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You crouch lower into the thicket, not daring so much as a twitch when a sharp twig digs into your freckled cheek. Thorns and sticks prod and rip at your pale skin; your bare feet sink fractionally in the slushy mud. A heavy downpour drenches your body, which is mostly confined within a dull metallic suit molded to your lithe stature (your hands, feet, and head remain uncovered). Absently, your hand lingers over the katana fastened to your belt, fingers positively itching to unsheathe it; yet you restrain your urges, instead settling for the promise of something more to come. Your eyes, veiled ‘neath technologically-advanced triangular shades, catch a glimpse of movement up ahead; surely enough, there he sits, squatted down beside a fresh animal carcass.
Your gaze flickers across his body, taking in every aspect that you possibly can regarding his figure, his inventory, and his skill. He is of average height for a male, with the familiar caramel skin expected of one of his race. His hair is dark as a coffee bean, with spectacled eyes a brilliant hue of green (akin to his infamous Grandmother’s, you note subconsciously); he also shares those funky teeth that you cannot help but question. How anyone could take such a goofy grin seriously is beyond you, but considering the English status on the tribal hierarchy, perhaps it is a sign of the tainted, noble blood coursing through his veins. Garbed in only a simple pair of green pants and an arm cuff, he turns his back to you now. His physique is well-built, though he is a bit gangly, perhaps because of their limited diet; his skin is encrusted with mud and other such cakey substances, possibly for camouflage or as some sort of strange medicinal strategy.
Bending over a bit more, he withdraws a small dagger, clumsily constructed with stripped vines and a spike of some variety, likely from those bipedal crab creatures you’ve seen once or twice out by the shores. You also make a note of the twin pistols poking up from his belt, though how he acquired weapons of such a caliber is beyond you. Guns exist only in your own realm, as far as you know. Your eyes drift from the belt to the hand holding his dagger; he is right-handed. The young male proceeds to nimbly lower the knife down to the bull carcass, skillfully slipping it beneath the skin and pulling the flesh of the thigh from the bone.
Steadily, you take in a silent breath, inching forward and placing your gloved fingers back over the hilt of your sword. It slides slightly from the sheath upon contact.
Your name is Dirk, and you are on a mission.
A clap of thunder resonates above your head, and the sputtering rain pours down upon the earth with more fervor than before.
The gods are unhappy, this much is discernible.
English seems to notice the worsening weather as well; he has halted in his skinning of the creature at his feet to peer up at the sky, which has since morphed into an ugly shade of green. Hastily cutting the flesh from the animal's small torso, he stuffs the hunks of meat into a sack slung around his shoulder and rises to his feet, sheathing the knife and taking one last glance at the hovering clouds. With a small noise of discontent, he readjusts the cuff on his arm and takes off running into the brush.
Time to move.
Slinking out of the thicket, you pursue the targeted man with a hastened quickness, maneuvering around trees and bushes and other such tropical vegetation. You are almost certain he has heard you at this point, as English has picked up speed and taken a detour into a deeper part of the jungle which, as far as your sources have told you, holds no enemy camps or bases of any sort.
What a fool. This is to your advantage, mostly because of seclusion.
You should be able to make this a swift, clean beheading.
Your pursuit lasts a few minutes more, and, gradually, you grow nearer the young English; you have completely unsheathed your katana at this point. He crouches down suddenly, and, with a dismal glance over the shoulder, dives forward into a patch of tall grass and out of sight. You slow to a trot, approaching the flora as a small grumble sounds in the back of your throat. Sword at the ready, you extend your left arm forward and pull the grass back with stable fingers, wincing as the sticky wax of each green blade gums onto your glove. You exhale slowly, peering forward and discovering a small crevice in the ground, large enough for a slim body to slither through with ease if it so desired. Yes, you tell yourself, this is the most likely place for your target to have snuck away through.
This rain is strong enough to prevent you from lighting a fire and trapping him inside. Unfortunately, he is also armed and dangerous, so following him in would prove incredibly risky. All the same, what would happen if you return without news of the heir’s death? Why, Her Imperious Condescension would have your head, that’s what! You shiver at the thought. Beheading is such a gruesome way to go; despite your mission to do so to the enemy heir, the aspect of slicing one’s head clean off doesn’t sit too well with you.
That isn’t to say that you’ve never killed a man. You were hired as an assassin for the queen many months ago, and have eliminated three other enemy officials since by means of poisoning and, in the case of the most recent killing, stabbing cleanly through the heart. You do not take pride in such activities, and do occasionally miss the good old days with your younger brother Dave in your shared-living metallic hut by the sea.
