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It’s easier with the mask on.
Ashur is used to it by now, the press of the leather across his face, hanging looser at the bottom so he can at least breathe. It used to make him claustrophobic, only feeling the air on the narrow strip of skin around his eyes, but these days he rarely notices. The mask is just a part of his day now, a part of his body, almost. He feels as strange without it as he once did with it.
And sometimes… sometimes he’s glad of it. When he and Tarquin leap from one rooftop to the next, focused on the mission, but flushed with the sheer joy of it. When Tarquin gives him that little grin of victory, the one that changes the light in his brown eyes and flecks them with gold. When Tarquin is at headquarters late into the night, frowning at books and papers by the flame of an inadequate candle.
Those are the times when he’s glad of the mask. Glad of the excuse to hide his face, to let the inscrutable veneer drop because he doesn’t have to maintain it when the mask does it for him. Glad that this very real barrier is here to enforce the invisible ones that stake out the limits of his friendship with Tarquin: this close, but no closer.
He doesn’t think about what it would be like. Tarquin’s warm hand on his cheek. Tarquin’s laugh close enough to feel. Tarquin’s smile curving against his lips.
But Tarquin is something different. He has a life of his own outside the Shadow Dragons—a real one, not the pretense of one that most of Ashur’s day-to-day acquaintances in the Magisterium have. He has a job, friends, a routine, a sense of humor that opens something up in Ashur’s chest and makes him want to laugh even though all of Tarquin’s jokes are terrible. He has a past he talks about and another he doesn’t, two sides of the same coin, and Ashur wants to know everything about him. And he can’t.
Tarquin’s world touches Ashur’s on the edges, in the places where they work together in the shadow of the Imperium, and his light chases away the darkness. And if the edges are all Ashur can ever have, then he is grateful for what he has been given.
But it’s easier with the mask on, because with the mask on, he is the Viper, and the Viper is not a man. The Viper is a symbol—and everyone knows that symbols don’t feel, don’t want.
He covers his face with the mask and clasps it shut, Ashur on one side with his thoughts and his feelings and his desires, the Viper on the other.
It’s easier with the mask on.
Tarquin wishes, sometimes, that it weren’t. He’s only just learned the Viper’s name, Ashur, said softly to him in the candlelight of headquarters late at night, like something precious that shouldn’t be looked at in full sun. That makes things different, somehow.
He wishes that the Viper and Ashur weren’t the same person—or maybe that they were the same person, that the man who runs across the rooftops with him and leaps into battle with him and pores over maps of Minrathous with him were also the man who sat beside him that night and said, “It’s Ashur, you know. My name.”
But the Viper is a leader in every sense—a figure of authority, a powerful mage, a mystery. And that means Ashur isn’t, can’t be, what Tarquin wants him to be. Someone reachable. Someone who exists in Tarquin’s world. Someone Tarquin is allowed to touch.
The mask is a reminder. The mask is a wall. The mask keeps Tarquin firmly on his side of the division, like a child with his face pressed up against the glass, wanting what he can’t have. And it keeps Ashur firmly on his side, where the glass is darkened so that they don’t have to look at the people they crush under their feet.
Does Ashur look? Tarquin doesn’t know. The Viper looks.
“It’s Ashur, you know,” he said. “My name.” And in that moment, Tarquin wanted to lean into him and share his warmth, take that offering, that outstretched hand and use it to draw Ashur toward him, but he didn’t. Because he can’t. Because the Viper may be part of Tarquin’s world, but Ashur isn’t.
And it’s easier with the mask on, because if Tarquin were ever allowed to look beneath it, he wouldn’t be able to stay away—and if he forgets not to reach out, not to touch, not to want, then he might lose not just Ashur, but the Viper, too.
But if he ever comes close, he has only to look at the mask between them to remember.
It happens in a back alleyway late one night.
They’re hurrying a group of people into the safety of the shadows, heading for a hideout only a few of them even know the Shadow Dragons have recently acquired. Tarquin is one of them, because Ashur tells him (almost) everything these days; he can’t seem to help himself and, in his head, when he thinks about the person he trusts most, it’s Tarquin he sees.
He doesn’t know what that means, or maybe he just doesn’t want to know. But when he needs to discuss Shadow Dragons business with someone, Tarquin is right there in the inner circle, shoulder to shoulder with Mae and Dorian. And when he needs to talk about something else… he doesn’t, because he doesn’t know what he would say.
So Tarquin is there in the alley and Ashur is not thinking about all the things he isn’t going to say or do because he can come this close, but no closer. And he’s rubbing the tips of his fingers over the buckle of his mask, like he’s taken to doing lately, a poor substitute for giving in to the impulse to take it off. And the strap… gives.
At first, he’s too startled to realize what’s happened, the cool nighttime breeze of the city spattering his face with rain, and then it clicks and, in a panic, he falls back from the group, covering as much of himself as he can with one hand while keeping the other free to hold the broken mask and trace their path along the wet brick of the alley wall.
