Something like defeat was upon him as he retreated from the heat of her, but he didn’t let it show. Endured instead, stern defiance in his look that kept to her eyes the entire time she unshrouded him, fabric of home and comfort slipping to the floor. The crest running the top of his skull staid flattened, marked by fire and twisted from years of being tied down, eyesocket yawning empty in the middle of an old injury as colourless as it was jagged. Or he had to assume, having not really looked at it anymore.

One became blind to some details. He took his chance to dip his look away as she tugged at his shirt, arms rising on command and chest heaving in deeper breaths as he assumed pliability in spirit. It didn’t last long, hot flame in his glare and the grip he inflicted on the back of her shin, the lever of bones and muscle that kept him down. As he’d bid.

He pressed the blind side of his face to her stomach, holding on.

“ Vyn — It is not a common name. “ Spoken softer, expressionless.

“ Is it short for something? “
 
She saw him for what he hid in the briefest flash as he dove for her.

Goddamit, Vyn.

She pressed him tighter to her middle, unsure if she meant to soothe or burn away the pain. The breath their shared danced on something delicate. She'd struck too heavy. Too fast. The fiddle in her hands had just lost its first string – snapped back and scratched them both. So she didn't pull away.

It took a moment to speak. To find some words. That meant things. Made any of this any less...

„It's what's left.“

Her fingers curled gently at the back of his neck.

Perhaps she wasn't soft enough a touch for delicate things. Something always broke.
 
He hadn’t expected her to touch him, to be so tender, but she was. It meant things that twisted the heart, made it uneasy for the depth, for how it should’ve tugged at something important. Peace? A reminder? A stone disturbing the waves at sea.

What she said was amusingly poignant, almost to the point he didn’t know whether it was the truth or her toying with him. It didn’t matter, in his experience — for all he knew it was just some sick coincidence that’d fucked them both, one way or another. Beautiful things themselves were spirits in the air and the sea and they always dealt their betrayal in a bright peal of laughter. But fuck it hurt.

He wouldn’t pry about it, just hummed. A low, resonant understanding in the chamber of his mouth. Exhaled and ran his hand up her leg, the angle of her knee that he hugged into his chest. The moment was getting stranger the more he lingered, for how laughable the hard of his cock betwixt his legs against the soft of what surrounded it. Their garments heaped on the floor and how he yet burned, not feeling the chill that definitely had to be there just outside that halo of desire. Waiting with its pins and knives.

He pressed his lips once over to her abdomen before pulling away, the couple inches he needed to speak and to land his warm palm on her hip. Gathered enough of himself to meet her look, angled against the light in a deliberate way.

“ Are you cold? “

That wasn’t the actual question. He’d ask that later, if need be.
 
She sank slowly.

Not in defeat. Or apology. Just lower. Her knees kissed the Wagonwood. Shorter than him, for the first time. The shift felt strange in her spine. Not unwelcome. Merely a new angle. Because it wasn't size that measured this moment. It was heat.

Her eyes found both of his. Didn't flinch from the ruin. Didn't pretend not to see. Saw everything, and stayed.

The iron in her voice was forged – not cruel, she hoped.

„Warm me.“ Because that was the secret. The one Vyn could never tell. She was always cold.

The pressure of her foot was gone. Tail no longer drummed and lashed. Her breath was back to steady. But even quiet embers knew their name. And even when they didn't burn – they remember how.
 
His touch slipped away as she came down, level to level. Closer but truly apart for the first time in minutes, not touching, just looking. She did it openly and the worst voice that lived in him whispered for him to wilt and to turn away from the light. He may have had, out of some flinch or instinct, had she not spoken.

The half of his face still able of expression drew to a frown and his mouth worked words that all died on his palette. His arm reanimated where he’d drawn it away to, hand reaching out. It took her by the shoulder and pulled her to an embrace against all the heat in his soft, lived-in girth. He touched his temple to hers, the root of her horns hard by the softness of her cheek.
 