But then, Dave isn’t who he used to be either.
Shaking these haphazard thoughts from your noggin, you crouch again, poking your head cautiously into the crack. You bring your free hand upward and press a button on your shades, trying to get a clearer vision of what lies lurking in the darkness of the cavern. A black rat scuttles across the rock flooring over in the corner, but that remains the only sign of movement that you can see. Narrowing your eyes, you shimmy forward on your stomach and slink further into the cave, sliding easily into the hole in your suit’s drenched state. Gingerly pressing your hands against the floor of the den, you scoot the rest of your body down and fall shortly to the ground with a thump. Your sword clinks against the rock and lands beside your body; you swiftly grasp it in your hand and stand, dusting off your torso and peering around. The stillness of the dark is unnerving you to no end; you know he must be in here somewhere.
You turn on your heel as a faint click suddenly reaches your ears, heart feral and pumping; an echoing gunshot sounds from your left, and a searing pain rips at your cheek. You wince, instantly tasting blood as it trickles rapidly from your cheek to your mouth. He clipped you with a bullet, the little punk.
But he has also given his position away. You wrench your body left, catching glimpse of him all too late; he stands six feet away, at the ready, fingers tightly clenched around those two pistols of his. His meat sack has been discarded somewhere in the cave, along with his hunting knife. You daren’t move, though do not release your grip on the katana just yet. Your eyes fall upon his; the enthrallment and fear in his glare is overwhelming.
Funny; he’s a bit shorter up close.
You breathe steadily, though your heart cannot stop racing as the pain in your cheek swarms back. You’ve never been shot before, and even though the bullet only clipped you, it hurts like a bitch. The excessive bleeding could also prove problematic, but as long as you carry out your mission, you needn’t worry about the potential for blood loss complications. “Make this easy and stand down, dude. You don’t have much of a chance as it is.”
“Not much of a chance?” He speaks at last, giving a dry laugh and risking a step forward. “Screw you, mate! I’m the one with the guns. You’ve got some bloody strange ideas about chance, I must say.” He cocks the guns and inches forward still. You have to fight the desire to smirk. All this buffoon is doing is making it easier on you, who has the more close-ranged of the weapons. Well, might as well use this to your advantage, yes? Swallowing, you sheath your katana in feigned surrender, eyeing him with a wary smugness.
“Oh?” you question, disinterest practically dripping from your tone. You’ve never been exceptionally good at baiting with words, but perhaps you can use his apparent obliviousness to your advantage. “And what are your ideas, then, English?”
Inching closer, he now stands directly in front of you, prodding your chin with the barrel of the gun. Your eyes flit over his face; he still doesn’t realize his mistake. As his lips part to retort back, you raise your arms suddenly and grab his wrists, relishing in the utter shock written all over his face. You lift your leg and kick him down; the gun in his left hand slips from his grasp and skids across the rocky cavern floor. Unsheathing your sword, you lunge forward, planting your foot onto his right wrist (which still grasps the second pistol) and sandwiching it between the stone ground and your heel.
Here we go.
Licking your lips, you lift your weapon and place the sharp tip to his Adam’s apple, which is presently bobbing up and down in a gulping apprehension. Your eyes glance dismally down at him, darting along his body one last time. His bare chest, strangely, does not heave any longer, nor does it pant; he’s started holding his breath. His fingers squirm and writhe beneath your foot, desperate to pull the trigger of the gun in his hand. Your eyes catch his own as he stares up at you, eyes wide and frantic and frightened.
He knows perfectly well that his life will probably end here.
Gods, you have never seen such beauty.
... Beauty?
What kind of mindfuckery is this? There should be absolutely nothing attractive about that pulsing, fragile neck, arched slightly and bared to your every whim. And those unwavering jade irises certainly don’t penetrate your every being and enrapture your senses and oh to hell with it, he’s an untamable beauty, and even you cannot deny it.
You lick your drying lips once more, eyebrows furrowing slightly behind your large shades. You press harder on his wrist and poke his neck with the sword, not quite enough to draw blood but enough to be felt. He starts breathing heavily again, and the helplessness in his eyes has since been replaced by a disgusted glare.
As much as you hate to admit it… This is painfully hard for you. It’s hard to imagine severing such a pretty face from its body. It’s hard to bear making his face contort into such fury, or fear, or despondency. You bite your lip, eyeing his countenance once more…
The Condesce will have your head for this.
But better yours than his.
