Work Text:
The light of the candle flickered and swayed as Tarquin watched the flame with dull eyes. He tried to remember if he had anymore. It was getting low, only a few hours left, if that. It had to have been at least a few weeks since he had melted his collection of wax drippings to reform, longer since he'd gotten a new batch of candles. Did he have any wick left for new candles? The question sat in his mind for a long moment unanswered; he didn't know. His fingers rotated the short glass at his side a quarter turn on the rough floor before picking it up and draining the last of the whiskey. It was cheap stuff and burned on the way down but the lukewarm liquid barely registered in his mouth.
He rolled his head from the wall to look at the amber jug sitting on his kitchen floor, just in arm's reach. It was over half gone. A frown tugged fitfully at his lips and he tried to think how long it had been since he opened it, two days? Three? It couldn't have been four. Could it?
Tarquin sighed and refilled his glass, taking a more cautious mouthful then the last had been. He didn't want to waste it. Days bled together when his anger finally burned out and the numbness of the drink was the surest way to make the time pass painlessly. The glass clacked against the rough boards of his floor and Tarquin thought about dragging himself off of the floor and into bed.
It wouldn't be a pretty effort, but it would make tomorrow easier then sleeping propped up against his kitchen counter. He let his head thunk back against the wall to continue staring at the candle. Getting up would be a little too much effort, and much too dignified for his current state. He should snuff the candle. Sitting here staring at it was a waste of wick. But the thought of being alone in the dark was worse. Not that there were alternatives. His only choice was sit here alone, or go to bed alone.
He didn't know what time it was, couldn't really find it in himself to care. Had he heard the last bell yet?
Hunger was a dull ache in his midsection. He hadn't eaten when he'd gotten home, had barely managed to shuck out of his templar uniform so it wouldn't be too disgusting when he pulled it back on tomorrow morning.
Food would mean the drink would have to work harder, and he'd gone without eating for longer. Probably. Besides, he was sure he must've eaten something earlier in the day. People were always trying to share food with him. Lorelei, Hector, Mae - they were always nudging him a bowl of whatever was going on behind the bar, or someone had brought something to share around. But then he'd not gone to the Shop after work, had he? Hadn't yesterday either, he thought he might've swung through the day before that, or maybe not. It wasn't like it mattered, they likely hadn't missed him much. He knew his tongue was too sharp more often then not. Best to give everyone a breather from it on occasion, so's not to wear out his welcome. The high bloods could run missions well enough, they had before him and they would after him.
He must have dozed off. Or stopped thinking long enough to pretend it was sleep.
A soft metallic scraping brought him back to awareness. The window crammed into the living space with his couch and dining table wasn't in sight, so Tarquin listened to the sounds of forced entry unobserved, eyes fixed on the dimming candle, just barely still burning - flickering, scrabbling, fighting to continue more frantically then he could fathom at the moment.
A click - metal on glass? metal on metal? - drew his attention back to the matter of his uninvited guest. Tarquin considered - most of his knives were still in his work clothes, shed just as he'd gotten in the door. The knife worn on his belt at the small of his back would do in a pinch. They'd have to be desperate to try someplace that looked like his. A pang of sympathy was chased by the flutter of wary thought that maybe the Venatori had found him... one knife might not be enough for that.
Another gulp of the whiskey seemed important as he heard the faint ruffle of leather and occasional tap of metal on wood. They were skilled, whoever they were, and considerate enough to close the window after themselves. Too good to be some desperate beggar hoping to find food for the night, and too respectful of the place to be Venatori, a fireball would've come in his window instead. A flutter of something hot and aching twisted in his chest as the first two possibilities were joined by a third, the emotion was novel enough after days of being numb that he didn't immediately notice when the shadow eased around the corner.
"Quin?" Tarquin sighed and drew up one knee to support the hand holding the whiskey, he didn't answer and didn't turn to look, shame burned almost as hot as the whiskey when he took a gulp, something to distract him from the stunned silence that had tears burning at the corners of his eyes. The shadow shifted, finally, and took a step closer, into the dying light of the candle. "Quin? What's - wrong?" Ashur slipped his mask and hat off and left them on the counter.