Luckily, they’re not far from the hideout, so he waits at the edge of the circle of light cast by Tarquin’s lantern, staying out of sight and watching to make sure everyone is safe. When he’s certain of it, he steps back, intending to disappear into the shadows and rely on the rooftops to see him safely away. He isn’t counting on Tarquin to step back out of the safe house, leaving the lantern behind to search the darkness for him.
“Ashur?”
It’s softer than he’s expecting, equal parts confusion and concern. “Everything all right?” he asks in response.
“Aren’t you…” Tarquin steps a little to the side and the warm light from the room beyond spills out of the door, pooling at his feet so that all Ashur can see is his silhouette and the shadow that reaches out to bridge the gap between them.
Ashur says, “I need to get back to headquarters.” One hand still over his face, he proffers the mask with the other by way of explanation, broken strap dangling loosely from his fingers.
Tarquin takes another step out into the alley, letting the door fall shut behind him. The light vanishes and there’s just Tarquin, just Tarquin and Ashur and the deep, drenching darkness of Minrathous at midnight.
“Your secret’s safe here,” Tarquin says. Ashur can’t see him, only a fuzzy outline where he’s darker than their surroundings, so it startles him when warm fingers brush against his chilled ones, closing his hand around the remains of the mask. He almost drops it—would have, if not for Tarquin’s fingers guiding his grip—and then they’re gone, leaving him feeling like he’s lost something he can’t describe.
Tarquin is still there, features barely defined in the dark, but Ashur’s vision is adjusting and he can almost make out the expression on Tarquin’s face. He’s staring at Ashur, who is still covering half of his face with one hand, and it’s only when their eyes meet that he jerks his gaze away like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“Sorry,” he says, voice rough. “Didn’t mean to—”
But he hasn’t done anything wrong. Ashur wants desperately to say it. If he does, though, he’s afraid he’ll want to say more, afraid the invisible boundary between them will tear through and then… what?
And then he’ll lose Tarquin, because Tarquin lives somewhere Ashur can’t reach, and trying could fracture the fragile bridges he’s trying to build between them.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I should… go.”
But the last word, go, is whispered so softly that even Ashur isn’t sure he’s said it out loud.
Ashur’s standing there, mask in hand, so close they could be touching and so far away they never will. It’s dark enough that Tarquin can’t see him, dark enough that the night has drawn a veil over his face, the broken mask unnecessary in the cloaking shadows.
But Tarquin is a veteran of sleepless nights; the darkness is intimately familiar and, right now, it feels like not a shield, but a promise. Too late, he realizes that he’s staring—not at Ashur’s face, because its secrets are still hidden from him, but at the suggestion of it, at the hint of a strong jawline that somehow seems to fit perfectly with the gentleness of the eyes he knows so well.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling away like he’s been struck. “Didn’t mean to—”
But he stops because he’s not sure how to finish that sentence. Didn’t mean to stare. Didn’t mean to wonder. Didn’t mean to wish for something that isn’t his to have.
He thinks about what it would be like all the time. Ashur’s eyes on him, for once not dragged in a dozen directions at once. Ashur’s chuckle, low and deep in his chest. Ashur’s presence, closer than ever before, if only for a moment.
But even without the mask, it feels like there are miles of no-man’s-land between the two of them, between the place where Tarquin ends and the place where Ashur begins.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I should… go.”
By the last word, he’s whispering, and Tarquin doesn’t know if the reluctance in his voice is imagined, just wishful thinking, or if something else is going on, something Tarquin doesn’t entirely understand.
Suddenly, the space between them is a chasm and there’s an ache in his chest that flares up sharply with every breath because he’s on the wrong side of it, or because Ashur is. He doesn’t know which anymore. All he knows is that he needs it not to be there anymore, this gap, this distance, this—
Time slows to a crawl. He can feel the chill coming off the wall next to them, the leather of Ashur’s coat between his fingers, the warmth of Ashur’s breath without the mask to keep it from him. He can feel the softness of Ashur’s lips on his, the way they part—in surprise, in desire. He can feel the way Ashur angles his head to move closer to Tarquin like it was always meant to be this way, like they’ve never been out of each other’s reach.
And then it ends and he freezes, because any second now everything will go back the way it was. They’ll never be this close again. They’ll never talk about it. This will never have happened.
He keeps his eyes on the ground, hoping Ashur can see well enough to know he isn’t looking. He doesn’t want any of Ashur’s secrets, not unless they’re freely given. And if Ashur is about to walk away, about to go where Tarquin can’t follow, he doesn’t want any part of this moment to stay. To remind him.
For a minute—or a few seconds, or an hour—everything hangs like the air is frozen, like there’s a blow about to fall.
“Tarquin,” says Ashur, “look at me.”
For a moment, he’s afraid Tarquin hasn’t heard him. Then he’s afraid Tarquin is looking for a way out.
“You haven’t got your…” Tarquin gestures vaguely at his face, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. The mask. The shield.
