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Furthest
“If I take one more step, it'll be the farthest away from home I've ever been,” Matt says, stopping and rocking back on his heels.
“Did you really just quote Lord of the Rings at me?” Phil turns back to look at Matt, eyebrow raised.
“Well it’s true,” the redhead huffs, kicking a pebble. It skitters along the barren ground and bounces off Phil’s worn boot. “And what’s wrong with a little Tolkien?”
“Besides his treatment of dragons?” Phil teases, backtracking to stand in front of Matt and give him a light shove. Matt rolls his eyes and bats Phil’s hand away.
“Even you can’t deny Tolkien had a knack for epic adventures, and that’s what you promised me isn’t it?”
Phil’s expression softens. “Yeah, yeah I did.”
Matt glances back towards his mountain, his home, biting his bottom lip. Phil bumps their shoulders together to get his attention again and puts his arm on Matt’s shoulder. “Come on then, Samwise, take your first step onto the road.”
Matt leans into Phil’s side and steps.
Tune
Between the two of them, they can’t hold a tune. They can barely lift it off the ground, if they’re being honest. Phil’s notes are shaky and untrained, while Matt’s turn into a shrill sort of wail no matter what he sings.
That doesn’t matter here though. The camp fire is warm against their skin, and the whiskey they’d picked up in the last town is warmer in their bellies. Usually nights in the woods are far from quiet, but their whooping and hollering had scared off most of the nearby wildlife. When Matt finally collapses onto his bedroll, throat sore from singing at the top of his lungs, a pleasant silence falls over them.
Phil settles down into the bedroll next to him, tugging the fur-lined cover up to his chin. Smoke billows up into the clear sky, dissipating in wisps over the stars. The woody smell is strong in their noses.
“One of us should keep watch,” Matt mumbles, already half-gone.
“It’ll be fine for one night…”
“What if s’not?”
“It will be.”
“But Phiiiiil-”
“Shu-shushhh,” Phil reaches out to his side without looking and pats the lump of Matt’s bedroll, “T’mrrow we’ll make a proper house. Then no one has to keep watch.”
“Prm’ise?”
“Promise.”
Pad
It’s three in the morning when Phil gets in from checking the stables. A few zombies had broken in and made a go at Dovabutt. The horse had kicked up such a fuss that they heard the racket all the way up in their bedroom. Matt had grumbled, rolled over, and promptly gone back to sleep, which left Phil to actually deal with the problem.
After dispatching the zombies, Phil had gone straight into repairing the damaged stables. It only needed minor repairs, but the work kept his hands busy and his tired mind engaged. By the time he was done, Phil was sure he’d be able to drop into a nice, dreamless sleep.
Before going back to sleep though, he pads over to Matt’s bed. The dragon looks harmless like this; claws kneading lightly at his pillow, drool soaking into the fabric. The familiar warmth of affection blooms in Phil’s chest. Matt is generally pretty harmless, even when he’s awake.
The sheets had fallen down around Matt’s waist, so Phil pulls them back up. He brushes his thumb over the soft feathers behind Matt’s exposed ear, watching them flutter against his touch with amusement.
“At least one of us got to sleep through the night.”
Disobey
“You aren’t allowed to leave this room, Phil,” Matt says, standing between Phil and the door with his arms outstretched.
“There’s too much to do for me to-” Phil tries to muscle past but Matt stands his ground, forcing Phil back, “Move!”
“No way! You’ll die!”
Phil rolls his eyes, sniffing loudly, “That’s not how colds work.”
Matt pushes against Phil’s chest, actually exerting his inhuman strength for once. Phil steps back, if only so he doesn’t fall over. “Matt…”
“No! I’ve read the books! It starts as a cold, and you try to work through it, and then suddenly you’re not eating and you’re coughing up blood. And then you die.”
“I have a stuffy nose, not tuberculosis!”
“I’m not taking chances! Phil I-” Matt frowns, glancing away, “I can’t lose you, alright?”
Phil stops pushing against the hands on his chest. He looks at Matt, who is studiously looking anywhere but his face.
“…You better make the best chicken noodle soup I’ve ever tasted.”
Matt blinks in confusion as Phil kicks off his boots. Turning around, Phil flops back on top of the messy bed. When he rolls onto his back, Matt is smiling at him.
“I have no idea how to make chicken noodle soup from scratch.”
“Sick in bed and I don’t even get chicken noodle soup? You monster.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t try.”
