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Some questions must be asked, even when the answer lies in the obvious.
“Can I rest in your bed?” The answer is yes, each time, undoubtedly. The sofa is comfortable, but nothing compares to a real mattress, head resting on a cozy pillow while a quiet voice whispers: 'goodnight, my dear’. It's a double bed, and Argenti is a man who likes to share.
“Can you help me fix myself?” The answer is yes, even if the result isn't always what's expected. Argenti helps out of duty and love for others. He fumbles sometimes, trying his best as his trembling fingers slide inside Boothill's ribcage, searching for the right wires to connect. He's always afraid, but when Boothill's fingers rest on his, reassuring, patient and loving, Argenti accepts his own fallibility. He's simply doing his best, and sometimes, when you love, that's enough.
“Can I kiss you?” The answer is yes, though the hesitation varies from day to day. Boothill never complains. His love is a dance for two. He takes the first step, never moves forward unless Argenti does too. It’s not always easy. One wrong step, one misread signal, and everything can fall apart. Boothill isn't the patient type, but if some things aren't innate, they can be learned. That's the only way to become a good dancer.
So Boothill accepts being guided rather than guiding; being the initiator, and then the one who follows. And each time, Boothill leaves the choice of the next step, because he's not the one who has to bear the burden of answers and the weight of words. Kissing the man he loves doesn't oblige him to pray or to promise a silent divinity he'll repent to a hundredfold for the rest of his life.
Boothill doesn't claim he always understands Argenti’s faith in a Goddess who may be dead. But he agrees to pray with him; out of love—because there is no world in which he wouldn’t try to learn to share with an Aeon.
So he prays for Argenti’s protection, for stability, for a future where they both exist. It’s hard when you’re not a good believer. But you don't need to believe to become faithful. Trying is a form of love. A proof of devotion to a man (sometimes an act of devotion to a god).
He could almost imagine the sensation of Argenti's hand on his, the warmth of his fingers, the coldness of the rosary. He could almost feel Beauty's phantom blessing, like a shadow hovering around their shoulders.
Sometimes, he hopes Idrila is dead, so he won’t have to share what he dreams of keeping just for himself anymore. It's selfish, but then, all men are a little selfish, aren’t they?
Still, each time he thinks of it, Boothill blames himself. He wants to scream the thoughts until his synthetic voice breaks. He wants to tear out the part of his brain that stores memories and make sure he forgets them forever.
(Guilt is a good memory fortifier, though.)
Boothill never claimed to be a saint after all. He only hopes Argenti never finds out about this hideous part of him. The highest praise couldn't absolve such filthy ugliness.
And under the stars, in the soft darkness of a room, the words slip into his ears: “You can kiss me.”
And Boothill complies.
✶
“Who do you wanna love, Idrila or me?”
This is before everything, after the first confession.
The question is asked naturally. It could have blended into the banality of a “have you seen the screwdriver?” in the early evening, or a “have you finished the solid shampoo?” uttered through the steam. The difference is that they are outside, in a quiet valley, training to perfect their battle skills.
Who do you wanna love, Idrila or me?
The dilemma only exists for those who want to see it, and Argenti refuses to let his future become one.
So he steps forward, drops his spear, cups Boothill’s face in his hands, and tells himself he won't give up on love.
Making no choice is a form of choice, in a sense. Argenti grants himself a reprieve. For now, he offers his heart to Boothill and dedicates the rest to Idrila. However, he knows that one day, he won't be able to bear the pain of splitting himself into two unequal pieces.
Argenti knows other knights capable of bearing the weight of love in all its forms. But he knows, above all, that he's incapable. He's a weak man. The path he takes is the easy one, paved with denial and the fear of making mistakes. In the absence of a divine voice, the value of his decisions rests on assumptions and fragile beliefs.
So Argenti agrees to dance on two stages at once. He gives a fragment of the answer on Boothill’s lips and the other on his own hands, joined together in prayer.
He opens his mouth and delivers the only truth: “I love you.”
✶
“Can I stay a little longer this time?”
Boothill puts a hand on Argenti's. Metal against skin, phantom sensations and shivers. Argenti brings it to his lips, placing a tender kiss. “Stay as long as you like, dear.” Argenti smiles, faintly but sincerely. He doesn't say 'This place is yours too,’ though he's itching to. It sounds like a promise he isn't sure he can keep.
With a brief wave of the hand, Argenti invites Boothill to join him, as he does every time he's just visiting between two bounties. Boothill lies down beside him, wearing only a shirt and cotton shorts.
“Thank you for always givin’ me a place to stay,” Boothill says softly, absent-mindedly playing with a red curl.
“My bed is spacious enough for both of us.” Argenti closes his eyes, enjoying the feel of fingers in his hair.
Holding back from telling Boothill how much he cherishes every moment with him is a mental agony. He says nothing, though, hoping that Boothill will somehow understand without having to say it.
(Thinking it is less dangerous than saying it.)
“So what are your plans?” Argenti opens his eyes, and catches Boothill looking at him with undisguised tenderness.
The ranger finally abandons the curl, lying down on his back, arms crossed behind his head. "I intend to go on this commercial ship—the one I told you about last time. There's a promo on copper alloys, and I can assure you, it's forkin’ good stuff. There's cheap degreaser too. I'm really startin’ to squeak like a forkin’ old barn door.”
“I don't think you squeak,” Argenti replies.
“Oh darlin’, that means we don't spend enough time together,” he turns to Argenti, raising and lowering his arm quickly like an origami bird ready to fly from the nest. “Listen, I squeak like a badly-screwed BananAdvisor.”
Argenti laughs, putting a hand on Boothill’s arm to stop him. “Your squeak is quite harmonious. May Beauty be blessed with such a sound.”
“Oh, please, don't say somethin’ like that.”
Hand still on Boothill’s arm, Argenti lingers near the alloys, brushing metal with his fingertips. Soft. Cold. Curiosity. Admiration. Maybe even adoration—he doesn't dare ask himself.
“A knight of beauty doesn't lie,” he murmurs distractedly, eyes following the path of his own fingers.
It's a dangerous game and he doesn't know the rules. It’s a dangerous game and he hopes Boothill knows the rules.
“Enough about me, it's not interestin’,” Boothill mumbles. “I wanna enjoy my time with you before I go.” His hand finds the curls again; a simple diversion to touch the tender skin of Argenti’s cheek, caressing it with the tip of his thumb. “So, what's your plan for tonight, darlin'?”
There are many things Argenti wants to do, and maybe, if he scratches the little dirt beneath the surface, he'll find a terrifying answer.
“It’s your night, dear. The choice is yours,” Argenti answers, hoping to convey nothing but indecision.
