eldritchIdeologist
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“Shit, shit--” Your voice sounds tinny to your ears, choked up with dust and magic and maybe blood. You’ll worry about any injuries later, after you survive the impact surely coming in the next few seconds. How high up did you fly before the spell went off? You hope it was high enough to give you time; you pray it was low enough that you survive the fall. You work every bit of artificer trickery and magic that you can think of. You need to activate the Pulse again, to connect back with the suit. Are you above the forest? The cliffs? Or will you fall into the dark and roiling sea and sink? What will kill you first, Mecha Knight?
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The Mecha Knight has fallen in battle. The Astral Pulse is lost. Rescued from the wreckage by Sir Blazer, the Sun Knight, Robert embarks on a long and difficult journey to recover it. She will not let him go alone.
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"Swear it." Ed's voice is a low gravel-growl, heavy with emotion. Stede swallows. Nods. "Swear it to me, Stede."
He doesn't need to ask what it is.
"I swear, Ed," he says, quick-hushed between them, his hands finding their way to Ed's neck, silk against his jaw. Anchoring him there. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying. I'll stay. There is nothing I want more."
"Again." A press against his forehead, Stede's eyes screwing shut.
"I swear it. On anything you want me to, Ed, on my life, I swear it."
Silence in the brig. Ed and his breath coming heavy through his nose, Stede and his breath near-stopped, in waiting. In some desperate, debilitating hope, that he can grab onto this only thing he covets and hold onto it forever.
"...Okay," says Ed after an eternity, quiet as anything. “Okay.”
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It is dissonance. He is not whole, and he is too much. He is wrong, in a way that he cannot conceive - he was maybe always wrong, or he wasn’t, and there’s no way for him to tell. Wilbur Soot, former president, former terrorist, former person, is acting on impulse and assumptions and is convinced that he knows nothing, now, of who or what he is supposed to be.
He has taken to haunting the peripheries.
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There are no words. It is slow, and then it is fast, and now it is slow again. It’s a celebration of a life that they have been extraordinarily lucky to keep. This blood in their veins, this beating of their hearts, everything in high definition and surround sound. Isn’t it wonderful?
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You swallow thickly sweet and slow and push his name into his own mouth, exhale, inhale, push and pull in equal amounts. Something tantalizing in his grip, in his movements; something electric in the edges of your jaw and in your fingertips when you touch him.