Phil laughs, “Better not. I don’t want to actually die.”
“Hey!”
Evolution
Phil’s never asked but Matt knows he’s curious.
‘Is this your true form?’
It is, but it also isn’t his only form. Sometimes he’s bipedal and sometimes he’s not, simple as that. Matt just happens to prefer his humanoid shape, by virtue of the fact that it’s much less unwieldy. One inch claws are a lot more practical than three foot talons, in most cases.
And… It’s not like Matt thinks Phil will hate him or be afraid of him if he shows the other side of himself. They’ve known each other too long for that to even cross his mind. But he does worry that something will change; that Phil might not worry about him quite so much, or that Phil might stop trying to protect him all the time.
It’s selfish, he knows. He’s capable of taking care of himself, but it’s so, so nice to have someone else do the caring. He’s never felt precious before.
Growing up, Matt hadn’t been terribly interested in gathering a hoard. He had his books, but they weren’t something he guarded viciously. His interests had always been too transient to fit in with the usual modus operandi of his kind. But while he might not understand the appeal of having a hoard, it’s unspeakably wonderful to know that Phil has made Matt part of his.
Transfer
One second Phil is there and the next he’s not. Matt squeaks out Phil’s name in horror, rushing to the edge of the broken ice. Bubbles break the surface of the black water, but Phil doesn’t follow suit. Casting his gaze around frantically, Matt wishes desperately for something or someone to pop out of the frozen tundra and help. “Oh god, oh god, Phil please! Don’t make me-”
The bubbles stop and Matt’s heart nearly does the same.
He chucks his pack and armor off as quickly as he can and dives in. The shock of icy water hitting his face and feathers is so much worse than he ever could have imagined it. He gasps, swallowing down a great gulp of frigid water. Flailing, he resurfaces coughing. Taking in as much air as he can, he forces himself back under.
His internal temperature rises, compensating for the water, the orange glow of his internal fire lighting up his skin from inside. It isn’t much, but he uses the light to search. Pushing himself deeper, he scans the darkness until his light catches on the red lenses of Phil’s goggles. Swimming forward, Matt wraps his arms and tail around Phil and kicks in the direction he hopes is up with all his might.
His eyes are stinging and his lungs feel ready to burst when he hits something hard. Ice, he realizes. He feels around but the hole he came in through is nowhere to be found and he’s running out of time. Wrapping his tail more tightly around Phil, he presses both bare palms against the ice and focuses as much of his fire into his fingertips as he can. His toes start to go numb without the extra heat, but his hands are sinking into the ice. He melts a new hole just big enough to lift his head through and take a breath, then sets to work on widening it enough to drag himself and Phil out of the water.
He nearly melts right back through as he flops down against the frozen lake, gasping for breath. Scrambling off of the quickly thinning patch as his temperature normalizes, he throws himself over Phil’s prone form. The man is ashen, his lips blue and ice is collecting on the dark scruff of hair on his chin, but he’s breathing.
Matt lets out a sound that’s halfway to a relieved sob and takes Phil’s face in his warm hands. The ice melts under his touch and a bit of colour begins returning to Phil’s cheeks.
Matt will have to find them shelter and dry clothes, and Phil probably has a concussion. But they’re both alive. He can afford a short moment to revel in that.
Cutlet
They visit Phil’s village. His mother doesn’t have much, but she’s a sweet woman with a quick tongue and a soft spot for Matt (Phil decides it’s probably a hereditary weakness).
Together they fix up the old house, run errands, and help with the gardening. The two of them sleep in Phil’s old room, which mostly serves as storage now. The bed is too small, but by the end of the day they’re too tired to care and just shove at each other until all their limbs are safely on the mattress.
On the last day of their visit Phil’s mother sends them to the butcher with an order to get veal, and then out for the rest of the day to pick herbs.
The feast Phil’s mother lays out for them is a more than welcome change of pace from their usual make-do attempts at feeding themselves. Matt eats seconds, then thirds. He would go back for fourths but he’s already halfway into a food comma. His eyes stay shut longer every time he blinks, and finally Phil drags him up to bed and tucks him in.
Phil goes back down to spend a few more hours with his mother, but when he comes up again Matt is perfectly content to shuffle over and curl his tail around the new heat source. It’s nowhere near the same as nestling up against his own mother’s scaled belly, but it’s just as good, he thinks. Maybe even better.