With a low groan, you withdraw your sword from his throat, sheathing it in place and uttering a small sigh. You peer back at his face, which is now contorted with anger and confusion and heaven knows what else, and, with a hesitant falter, lift your muddy heel from his lower arm.
He instantly grabs his aching wrist with the free hand, rubbing at it and giving a little wince. “Blimey, that hurt…” he mutters, and, with a sudden comprehension of his situation, scrambles hurriedly to his feet, grabbing the other pistol and lifting it shakily toward you. “Hey, you! I don’t know what you’re getting at, but–“
“Drop the gun.” You peer back behind your shoulder at him, slowly beginning to remove your wet metal suit; beneath, you wear a sleeveless orange vest native to your own empire, as well as a pair of simple black shorts with a seemingly endless amount of pockets. “We’ll be in here for a while if the storm holds up, so there’s no use trying to blow the living shit out of me.”
He blinks once, twice, thrice, and lowers the weapon only slightly, voice trembling a little as he musters up the courage to speak. “Why didn’t you kill me?”
Ever the straight-forward guy, isn’t he? What should you say? Admit the truth– that you find killing him to be strangely prohibited, that his irresistible beauty is enough to send your heart aflutter and thus spare his life? All of this just makes you sound like some sort of pansy (and you most certainly are not a pansy). And so it is, with a quick thought, you answer, “I couldn’t.”
“What do you-?”
“Go find something we can light a fire with, English.”
“Oh, would you come off all that “English” hogwash? It sounds so stuffy.” He lowers the gun completely now, placing a hand on his hip as he attaches the weapons hesitantly back onto his belt. He points a single finger to his chest, eyeing your face with newfound fervor. “My name is Jake.”
Jake English, eh? You grunt, nodding in acknowledgement of his name and gathering the suit up in your arms. Tossing it aside, you pick some stray leaves and twigs from your hair, eyeing him occasionally as he picks up a few stones from the ground. He’s undoubtedly a strange fellow, this much you can ascertain. “Where’d you put that meat?”
“Behind the big stone over there.” He motions vaguely behind him as he tosses a stone objectionably aside. “So do you sport a wicked moniker too, or should I just refer to you as “The Looney Asshole Who Tried to Kill Me”?”
“… Dirk,” you answer, albeit tentatively. You aren’t certain whether or not revealing your true name to him is a dodgy choice or not, but it feels strangely nice to open up to him like this. Such wretched emotions...
He now holds a decent number of rocks in his palm, weighing them inquisitively for a moment as he mulls your name over in his mind. “Just “Dirk”? You don’t have a surname?”
“We don’t have surnames. Not since the Condesce came into rule.” Your voice grows dry, eyes narrowing distastefully. You can only vaguely remember life before she became the ruler of your empire, and it’s not something you like to recall. The memories sting something awful. Exhaling slowly, you walk over to the aforementioned stone and, surely enough, there is the familiar sack, crammed with twigs, leaves, and hunks of bull.
“But she came into rule fifteen years ago, right?” Jake’s head cocks to the side slightly, resembling a dog in this manner. Taking a loud, deep breath, he falls back onto his bottom, sitting the pile of stones beside him. “I mean, good golly, you had a last name before that, right? Any idea what it was?”
You frown, carrying the sack silently over to the middle of the area and taking a seat across from Jake. Your eyes settle in on his hands as he goes to work on the fire, careful and calloused with mild burns and chaffing scars. "I'm nineteen. So, no, I don't remember."
"Nineteen?" He does a double-take, staring at you with those gorgeous godforsaken eyes. "Are you pulling my leg?"
Your eyebrow quirks up in question. "Pulling what?"
"Are you serious? That's crazy!" His fingers pause momentarily as he eyes you with a deepening frown. "An assassin at nineteen... Gosh, I’m sorry. What a life.”
You snort lightly at his pitying expressions. You didn’t spare his life just to get bogged down with false sympathy. Eyeing his hands again, you watch him tear a strip of fabric off of the sack and place it on your knee; you flinch involuntarily as his hot fingers brush your skin. “What is this for?” you inquire flatly, picking it up with the tips of your fingers, as though poisonous to the touch.
“For your face.” He points to his own dimpled cheek briefly, sifting through the sack once again; he proceeds to dump it upside down, watching as the contents spill out onto the floor. “Um, that’s all I’ve got with me, but it might slow the bleeding, if you apply enough pressure…”
He’s that concerned about you…? Your stomach curdles within your abdomen as, with a small sigh, you grab the strip of fabric from your knee. Folding it in half, you lift it up to your face and gingerly press it to the wound on your cheek. You wince almost instantly at the searing pain, but gnash your teeth together and try to bear it, pushing it lightly against your face and shakily exhaling a small breath.
