Archive of Our Own ^beta

    To be in a body, to not possess a body. Grisha sat there in that half-limbo, stunned, dizzied. Kruger was gone. He was Kruger. He was himself. He was something else entirely. His mouth tasted no different than it already had: no blood, no cerebrospinal fluid, just salt and the hotness of a fever. His tongue felt too heavy. Steam erupted around him in plumes, beading on his brow. And there was something screaming in him, some animalistic need, some hunger, and for one terrifying moment he thought he might still be a Titan until he looked down and—

    It’s not unusual, Kruger said.

    Grisha gasped, like a vat of boiling water over his head and he clawed at his pants, his shirt. Anything to tame the churning now pooling in his guts. Why, he gasped. Or at least he thought he did. His hands were shaking and his skin was lined with raw exposed muscle burning into his cheeks and he wasn’t quite sure if he was dead or alive still, yet.

    Breathe, Kruger said, pitilessly. He heard it from far away or like he was just now coming to consciousness, his mind floating up from some dark acidic ocean. He breathed. He managed to get his pants unbuttoned, his head still swimming and so dizzy he thought his brain was going to leak out through his ears. He was hard. Like he’d just woken up that way—he supposed he had—confused and hot. Kruger was there, somewhere in his head and he felt so real. Like if Grisha turned around he’d still be standing there behind him, the last rays of the now-dying sun illuminating his tired face. 

    I am, Kruger said. Grisha believed it and he didn’t know why. He was exhausted—fuck—he was wide awake with his cock in his palm and for some unfathomable reason there was an ache in his chest like he’d just lost a part of himself.

    He felt more than heard the creak of leather, pressure on his ankle and his calf like he was the one wearing the boots and kneeling on the stone. The motion of a body. Kruger’s hand guiding him, unplaceable and up close, his own hand. Like this. 

    And Grisha moaned, sporadically like the feeling of his own cock in his hand was no longer his and no longer his hand either. You know what to do, Kruger said, at the same time Grisha thought I know how to do it. Couldn’t ruffle his vague sense of shame. But it was different with him—

    He looked around for Kruger but he wasn’t there, yet he could feel him there, just as Kruger could feel him, not quite. His breath caressed Grisha’s cheek. His coat pressed into Grisha’s arm, his chest, Kruger’s wrist near his hipbone, the wind making Grisha shiver and press into nothing but himself. He was close enough to bury his nose in his shoulder, smelled like cigarettes and cheap soap.

    Tears slammed into Grisha’s eyes, a hot flush of grief—his hand slowing, then stilling, even against the foreign-familiar motion. His throat closed up and he fought a moan, of panic or pleasure or frustration or agony.

    Don’t stop.

    He bit his lip and tasted coppery blood before it abruptly steamed over. Kruger had bled in his mouth, even if he didn’t remember—but he knew—

    He kept going, didn’t stop—chasing it, savoring the rock of his hips into his hand or Kruger’s hand—What does it matter—

    Kruger’s other hand settled on the back of his neck and he choked on a noise that might’ve been a moan, might’ve been a sob. His throat felt tight. 

    You’re fine, Kruger said, the gentlest he’d ever sounded, his fingers curling in the hair at Grisha’s nape. Go on. And he did, hips stuttering, spilling into his hand, groaning and watching it drip through his fingers and over the wall to land, at long last, on the sand below. He really was crying now, chest heaving, his hair sticking sweaty in his eyes. He sobbed, wretchedly, curled in on himself—even with the heat gone it was too much, grasping for Kruger, wanting him, needing to make sense of it all—I can’t do this alone—

    Time crescendoed then stood still. Everything seemed to zoom out: Grisha’s labored breathing, wiping his face with his sleeve, the wind picking up and chilling him right through his shirt. The sun finally disappearing over the horizon, the stars fading into sight above. There were so many.

    Where are you, he wanted to ask. The strange longing cut right through him.

    “What,” Grisha muttered aloud instead, but Kruger was gone.

    He rose on unsteady feet. Picked up Kruger’s coat from where he’d discarded it. Grisha pulled it on, straightened the lapels. Tucked his head into the shoulder. And breathed.