If Boothill is adventurous enough, if he scratches this surface with him, maybe he'll discover the terrible truth. But Argenti knows this man, and he knows the answer will save him from penitence.
“I could, for example, just hug you while you talk to me. Anythin’ but Idrila, I beg you. What do you think?"
In response, Argenti wraps his arms around Boothill’s waist, drawing him a little closer. “It's a perilous quest you're proposing, my dear. But if that's your only wish, and you're willing to pray with me tomorrow for Beauty to watch over you, I wouldn’t mind.”
Boothill accepts the embrace, sliding his fingers behind Argenti’s neck.
“All right, darlin’. Can I kiss you now?”
Letting others want is easier than accepting that we ourselves want the same thing.
“Yes.”
✶
It's not about sex. It's never about sex, in fact.
It's a hard thing to speak of, even as they lie in the same bed, close, almost naked, metal and skin barely touching.
Argenti has already yielded to the temptation of love. He knows it only takes one step to yield to the temptation of desire. It’s there, threatening, lurking in the pit of his stomach, ready to spill over and explode if Boothill touches him and asks the forbidden question.
Argenti knows he could, that he wants to—maybe more than he should. He knows he'll take that step; he knows he'll say yes if Boothill asks.
The question is never asked, though. Argenti isn't blind; he sees, he hears, he feels things in Boothill's unspoken words, in every aborted gesture, in every withheld caress. Nothing is certain, but if no one asks the question, if no one dares to move, then the answer will remain forever in an abyss of regret and fear.
It takes a lot of courage to venture into hostile territory. But when you're a knight or a ranger, courage already runs in your veins. It's only a matter of time before hostile territory turns into fertile land.
For now, Argenti keeps his courage to fight ugliness and preach Beauty. It's a subtle way of preventing certain thoughts from springing to mind, spilling out shamefully at his feet, and catching the curious gaze of Beauty.
For now, Argenti prays, and hopes it will be enough. That's what he does best, after all.
“May Beauty be merciful.”
✶
"I told you not to bring anything for me."
“I know, but you say that every time!”
It's tea, in a pretty coral-colored tin. Intertwined flowers are engraved on the surface. Argenti lifts the lid, and a sweet rose scent fills the air.
“I thought it might be a change from that chamomile tisane you drink every night or that blasted milk you always have for breakfast.”
Boothill rests a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. Argenti smiles: a silent, grateful acceptance.
"I'll get the teapot. Let's have a cup to celebrate your return.”
✶
In fact, it’s about sex.
It would be a lie if Boothill wasn't thinking about it. Not always, but sometimes—when he wonders what it would feel like to be truly touched.
But he quickly figures out that his desire runs up against obstacles fueled by his own fears.
The first is his body's inability to feel.
It no longer speaks to him, saying: “You’re tired, take a rest. Your muscles ache, preserve yourself. Watch your pants, dude, you’re getting hard. Don’t do anything, you’re dying.” Now there is only a synthetic voice, telling him that he needs to purge his system, go on standby, change a cable, add coolant.
It's a body he's learned to tame over time; searching for its limits, understanding, failing, rising again, grazing death without ever touching it. No instruction manual is as useful as practice. And despite all the experiments inflicted on his own body, all the hypotheses confirmed and refuted, Boothill knows there are still unresolved problems.
The only remaining source of reliability is his emotions. He knows, though, how they can fool him—even control him, sometimes. (Is there a reality beyond the artificial?)
Boothill would like to calculate nothing, let himself be guided by instinct and by his remaining functional senses, as usual. But when faced with the unknown, some calculations require more thought.
The last fear is his ability to love.
He's afraid of loving too deeply, afraid of seeing his desire turn into defilement. He'd like to kiss Argenti without feeling like he's corrupting him, he'd like to touch him without feeling like he's turning him away from Idrila. He knows Argenti is a man capable of making his own choices. But how can Boothill fight it, when every time he desires Argenti—wants him all for himself—he doesn't know if he's the lover, the accomplice, or the executioner?
So Boothill walks on eggshells and lets all the air out of his non-existent lungs, as if that would make him lighter. It never does, but sometimes, he convinces himself it does, and the pain becomes easier to bear.
Sometimes, he acts faster than he thinks, and even if he realizes it too late, there is no damage to report. Instead, there is always a tea box, a ripped-off arm to repair, a sigh, or even a kiss if he's lucky (he's the luckiest man in the world if you ask him). There are also his own fingers, lingering a little longer on Argenti's arm. There is the touch of their skin, when their faces are close—and a sparkle somewhere, where the heart once was.
It shines, taunting him, like a call to ignite.
And Boothill strikes the match, watching the flame devour the head and lick the stem.
The advantage of not really being a man anymore is that your body no longer feels physical pain. So it's nothing if the flames burn his fingers too. This isn't his first time anyway. He just hopes one day, he will have the courage to close the distance between his fingers and the heart.
(Aim for the heart, darlin’.)
✶
They are lonely souls. One by choice, the other by necessity.
The advantage is they spend more time fulfilling their own purpose than seeing each other. Argenti sees this as a form of respite: less temptation, more time to devote to Idrila.
They know they can't give up this wandering life. They still have a lot to accomplish on their own: revenge and faith—both in the name of love (different kinds of love, but love is still love, isn't it?)
In these separate moments, Argenti offers himself fully to THEM. He redoubles his efforts and feels his faith grow. He prays, feeling close, even if doubt hovers around his head like a vulture. Ignorance is a short-term solution, but it doesn't matter for now. He's feeling good, believing himself righteous, pure, loyal, like the most faithful devotee. (There is always a thin line between reality and beliefs.)
When he's done with the day's chores, he finds his way back to his lonely room, or to a makeshift one, depending on the mission. And each time before reading time, Boothill sends him messages.
"Look Rosey! I've seen this, I'm sure it's something you'd find crazy beautiful."
The picture is a little blurry, but he spots what seems to be a mix between a cat and a cubic jelly.
"How thoughtful of you. These creatures are very lovely."
"Apparently it's some kind of cross between cat and cake. If I eat one, is it considered meat or will I be able to call myself a vegetarian?"
"I hope you're not already biting into one of them to form your opinion on this… It would be an affront to devour such a beautiful creature!"
“No animals were harmed in the making of this picture…”
Another message pops up before Argenti can reply.
“I hope you're doing well."
Argenti smiles behind his screen.
"I'm fine. Stay safe. Don't lose any arms this time. I don't know if I'll have enough left to fix you next time."
(Strangely, there’s always enough stuff to fix Boothill on the ship.)
"I promise, honey. I miss you."
Argenti puts down his phone, inhaling and exhaling once. He adjusts his reading glasses and picks up the book at the page abandoned the day before.