Jake picks up two of the little stones he had located earlier, running his thumb absentmindedly along the smooth edge of one of them as he ponders. He truly is a handsome fellow, this much you cannot deny… And he seems quite considerate of your troubles, despite being the enemy. It almost makes your heart go sour at the thought of being forbidden to hold affections for this dapper male. Should anyone find out about this little crush of yours, you can be damn sure that you would be exiled (or, more likely than not, beheaded) faster than you could say “irony”.
Placing the empty sack between the two of you, he strikes the two stones together over the lump of fabric, causing a bit of a spark, though nothing quite warm enough to start a real fire.
“Jake?”
“Ah, yeah?”
You bite your lip, gaze faltering if only for a moment. “Why are you being like this?” Your voice grows quiet, firm, though slightly muffled from the pain in your cheek. A stinging ache settles into your chest, grabbing your heart in its fist and clenching with all its might. “I’m the enemy.”
He glances up from his stones to study your face; you meet the challenge head on, and stare directly back at his tanned mug, frowning deeply. He answers you almost immediately, as though he needn’t even mull it over in his head first. You aren’t so certain his abruptness is incredibly reassuring. “You saved my life, chap. You’re no enemy of mine.”
… Saved his life? You’re the reason his life was in any sort of danger to begin with! You almost consider bickering with him over the subject, but decide it’s to your own benefit to keep quiet about it, especially as his thoughts are swayed toward an entirely different subject.
“Dirk, look! Fire!” He reaches forward and grabs you by the bicep, shaking you vigorously and forcing your attention down to the sack between you, which has, at long last, caught flame. You cannot help but swallow uneasily at his touch, though the feeling passes in time as he releases his hold on your bare arm. “Whoa Nelly!”
With the way he acts, you almost wonder if he’s ever even seen a blaze before. He bends over and puffs at it a few times, fanning it with one of his hands and grinning toothily as, at long last, it expands into full fire. He laughs to himself a few times, a light, smooth chuckle that all but makes your heart stop. As you shift and squirm a little, he peers over at you once more, and the broad grin wavers ever-so-slightly. Both of your faces are illuminated and warmed by the hot glow of spattering flames, and so, with a few rapid blinks, you remove your shades, as night vision serves next little purpose at the time being.
“Egad!” His eyebrows shoot up into his forehead. “Your eyes! They’re orange!”
“Yep.” You sigh gently; everyone always feels it entirely necessary to point out your peculiar iris color, as though you haven’t lived through your entire nineteen years conscious of the fact that yes, you have orange eyes. “They’re pretty freaking awesome, but they’re still just eyes.”
“They’re bloody brilliant.”
A faint pink dusts your cheeks, and you roughly push down harder on your wound to try masking some of your flustered blushing. Stupid pale complexion. “The Condesce says I have the eyes of a predator.” Apparently that’s one reason she chose you as a right-hand assassin; at least, according to your brother.
The pity gleams in his eyes again, the green hue of which intensified in the flickering light. “Dirk… What have you been through, chap? Sounds to me like you’ve been to hell and back…”
“You wouldn’t get it, Prospitian.” You grab a large rock from Jake’s pile and stick it atop the fire, reaching over and taking a hunk of meat in your hand. Dropping the piece of flesh onto said rock, you nudge it gently with your forefinger, wishing to cook it as evenly as possible. “You never could.”
“But…” He makes an indecipherable facial expression at you; his body trembles in surprise as an earsplitting crackle of thunder sounds from outside. “What I don’t get is how awful you think being a Dersite is. You have all the technology, and you have a huge ass kingdom–“
“And we live under a dictatorship.” Your eyes narrow and you jab at the meat a little too roughly this time, as if afflicting a piece of animal muscle is enough to satiate your irritation. “A dictator who takes everything from you; kills off your family and swears to do the same to you once you hit forty years. That’s no life.”
“At least you have a life to look forward to.” He lifts the meat from the rock, pulling it in a failed attempt to make two chunks out of it. Instead, he hands it to you and grabs his own raw cut from the pile, placing it where the other one was mere seconds prior. “Prospit is on the verge of collapse. It’s not advancing, it’s not growing. We’re losing more people than we’re gaining. And guess what lucky bloke gets to bear the weight of it all on his shoulders? I mean, I’m not gonna lie, I’m bloomin’ ecstatic about being the head honcho in a few years, but that also means my grandmother would have to either die or step down, and then the tribe is collapsing anyway… It’s all just a bit wonky with me right now.”
