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Thirty years since he has killed a man. And never has a man he killed risen and come back to life. Surely, thinks Hal, this is the reason why he is so very aware of where exactly Bolaire is as they make the climb back out of the sewers. Where he is and what condition he is in. He was always mindful, before. He believed the half-truth his good friend (his best friend other than Thaisha, something inside of him softly insists) had told him, which was that he suffered from a condition that periodically caused bodily fatigue, poor circulation, and a few other very serious sounding symptoms. He had developed the habit of checking his friend’s complexion when he could catch a glimpse, asking after his wellbeing, being mindful of the surety of Bolaire’s steps when they would walk the Rookery together.
Thinking on it now, of course it had sounded serious… Bolaire had been describing the slow death of the bodies he had been using through the years. Suffered from a condition indeed. The condition of being a parasitic mask.
At his side and slightly behind, he hears a scrape and a fumbling noise. Slowing, he reaches back to catch Bolaire by the elbow and steady him. No, not him. The body he was using. The reason why Hal had been able to cut him open earlier and yet here he was at his side. The mask’s brow rises slightly in surprise, and there is an oddly vulnerable look on his face when he meets Hal’s eyes. Vulnerable and… hopeful? It’s not a look he’s ever seen on the fine, glossy face, and he’s not sure what to do with it. He stares at Bolaire for a moment until the look melts into a small smile, fond and affectionate in a way that is familiar from his friend, and yet somehow strange now in the knowledge that he killed Bolaire. Because Bolaire asked him to. Surrendered his very self into Hal’s hands, placed his very life under Hal’s control with nothing but a frankly terrifying amount of trust and faith that Hal would not lock him away, or bury him, or abandon him. Hal isn’t certain he deserved that… he’s been distant. Cruel even, now he’s allowed himself to think about it just enough to see. He turns towards the faint light of the sewer gate again, but his hand lingers on the elbow Bolaire is using, guiding and steadying.
He is determined to earn it now, the trust Bolaire gives him. Bolaire had shown him the darkest parts of himself, laid himself bare literally and metaphorically. Hal doesn’t entirely know how feelings work for a sentient… theatre mask, but if sneaking glances Bolaire’s way the last two days has taught him anything it is that Bolaire does have them, and they can be hurt. By Hal. He sidesteps a puddle of something unspeakable, and both feels and hears Bolaire deftly dance around it behind him. Then Demodus does the same. Murray is not so lucky, he hears her swearing not quite under her breath and hears Azune’s resulting chuckle.
By the time they make it to the gate, a steady incline the entire way, Murray and Demodus are both puffing, and Bolaire has gone worryingly silent. He’s not breathing hard; the Crow Keeper he chose was fit enough (as Hal had seen when Bolaire had stripped the body… that’s an odd thought.) It is the silence of concentration, Hal thinks. He remembers scarcely two days ago, when he first learned that his friend is not a man with a cursed mask stuck to him, but the mask cursed to be stuck on a man, when Bolaire had recently… switched and been so unsteady on his feet and uncertain in his movements. Perhaps having to so intensely control a new…body? Actor? Puppet? (He makes a mental note to ask, to press his luck and see if Bolaire will simply tell him.) is actually as exhausting an experience as Hal thinks it sounds. They exit, one by one in reverse order. Azune first, to do a sweep for any threats. Then Murray, Demodus—Bolaire should be next, but he shakes his head and gestures for Hal to precede him. There is a flash of suspicion in his mind, but Hal resolutely ignores it and steps through with the hand Bolaire is using firm and supportive against his back. His boots land in dew-wet grass, and he turns to help Bolaire. Clasps a dark-gloved hand that feels both familiar and foreign at the same time and pulls him through the opening they snuck in through.
Somehow, after that, he forgets to let go. He is used to Bolaire being the one to end their contact and pull away and doesn’t think about it.
Murray has sat down hard in the grass and is fanning herself. Azune, with a fond grin, is attempting to help with his notebook. Demodus is sitting close to her, face flushed from the pace his smaller legs had to set and keep to not fall behind. They’re a wreck, Hal thinks. Bolaire’s apartment is… not far from here, if he remembers correctly. He’s walked his friend home before, although Bolaire has never invited him in and he has never pushed. Now he is seized with an abrupt and fierce curiosity about just how a sentient weapon lives. Maybe he can walk with them all there and have an excuse to come up before returning home to his own houseguest. It…feels weird to leave. Considering what they’ve all just been through together. The battle that they have all just been through together…
He is startled out of that thought spiral by a soft, warm weight that suddenly presses against his side and red curls that enter his peripheral as Bolaire reciprocates his action from earlier, gingerly resting a porcelain cheek on his shoulder. Hal expects it to be hard and unyielding and uncomfortable. And no, it doesn’t give like flesh and blood, but the porcelain is surprisingly warm and between the muscle Hal can still boast and the cushion of both shirt and doublet… he finds he doesn’t mind the feeling. Murray and Azune are talking to Demodus softly, planning or checking in. Which is fine, it gives Hal the chance to catalogue sensations. Bolaire, unlike Hal, does not have to hunch dramatically to rest against him. With a (familiar—but not thinking about that right now…) little lurch in his chest, Hal realizes the mask has been picking bodies that are the perfect size to fit them together like this. He is abruptly, breathlessly tempted. Almost like how it felt to stare down the very truth of Bolaire, hear the siren song of thunderous applause… Only this is the urge to press a kiss to those red curls.
He must tense up, because Bolaire mirrors it, no doubt ready to flinch away should Hal shake him off. It’s only now, when he unconsciously reaches for the borrowed hand to offer comfort, that he realizes he never let go. So he squeezes gently and makes himself relax. And… and Bolaire responds in kind. Relaxes into Hal’s side. Allows Hal to take a bit more of his weight. It is grounding. It is exhilarating.
Hal hasn’t felt like this since Elodie.
…Fuck.