The hesitation felt like a kick in the chest and habit had words spilling out before he could stop them. "Yeah, I guess something is pretty obviously gone tits up, huh?" They were alright, as far as words went, but his anger was still a cold stone in his gut and the snap came out slower then it should have and was almost flat. He wasn't nearly drunk enough for this.
Ashur took one more step and sank into a graceful crouch just beyond reach of Tarquin's outstretched leg. "Are you hurt?" Tarquin snorted, but it was just a habit, lacking even bitterness to flavor it. Ashur was looking for something he could fix.
"I'm not bleeding, and I didn't ge' attacked, just-" Tarquin glanced around his dark, messy flat and couldn't find the words. "Just-" Tarquin gave a little gesture with his mostly empty glass, the amber liquid sloshing distinctively in the short tumbler, to indicate the general state. "Now you know, ya'can leave and tell the rest of them to bugger off too, yeah?" Not that he was under the illusion anyone else would notice if he didn't show up, but he didn't want Ashur sending anyone else.
Tarquin couldn't meet Ashur's eyes, focused as they were on him. With the light behind him, Tarquin could barely even see Ashur's eyes so that was probably just as well. "I'm not leaving you like this."
Tarquin snorted again and it even had a little heat to it this time. "Your fancy altus magic isn't going to fix this, Ash'r, 'm dealing with it."
Ashur hesitated then pushed himself to his feet. Tarquin looked away, he was going to cry for no fucking reason if he watched Ashur walk away, which of course he would. No one would stay when it was like this. The candle gutted and finally hissed itself into a dark curl of smoke. Tarquin couldn't stop the soft, hurt catch of breath as the thought of being alone in the dark snapped at his throat unexpectedly.
He forced himself to breath and set his glass on the floor with a harsh click to draw his other knee up so he could let his head fall forward onto his crossed arms. "We're supposed to bring the light, Tarquin." The reminder, on the heels of curling into himself to hide from the dark, had his eyes stinging again.
A rough bark of a laugh forced itself from Tarquin's throat and he snapped his mouth shut before the sound could turn into a sob. "I don't have any light left." The confession was supposed to be closer to his usual sharp sarcasm but it came out wrong again.
"I do." Tarquin looked up at Ashur's soft, even reassurance as he called a little ball of golden mage light to hover over the plate where the candle had guttered. The light was warm and steadier then a candle flame but had the faintest little pulse that kept it from feeling impersonal. "Come on, Quin, get up." Ashur was looking at him and holding out a hand.
Tarquin stared at Ashur's hand. He could take it, he thought he might even want to. Tarquin's fingers twitched and he let his gaze rise to find Ashur's burning sea-blue eyes for the first time, his breath harsh in his own ears. In the golden glow of the magelight, Ashur's expression was familiar, though not one he'd ever directed at Tarquin before.
Compassionate and composed, with a soft mouth and intent eyes full of faith and calm certainty - it was the Viper, with a dash of the Divine. It was the hero who freed slaves and helped the most vulnerable of their city survive. It wasn't Ashur and Tarquin didn't need a hero. Shame crawled up his throat and his mouth twisted as he let his gaze fall back to the floor. "I said I was dealing with it. Go away." He groused, disgusted all over again with his state.
Ashur made a frustrated little noise but Tarquin didn't look up to see the expression that went with it. "It certainly smells like you're dealing with it." Ashur stepped in close, deft and precise and swooped up the glass and bottle both.
"Hey!" Tarquin gripped, only just lifting his head before, "Ashur!" startled out behind it when Ashur grabbed him by an arm and hauled him to his feet. The abrupt elevation threw all the liquor to his head and Tarquin's knees nearly buckled as he lurched, trying to catch himself on the counter. Then Ashur's arms were around him and holding him against the cold metal of his breastplate.