“I don’t exactly look forward to being exterminated in twenty years’ time, English.” You bite off a large piece of meat, salivating eagerly as the flavors greet your taste buds. Mmm, you haven’t had decent, fresh meat in a while and damn does it taste good... “Hopefully she’ll fall from the throne by then, but that’s hoping for a lot. Wouldn’t surprise me if our entire race falls extinct in a few years’ time.”
“Sounds like we’re both more or less screwed, then, huh?” Bitterly concluding the conversation, he tears into his meat with the feral hunger of a wild animal; you’re almost disgusted, until you realize that his lack of manners is probably typical of a Prospitian, and dismiss it with a roll of the eyes. He suddenly lifts the meat hunk into the air, out toward you with a smirk. “Better to be doomed with a friend than doomed alone. Here’s to being screwed together. May our fucked up lives be connected until the very end.”
You peer up at him behind weary eyes, and give the tiniest of smiles in return. He’s a charming son of a bitch, you must give him that much.
Hard to believe this is an entirely chance encounter.
Hard to believe that, had you taken his life, such bonds should never have been formed.
Hard to believe that you’re actually gaining a friend in the man meant to be your greatest enemy, aside from possibly Grandma English herself.
Shakily releasing a breath, you lift your meat up to his and lightly knock the flanks together. “To being jointly screwed.”
Dinner is finished in relatively short time, without a single bit of meat leftover from the smidgen that Jake had acquired. Living in the middle of uncultivated wilderness, the two of you are mightily gangly, so it’s no wonder that both of you can properly gorge yourselves when the time calls. Picking a piece of bull fat from your teeth, you glance across the fire at him, exchanging bittersweet glances and soft smiles (you smile more so with your eyes than your mouth, though his goofy teeth are fully exposed in a lopsided grin).
A reverberating booming sounds from outside, coupling notably with the crackling flames in front of you. “Sounds like it’s really coming down out there…” Jake mumbles, peering absently over to the crevice, where little driblets of water are trickling into a puddle on the floor of the cavern.
“Huh.” You grunt in response, following his gaze and pressing the sack strip harder against your cheek. The blood flow is slowing, but still leaves faint daubs of scarlet behind on your fingers. “Guess we’ll be in here for a while. Assuming we don’t drown first.”
“It’s not flooding too badly…” His attention falls back upon you, and his eyes flicker across your injured face. “Still bleeding?”
Shrugging nonchalantly, you nod your head. “Not much anymore though.”
“Sorry ‘bout that.” Suddenly drawing his lower lip beneath his protruding teeth, he scoots around the fire and comes to sit beside you, peering over at your wound with a strange curiosity settling on his face. “How do your people treat wounds?”
“Salves and shit. I’m not in the medical business, so I don’t know the make of it all.” The way he is staring at your hand now is unsettling and bizarre and you honestly just wish he would stop.
“You’re doing a ripsnorter of a job and all, but…” He reaches up and places his hand abruptly over yours, gently wrenching the bloody fabric from your shock-lazed fingers. “You’re supposed to apply pressure, not just hold it there. No wonder it’s still bleeding.” With careful fingers, he pushes the strip back against your face, pressing it firmly to your wound. You wince, grinding your teeth as the pain comes rushing back, but you feel you can trust him with this much. “Everyone in our tribe is trained with the basics. We have so many hunting accidents, we’d really be in a pickle if we didn’t know how to do stuff like this.”
“So you’re a hunter?” you question, though the answer is pretty clear as it is, considering you found him with a carcass in the first place.
“Well, not really. I’m not supposed to have any jobs, being the heir and all, but, crikey, do I love a good hunt!” He prods the fire with a stick with his other hand, peering into the embers and continuing to dab resolutely at your face. “I wasn’t supposed to be out hunting today; that’s why I went berserk when I heard you following me. I’m treated like a child sometimes; honestly, I’m twenty-three!”
You almost choke on your own saliva, and it certainly wouldn’t have been in an ironic manner. Twenty-three? So he’s four years your senior… Well, the awkwardness isn’t so great, you suppose, except for the fact that you shouldn’t be pursuing him in the first place. You’re almost surprised he hasn’t been married off already....
… Oh gods, what if he’s married?
Fuck your life.
“… And then grandma gets worried, and-” He pauses, pulling the strip of fabric away for a moment and grinning wider. “Looks like your mug is done dribbling!”