Not seeing each other offers him a strange kind of respite. It’s an illusion, of course. Denial just makes things easier to live with.
Letting go of someone is always hard when you love. Absence settles in the midst of the waiting, and it's only when you're reunited that you become aware of its real weight and the place it occupies. Each reunion makes you realize the value of loss, and each departure becomes harder to bear.
Argenti is well aware of this aspect. He feels it deep down. It devours him like insects in the pit of his stomach. But he remains silent, accepting the pain and leaving Boothill on a planet while he heads elsewhere in the cosmos. He remains silent, knowing this could be the last time they say goodbye.
After ten pages, Argenti opens his phone. He types: “I miss you too,” and watches the words beneath his fingers, dry-mouthed and breathless. He inhales and exhales once, and does nothing.
(Oh Aeons, he’s a weak man.)
✶
It should have been a simple reconnaissance mission. Now, Argenti stands cornered on a damp stretch of beach. He was thankful he'd asked the local authorities to patrol the pine forest. He didn't know if he could have guaranteed everyone's survival.
According to the information he has gathered, these amphibian creatures are invasive species, implanted by a wealthy former traveler who settled here (“they'd look good in this pretty, idyllic decor!”). This man is now dead (digested), leaving behind him creatures thrilled to destroy the local biodiversity. They are also unrivaled predators, devouring every living creature without the slightest distinction (including humans).
The IPC had intervened before, killing and capturing these species to study them and design new technological equipment based on their adaptation mechanisms. Now, only a few creatures are left in the area, abandoned by the IPC after they had enough data, and despite local requests to exterminate them all.
The only thing Argenti is certain of, as he watches them move across the ground, is that they are hostile to Beauty. No amount of prayer can turn them away from the path of ugliness. The only way out is the blessing of the spear.
Argenti has defeated hordes of insects in the past. He has already fought much tougher monsters than these, but he's still on guard. His spear pierces, carves and tears flesh. Each stroke is accompanied by verses, murmured fervently. Beauty goes to war against no one. The knights of beauty merely protect, liberate, and guide lost souls, even if it means shedding blood.
The advantage of armor is that it provides effective protection against external aggression. The disadvantage is that it slows down his every move.
Argenti decimates the first two waves. The third turns out to be more difficult. He barely escapes with his life, breathless and slightly stunned. As he scans the coastline through the slit in his helmet, looking for the last surviving creatures, a harsh cry echoes behind him. He pivots, and the tip of his spear tears through the air, missing its target.
This amphibian is different from the others. More imposing, faster, angrier. Argenti finds his footing on the sand and advances directly towards the animal. He knows this fight won't be easy. The creature is lively, and he struggles to pierce its skin. After several unsuccessful attempts, barely dodging its sharp claws, Argenti realizes he needs a new strategy.
He chooses to strike the same spot, forming a breach in the beast's back. He's out of breath but determined, because retreat is no longer an option.
Just then, the beast pivots, all fangs exposed, and bites Argenti's arm with all its strength. By the grace of the Aeons, the armor resists, but Argenti drops his spear, surprised by the violence of the attack.
Clearly not pleased, the creature shakes its head, sending Argenti tumbling a few yards away like a rag doll. He lands hard on his stomach, facing away from the threat and away from his weapon.
The fall steals his breath for a few moments. He turns as best he can onto his back, wheezing. Every motion becomes painful. Argenti has known worse pain in the past. Maybe the next one will be the worst of all.
In front of him, he hears the friction of sand, and sees a shadow emerging through the slit of his helmet.
The creature's first claw slides with surgical precision between the interstices of the armor. Its slowness suggests a cruel death. In a way, Argenti can understand. He's just wiped out the rest of its companions. That’s enough to want revenge.
In a desperate move, Argenti delivers a powerful kick to the beast's abdomen. The beast releases its grip and loses balance. Argenti struggles to push himself up on his elbows. It’s vain, though; he doesn't have time to crawl to his spear.
The creature shrieks angrily, and gains momentum. Argenti understands his time is coming. He lacks time and strength. The adrenaline won't allow him to get up, nor to ignore the pain and fear pulsing through his veins.
The last time Argenti had been this close to death, he was kneeling in a sanctuary, with half a dozen corpses of destruction’s abomination lying at the feet of a faceless statue.
The enemy's blade pierced the metal and then his flesh, letting his blood flow freely onto the stone. Argenti removed his helmet to contemplate the altar before him, erected in the name of Beauty many years ago. With a hand on his heart, he placed a rose and lit each candle, ignoring the pain and his own blood. Victory was his, and he hadn't doubted his triumph for a single second. However, his life was now in the hands of Beauty.
Dying anonymously while protecting beauty, or surviving in silence with modesty: both ways worthy of divine honor. No need to tell the world about his exploits, no need to hog the limelight, when only Idrila deserves praise.
And as he wavered before the altar, Argenti felt THEIR presence: a breeze on his face, as imperceptible as vivid. Without seeing, Argenti knew. It didn't matter if his knight friend had doubted him when he told this story, as long as Argenti believed it, that was enough.
From this encounter, Argenti now keeps a scar on his abdomen, like a misshapen crater on the surface of his skin. Boothill calls it ‘night-sun’ because its striated edges mimic the hues and shape of sunset rays. “You see, it's a bit like you’re carryin’ the cosmos on your skin,” he said the first time he saw it. “There's the sun here, then the stars all around,” he added, pointing to the freckles without touching them. “It’s a testament to my devotion to Beauty,” Argenti answered, stroking the scar with his fingertips. “It’s also proof of your resilience,” Boothill whispered, kissing him tenderly on the top of his head. “My courageous and strong knight.”
But Argenti won't be courageous and strong enough tonight. He won't be returning to the One and Only. Boothill won't send him his location so they can meet up. They won't recount their adventures over a cup of tea. Boothill won't be there to name his new scar.
The universe on his skin will fade away with him, in one deadly swipe of a claw.
His mouth goes dry, and Argenti remembers the wind on his face, the smell of his own blood on the stone, the color of the candles beneath the dancing flames. He imagines all these sensations, knowing there’s a fate in which no Aeon grants him mercy.
And as the beast begins to run straight at him, he closes his eyes, uttering a final prayer: “Please, forgive me.”
Argenti expects claws, foul breath, fangs and blood. Instead, he hears the clink of metal, a gunshot then a metallic squeal accompanied by a ‘fudge!’.
He opens his eyes and sees the miracle.
Boothill stands firm, his body acting as a protective barrier between the monster and him. Blue blood spurts onto the sand and splashes across his helmet. And perhaps Argenti screams his name; he doesn't know for sure, but his mouth is open, and when he catches his breath, his throat burns with pain.