"Easy, Quin, Maker's mercy, did you eat anything before drinking a half gallon of liquor?" Tarquin leaned on his forearms, braced against the smooth wood of his counter top, and let himself lean into Ashur's hold, just a bit, just enough to let the edge of his forehead touch the cold metal, just so he had an excuse to not lift his head. The cold seeped into his skin and helped to ease the dizziness and ground him in his body, this close, he could smell the faintest brush of familiar scents from the Shop. He thought about ignoring the question, but he thought that would probably not end the way he wanted it to. He cast around in his mind for the last thing he'd eaten and tried to ignore the way warmth seemed to creep into his skin from the firm support of Ashur's hands and the kind weight of caring effort.
"It's whiskey. And I didn't drink it all today," he protested to buy himself time.
Ashur didn't press him. His hands held firm, keeping Tarquin on his feet with the help of the counter, one broad hand gripped Tarquin's hip and the other rested less firmly on his shoulder, offering comfort more then support. Why hadn't Ashur pressed? He always knew when Tarquin was being evasive.
"Quin… what can I do?" The very nearly vulnerable question, the way Ashur was still touching him, the sorry state of his flat - of himself. Tarquin didn't have much in the way of dignity, but what was left was rolling on the floor, bleeding, right now.
Tarquin stepped back. Ashur pulling away would have wrecked him - but choosing the distance himself made it was easier to stomach. It wasn't rejection if he was the one walking away. He used the counter to steady himself and found the glass of whiskey. There was a good mouthful left and he tossed it back, ignoring the burn, before abandoning the glass on the counter and snagging the bottle. He got as far as the end of his little kitchen, maybe four steps, before he heard Ashur shift like he was coming with. "You can't do anything for me, Ashur, except leave. You've got more important things to do." That still wasn't right, but it was sharper, and maybe it cut Ashur, just a little. Maker knew it cut Tarquin deep enough.
Of course Ashur had more important things to do, places to be, people to save and kill and inspire. Tarquin wasn't important enough to have even warranted the personal visit in the grand scheme of things. He turned away from Ashur and the light both.
He didn't fall on the way to the bedroom, by the grace of Andraste alone, and shoved the door closed behind him. The bed sagged and groaned under him, just like always. Tarquin sighed again and set the bottle on the nightstand where his candle usually went. But he didn't take another drink. The thought of Ashur right outside his bedroom door was painful enough, all on it's own, that he didn't need the burn of the whiskey.
Hunger woke Tarquin. He groaned and curled in on himself for a moment. His head was pounding but he'd still have to get up and go to work. After a breath to gather himself, Tarquin braced himself to open his eyes. It'd be dark in his windowless room, he'd not brought the candle -
The warm, golden glow of the mage light Ashur had left pulsed from his bedside, silent and gentle. Tarquin sat up more slowly then he'd intended, his hands gripped the heavy blanket as he pushed it off. A blanket he'd folded and put away months ago, too heavy for the heat of summer that had been coming then, but not for the chiller nights of early fall that were creeping up now. And the bottle that he'd had the thought of reaching for to sooth the worst of the headache was gone. Tarquin flopped back down on his back. It made his head throb, but - somehow… it wasn't as annoying as it could've been.
When he finally regained his feet, he brushed his hair out and changed out of the underlayer he'd worn to bed, then went to poke at the mage light. It wasn't hot, or anything really, just insubstantial light. Then he saw the plate under it, the remains of old candles still clinging to it. He nudged the plate a couple of inches and the mage light went with it. "Huh." He mused to himself. "Fancy Altus magic always finding a way to be useful." He lifted the plate, half convinced the light might decide to spill and go rolling away like a ball, but it didn't. Instead it behaved just like a candle flame that was burning on top of an invisible candle sitting on the plate.
That made the idea of moving it a little less nerve-wracking.
Tarquin opened his bedroom door and paused. On his rickety little dining table was a modest basket covered with a neat napkin. His uniform that he'd left in piles wherever it had come off was arranged neatly on the end of the couch. The window was half opened with the old, faded curtain moving lazily in the predawn light and, while the smell of the city wasn't necessarily floral, it wasn't the sweet, acrid stink of a man sweating in stale air after too much to drink either.
