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The barrier separating their group from the escape route shattered with a brilliant array of sparks, Ashur dipping his head so the brim of his hat covered the worst of its dazzling glare. Behind him, a couple of Shadow Dragons cheered, darting forward into the opening to make the most of the time he’d bought.
Tarquin — Ser Tarquin, one of their newest recruits — was with them; when he passed, he clapped Ashur on the shoulder. "Good one, Viper." It was startlingly brief, startlingly there. Through the layers of leather and Tarquin's glove, he couldn't feel anything but the pressure of it, there and then gone, but Ashur—
He shook his head and followed the others through. He had to keep an eye on the stragglers.
It didn't mean anything, and there was no reason it would. Tarquin was new and attractive and just being friendly. Surely it was just a matter of being friendly.
"Give me a hand, Viper?" Tarquin held himself more stiffly in the shop that afternoon, certainly feeling the lasting effects of last night’s mad rush across the Garden District rooftops.
Ashur — and a scheme Tarquin had pointedly and repeatedly called 'harebrained' — was certainly to blame for that, but the new predicament was entirely Tarquin’s own. He had no idea why, exactly, Tarquin had thought that sitting down in the lounge was a good idea.
"You shouldn't have gone down if you can’t come back up," he chided, mostly jesting as he held his hand out to pull him up.
Tarquin snorted, grasping not Ashur’s hand but his forearm, calluses on his hand rough against Ashur’s skin. Warmth travelled unbidden to his cheeks. "Take that back, Viper. You know why I'm stiff." There was a dare in his voice, and Ashur couldn't help but rise to the challenge.
"Not a chance. I didn't make you sit on the floor."
Ashur didn't realise the gravity of his mistake until Tarquin’s teeth flashed in a grin, his grip tight around Ashur’s wrist, and he tugged. He threw his whole body’s weight behind the motion and pulled Ashur, totally unprepared as he was, right down on top of him in a shocked exhale and a jumble of embarrassingly haphazard limbs.
"Hah." Tarquin’s breath was hot against his skin and so close, Ashur now bodily on top of him. "That’ll teach you."
Ashur, truthfully, had never felt more cumbersome in his life. It was as if all of his limbs were disparate parts he couldn't fully control. And now his mouth was dry, his head spinning even though he regularly dropped from for greater altitudes.
It took more than felt right to roll off from on top of Tarquin, who looked far too pleased with himself for someone who just had a man with twice his bulk on top of him. When he stood, his thoughts still felt fuzzy.
"Alright, you win," he said. He wondered if he sounded so breathless in Tarquin’s ears, too. "Will you let me help you stand this time?"
Tarquin’s smile was wry when he replied, his eyes fixed, for some reason, on Ashur’s shoulders. "I'll consider it," he answered, and Ashur proffered his hand again.
"You’re bloody covered in it," Tarquin complained, his eyes sweeping over Ashur’s form. Ashur frowned, raising a hand to his face.
"Ah, ah, stop." Tarquin held his hands up and Ashur froze. The watched as Tarquin dug in his satchel for a moment, then pulled out a… a handkerchief. “Hold still."
Ashur knew what was coming, yet he didn't dodge or lean away; he just let it happen. Tarquin leaned in, one hand on his shoulder, and started wiping the blood and dust away.
He wasn't gentle; Tarquin rarely was. His swipes were firm, purposeful, and the warmth of his hands was palpable through the cloth. Ashur could only watch the determined set of his jaw, spellbound as Tarquin kept his steadying palm first against his shoulder, then against his other cheek as he scrubbed at the part that had dried on too fast.
"Quin," he managed, hoping his voice didn't sound as choked as he thought it did. "You’ll wreck the cloth."
Tarquin barked out a laugh, apparently immune to his own charm. "Nothing that starching won’t fix." He leaned in closer again, their noses practically touching. He stared at Ashur a few moments longer, swiped at another spot, and decided he was satisfied.
Ashur hoped that any flush on his checks could be dismissed as his skin being roughed up slightly by the ministrations Tarquin had just subjected him to. That was his only recourse.
"Thank you," he said, and it came out in a croak.
"No problem. Can’t have His Holiness looking like he crawled out of a collapsing blood magic ritual, can we?" Tarquin patted him on the shoulder, and Ashur was half tempted to go right back into the thick of it to get him to do all of that again.
"I'm gonna sleep on you," Tarquin announced, having picked his way across the room of wiped out Shadow Dragons to reach Ashur’s side.
"You-" Ashur didn't get to finish before Tarquin practically folded in two right next to him, propped up half against the wall and half against Ashur’s chest. No blow could have emptied out his lungs so quickly.
"Hm?" Tarquin adjusted himself, head fitting perfectly against Ashur’s neck.
"Nothing." The word rushed out of his mouth faster than he could think to stop himself. "Get comfortable."
Tarquin mumbled something, but Ashur couldn't make it out. Didn't need to, because either way it rumbled against his chest in a way that would have inevitably chased away any kind of response.
Tarquin’s breathing evened out quickly; Ashur would bet he slept easily, as easily as he offered his touch like it was nothing.