She didn't pull at the touch. Simply sunk in. Water filling what space the vessel allowed. Allowed herself to be held, face tucked to his temple. Ruin to ruin. Quiet breath neck to ear.

And some part of her hated it. This. Not the closeness or the warmth. The weight. Another person to care for. Another story to carry. Even when she'd been the one to press too far. To pull on a thread until something unraveled. But guilt wasn't a spell. Neither was frustration.

So she let herself be what she was. And it wasn't the fire – though she liked to delude herself. Not the tail. The joke. No. Just the one who held the fray. Someone who'd learn not to flinch at the tremble.

Maybe that was enough.

Had to be...
 
They staid that way. He felt her naked skin with a stroke down the curve of her spine, the light press to be closer. It was probably a mistake, for the residual throb in his nethers that yet remembered what it wanted, but he’d fought it before. He had to figure that it was all better this way, for it all to fizzle out as awkwardly as it did.

Now he’d only have to deny himself and not whatever someone else may have wanted. For he never asked, just hoped that it’d come out alright. Perhaps this would’ve been one of the times they'd not come here with the expectation that he’d fuck her, not taken offense when he told her why he couldn't, in the ideal world. Still, he had to feel guilty for not doing properly even the part he’d begun.

It’d all been going so damn well too. The coward in him wanted to up and leave, forget about it all. This damn Wagon. And yet—

He sat down further, supporting her on his lap. Looser grip, but more steady. Felt that shiver of her hair as it stroked the side of his neck, the frills settling down from where they’d flared out in the heat of it all.

“ Vyn— “ He started, figuring he ought. Someone had to fucking say something. And it damn well wasn’t going to be some bullshit about whether she was doing alright. Wasn’t it clear neither of them were, not really. People didn’t do and say things as the two of them did, if they were ‘just fine, thank you’.

“ What do you want to do? “
 
Wanted to crack a joke. Something sharp and dirty to tie it all back together in friction and spirit. Practiced cheer. But it caught, halfway up. Because it wasn't a show he asked for. Just her. And that was harder. Because no one ever asked what Vyn wanted. People just needed things.

She shifted in his lap. Arms hooked arounds his back.

„I wanted to fuck you. Burn a little.“ And think a little less. Said without any hesitation. Because they had nothing to be ashamed of. But that was then. Fire seemed stomped now. What did Vyn want? She rarely had time or inclination for such thoughts.

„Now? I don't know.“ She found calm in scratching his back. „Maybe we just stay here a bit longer.“

Stillness didn't come easy to the Wagonborn. But she could try.
 
Yeah, I wanted to fuck you too. So bad. He held the laugh in, but the tone of it was in the huff and the bounce of his stomach as he held her a little tighter in means of understanding and apology. Adoring her for the bit that’d wanted and burned, like he had, genuinely.

That ship had sailed, now. But there was yet enjoyment in her softer touches that’d try his back, the fin trailing down his spine pressing flush with the bone. Lest she catch a claw in it.

“ I’d like that. “ He responded in a tentative smile, though his tone was certain. For the truth of it he sunk into place, settling to remain with her, head turning that he might plant a kiss on the side of her face. Just a quick, small thing. Some assurance.

They’d have to start dressing at some point, but for now he felt awfully content as they were. The simplest pleasure of having skin against skin, beyond just holding someone’s hand or feeling the warmth of a body against one’s own. Exhale deflated his chest as he ran his hand from her shoulders down to her arm, remembering what they’d done together. The blood.

“ How’s your cut? “ He asked, cradling her arm without urging. “ Looked a little nasty there, for a second. “
 
In truth, Vyn liked being held. It was a nice change. Despite the failure it signified. And if the scaffold shook a little, that was alright. Watched his hand travel the length of her arm, questioning. Ah, yes – the cut. She had scored her flesh so many times that it barely registered without active thought. Scar, huh? That wouldn't be so horrible. It would be one of the better ones. Skin was already riddled with them anyway. Give it a few more cuts and she'd start telling kids she was a fleshweaver...whatever that was.