Mornings were usually the gentler parts of the day during these bouts, but the hollowness was never far. The little things he kept noticing gave him a distraction from the stalking void. Tarquin couldn't help but reach for the tentative thought that someone like Ashur would waste time he didn't have, to make things a little easier for Tarquin.
Tarquin sat at the table and lifted the napkin from the basket. Inside was a selection of hand pies, the ones he normally liked to get from the shop down the street right at closing because the lady who ran the place always sent him off with an extra or two so she didn't have to throw them out. He glanced at the sky, he didn't typically eat in the mornings and had never paid her a visit before work. Now though, he pulled one of the pies out, remembering the hunger that had woken him with cramping in his belly, and set about methodically eating it.
It didn't taste like much, right now, but it was weight in his belly, and having food in his stomach had him feeling better after even just a couple of bites. He finished the pie, finished getting ready and put his hair up - just a half tail, he couldn't be arsed with the braids or bun today. Then his uniform. The minimal armor was more akin to livery with bits of gold plating and smelled a sight better then it had when he'd taken it off last night - that earned a frown, Ashur was not doing his laundry. But Tarquin put the uniform on, took another pie - for lunch, and left the little mage light pulsing gently on the table next to the basket.
Later that evening, Tarquin stumbled into his flat, the weight of the day dragging at his legs and hanging heavy from his shoulders. He'd forgotten the little mage light and the hand pies. But they were still there.
Tarquin stared at them for all of three breaths and then jerked his gaze away, cursing the sharp prickle at the corner of his eyes. Work had been wretched, he'd done his best to still keep his eyes and ears open, but reading had made his headache worse and his eyes kept wanting to cross.
The reports he was supposed to get done today, and the ones from yesterday, and days before that, were all were piled out of sight at work, waiting for him to get his head back on so he could go through them properly. Of course the fact that reading was such a struggle and he wanted to copy anything of interest to the shadows meant he was behind on his requisition work and that got him a public dressing down in front of the other archivists. Tarquin went to the window he'd left open and put his hand on the sill to push it closed but then hesitated.
Ashur sneaking into his apartment to check on him had been… nice. He'd thought about the visit a few times today and then promptly had to reminded himself what a disaster he was right now and how sharp he'd been with Ashur. He wouldn't come back. Tarquin sighed and pushed the window almost closed. The nights were too chilly for it to stay fully open but a crack for air never hurt no one.
Tarquin shucked out of his uniform, down to his tunic and trousers again, and managed to at least shake them out and leave them spread on a dining chair near the window to air out - they needed a wash desperately. He was barely half done with one of the pies before his limbs grew too heavy and dragged him into the knobby cushions of the couch, first sitting, but finally loosing the fight with gravity and slumping over.
He only meant to rest for a minute but the next thing he knew the soft slide of wood on wood was waking him from where he'd half curled on the couch, his feet hanging off and his skin chilled through the thin cloth of his undershirt and linen trousers. It was dark instead of late afternoon and the mage light on the table across the room was the only light. Tarquin was so painfully tired that he just watched Ashur climb in the window again, it seemed like maybe it could be a dream. Why would he come back?
Ashur went to the mage light first and did something to brighten the glow. Tarquin wondered if it was something Ashur needed to maintain, was it pulling magic from him during the day? At night with the shadows? Tarquin found the energy to wrinkle his nose at the thought. Ashur half-turned toward Tarquin's bedroom but hesitated. There must have been a sound or a movement that caught Ashur's attention and his gaze, the blue of his eyes catching the reflections of the mage light, moved to find Tarquin watching him from the couch.
The hat was placed on the dining table, followed by the mask, then the Viper's gloves were laid out neatly and his cloak was draped over a chair back. "Hey." Ashur's voice was low, gentle, tentative. Tarquin felt like a suit of chain mail had been balled up and shoved inside his ribs, his chest was so heavy. His lungs struggled to pull in air but the panic that came with suffocation was absent. Instead it was just a mild concern as he struggled to find the strength to make himself make noise. After too long, Ashur's brows drew together with concern. Tarquin hated that he was enough of a mess to worry Ashur. He drew in on himself, elbows pressed tight to his ribs and that forced enough air out to make some half-hearted noise of acknowledgement, but Ashur's frown didn't ease.
