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Kremy treats Gideon like shit.
He hardly pays him a copper piece for all the work he does, he throws him directly into harm's way pretty much on the daily, he barely keeps him fed and he abuses the man’s unending warmth for his own personal gain.
Kremy lies, he lies to everyone, lies to Gideon, lies to himself–he’s a wholly untrustworthy individual. Kremy isn't sure where the lies start and the Lecroux ends. He isn't sure there even is a Lecroux these days.
Kremy is an awful person. He takes this in stride, it's one of his crowning achievements, he can't live with himself.
How does Gideon not hate him?
Kremy hates himself. There isn't a lick of lovability on his person. Sure, he's a perfect specimen, deserving of love and praise at every turn, leeching up all the attention in a room any time he sets foot into one, his voice is loud and iconic, his suit is bright and purple, his smile is devilish and charming, it's all a hoax. It's performative. It's, yet again, more lies.
There isn't much of a man left in him. He controls shadows, bends them to his will, twists them along his arms and hands like one might waltz around a ballroom, so tightly coiled and yet so lazy, and still he finds himself living in one. A great big looming figure, constantly shrouding his own identity in mystery, the character of Kremy Lecroux having long since swallowed the person behind it.
Gideon travels with a puppet. He must despise it. There's no way the man hasn't noticed, hasn't seen the way Kremy lets his clothes become crumpled sometimes, how he applies his mustache with all the care of a toddler, how he makes breakfast and then holes away in his tent until noon.
It's disgusting. He shouldn’t allow himself to wallow so pathetically, he shouldn't let his mind drift so far into the void that reality collapses around him. He works such a dangerous job, lives such a risky life, he can't afford to be so careless. He has a Gideon to feed, a Gideon to care for, he has Gideon, and Gideon has no one. It isn't fair. It's filthy.
Gideon deserves so much better. Kremy should get off his ass, get him some proper payment, some proper belongings. Start treating him like a person, not like a personal bodyguard. He should–
“Kremy?” The genasi calls. It sounds so distant.
It's right outside Kremy’s tent. The gator swallows a hiccup, blinking away tears he hadn't realized were falling. His makeup must be smeared to hell and back. He must look so ugly.
“... Krem.” Gideon tries again.
“What, Gid?” Kremy bites, and it's so much more poisonous than he means it to be. A part of him truly is annoyed–he should be left to rot, like all the people he's left to suffer before. But the rest of him weeps, groans in agony at the thought of treating Gideon poorly, at the idea that he can't change no matter how much he thinks about it.
“Can I come in?”
No. “Why?”
Gideon sighs. “I can hear your voice, man. I don't want you alone in there.”
I deserve it. “... I don't need company.”
A red hand breaches the flap of his tent anyway, and Kremy recoils. He’s a monster right now, he can't be seen. Especially not by his employee, and never in a million years by his friend.
Gideon looks at him, and there’s nothing written there. No sign of disappointment, no sign of concern, just a pinched brow like he’s turning a machine around in his head. It’s like he’s looking directly through the lizardfolk, like he’s looking at something with a similar shape and status, but nothing more.
Kremy feels a quiet devastation. He feels seen. It’s terrifying.
“C’mere,” Gideon mutters, and Kremy doesn’t move. It isn’t so much of a command as it is an announcement–Gideon isn’t beckoning Kremy to move, he’s indicating that something will change no matter what. Kremy doesn’t flinch as two large, warm arms suddenly encase him.
It isn’t working. The cloud in his mind remains, the chill in his bones still leaks through into his skin, the shadow looms further.
… But he’s warm. He doesn’t deserve it.
“Why’re you doin’ this, Gid?” he means to say in his usual, mildly-annoyed tone. The one that gets Gideon to smirk and act all cocky. Instead, it’s a croak. A plea for reasoning in a time of chaos.
Gideon rests his head over his friend’s, the ends of his beard twisting in small, rhythmic circles as they burn and regrow, an infinitely small inferno of death and rebirth. Though, the man who houses it doesn’t think it’s all that deep. “Cuz you’re my friend, Krem.”
“... Are we friends?” Kremy asks before he can even think about it, and it’s scary that such a thing could even happen to him. Before he can stutter out an elaboration, spin another lie, he’s being turned over.
“Of course we are!” Gideon barks incredulously, and Kremy widens his eyes. “Hells, man, the country probably thinks we’re married! You make me food, pay for my drinks–Even if you didn’t do that shit, I’d probably still follow you to all the ends of Avantris.”