Ashur was tired too, after all they’d been through today, but he felt tense, fixed in place. Tarquin had been in his life for over a year now, breaking down barriers around him that he hadn't even realised he'd set. Ashur didn’t have a clue as to whether Tarquin was doing it on purpose. He didn't even know if he liked it, just that he needed more. Tarquin always left him feeling like he needed more.
He shifted in his sleep, and Ashur let his arm fall around Tarquin's back, holding him closer. It would help him rest easier, that was all.
"Fix my hair?" Tarquin asked, flicking his head to the side to try and shift the strands escaping his braids. "My hands are full.”
Ashur swallowed down the racing of his heart and raised his hand, carefully tucking the offending hair behind Tarquin’s left ear. He tried not to touch his temple, nor the pale shell of his ear. He could feel the warmth anyway.
Tarquin huffed. "I'm not made of porcelain," he said. There was a smile on his lips, but Ashur’s heart sank anyway; he’d noticed, then, that Ashur wasn't so free with his touch.
"I could pull it instead, if you prefer," he said.
"Go on. I'd like to see you try."
Ashur blinked. "Don't you—"
Tarquin shrugged. "Have a ton of papers balanced in my arms? Sure."
Ashur nodded and stepped back to let Tarquin pass easier. Tarquin stuck his tongue out as he made his way to the desk. "Told you that you wouldn't do it.”
Ashur didn't pull on his retreating head of hair in retaliation. He was a bigger person than that; just not big enough of one not to imagine, in detail and alone in bed late that night, just how it would feel to pull Tarquin’s hair.
"You're taunting me," Ashur said, Tarquin's arm newly slung around his shoulder and his body pressed against Ashur's side. Downstairs, the other Shadows were still partying in full swing, the sound of singing rising from below.
"I'm doing what now?" He knew. He had to know. This was another joke in Tarquin's reams of banter, the thing that endeared him to near everyone in the Shadow Dragons, Ashur included.
"You’re taunting me,” he repeated.
Tarquin looked at him for a moment. Did he know that he had the most beautiful eyes? Did he know the way they caught the reflection of the city's lights? "I can stop." He didn't move his arm, for now. He was warm against Ashur’s side, his muscles loose.
"So you are doing it on purpose."
"Are you asking me to stop or trying to win an argument?" Ashur usually avoided over-drinking, because it made it harder to read anyone's tone. He'd had one too many tonight, but he could hear the fondness in Tarquin’s tone shining through.
"It’s not bad," he confirmed.
Tarquin huffed. "Good." He leaned in closer. "Your padding is better than half the beds I've ever slept on."
"I'm flattered?" But Tarquin was doing it on purpose, and now his hair was soft against Ashur’s neck and Ashur rather desperately needed to know why it was all done so intentionally. Maybe he should have started with 'why' rather than the accusation.
"It was pity when I started, actually." Thank the Maker, at least Tarquin was tipsy enough that he'd tipped over into chatty.
Not that the beginning of his chatter was all that encouraging. "Should I be concerned?"
Tarquin chuckled, and the motion vibrated against Ashur's chest. "Nah, not really. Just realised pretty early on that you reminded me of an old fling."
"Right." Don't sound jealous, Ashur. You don't own him. You wouldn't like it even if you thought you did.
"A couple years back. After I got the dick done all nicely." Tarquin was full of surprises tonight. "Met up with the guy all secret-like. He liked paying for drinks and his clothes were nice, so I knew he was all money."
Ashur huffed. "Like you knew for me."
"No, that was the audacity."
A snort of laughter burst from Ashur’s nose. Tarquin smiled up at him, expression all soft, and it took everything Ashur had not to kiss him right then.
"We fucked a few times. He liked it every which way, so we got pretty comfortable over time. It was never serious, but it was fun.
"And one day, he just fucking… breaks down. Shoots his load and cries in my arms for ten minutes about how no one else has ever touched him like they gave a damn."
Ashur could sympathise. He… well, Tarquin knew, didn't he? Ashur could probably count the times someone held him when they weren't being paid to on one hand. He never had siblings whose hair he could braid, nor friends who were prone to friendly jostling. Any fighting between altus children was mean-spirited at best and dangerous at worst.
“You’re going to make me feel sorry for myself,” he said.
Tarquin’s expression turned a little smug. "I knew you might be the same from the moment I joined up."
“So you wanted to keep touching me.”
He shrugged. “Thought it might help you open up. Or loosen you up enough to get the stick out of your backside, one or the other.”
Ashur wanted to bristle at the implication that he particularly needed to loosen up. But this was Tarquin, and if he hadn’t relaxed around him, then what would they be? He never would have brushed Tarquin’s hair away from his eyes or had Tarquin clean his face or felt the rise and fall of his breathing.
“Are you pleased with the result, then?”
“Oh, don’t pout.” Tarquin reached up and poked his cheek. “You know I am.”
Ashur was tired of the dancing, then. He caught Tarquin’s hand in his, pushed the teasing obstruction aside. Shock barely had time to register on Tarquin’s face before Ashur pressed their lips together.
Tarquin wasn’t gentle in this, either. He wasn’t tentative. It was like every other time they’d touched: precious, and a moment Ashur never wanted to end.