“You make it sound like I'm slobbering all over you,” you retort with a flat tone. You aren’t sure if his mannerisms are the fault of his upbringing or his own unique quirk, but his odd phrases don’t always seem to translate directly over.
He snorts out a little laugh and freaking ruffles your hair, tossing the bloodied fabric into the fire; it couldn’t do you much good at this point anyway, as it’s so encrusted with blood. “I’ll pass on that, mate.”
A fractionally small inkling of you almost deflates.
Almost.
He lifts his arms above his head and stretches out, allowing a little yawn to slip out from his parted lips. You force your eyes from his bare torso, absently licking your lower lip. "I'm getting drowsy," he announces, and delves under his glasses to rub tiredly at his eyes. "Mind if I dose off soon?"
"I'm not gonna stop you."
He takes this as an initiative to lie back on the ground, clasping his hands casually behind his head and trailing off in his own adventure-palooza of a mind. You really do wonder what goes on in that noggin of his, what possibly could be compelling him to trust you so readily. Hmm.
As you train your eyes back toward the crack from which you entered, a thought comes to mind. "Hey, Jake?"
"Yeah?"
"Does anyone else know this cave is here?"
Shaking his head, he peers over at you, leaning up slightly on his elbows. "As far as I know, it's only me. I come down here to clear my head sometimes."
You nod your head, narrowing your orange eyes at the thoughts swarming your mind. After this storm breaks... What then? Do you go on, keeping this moment and this man in the deepest creases of your mind? Do you come back and meet with him on occasion? Or do you even bother going back; could the two of you simply stay here, ignorant of the crumbling world around you? That seems nothing short of treacherous and shameful.
And then there is your brother.
No, you tell yourself. You could never leave Dave behind, not after you have relied on each other for so long.
... How has he been holding up, you wonder...?
"Dirk?"
Jake's accented voice wafts into your ears, snapping out of your prior reverie. You blink a few times, peering back at him in the dim light of the fading fire. "... Yeah?"
"Are you alright, mate...?" He sits himself upward, a concerned expression dawning on his beautiful tan face. "You seemed a bit out of sorts..."
"I'm good." You shrug it off, though your longing heart continues to ache. You miss your brother dearly, and wonder at times if he is still alive after all of this time, but that sort of thinking has gotten you nowhere and you reckon it shan't start doing so anytime soon.
"What's Prospitian life like?" You find yourself spitting out the nagging question with complete disregard for what you had meant to say. The moment it passes your lips, you wish you had the restraint to keep it back. What sort of question is that? Why should you care? It isn't as though you could ever live anything akin to their lifestyle, and even if you could, you are steadfastly certain that you would not even want to. Even if Her Imperious Condescension stepped down or died, whoever takes her place couldn't alter the paths she has paved. There is also absolutely no chance of you ever joining Jake in the tribe. You are of Dersite blood (as is evident by your pale complexion and pale straw hair), and the hatred broiling in their bosoms could never possibly be curbed.
And on top of it all, Prospit is a doomed society.
Jake looks mildly surprised by your sudden inquiry, and, quite frankly, you can't say that you blame him. He searches your face, obviously pondering what exactly he should say. "... Not so different from yours, I'd wager. We all have occupations around our land, and do the same basic things. Um... We don't have a patronizing dictator; Grandma's at the head of everything, but she's definitely not a twisted loony. We live in fear of Dersites every day, and-"
"Have you ever seen a Dersite soldier with red eyes?"
"... No..." His eyes fall questioningly upon you, staring long and hard onto your own carroty gaze. "I don't think so, anyway. Why?"
You swallow, eyes narrowing a little at the thought. At your side, your bloodied fingers curl into fists. "It's nothing. Nevermind. Put out the fire before we suffocate."
You don't intend to sound so harsh, though by the way his body visibly flinches upon hearing your voice, perhaps your tone was a bit unnecessarily venomous. But you aren't sure how much more of this you can take. It's time to stop wallowing in your own misery and act like a man. You've long accepted your fate, as well as that of your beloved brother, and whining about now isn't going to get you anywhere.
Albeit reluctant, he nods his head at you and, with a final glance into your eyes, removes his arm cuff and pats down the rest of the already-fading flames. A puff of smoke rises into the air; many of the wisps scatter toward the crevice, seeking open space to rise.