"Quin?"
Tarquin turned his face into the rough fabric of the couch, only distantly realizing the way his beard itched where the hair had been pressed up the wrong way when he'd curled up on the couch.
Ashur made his steps loud as he eased over to the couch. Tarquin shifted to watch him from the corner of one eye and pretended wetness hadn't smeared on the fabric and his cheek from a few stray tears that he hadn't agreed to shed. Ashur crouched down again, just enough to be seen and, apparently, close enough to rest a hand on Tarquin's shoulder. "Lorelei and Hector both asked after you and sent their wishes for a quick recovery when I told them you were down with a nasty cold. Dorian would have sent a bottle of brandy to speed things along but I thought it prudent to save that for after you're back on your feet-"
That was enough to have Tarquin finding his voice for a breathy interruption, "Bastard." He'd forgotten that Ashur was responsible for his tragically sober state. Unlike usual, when Ashur would have ignored the interruption and moved on, this time his word were halted by a caught breath.
Then Ashur was trying desperately to hold in his laughter, or maybe sobs. Tarquin really couldn't see a solid reason for either. He turned just enough to look at Ashur more fully, a flicker of alarm in the back of his mind, the Shadows really could only afford one of them to be out of commission at a time. Ashur lost his balance and his crouch turned into kneeling as his knees thumped into the floor. "You have no idea how good it is to hear you curse at me." Tarquin frowned, regarding Ashur with an exhausted sigh. He thought about arguing with the idea that Ashur enjoyed being cursed at, he deserved better. But he was just too damn tired. When his response was too long in coming. Ashur leaned forward, still on his knees somehow, and the touch on Tarquin's shoulder grew firmer, "Quin, please," the humor had died.
Tarquin sighed, defeated, the words wouldn't come. "Ash…"
He wasn't aware he'd drifted again until Ashur's touch slid over his shoulder abruptly to touch his neck. A soft sound slipped out, completely unprompted and unexpected. Ashur's hand was so warm and the touch prompted something like emotional pins and needles in his chest. Tarquin shifted, just a little, tipping his shoulder and head to expose more skin. He was breathing a little steadier and found the breath for another soft sound - he did not whine - when Ashur's palm joined his fingers, falling to cup around the back of his neck. Tarquin let out a breath that felt like he'd been holding it for too long, and didn't fight the urge to lean into the contact as though he was starving for it. His eyes slipped closed. His breathing fell to the slow rhythm of Ashur's thumb stroking up and down his neck and sleep was dark water closing over his head so smoothly he didn't even leave a ripple in the surface.
A tiny yowling woke him. He shivered. His feet were cold and he curled to tuck them further up under the blanket. His brain was taking too long to put pieces together, the loose definition of softness under him was lumpy - too lumpy to be his bed, and the fabric too rough, pilled from use and . He could feel the chill breeze from his window… but the blanket was the heavy one from his bed. He knew he wouldn't have made it all the way to his bed to pull the blanket off only to come all the way back to the couch. Another yowl had him curling tighter under the blanket, unwilling to be woken even for one of his strays. But then there was a soft voice responding in low, urgent tones. Tarquin eased, listening, not believing his ears. "-know you're probably hungry and cold but Quin needs rest okay? Just give me a minute, cats shouldn't have a lot of pastry or vegetables, I have to pick the meat out."
Tarquin's brow furrowed and he blinked his eyes open incredulously. But he was either having a much more vivid dream abruptly or Ashur was really sitting at his table, picking apart one of the last hand pies and feeding the chunks of meat to a scrawny little gray tabby with a crooked tail. Tarquin saw the little plate holding the mage light near him but there were a half dozen other unlit tapers scattered around in the usual places a candle would be, tall fresh tapers of a rich yellow wax. Tarquin looked at the nearest one suspiciously and he couldn't swear it wasn't just like the ones they used in the chantries.