„Didn't really notice...“ Seemed so distant now. „In the moment.“ A sweet lie of a warmer time.

She didn't look at the wound. There was no point. It was mostly done leaking. She'd get someone to patch her up tomorrow. The barnacle of memory still clung, though. He'd drunk from her. If only a little. And she let him. Without a bargain. The entire night rewound in her head like a failed binding. She always demanded something in return. Hadn't even thought to.

Felt at his skin to make sure he was still there. Still real. Not just another thing that went away when the blood ran out.
 
He didn’t believe one word of it. Or was there truly a way to become numb to it, for all the silver that shimmered from earlier wounds. Those little marks on the arms, ridges just about felt beneath the fingers and the tongue when he’d touched her. He wouldn’t ask, just press his chin to her shoulder. Weight.

“ It was definitely a— moment. “ He tried, a tad disoriented for all his wonder. For her, mainly, that bit of ache that’d fall meaningless and impotent, for he had no power here. Hopefully someone else would, a friend, a beloved, whomever would stay and lend the time. His had been in short supply, more so lately, no matter to whom he’d tried to give it to. The little bits he had left.

“ I’ll remember it. And you. “ He added, smile colouring his tone. Amused for the fumble and fond for how it’d felt to be wanted.

“ For sure. “
 
„Remember me, eh?“ She laughed into his neck. „Damn right. Someone ought to.“

But that was his name.

And softer, then:

„And how will you remember me?“ Excited and afraid both.

Because one day they'd be telling her story too. She hoped it would be a good one.
 
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How — as you are and have been.

“ Thrice over I think. “ He started, hazarding an honest answer despite her tone. Levity and the kind of things people asked as clever counters, without wanting to know. Not really.

“ A beautiful ghost, all the way over there, at the pier. Curious as a wisp, maybe? “ Cocked his head, like shifting attention to something far away. “ Here, with toussled hair, some bewitching fragrance and that coat you’d found to wear. Care and games. “ Paused to think on it and found nothing to add. I liked looking at you, then.

“ Now, butt-ass naked. Almost, anyway. “ The tone trailed off to that bit of laughter she’d sported, allowing space for it all to not be so damn serious. It wasn’t, really, but neither was he lying about any of it.

“ You stopped smiling. But it didn’t really— “ A little shrug of the shoulder as he adjusted his arm around her, an absent stroke on the skin. “ Change anything. “

We are as we are.

“ I intend to take all three with me when I leave, so in case you’d like any which one stricken out— “ He added, tacked it on in a lopsided quirk of the mouth.

“ Now’s the chance. “

Else, they’ll damn well be keeping me company on the ships.
 
Huffed at that, she did. Beautiful ghost, eh? She liked that. That was a very Elum way to speak. To see her.

„Keep all of it. Of me.“ Couldn't manage a smile, but could kiss him on the shoulder. „Even the mess. I know what forgetting does.“ Cause she'd done it. Let faces slip. Names rot. Stories go unwritten. Her fingers poked at where she tried to feel for his ribs. Few more lines to recognize. To remember. Much as she could.

„Fucked this up, didn't we?“ Squeezed him closer to haunt more tightly. „If we get another chance sometime...maybe we do better.“

A real smile finally.
 
His frame bounced in a content hum and a wider grin, felt the words and the peculiar little touches. Even the mess— Aye, captain, can do. And he damn well would.

“ Maybe. “ He added wistfully, holding her tighter in tune. Melting into it, head turning to press lips to her cheek. Hovered them there, breath that kept warm for the little it took for it to touch, voice tuned lower.

“ Why do you feel we fucked it up? “ Couldn’t resist, for the warm feeling in the chest. Was this what failure felt like?

“ We’re still here. “
 
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