The cave fades instantly to black; your eyes strive desperately to adapt to the dark. Stretching your arms out in front of you, you lean onto your back, wincing as the cool rock scrapes the skin of your bare shoulders. Somewhere beside you, Jake shifts in his spot and scoots a tad bit nearer; the sound of his breathing comes quickly and fully beside your ear, yet not quite close enough for you to feel his hot breath. “Hey Dirk?”
“… Yeah?” Your voice catches in your throat, cracking a little and making you sound like a frightful preteen. He’s so close; if you simply shifted a bit and raised your arm, you could easily reach out and– Oh, confound it, such thoughts shan’t get you anywhere.
“You said you don’t have a surname, right?”
“Right…”
“We should give you one.”
You swallow. You cannot see his face, but that toothy grin is plenty evident in his voice. “Have at it. Knock yourself out. As long as it doesn’t make me sound stupid.”
“Heh, alright, got it.” He shifts nearer still, and lifts a finger to absently prod you in the ribs. “Well, you’re grouse with a sword. You can also run bloody fast…”
You lightheartedly roll your eyes. At this rate, the fellow is likely to dub you “Dirk Slice-and-Sprint”, and you certainly won’t have any of that. Hell, if it comes down to something of that degree, you’d be better off having the lesser sense of identity that you retain now. “If you think having a wicked stride is enough to base a name off of, then you–“
“’Stride’? Ah, that’s good.” Jake reaches over in the pitch dark and sits his hand upon your head; he begins by placing his palm completely over your face, then groping upward until he finally feels your hair in his fingers. “Dirk Strider. How’s that sound? I think it’s a spiffy handle, myself.”
Well, you suppose it could be a lot worse than that. And it sounds better than its meaning, you suppose. Dirk Large-Step. Dirk Strider. Hmm. “Alright, sure. Sounds pretty awesome, actually. Now can I go to sleep?”
“O-Oh, right. Sorry, ol’ chap.” Somewhere beside you, he curls up and shuts his eyes, giving a final exhale of breath. “Goodnight, Dirk Strider.”
Oh, how marvelous that names sounds rolling off of his tongue…! Your chest feels as though a feathery confetti has exploded within the cavity, tickling at your ribs and falling softly atop your heart. He had the compassion to give you a name– a proper, full name… And you shall wear it with the utmost pride. You wish nothing more than for that name to cascade from the depths of his throat, over and over again: sweet, sultry, sly… In any other manner humanly possible. But you know this is a silly desire, and therefore brush it off with a light sigh. Allowing your eyelids to slip shut, you utter one final “goodnight”, and drift off to sleep.
~*~*~*~
Morning sun pours into the cavern through the crevice in the wall, casting beams of offensive light directly onto your face. What an unpleasant sun, you think groggily, and tiredly cast your hand in front of your eyes. Sniffing once, you clench your eyes tighter and scoot subconsciously closer to Jake; or, rather, closer to where the English boy once was. Groping around blindly, your hand brushes rock and soot from the fire, rather than human flesh. Hm? Where could he have run off to? Shaking your head, you slowly open your eyes, peering around in the dim light cast by the sun through the crack. You slip your shades back on and sit gradually upright, stretching your arms out in front of you and uttering a gentle yawn.
“Top of the morning, Dirk Strider.” Jake grins down at you; the other male is presently standing in front of the crevice, absentmindedly observing his twin pistols. “Get in a good snooze?”
“Guess so. As good of a sleep as anyone can get on rock, anyway.” You yawn again and stand up, brushing off your pants and gazing around. Everything is how you left it last night, apart from Jake, who finally slips the pistols back into his belt. “What time is it?”
Jake shrugs, walking over to you and smiling largely, in that goofy fashion of his that still makes your mind go foggy. “The sun is high, but not yet halfway. So I’d wager that it’s early morning.”
A frown tugs at your lips, though you refuse to let it show. This means The Condesce will be expecting you back anytime now. You daren’t consider what might happen, should you not show up within the next hour or so. “Derse will be expecting me soon…”
“As will Grandma.” Jake chances another smile, though it’s greatly saddened, and perhaps troubled by some other aspect. “Your suit is over there by the big stone. You’d best don your garbs and vamoose back before they come searching for you.”
Slowly, you nod your head, eyes flitting down to your feet. You don’t want to leave. This man is everything you could ever want in a friend, in a lifelong companion… Sure, it’s silly, and his feelings are a bit unclear to you at the moment, but… What more can be done? There’s so much you have yet to discover about him, and vice versa. “Right… Well, it’s been cool talking to you, Jake.”