Wielding the spear of Beauty, Boothill uses it as if he weren't the best shooter in the entire universe.
“Come here motherfudger, I’m your man.”
The beast roars and charges straight at Boothill. Despite the wound, despite the sparks awakening inside his chest, the ranger moves fluidly, dodging the creature's assaults. Argenti stares at the scene, unable to move like a mere spectator. He's supposed to be the protector; the one who defends, not the one who is defended.
Boothill slips on the sand, beneath the beast’s body, before its claws can cause more damage to the metal. He leaps onto the creature's back and plants the spear in the middle of its body with a sharp blow, right where the heart is. A horrible scream echoes across the beach, followed by silence and a loud thud.
Boothill stares at his work, shaking his head to toss his hair out of his eyes.
“Well done, motherfudger!” He grumbles, kicking the dead flesh. “That's the price you pay for ruinin’ my chest, lil’ shirtbag.”
After one last kick, deciding the effort wasn't worth it, he climbs over the beast to reach Argenti, clearly delighted to stomp on it with his boots.
“Well, I guess our surprise date is dead in the water...” Boothill says as if he didn't have a hole in the middle of his chest.
Back on his feet, Argenti takes his helmet off and drops it on the ground, the impact muffled by the damp sand. His breathing is ragged, adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
Across the way, Boothill looks at him. His hat had fallen off during the battle. He smiles, barely staggering, one hand clutching the spear, the other brushing the cavity in the pit of his chest where a bright-blue liquid flows out.
Argenti stops breathing. It's like rediscovering his favorite painting: going over every detail with familiar eyes, loving them again and again, only to find a subtlety that had always eluded him—an element that sublimates what he thought was already sublime.
Without warning, he closes the last few yards, grabs Boothill's face between his gauntlets and crushes his lips against his. It's a desperate kiss, a life-breathing kiss of love. It tastes of fear, clumsiness, iodized flavor of the sea and absence. Argenti feels himself fading, but Boothill's hands are there, resting on his hips, keeping him on solid ground. Every touch reminds him of what he almost lost, and he clings to it, because it's tangible, it's real, it’s beauty.
“I thought—” His voice chokes in his throat. He closes his eyes, hoping to chase away the tears that threaten to well up.
“I know,” Boothill says, smiling tenderly. “I know, darlin’,” he adds, tucking a red strand behind his ear. "I'm here. You're here. Together. Alive."
“You're hurt.”
“It's nothin’, we've got everythin’ we need on the One and Only to fix me.”
“It's all my fault.”
“Nothing is your fault.”
Boothill places a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth and holds him close, strong and reassuring. Blue fluid still drips from the wound and stains Argenti's armor, but for now, it doesn't matter.
“How did you know I was here?”
"The village chief,” Boothill says. “I was lookin’ for the old IPC lab. She told me there was a weird red-haired knight who offered to help and was hangin’ around the area. I took a little detour and found you."
“Thank you for saving me,” Argenti murmurs, not picking up on the ‘weird’ in the sentence.
“I'm glad you're okay,” Boothill places his forehead on Argenti’s, closing his eyes. “I'm relieved I found you in time.” The embrace tightens, and if his mechanical body doesn't tremble, his voice does.
Argenti doesn't know how long they'll be like this, together, but he doesn't move, savoring the tenderness. He’s afraid of feeling guilty if he dares to let go.
Boothill finally loosens his grip, sliding his hands into Argenti's.
“Let's go home, darlin’,” Boothill whispers.
Argenti lifts his head and smiles, still clinging to Boothill.
“Let’s go home.”
✶
He's sitting on Boothill's lap, screwing on the last pieces after replacing all the damaged cables and torn metal. Boothill watches him, elbows resting against the mattress, eager to be done with it already.
“You're doin’ great, honey.”
“It's the least I can do, dear,” Argenti says, stroking the new part with his fingertips. It doesn't really look like the original shape, but it's better than nothing. That'll be more than enough time to shape the custom-made parts next time. Boothill smiles, watching him graze this new part of his body.
“Am I beautiful enough for your convenience?” Boothill asks.
“You've always been beautiful,” Argenti’s fingers trace the shape of his metal muscles, as if to memorize them forever. “Always,” the words come out on their own, addressed to Boothill and Boothill alone. Argenti is surprised to hear himself say it, but he has no regrets when it comes to telling a truth that needs to be told.
There's a silence when he meets Boothill's gaze. A silence that settles into uncertainty and curiosity, leaving not enough room for doubt. It goes beyond a glance begging for a kiss.
They stand on a line where every word breaks a boundary. It's always about love, but there's something more, something hidden, silenced, that burns much more than their own tongues.
Argenti knows he could fight it. But he doesn't know if he really wants to.
“Say it,” Argenti whispers. “Please.”
“Say what?” Boothill looks at him, visibly hesitant.
Argenti leans down and kisses him. He swallows the question, and instead of disappearing, dissolving into nothing, eaten away by acid, it turns into fertile earth in his stomach.
“Boothill.”
He utters his name, and a blossom grows up into his throat.
(Saying it is less dangerous than doing it.)
A gleam shines in Boothill's eyes.
“I know what you want,” he says after a silence. “I know, and I can say it for you."
Confessing is never the most painful step in the process. It's not the moment you free yourself from silence. It's the aftermath; the fear of waiting for a sentence or something even worse and unnamed, the uncertainty of what will happen if the words aren’t right, if the sin is so infamous it demands retribution.
“I want you.”
This is not a question. Argenti is disarmed.
“That’s what you wanted to say. You want me, don’tcha?”
“And you? Do you want me?” It's a roundabout way of confirming Boothill's assertion. Maybe the Aeons will be naive enough not to understand. He doesn't want to imagine the time and courage it will take him to ask for forgiveness one more time.
“I want you. Really want you. Not just in a romantic way,” Boothill whispers, dispelling the mist that hides the deepest desires of two men.
With his fingertips, he traces the line of Argenti’s collarbone, never touching skin, only the fabric of the shirt. He slowly moves down, grazing his chest and abdomen, ending the motion on his stomach, at the border between the clothing and the unknown.
Argenti shivers; a mix of fear, excitement, and desire coursing through his veins like gunpowder ready to ignite every cell in his body.
“May I?” Boothill’s voice wavers, unsteady.
“I'm afraid,” Argenti confesses.
“I’m afraid too,” Boothill says. It's not the same fear, but it's still fear. “We don't have to, y’know, if you—”
I shouldn’t. But I want to.
He's a weak man. Oh Idrila, he's so weak.
His fingers close over Boothill's, inviting him to join the no-go zone.
Free me.
✶
That’s how Boothill accesses the part of the universe sealed by the love of a deity.