He sighed, a soft drawn out thing, it was better this way. Ashur wouldn't need to keep coming around to maintain the mage light. He could let it die. Just like Tarquin had let so many lights go out in his life. His sigh must have roused some attention because a moment later, Ashur settled on his knees by the couch, looking at him with concern. Tarquin blinked at him and found the effort of speech not as horrendous as earlier. "Why're you here, Ash?" Ashur's mouth twitched, just at the corner, maybe with pleasure at the nickname that Tarquin had only ever dared use in his own head before.
"Because this is-" Tarquin was a lot of things right now, but stupid was still not in the top of the list. He watched Ashur change what he had first thought to say and was already frowning before Ashur finished speaking, "-where I want to be."
"Horseshit." Tarquin murmured to himself. "Go home, or to the Shop; somewhere else. No one wants to be here. I don't even wanna be here." He shifted, intending to turn his back to Ashur and go back to sleep.
"I want to be with you, Quin, whatever that means. Even if you don't particularly care for me tending to you." Tarquin blinked, uncertain, unbalanced. He couldn't fathom anyone choosing to be anywhere near him like he was now, but Ashur was leaning forward and his hand came to rest again, warm and heavy, cupping the nape of Tarquin's neck like Ashur'd gotten comfortable being there at some point in the night. Tarquin's breath forced itself out and the skin on skin contact frazzled his thoughts into helpless mewling, just like the damned cat. "Easy. Easy, Quin, I've got you." Ashur's words sounded almost distant and Tarquin had enough dignity to worry that some of those sounds might have actually come out of him. Shit, he'd have to go jump in the harbor if that was the case.
But then Ashur was easing onto the couch, on top of the blanket. Tarquin jerked weakly against the tight press of blankets and forced out a rough, gasped, "fuck you."
Ashur flinched and froze, "Quin? Did I- do something wrong?"
Tarquin jerked against the restrictive cocoon he'd become trapped in. "Get out or get under the damn blanket. I can't move and I'm fucking cold." Ashur blinked those big blue eyes at him, and Tarquin gave his best glare back with a raised eyebrow. Finally, painfully slow, Ashur eased up enough to pull the covers back. He had to kick his boots off, and Tarquin wondered why he'd not taken them off before, but now, the couch wasn't big enough for them to lay together with any space at all between them.
Tarquin squirmed and tugged at Ashur by the clothes until he was pinned between the back of the couch and half buried under Ashur's heavy warmth. He could move even less then when wrapped in the blanket, but as he tugged Ashur that last inch closer that brought just a fraction more of his weight over Tarquin, a loose piece that had been dangling out of place in Tarquin's middle pressed back into place and he sighed, nuzzling his nose into the warmth of Ashur's shoulder and the whiff of warm leather and old incense he found there, his fingers fisted in Ashur's too soft undershirt and he was close enough that Tarquin could feel the warm flutter of Ashur's breath in his hair.
Once Tarquin settled, sleep threatened but didn't approach him yet. Tarquin lay pinned by Ashur's heavier frame and growing warm from Ashur's heat. It gave him a moment to breath and be, and in that moment, Ashur started to relax by inches. Each little give of tension let Ashur settle more comfortably, more naturally, more heavily against Tarquin and Tarquin was gently overwhelmed by emotions he'd not allowed himself in years.
Tarquin pressed tight to Ashur, clung and hid his face against one shoulder, panted from the pressure of emotions until he felt stripped bare, ignored the lines of wetness that wet his cheeks and Ashur's tunic. Somewhere in that relaxing and releasing, sleep claimed Tarquin again. He woke in the earliest of the morning, when the sky had just started to edge with the paler gray of the coming dawn. The cat that Ashur had fed had fallen asleep itself on his hip at some point, just where Ashur's thigh crossed over his legs.
