A few things, indeed. A love for swordsmanship, a formerly debonair attitude, a present odd reputation.
Walter listened, carefully. Yes, his wants were as out in the open as they were ever going to be, and his defenses melted down into complacent yearning for his need to be met - for comfort, for care. But some part of his lethal clockwork of a mind still ticked away, pulling the beats already sunk in, into a complete picture.
Laric would rather drink than talk about himself, and seemed to lie, or joke, perhaps, when asked about the prior loves - in claiming that Walter himself had dealt a heartbreak. Not one Walter ever suspected, back in the day. Perhaps, they were both young to see it in one another - or, perhaps, because the golden-crowned fool never made so much as an implication that could tread over friendship into a flirt.
Perhaps, it was that Walter's youth marked recognition of proclivity when he faced a different blond, with stunning ocean eyes and half the body encased in metal. First lustful thoughts intertwined with shame. But, he was young and stupid. There have been loves since then, and people who'd claimed affection. One sort or another.
But Laric's claim of interest was beyond any doubt - it was rather telling, the way Laric looked at him. Only someone who'd thought of enjoying bedding or killing someone else had that sort of fire in their eyes.
The cogs turned, sluggishly, but surely.
Almost two decades later, they barely knew one another. Walter's cold, burdened demeanor outside this ring of light from fire and drink bringing out things he'd hide from the world. Laric's secretive attitude, covert manner, everything that wasn't said.
Whatever it was, that Laric claimed had possessed him since their youth - it could not have been love. Some carnal attraction, perhaps - Catspaw had that allure of a refined portrait image, down to the striking jawline and positively taunting curve of the lips. The rest of him in the folds of the open shirt - begged Walter's eyes to wander without yielding over every inch. Must have scored more than a few notches on his belt, this handsome liar, tempting to forget the bite of steel echoing under the clavicle in a half-faded scar, and let the blood rush hotter.
Sober, he had no such temptation to consider. Inebriation didn't rob him of reason, Walter thought - it robbed him of will.
Same will he had to exercise, again and again, to keep his place in the world, be it his life or his land or his sanity.
He was bloody lonely. He wanted the touch, wanted to be adored. Perhaps, he was himself merely in love with the feeling.
Perhaps, he did not appreciate the casual manner about the simpler trysts.
"Lettie knew what was coming," Walter murmured. But, fell quiet, listened to the end.
It was quite curious, how the confession of love was framed around the women they failed, he mused. From the sound of it, Laric's was haunting him, but to ask what happened there would be to interrupt the surreptitious revelation, break what fragile confidence alcohol and desire have established there.
And yet, he wondered, what it was like for the poor woman, to live with the ghost of Laric's image of him. He hoped she had been free, at least, to choose whatever love she wanted, past the matrimonial shackles. There was clearly affection and regret for that unnamed woman, so that she was even a bridge to Laric's desire of him, it sounded like. What if she wasn't supportive? What did that even mean, supportive, of something such as this?
He didn't want to be sober, and he was too sober for this, reason sharpening the dread.
Feeding the pure physicality would feel wrong. Hell, sober, he wasn't fond of being touched by strangers at all. Wouldn't flinch, but didn't like it. And yet...
The cork gave in, loosened and slid slowly out of the bottle neck.
He had to handle the confession gently, no doubt. Walter freed his knife, brushed it against the sand, and flipped it by the ring on index finger to the back of the hand, holding the bottle in the same one. Thought, for a moment.
"I don't enjoy people hurting themselves for my sake." Eyes wandered to Laric's face. Stayed there.
Walter left the bottle re-corked and sturdily planted, flipped and sheathed the karambit with a flourish, as if to demonstrate that his hands were empty when he leaned closer once again. Black glove sunk into the sand, fingers curling as if to bury and carry his weight better. His other hand, however, rose to touch Laric's face. Thumb brushed against a cheekbone, fingertips curled along the jawline. The pale fingers slipped lower, and gripped the other man under the chin, thumb and index fixing the head - don't look away. A slow advance of a predator, broad shoulders outlined in the ember aura of the firelight.
We don't know one another for anything past skin. Maybe we don't have to.
The violet eyes did not host the distant cold glimmers as they pierced into Laric's, the quiet, low tone wrapping the steel demand in soothing softness and shiver-evoking dips into honeyed lower bass.
"Burning for me, are you?" A question. A tease. Almost a different query, 'Why not pursue, then?' In the simple ways one man could express desire to court another, especially when rumors were this rampant... "Must have been excruciating, stoking the fire for all those years, and past year's half, with no notice of intention." The words dripped slowly, savoured as the grip did not relent, eyes like midnight shadows pinning into the handsome face opposite, slightly widening as the voice sunk to a whisper. "But, here I am, in the flesh." The dark lashes lowered, eyes falling half-lidded. "Is it everything you've wanted?" Almost a chuckle, breathless, edges of fangs teasing and sharp. Fingers in the grip relaxed. Thumb trekked against the stubble, brushed at the rim of Laric's lower lip. He tracked it with gaze wandering. What a nice curve on that mouth.