His lips brush the constellation of freckles on Argenti’s skin, and he shudders, thinking of what he once lost. In these moments, fear is as much a hindrance as a salvation.
His body was shaped for vengeance, not tenderness. To kill, not to cherish. And today, he digs up what once belonged to the flesh. His body—made to feel nothing because pain is useless—remembers.
If he feels nothing, if caresses are only artificial signals guiding information to the brain, he lets imagination fulfill what touch cannot.
Boothill offers himself, because it's the only thing that satisfies his own desire. He dedicates himself to Argenti, and that's enough.
And Boothill waits for someone to say: “Stop, no. I can't offend Idrila. Please.”
Words are never spoken, though; only his name echoes in the One and Only’s cabin as he kneels, welcoming Argenti's cock deep in his mouth. Boothill savors it—because sex belongs to no god.
And beneath the shadow of the cosmos, illuminated by millions of stars, Argenti’s fingers slide through Boothill’s hair, clinging to him and offering clumsy caresses.
That's when memories become sensations.
Touch me.
✶
What often happens when you taste something forbidden is that one bite is never enough. The fruit is there, so what's the point of not finishing it all? What’s the point of resisting, now that vice coats your throat with its sweet nectar?
It's as much a pleasure as an addiction. You want more, seek more, crave more, even if each bite tastes a little more like guilt.
Argenti believes it’s no longer the man who guides him, but the starving, the sinner. He knows these temptations divert him; he knows it was his choice—conscious or unconscious.
He doesn't blame the act itself. Argenti can't deny that he enjoyed every second with Boothill in this bed. He blames himself for giving in, for leaving a door open that is now impossible to close.
And now, he understands. He understands how hard it is to go back: accepting that he once touched the stars, only to come down and seal his body forever on solid ground.
But that's where the mistake lies: It’s not the sinner who sins.
It’s the man.
✶
During his life, Argenti has watched people drift away from faith, arms outstretched, hoping to guide them back to the path of Beauty. His master. His friend. Argenti reached out, only to grasp emptiness. And in their wake, he tries to understand where they failed. What doubt was too much? What was the turning point?
Where is the line between the acceptable and the unforgivable?
He hopes to find the answer before it's his turn to sink into the darkness.
✶
The bed is empty when Boothill wakes up. His fingers move first, sliding over the cold part of the mattress before his eyes regain their sight. It’s not uncommon for Argenti not to be there when Boothill’s standby cycle ends. This absence always leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He has no choice but to accept the unpleasant sensation, though. If he were less tired these days, he could manage to get up when Argenti's routine begins.
Boothill has learned it by heart over the years: Wake up, bathroom, prayer, listen to the cosmic radio for people in need of help, breakfast, coffee (never for himself). Then he arrives, slipping a hand over Argenti’s shoulder to acknowledge his presence. No words until the coffee is poured.
“Mornin’ sunshine,” Boothill mumbles, warmed by caffeine.
“Did you have a sweet night?” Argenti smiles, his hand resting on Boothill’s.
Like any proper routine, Boothill answers every time: “Wonderful night, just like every time you're here, darlin’.”
But routine is no longer routine when a step is missing; when the bathroom door is still ajar, and there's no smell of rose and coffee floating in the air.
Boothill gets up. The unpleasant sensation spreads throughout his body.
“You alright, honey?” He asks, pushing the bathroom door carefully.
Argenti stands there, leaning in front of the mirror. At first glance, he seems perfectly still. However, if Boothill lingers on his shoulders, he can see that he's shaking.
“Argenti, darlin’, are you—”, Boothill says then stops. Words don't seem to reach Argenti.
He puts his cold hand on Argenti's shoulder to acknowledge his presence, and then swivels him around to face him.
“I can't brush my hair,” Argenti sobs, the comb still in his trembling hands.
That’s when Boothill faces it: the thing he dreads most, the inevitable that stands over them like the omen of an uncertain future. Boothill is not sure he can handle it, but if he wavers, then the whole universe will come crashing down on them. And if he does, who will be there to pull Argenti back from the fall?
"Shh, come here, it's alright,” he whispers, not knowing if everything will be all right.
And Argenti complies. He collapses in Boothill's arms, clinging to the only thing he really knows.
Boothill hugs him. That's all he has to offer. He knows his words won't be enough to quell the guilt, so he says nothing, letting Argenti cry against his shoulder, letting the silence do what he can’t.
He doesn't know how long they'll stay like this, held tightly together. Boothill just hopes it helps, even a little. He never had time to learn how to properly comfort others.
After a moment, once he feels only calm breathing against him, Boothill dares to move.
“I'll take care of it.” He gently runs a hand through Argenti's hair, detangling strands with his fingers. “Let me do this for you.”
He feels Argenti straighten up and nod.
Without any resistance, Boothill sits Argenti facing away from him, on the edge of the bathtub. With a soft gesture, he untangles the first curls with his fingers. He takes his time, holding his breath each time a strand gets trapped between his knuckles.
“If I hurt you, tell me,” even though he knows he'll never get an answer.
After a few minutes, seeing that his fingers are now useless, he uses the comb. It's made of wood, simple, engraved, worn but still functional. Knots will soon be a thing of the past. Argenti’s hair is thick and dense. Boothill imagines it feels soft under his touch. It's a pleasant sensation, almost therapeutic. He finds himself dividing the hair into three equal sections and braiding them.
Every gesture revives the memory of his mother's hands. That's all that's left of her after all: memories. He doesn't know if it's a good thing to remember this now—in an already painful situation. But as he braids Argenti's hair, he feels a strength wash over him, helping him keep from breaking down himself.
“I’m sorry,” Argenti says when Boothill finishes his work.
“Why?”
“For ruining your morning.”
Argenti turns to Boothill, without looking at him, hands clenched against his thighs. Boothill kneels, slipping his hands into Argenti's, willing to share muscular tensions. “You haven't ruined my mornin’.”
“Don’t I look a little pathetic?”
“What I see before me is the most beautiful man in the galaxy with a sublime braid.”
Argenti affectionately squeezes Boothill's hands. “Boothill, I—” he hesitates, and his grip tightens.
"We don't have to talk about it today,” Boothill pulls the braid back over his shoulder. “We can do that when you're ready."
“Okay,” Argenti says, stroking the braid with admiration. “Thank you. I really like it.”
“It'll be all right,” Boothill answers, knowing that his words are pointless. Argenti doesn't want to hear them from him, and Boothill is nothing more than a man.
“Why don't you go back to bed while I make you breakfast?”
Argenti nods in silence. He straightens up, then stands still for a moment, eyes riveted on Boothill's hair. He slides his fingers gently through the strands. “I could take care of it, too.”