“But why?” Kremy narrows his eyes, bitter tears blurring his vision. “I… I’m an awful person.”
Gideon snorts. “That’s for sure.”
Kremy rests his head against Gideon’s chest, looking at nothing as his breath catches in his throat. “I don’t–I’m a complete fraud, Gid, I don’t contribute shit.”
“Didn’t I just–” Gideon starts.
“Keepin’ you fed is the bare minimum!” Kremy bites out, “I had…” he trails, curling into himself even further.
Gideon pats his back. Kremy doesn’t feel patronized, for some reason. “You had dreams.”
Kremy breathes, and despite having his face trapped in a pocket of musk between two men who haven’t bathed in a minute, it feels like he’s doing it for the first time in a long while.
“I had dreams too,” the genasi continues, tracing odd shapes along his friend’s clothed scutes, “I wanted to be a farmer. Like my dad,” he recalls.
“I could–” Kremy tries, but Gideon quickly shushes him, drawing him impossibly closer.
“That dream died in Yona. Along with the farm, an’ the crops, an’ the animals, an’ the man himself.” Gideon sighs, and Kremy feels so selfish for finally wrapping his own arms around him. “But I’m not a waste, am I?”
“No,” Kremy says all too quickly, digging his claws into the stained henley beneath them. Gideon is far from useless–he’s Kremy’s anchor, confidante, best friend, life, “you’re a great meat shield.”
That makes Gideon snort again, and for some odd reason that makes Kremy’s gut twist in joy. “Yer not a waste either then, you dick!”
The storm in his mind swells again, the hole in his chest hollowing out once more. “But there’s so much I wanted to do–”
“There’s still time!” Gideon says like it's the most obvious thing in the world, “An’ even if you don’t get to it, that’s alright!”
“... Is it really?”
“Krem, I might never see a chicken again in my gods-damn life, an’ I’ll still be happy as a fuckin’ clam. You know why?”
Cuz he’s got me, Kremy thinks bitterly.
“Cuz I got you.”
The gator rolls his eyes, snorting against his will. “You’re just sayin’ that cuz I feed you.”
“So you admit you feed me!” Gideon grins, pulling away to look down at his companion.
“Like I said, that isn’t–” Kremy starts to protest.
“It’s a big deal to me! Just like how you’re important to me,” Gideon emphasizes, bringing Kremy’s face up with his hand. “Who gives a shit if you’re some sketchy ass conman to the rest of Avantris–hells, you could be a worm in the mud and I’d know your name.”
“Real romantic, Gid,” Kremy closes his eyes.
“I mean it!” Gideon swears, tangling his legs with Kremy’s own. “I’m not gonna pretend to know what you’re dreamin’ of, but I bet it ain’t all that complicated. How old are you?”
The spontaneous question makes Kremy open his eyes in confusion. “Uh… 36, why?”
Gideon nods to himself, pulling Kremy’s face back into the crook of his neck, hugging him tightly. “We’ll get that dream of yours started by the time you’re 40.”
What? “What?!” Kremy squirms, and he can feel Gideon’s devilish smile as his chin moves wordlessly, his arms keeping him trapped in that tight, secure embrace. “Gid, you don’t even know what I want!”
“Yeah, that’s why we’ll get it started when you’re 40! I’ll let you drag ass for 4 years, an’ by then I could probably figure it out on my own–”
“Like hell you could!” Kremy scoffs, his tail thumping in a wonderful mix of excitement and agitation, and it almost frustrates him how easy it is to forget about the toxic swirl of emotions within him just moments before.
“Then I’ll just have to beat it outta you!” Gideon laughs, rolling them over until most of his weight is on top of the lizardfolk.
“Ghhk– like you’d ever have the balls to do it!” Kremy asserts, the blissful snugness finally overtaking him as he sighs in relief.
He’s so tired, now. Tired of feeling useless, of wallowing in self-pity. Tired of letting the shadows consume him. Tired from crying.
“... Better?” Gideon asks, and that asshole knows how to read him too well for his own good.
Kremy, regretfully, does feel better. The storm isn’t gone, the doubt and the worry and the paranoia are recurring characters in the play that is Kremy Lecroux, and yet… they’ve calmed.
He’s allowed an intermission. A break, a breather, for the first time in years. He swallows thickly, tasting his own spit, and it’s disgusting, but the fact he can taste it at all is so strangely freeing, he chuckles. “Yeah,” he answers, the last of his tears finally letting go of the corners of his eyes. “I’m better.”