Ashur looks at it in his hand. The Viper may be a symbol, but so too is the mask—and, right now, it’s a symbol of everything he doesn’t want it to be.
He crosses the distance between them in a single stride and presses the mask into Tarquin’s hands, wrapping his fingers around the leather the way Tarquin did to him only moments ago. Unlike Tarquin, though, Ashur doesn’t withdraw his hands, leaving them clasped around Tarquin’s, a point of warmth in the chilly night. A way to keep them connected.
If Tarquin walks away now, they can both forget the last few minutes. Ashur will go on being the Viper, his and Tarquin’s lives touching only where their work overlaps. And Tarquin can go on living his life, not knowing Ashur’s face or the lines of his hands or the way his heart wrenches in his chest when Tarquin won’t meet his eyes.
But if Tarquin looks at him like this, unmasked and unprotected in the dark, just Ashur and not the Viper, then maybe he won’t have to walk away.
“Please,” he says simply.
Tarquin’s eyes move from the ground to the mask in his hands, along Ashur’s fingers and at his wrists where they disappear into the sleeves of his heavy coat. It’s like he’s weaving a spell, like if he does everything in the right way, in the right order, in the right time, it won’t go wrong.
And then he looks at Ashur, open and unguarded, and the way he does it makes Ashur feel like he’s not the only one who’s let a mask fall tonight.
Ashur takes his hands from Tarquin’s and calls a soft, pale magelight to them, enough for them to discern the outlines of one another’s features, enough to throw Tarquin’s eyes into shadow and trace the edges of his cheekbones, but not enough to reach into the darkness beyond them.
Tarquin gives no sign that he recognizes Ashur, although of course he must. Even so, once their eyes meet, there can be no going back. Tarquin will always know his face and Ashur… well, Ashur thinks perhaps he always knew that, sooner or later, this would happen.
Tarquin catches the tip of his tongue between his lips, wetting them as though he’s about to speak, but the words never come. Instead, he drops his gaze again, almost a deferential gesture, and deferential is not a word Ashur would ever have used to describe Tarquin. Deferential is not a word Ashur ever wants to use to describe Tarquin. It feels too much like Ashur is someone else, someone unfamiliar and far away, the way things are when the Viper’s mask is on and the light can’t penetrate it.
This time, it’s Ashur who steps forward and pulls him close, taking in the scent of smoke and sweat and leather balm as he rests his forehead against Tarquin’s, runs one hand over the carefully kept hair, curls it at the nape of Tarquin’s neck and tilts his head into another kiss. It feels private and precious, like he’s stolen this moment not just from the world, but from the Viper. Like it can only ever belong to him and to Tarquin, here in the enveloping night.
But a moment is all they can steal and it shatters when the safe house door cracks open again and light and sound and the movement of time reclaim what Ashur and Tarquin have taken.
A question drifts toward them, pitched low so that it won’t carry, and they respond with reassurances. Nothing is wrong. Everything is fine.
Tarquin listens to the words Ashur says and tries to make them real, something he can hold in his hand and in his heart and not just believe, but know.
The door closes. The darkness waits.
Ashur’s fingertips are still resting at the edge of Tarquin’s shoulder, like he knows he’s supposed to let go, but losing this last spark of touch would let the shadows gather between them again, let Ashur go back to being the Viper—masked, impenetrable.
“I should go,” he says again, something strange and strangled in his voice.
Tarquin doesn’t know what makes him do it, but before the walls go up again, he reaches out. Ashur’s hand in his, he says, barely a whisper, “Don’t.”
It’s a far cry from his usual bravado and it feels, momentarily, like a mistake. Like the wrong person has ended up in this alley, in the dark, in Tarquin’s skin, and any moment now, Ashur will realize.
Ashur doesn’t realize. Ashur stands in front of him, stares at him, and his hand stays on Tarquin’s shoulder and his fingers stay clasped in Tarquin’s and he draws a shaky breath like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Maybe he can’t. And it’s that breath that makes this real, makes the man in front of him indelibly Ashur and not the Viper. Because the Viper is power, is confidence, is subtle, silent strength—and Ashur is what’s left when, under cover of night, he puts the mask aside.
So Tarquin takes up the mantle. “Come on,” he says with more certainty than he feels, holding up the mask in his free hand. “Let’s get this fixed.”
All he gets from Ashur is a nod but, when he turns to leave—Ashur’s fingers fall from his shoulder, leaving a place that feels cold even though Tarquin knows it’s only his imagination—Ashur follows, his hand still in Tarquin’s.
The way back to headquarters is a maze of twists and turns, the spires and steeples of Minrathous crowding them from all sides to cast rich shadows over them. Ashur knows it’s for his sake, or maybe the Viper’s, to keep this secret safe between the two of them.
And if they stop where the darkness is deepest so that Ashur can do his best to erase any memory of the walls he’s built between them, the way he’s held Tarquin and everything around him at arm’s length for so long, no one will know. That secret, too, can be kept safe between the two of them.