Boothill smiles, shivering unintentionally at the touch. "Just rest, okay? I'll make you some tea."
He doesn't say it's too early; that he's not yet ready to leave this intimate act to anyone but the memory of his mother.
He kisses Argenti’s forehead and watches him silently head back to the bedroom.
When he's finally alone, he slides down on the floor, leaning against the bathtub and burying his head in his hands.
Sometimes, he'd like to ask his mother what to do.
✶
He kneels before the altar. Hands clasped around the rosary, he utters the prayer with fervor, ignoring extraneous thoughts. Each sentence becomes painful, and his body can't help but trembling; his voice falters, breaking into as many pieces as there are words left to say. The air barely enters his lungs and he suffocates, trying to recite the end.
Kneeling before the representation of Beauty, Boothill grasps his hand, murmuring the rest of the prayer for him.
✶
They never talk about it.
Both can't pretend nothing has changed, though. The routine remains the same, but there’s something invisible in the air, clinging to their skin and invading their lungs.
Waiting for an answer feels long to Boothill. His love lies on a precarious balance. He knows Argenti's response will tip the scales one way or the other, but he knows, above all, it's naive to believe himself stronger than an Aeon.
So Boothill watches Argenti trying to hide his distress in everyday gestures. He listens to Argenti whisper prayers he has never heard before. He lets Argenti kiss him, leaving the taste of doubt on his tongue. And Boothill looks at his own hands, helpless, resigned to inaction, because there is nothing he can do but just be there.
And at night, they fall asleep side by side; sometimes with their limbs intertwined and their bodies tightly pressed together. On other nights, the metal barely grazes the skin.
And tonight, Boothill buries his face on Argenti's neck, his chest pressing against Argenti’s back. “Stay,” he doesn't say, breathing in his scent, ephemeral and reassuring. “Stay,” he repeats for silence, letting invisible words end up on Argenti’s skin.
He hopes to be strong enough one day, to not be afraid of loss.
✶
“Does it hurt?”
“Only when I mobilize specific muscles,” Argenti says, making circular movements with his shoulder.
Boothill watches him wince between rotations and pulls a half-used tube of ointment from the bedside table. “Sit on the bed and take off your shirt. I'll take care of the rest.”
Argenti complies, removing his shirt to reveal the bare skin of his back; a diaphanous canvas, sprinkled with thousands of brown starbursts swallowed up by scars in multiple shades of pinkish red. Boothill could trace all of them with his fingertips; a mental map he enriches over the years. His absent stomach twists when he brushes unfamiliar marks, harmless in appearance, yet destined to leave an everlasting memory on Argenti’s skin. Boothill tenses up. Every roughness, every hollow beneath his fingers revives a phantom pain on his own back.
Injuries are an integral part of the life of anyone who wields the lance. However, Boothill has been seeing more and more marks flourish for some time now, ranging from a simple bruise to a deep cut through the different layers of the skin. He cannot ignore the correlation between the increased number of missions and the little rest the knight allows himself between each one.
The injury of the day is superficial, however, caused by a wrong move after carrying bags of tiles to fix the roof of a temple swept away by a storm.
“You need to learn to spare your body,” Boothill mutters as he searches for the painful area.
“I was so focused on my mission. I thought the pain would be temporary.”
“When your body speaks to you, you must listen to it.”
“It was a mistake,” Argenti admits. “I'll be more careful next time.”
Boothill applies the cream and massages gently. His olfactory sensors detect the familiar scent of plants. An elderly woman had sold him this tube during one of his first trips in a neighboring system, promising him a quick recovery. She hadn't lied; he’d tested and approved it when flesh wasn't metal.
“Maybe you should go on and consider takin’ a break,” Boothill says. “It sure would do you some good. I know a great spot a few systems away from here. Y'know, there are red mountains, streams, grass and flowers of every color as far as the eye can see. It's nighttime half the time durin’ the planet's rotation, and you can see all the stars as if you could touch ‘em with your fingers.”
Argenti's back muscles tense slightly, and Boothill isn't sure if it's the cold metal or his words that caused it.
“This place looks truly magnificent,” Argenti pauses, visibly hesitant. “I should cherish the opportunity to accompany you, but I don't know if I can afford it right now. Not when I promised to fix this temple with these craftsmen…”
“They can manage on their own for now, can't they? It's not as if it's urgent.” If the tone of his voice remains the same, the disappointment is palpable.
“I made a commitment,” Argenti insists, knowing it’s not the expected answer.
“So what? Are you goin’ to thank me, get out of bed, and leave this spaceship to go assemble tiles on a forkin' temple roof?”
“That's not what I said.”
“You don't say it, but you think it so hard that your thoughts come out of all your pores.”
Argenti's shoulders slump and he has no answer to offer to Boothill.
“It may just be muscle pain this time, but what will be the next step?” Boothill adds. “An open fracture? A severed tendon? A forkin’ torn limb?”
The massage stops when his sizzling voice rises and echoes through the cabin. Boothill squeezes the tube between his fingers, trying to calm the anger burning like acid somewhere between his ribcage and his throat. Their position makes the conversation easier. It’s less painful to endure when you're not facing the person you're talking to.
“I understand how you feel, but it is my duty to help these honest craftsmen accomplish this task.”
Boothill squeezes the tube again, knowing that it would have hurt if he still had a real hand.
“Sometimes I wonder if you're doin’ all this for others or just to ease your conscience.”
It’s when the words leave his lips that Boothill realizes it’s already too late.
Here he is: the man and the hideous part of his soul, revealed to the eyes of the universe.
Boothill reflexively puts a hand over his mouth to stifle the feeling of shame that bursts in his throat, threatening to spill between his fingers.
“Sorry, I didn't mean to…”
He feels terribly pathetic, unable to think of anything to say to make up for it. He puts a hand on Argenti's back, desperately trying to offer something resembling tenderness mixed with apology.
“It's nothing,” Argenti's voice gives Boothill the feeling of breathing after being underwater for too long. “I'm the one who's sorry. You're worried about me, and I understand you.”
With a brief gesture, Argenti repositions himself on the bed, sitting up straight. “You're right. I need to rest. A few days won't hurt me.” He pulls his hair forward to clear his back. “We can stay here. When my back is better, I'll take care of that roof, and then you can show me this planet with its stars that you can touch with your fingers."
“All right,” Boothill concedes, going back to the massage, aware there’s no other way to defuse the situation.
The silence that follows makes the atmosphere heavy, and Boothill has no choice but to accept discomfort as punishment. He knows he has crossed a limit. However, he cannot oppose Argenti's response, even if it only solves a problem on the surface rather than at its root. Words sometimes have the power to destroy or repair, and right now, his words are turning into supernovae between his lips.
