing in place, suspended between what he wanted and the overwhelming weight of long-held necessity.

“I think I might,” he started, and then he bolted for the washroom.

He wasn’t sure how long he knelt there, hunched over the toilet, staring miserably down into the mess he’d made, but eventually, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was like a tether back down to the physical world. He slammed back into himself, back into his fear and indecision, back into how badly he wanted to live in a world where Alfyn’s cheerful portrait of their imagined future together could be real.

Alfyn didn’t say anything. He just slid down the wall and sat with him, pressed together in the tiny washroom, one hand rubbing a soothing circle into the center of his back.

They sat like that for a long time. Long enough that Therion’s muscles started to protest, his joints to stiffen at the treatment. Alfyn never stopped touching him, gently, softly, fingers moving in that same slow circle throughout.

When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “About all that,” he said. “What I mean to say, is… I like you too.”

He heard Alfyn’s breath hitch, and he heard the little sob he tried to hide, too.

“There’s something wrong with me, Alf. It’s like you said. It’s something you can’t cure, something in my soul.”

A wet scoff met this, and Alfyn’s fingers stilled against his back at last.

“Is that a challenge?” he demanded, and something about it -- something about the tone, and the tears, and the whole absurd fucking situation -- something startled a genuine laugh out of him, and then Alfyn was laughing with him, and then Alfyn’s hands found his, step by step by step until Alfyn had him pulled tight against his chest, carding his fingers in his hair, both of them laughing while they carefully declined to acknowledge each other’s tears.

*

Therion woke to the sound of knocking on the door.

It started out soft and polite, three light taps, jolting him wide awake. He tried to sit up, only to find that he couldn’t, because Alfyn was sprawled on top of him. He had one arm thrown over his chest, his head pillowed on his shoulder, and he was snoring softly, dead asleep. Well, sure. Of course he was. One of Therion’s arms was pinned under him, numb from a lack of circulation, and before Therion could process it all through his sleep hazed mind the knocking sounded again, more insistent, this time.

“Alfyn!” Tressa shouted from the other side. “Hey Alfyn, wake up!”

Therion dropped back into the pillows with a little huff. A fine situation, really.

“Alf,” he said, softly, nudging his head with his shoulder. Alfyn’s head lolled, and he made a tiny irritated sound, but he didn’t wake up. “Alfyn, come on,” Therion grunted, using his free hand to tug at his hair. “It’s morning. Time to get up.”

No good. He just tucked his face into the crook between Therion’s neck and shoulder, poking his nose into the skin, there, murmuring something inscrutable. The hallway floor creaked, footfalls sounding as people passed by the door.

Eventually, there was another knock, harder, this time. “Hey Alfyn!” Tressa, again. “Guess what? Prim got the keys, because Therion wasn’t answering either, and --” The lock clicked. Therion swore, loudly, grabbing the blankets and yanking them up just as the door swung open. This movement actually did startle Alfyn awake, and he looked up with a start, blinking bleary eyes..

In the meantime, Therion had locked eyes with Tressa, who was just standing in the doorway like a shocked statuette, eyes near as big as her head.

“Tell Prim she can go fuck herself,” Therion suggested, peeking over the blankets, which he’d brought full up to his nose.

This seemed to snap her out of it, because she threw her head back and laughed so hard she was practically howling.

“Good morning,” Alfyn said, blinking up at him from under the blanket, wearing a perfectly dopey grin, apparently unbothered by Tressa’s histrionics in the doorway.

“Morning,” Therion managed to get out, but only barely. “How… uh. How are you feeling?”

His smile slipped, just a bit. “About you and I? Pretty darn good, obviously…”

“About everything.”

“...Right. Not as good.”

“Prim!” Tressa gasped between cackles, doubled over, hands on her knees. “Prim, oh, sweet Aelfric, you have got to see this.” She straightened up, spun around, and darted out of the room, her stupid little backpack bouncing after her. Therion glared at the space she’d departed.

“Guess the cat’s out of the bag and all,” Alfyn said, and though Therion recognized it as a change of subject, he decided not to press. For now, at least.

“It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“Kind of on the sooner side though, don’t you think?”

Therion frowned at him. “You didn’t want them to know?”

“No, dummy,” Alfyn thumped his shoulder. “I’m afraid you didn’t want them to know!”

“Oh.” His face heated. Obviously. “Well, that’s… reasonable.”

“Are you okay with it?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I’d rather everyone know than have them hover around us speculating all the time.”

“Oh, man.” Alfyn laughed, softly, patting his cheek like he’d said something adorable. Therion glared down at him.

“What?”

“Just, if you think this is going to stop them from speculating…”

Tressa’s voice floated back in, faintly, as though from a sizable distance. ”Priiiiiiiiiim! Hey! Has anyone seen Primrose?”

Therion exhaled, loudly. “I see your point.”

“Might be fun.”

“Might be hell.”

“Let’s call it even, hey, a little of one, a bit of the other…”

“Last I checked, Fun and Hell were mutually incompatible concepts.”

“Oh, yeah? Better tell that to the demons, then. Go ahead, I’ll wait.”

Therion shoved him off with a snort, and Alfyn rolled off him, laughing. He bundled the blanket around himself and hobbled to the door, kicking it closed. Therion threw a shirt at him, which he caught, grinning.

“Hey,” he said, softly.

“Yeah?”

“Just… I’m real glad you’re here,” Alfyn said, and Therion couldn’t look at his expression -- soft and sincere -- for very long without combusting both internally and externally, so he dropped his eyes and shrugged his shoulders and muttered something that maybe sort of kind of could have passed for a me too.

Something to work on, probably. What else was new.

Notes:

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