Where Ashur's thigh crossed over his-
Ashur's thigh over his-
Ashur's thigh-
Tarquin sucked in a sharp breath and jerked - but couldn't move. The weight of Ashur asleep pinned him almost completely. It could have been alarming, maybe would have been if he'd not woken up feeling better then he had in weeks. Maybe later, Tarquin would remember to feel awkward and helpless and too vulnerable. But right now, he just felt… wanted. He sighed and let himself relax, he wasn't going anywhere unless he woke up Ashur and he knew Ashur didn't get enough sleep as it was. His pride could cringe and Ashur could sleep for another hour or so. And if he happened to tighten his fingers in Ashur's shirt and bury his nose back into the crook of Ashur's collarbone to drag in the familiar smell of warm leather and lingering incense, well, who was there to complain?
Tarquin woke again, incredibly warm, starving, and thirsty, to tiny points of pressure walking up the line of his ribs from his hip to his shoulder to yowl practically in his ear. He sighed, but Ashur startled awake and very nearly fell off the couch. Tarquin waited until Ashur was reasonably stable, before letting himself open his eyes, there was more daylight now, and, with the little mage light, Tarquin found it easy to see Ashur's face, but he didn't let himself meet Ashur's eyes yet.
He shifted, just a hair's breath closer, letting himself indulge in the warmth and closeness that felt like care, like want. "Quin?" Ashur had put the stray on the floor and leaned back into him to watch him.
"Just- it's fine, go on, you're probably late for something." Tarquin made himself say it. He could do it, he knew Ashur had things that he had to do. It didn't mean he had to like it, or that Ashur wouldn't come back.
He'd braced so hard for Ashur to slip out from under the blanket that when Ashur pressed closer, leaned over him and hiked his thigh higher on Tarquin's legs, that Tarquin found himself flushing at the sudden weight of possibility that the proximity offered. "Tell me you want me to go and I will. But I won't be happy about it and I'll come back again soon with more food."
Tarquin stared at Ashur. He blinked and stared some more. "I want-" He started, Ashur's lips pressed tight in a line of clear disapproval. Tarquin found himself just a little out of breath and lightheaded with disbelief. "Don't you have things to do? Your Perfection?" Tarquin prodded, just a little. He didn't get lazy mornings in bed, he especially didn't get any length of time with Ashur closer then arm's reach, ever.
Ashur shook his head, "The Divine came down with a minor cold. It's that season, you know, and he's cloistered away taking the time to recover properly and catch up on letters of requests, invitations to this Magister's Nameday celebration or that family's upcoming wedding. He'll be left alone as no one will want to distract him when their letter may be next for his attention."
Tarquin shook his head. There was no way. "Must be a big day for the Viper then, planning another Marnas Pell? I must've been further out of the loop then I thought to miss-" Ashur shifted to bring his hand up to touch Tarquin's jaw, words died in his throat and Tarquin was having trouble keeping his breath steady and not panting.
"The Viper is otherwise occupied today and isn't available. Mae and Dorian are holding down the fort. It'll be a quiet day." Ashur's voice was lower, murmuring secrets instead of attempting to hold a regular conversation. "Today, I'm just Ashur, and I'm here, for as long as you'll have me."
Tarquin tossed his head, some of his hair was caught between him and the sofa and pulled but he didn't care. "You're right, I do hate being tended to." Ashur's brows drew together, but Tarquin made himself keep talking. "But you make it feel like something else." Like he was wanted, valued, somehow intrinsic to someone else - sharp edges and all. Ashur's expression softened, tension easing out of him to leave him pressing against Tarquin's front, his leg suddenly feeling heavier where it draped over Tarquin's upper thigh. Tarquin sighed, shifting against the weight of Ashur's taller, broader frame with a hint of a smile. "Regardless of my thoughts about being tended to, you better rearrange before I start getting the wrong idea about how close we are."
Ashur huffed - almost a laugh - and shifted himself, not to pull back, but to press in closer. "Maybe you should share some of those ideas. Maybe I might be interested in encouraging them."
Tarquin snorted, the first honest flutter of amusement he'd felt in days? No, weeks. His fingers fisted in Ashur's tunic and he pulled himself closer. He felt greedy and starved all at once.