They remain silent until the end of the massage, delaying any attempt at serious discussion.
“I'm done,” Boothill says, wiping his hands on his pants to remove the last traces of ointment.
“Thank you, dear,” Argenti answers, letting the silence return to its place.
That's how the conversation ends, with this heavy atmosphere, stifling what little oxygen there is inside. They will get up, go about their business, and act as if nothing happened, just like every other time before, believing this is enough to keep their relationship alive for a few more months.
When Boothill inhales, the air becomes an invisible weight, entering his body through his nostrils and mouth. He takes a second breath, and something nestles inside him, somewhere where his lungs once were. It's something alive, writhing, and threatening to break at any moment. Boothill doesn't know what it is, but he knows how painful it will be if he lets it stay there too long.
His body finally moves instinctively. His arms wrap around Argenti's waist, and he presses his forehead against his back. He clings to the skin-to-skin, the shared warmth; the only place where he can feel something real.
“You okay?” Argenti whispers after a moment, noticing that Boothill isn't moving.
The question opens a breach hidden between their bodies, where the ointment cannot soothe the pain. Boothill tightens his grip, fearing Argenti will vanish. Something vibrates in his chest and he's unable to make a single sound.
Maybe this is the only opportunity to gather enough courage for both of them.
“Y’know,” Boothill says, his voice faltering. “Every time we separate, I wonder if it's the last time we'll kiss. Not just ‘cause I’m afraid of you’ll die. I'm also afraid that lovin’ will become a burden too heavy for you to bear."
It's a confession far more intimate than sex. Boothill knows these admissions of vulnerability come at a cost. (In love, there's always something to lose.) He would have preferred to not get to this point; feel like opening his chest and showing the universe where his deepest fear is hidden. He no longer has a choice, though. They're at a dead end. No matter how hard he racks his brains, his last resources are running out.
"I can handle my own fears,” Boothill continues. “It's somethin’ I've learned to do over time, but I don’t know if my arms will be strong enough to help you bear yours.”
It's the truth, in its ugliest form, held up before Argenti’s eyes—those eyes that had never wanted to see.
Argenti's breathing seems to stop, and behind the skin, behind the nerves, the flesh, the muscles, and the bones, Boothill can feel the irregular beating of a heart.
With a gentle motion, Argenti breaks free from the embrace, turning to face Boothill. The ranger doesn't resist. His arms fall back onto the mattress, and he remains silent.
“I didn't know you felt that way,” Argenti whispers, resting his fists against his thighs. “I'm sorry you had to carry all that in your heart. I'm afraid it's my fault.”
Argenti slips his hands into Boothill’s, sharing dampness and seeking to draw courage.
“I am terribly sorry, Boothill. I feel like an idiot for not seeing anything.” His eyes shine, but no tears fall. “I don't want you to think that the problem is you. It never has been.”
“I am not looking for excuses. That’s not my intention.” Boothill raises his head, seeking Argenti's gaze, only to find his eyes, fixed on their hands still joined together on the mattress. “I need you to talk to me, Argenti. We can't go on livin’ like this, sufferin’ in silence without any of us darin’ to do anythin’ about it.”
“I don’t know… I’m just…” Argenti swallows hard. “I’m lost.”
Argenti’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Boothill wants to shake him, take him in his arms, and tell him he already knows all this. Instead, he says nothing and watches Argenti, hoping that each answer will not reawaken what he has banished to nightmares.
“I’m afraid,” Argenti finally confesses.
“Afraid of?”
“Admitting to myself what I really want.”
“You’re a man, Argenti. Men have the right to want things.”
“But I’m a knight.”
I’m a knight and I'm weak. I’m weak and I no longer know what I have the right to desire without feeling like I’m betraying or deceiving Idrila. I’m a knight and I no longer know if I'm legitimate in claiming to be one.
“I’m sorry, I’m so pathetic,” Argenti whispers, his voice trembling, ready to break at any moment. “I can’t even bring myself to tell you everything that's on my mind.” His shoulders slump, and his hair falls forward like a red curtain hiding his shameful face. Each breath becomes another tremor, resonating throughout his body.
With a gentle gesture, a metal hand breaks free from the clasp, sliding to Argenti's cheek. Argenti then raises his head, meeting Boothill's gaze for the first time.
“I’ve never forgotten the time I called you in the middle of nowhere, completely down in the dumps, with no place to go.” Boothill smiles faintly, tucking red curls behind Argenti’s shoulders to see his face. “You didn't ask any questions or demand any explanations, you just came for me,” his tone is calm, tinged with a sweet melancholy. “You’ve always been there for me. Y'know… for the anniversary of their deaths… Even back when I couldn't brin’ myself to talk about it, you were there.”
He pauses, looking at Argenti. “And today I wanna be there for you.”
“You are there for me, Boothill. I know it, I see it, and you help me every day.” He places his own hand on Boothill's, still resting against his cheek.
“But I can see that I'm runnin’ into a limit,” Boothill says, withdrawing his hand and forcing Argenti to withdraw his.
It's a painful admission of powerlessness. Boothill feels too much frustration to fully accept it, but he knows it's something he can't fight against.
“I wish it were easier,” Argenti whispers. “I thought it might be, with time.”
Boothill hoped so too, deep down. It's always easier to hope than to believe. Maybe that’s what it means to love someone: accepting there are places you'll never be able to set foot in, even if you are allowed to, even if you force your way in.
“I let doubts erode my faith, and now they’re attacking everything I hold dear,” Argenti admits, placing his abandoned hand on the sheets. “It's as if you and Idrila were standing in front of me,” he continues, clinging to the sheets, and squeezing them with all his strength. “And the closer I get to one of you, the more I fear losing the other along the way.”
“You don't always have to sacrifice somethin’ to move forward.”
“That's what I need to know. I need to absolve my doubts.”
Softly, Boothill intertwines their fingers. It's gentle, much more intimate than a kiss. Argenti's palm is clammy and warm. Boothill lets the imaginary sensation deceive his mind, letting it wash over him as if it were the last time they would ever touch. The pressure of Argenti's fingers resonates along his arm, sliding to his shoulder, traveling to his neck, and spreading across his scalp.
That's when he feels something blossoming in the pit of his chest, somewhere between relief and fear. It's something new and unfamiliar, and this time, Boothill decides not to confront it. He surrenders, willing to face the unknown.
“You need answers, but it's not my place to give ‘em to you. Even though I'd like to. Even though they're selfish. Even though they won't have the value you're lookin' for.”
Argenti nods, and the silent tears on his cheeks are the only response he offers Boothill.
Boothill would like to hold him close and dry each of his tears with a kiss. However, he knows this is not something Argenti would like at the moment.