“And you as well, Dirk Strider.” It must be customary for his people to refer to each other by their full names. That, or he prides himself in giving you your surname. “I must admit, I’ll miss you. I know we only talked for a bit, but you seem like a real ripper of a guy, and…” He pauses, gaze faltering slightly from your own shaded eyes. “… Dirk?”
Yes, he definitely just prides himself in your name. “Yeah, dude?”
His lower lip slinks back behind his bucked teeth before, with quaking fingers, he raises his hand up to his face; gently, he kisses his own connected forefinger and middle finger and, lifting them from his mouth, presses them firmly to your lips. You question his actions until realization dawns upon you at last; this is a cultural thing that never carried over to your own society. Whereas you might kiss another on the cheek, he does this.
Wait, does that mean…? Is he implying that he reciprocates your affections? Surely not…? As his fingers drop from your lips, you grab his hand in a swift motion, searching his eyes inquisitively for some form of fondness, for any inkling of potential adoration… And, certainly enough, there it is. It’s subtle, and perhaps a bit unsure, but, unless you’re reading him wrong…
Perhaps your love has blinded you. You cannot be sure either. But whatever it might be, you lose all self-control, and, tugging back on his hand, pull him forward to meet his lips with your own.
As your mouths connect, an incessant thudding resonates within your chest; you can feel the breath, trembling and quick, puffing out from his nostrils. His lips move against yours, tentative and soft and clumsy, but, gods, it’s more than you ever could have hoped for. He tastes of sleep and wet grass. Not the most pleasant flavor, but you aren’t complaining, and it fits his personality to a tee. You sigh contently, linking your arms up under his and tugging him lightly nearer, humming gently in the base of your throat as his frantic heart pulses beneath your touch.
This man is your perfection, your escape from reality… Brief as your encounter may be, you shall relish in this moment for an eternity.
Reluctant as you are to break the kiss, you soon must pull away for air, and step away from him with a breathless gasp. As your lips disconnect, a tiny whine sounds from Jake’s mouth; his gaze falls upon you, shocked and frightened, but tender all the same.
He really does hold affections for you, doesn’t he?
A sudden lump rises to your throat; you try in vain to swallow it down. All this means is that your parting shall be even more difficult than before. Wordlessly, you steal away to the stone to slip on your suit, peering back at him on occasion to assure yourself that he is still here, that this wonderful man has yet to depart from your life forever…
“What will you tell the Condescension?” he asks dejectedly, peering over at you as you pull the suit on fully.
“I’ll say I tracked you to the beach and lost you in the storm.” You approach him once more, exchanging glances of distraught doubt. “I don’t see her buying it, but I’ll make do. What about you?”
“Not sure yet; still trying to whip up an excuse.” He laughs uneasily; you relish in every sweet tone to seep from his voice, trying to imprint it into your mind. This could be the last time you hear his accent. The idea makes you nauseous. “Dirk?” His voice grows slower, carefully choosing the right words to say. “Would you be able to come here more often?”
Is he serious…? He wants you to risk your life again, to return to this little secluded cavern again, for the mere opportunity to talk and love and heaven knows what else?
A scheme has never sounded so grand.
You slowly nod your head, placing your hand over his once more. “When?”
“Every entire-moon. Nights when it’s full, and nights when it’s completely dark.” Every two weeks, by your own cultural definition. “Would that work for you?”
“It’ll be a bitch to get out, but I can try.”
A wide grin spreads across his face, and, with a final peck on the lips, he turns to depart. “Meet here next when the full moon rises. Catch you later, mate.” Your hands disconnect, and he crawls up and out of the cavern through the gap in the wall, out of sight.
Your heart beats frenetically in your chest. What have you just agreed to? You’ve willingly decided to meet with your greatest enemy, to defy your country and your leader, all for the sake of biweekly love. Truly, you wonder what has come over you… Can love truly distort your judgment so?
You shake your head incredulously. Imagine what Dave would say.
Licking your lips, you smirk to yourself and approach the crack, hoisting your upper body onto the thick wet grass of the outside world. You can still taste Jake’s lips on your own; how pleasant it is…
Throughout this ordeal, you could easily be captured, or killed, or otherwise. Jake’s a Prospitian, so his chance of survival is as slim as ever. The two of you are already doomed; why prolong the inevitable? Might as well enjoy this little fling while you can, and should you die, then so be it. You will reunite in the afterlife, and then nothing can barricade you from one another.
After all, you tell yourself, you both worship the same gods.
Tugging yourself completely up now, you slip out of the crevice, and, with a final inhalation of humid jungle air, lower yourself into the surrounding thicket.