“It will take as long as it takes,” Boothill says gently. “If I can't give you the answers, I can at least help you know where to look for 'em.”
Even though he's not sure about what he's saying, Boothill convinces himself. He decides to believe it, and for now, that's enough.
“Thank you,” Argenti murmurs with a sincerity that Boothill recognizes. “I—I’m just…”
“It's all right, honey,” Boothill says, seeing Argenti ready to collapse with relief or emotion. “That's a lot to take in all at once. We can discuss all of this tomorrow, when we've recovered from our emotions.”
Boothill sits up in bed, freeing their hands. The fear doesn't go away entirely, but he feels a little lighter.
“You're right.” Argenti manages to answer, wiping away his tears.
“How about we stay in bed today? I can make us some tea or whatever you want, and we can listen to the radio or whatever. ”
Boothill doesn't suggest leaving the ship for the rest of the day while they each think about the situation separately. The space between the kitchen and the bedroom, seems like a convincing alternative for now.
“It sounds good,” Argenti answers.
Boothill grabs Argenti’s shirt with one hand to hand it to him, and with the other, puts the tube away in the bedside table.
“Boothill,” Argenti whispers in a quiet voice.
Boothill turns to him.
“Thank you for listening to me.”
Boothill smiles tenderly. “Thank you for havin' the courage to talk to me about all this.”
“I couldn't have done it without you.”
And as he prepares to walk through the door, Boothill stops at the doorway, turning back to look at Argenti, still sitting on the bed.
“Y’know,” he says after a silence, “I think lovin’ shouldn't be a trial.”
✶
In front of the stone altar, a woman is kneeling. Her armor, engraved with a blue thistle, lies on a bench next to her.
Argenti approaches, hoping that each familiar word will cover the sound of his footsteps on the dry grass. He knows the importance of not interrupting a prayer.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve come across a confrere,” she straightens up after the last word, her back still to him and facing the altar. “Agnes,” she adds, turning around, by way of introduction. “But I assume you already know my name if you’re here.”
She offers her hand and Argenti accepts the handshake, giving his name in turn. She’s taller than him, and older too. Her hair is graying in places, and when she smiles, fine lines adorn her face.
"It's not easy to get here. You really have to want something," she says, sitting down on the bench.
“I wasn't sure I'd find you here.”
"It's true that I've been traveling a lot lately. But right now I'm back from a long pilgrimage. I need a little rest before I set off again."
Agnes slips the pieces of the armor into a bag woven with pretty, colorful patterns; no doubt made by skilled hands with an eye for detail.
“So, what guided you to me, Argenti?” She looks at him, a light in her eyes; a friendly invitation to talk.
Argenti swallows. It’s a delicate situation. Confessing is not an easy task. It means formulating doubts aloud, making them tangible. It’s also offering his believer’s vulnerability to another believer, and between understanding and judgment, there’s just one step.
“Questions,” Argenti whispers in a single breath. “About faith. Temptations.”
He pauses, scared, but brave.
“And love.”
Agnes looks up at him. A smile stretches her lips, revealing new wrinkles etched on her skin.
“Love,” she repeats as if to savor the word on her own tongue. “It's something I know well.”
She stands up from the bench, gazing at a pretty stone house flush with the valley a hundred yards away.
"Come home, my child. My wife is already making tea. You can ask me all your questions when we get there."
✶
“You’ve barely returned from your trip, and we already have to say goodbye,” Boothill grumbles in front of the One and Only.
“I know, dear, but Beauty waits for no one.”
Boothill crosses his arms over his chest in a very theatrical manner. Argenti smiles and places a box at his feet. (The villagers insisted on giving him provisions as a gift of gratitude for helping them repel repulsive creatures.)
“Can’t I come with you? Just at the beginnin’, to make sure no monsters come and eat you.”
“It’s a pilgrimage, dear. It’s a journey I must undertake alone.”
Boothill mutters under his breath (kind words, of course). He steps closer to face him. His expression softens when he meets Argenti's tender gaze.
“How long will you be gone?” Boothill asks.
“I don't know, maybe several months. I don’t even know myself.”
Boothill sighs, sliding a hand behind his neck to scratch his skin nervously. “And you think it will help you? To see things more clearly?”
“Yes, I think,” Argenti says.
Boothill lets his arm fall back down to his side.“‘Kay, so write me every day, all right?”
“I promise,” Argenti murmurs, taking a step toward him.
They are close now, separated only by the box of supplies on the ground. Boothill gently pushes it aside with his foot to avoid damaging its contents and steps forward in turn. Argenti's gaze lingers distractedly on every detail of Boothill's face, and he smiles softly.
“What's the matter?” Boothill asks. His hands rest on Argenti's waist without bringing him closer, still leaving that invisible boundary between them.
“Nothing.”
Boothill looks at him, demanding without saying. Argenti leans in, bridging the gap between them.
He doesn't pretend it's easy to let go; to fully abandon guilt. He doesn't know how long it will take, but Argenti knows that one day, all these signs of affection will become blessings. For now, though, their kiss evaporates his deepest doubts. That's enough to make him reclaim another one.
He slides his fingers behind Boothill’s neck, seeking to bring him closer, to feel metal against his skin, everywhere and by all means.
I love you. I love you and I hope you know that. Argenti drowns out the prayer with another kiss, another one, until he could think of nothing else but the feel of Boothill’s lips against his.
Perhaps this time, this goodbye tastes like hope.
When he feels Boothill's hands move up to his shoulders, he stops, placing one last kiss on the corner of his lips.
“Be careful, please,” he brushes Boothill’s cheeks with his thumb. “Your body is precious, so don't lose an arm again,” he adds with a tender smile.
“I sure will,” their noses barely touch, and Boothill can enjoy Argenti's warm, comforting breath against his skin. “I hope you find the answers you're lookin' for.”
“I know they're over there.”
Argenti feels it deep within his flesh. The answers await his arrival, and he’ll be there to receive them. So he can enjoy the remaining time without rushing too much.
“Come back to me soon,” Boothill says, his arms around Argenti’s shoulders. “I'll wait for you.”
It sounds like a promise, and Argenti smiles, deciding to hold on to it like a lucky charm in the bottom of his pocket. He can't promise anything in return, but he can't ignore the urge to believe that their future together is far from becoming just a memory.
“May I kiss you again?” Argenti whispers, both hands framing Boothill's face. This isn’t an innocent request. It's not a need, but a desire revealed under the eyes of the universe. Perhaps love makes you weak in some ways, but by asking this question, Argenti feels a little stronger than yesterday.
Boothill tucks a red curl behind his ear, smiling tenderly. “That's all I want, my love.”
And Argenti kisses him, tasting part of the answer on his tongue.