thick-skinned (if one can call it skin)

The first Tarry hears of the relationship is when Twain kisses em, hard and blatant at the end of one of his speeches. The dining hall erupts into cacophony (because as apocalypse speeches go, it was really quite good), he grabs eir face and crashes their lips together, and then the meal begins and he leaves to dine on his own, as he does, so there’s no good opportunity to ask for clarification.

Mantra peers at em curiously from behind her dreads. “How long’s that been going on?” he asks, with the tone of someone pre-preparing their angle on the gossip.

“Er… Just now.” Tarry really does try to eat that evening, but eir eyes always drift back to the door and ey barely manage a few bites.

Word travels fast around the mansion, albeit not particularly well—within two days of the kiss (by which time there have been two other kisses, one hand on waist, and zero words exchanged) someone has already congratulated em on the betrothal, and by that point enough really is enough, and Tarry plucks up the courage to ask about it.

On the third day, when Twain kisses em—well, first of all ey kiss back, as ey’re expecting it now—but after that, ey ask, “Are we getting married?”

Twain looks down at em inscrutably. “Do you want to get married?” Twain loves to give questions back.

Tarry shrugs. “I dunno. Just, someone said we were going to the other day, and I’d like to conduct myself properly if it’s true,” ey explain.

Twain laughs—laughs, in the nice sort of way where ey’ve said something funny instead of stupid—and rests a hand on eir head. “You’ve got your wits about you. More than I thought.”

“Mhm!” It strikes em as perhaps a little insulting, albeit not undeserved, so ey keep it to emself.

Twain toys with eir hair, messing up eir neat braids and making em sigh happily. “Let them talk. I like you, Tarry—”

—and Tarry a little bit stops paying attention after that part because they’re such wonderful words for anyone to hear, let alone em, so admittedly ey just bask in it and the sound of whatever else Twain is saying and—

Crack!

Tarry can take a hit, but Twain’s wearing a ring on that hand and it’s chipped eir cheek a little. Ey tap and check for blood on eir fingertips: nothing. Then ey look up at Twain—really look, not just stare like an idiot—and eir heart sinks.

“You aren’t listening to me,” he says. “I can’t marry someone who doesn’t listen to me.”

Tarry nods frantically. “I’m sorry. I’ll listen to you. Please don’t be cross with me,” ey request. “Please.”

Twain doesn’t say anything for a long moment, which makes Tarry rather nervous that ey asked too much, but when he speaks it’s not to shout at em. “I’ll hold off the engagement until you’re better,” he says, pats em twice on the cheek, and walks past em, disappearing down the hallway; Tarry is too star-struck and polite to follow him.

Until you’re better. Like it’s an illness—and ey must be ill, to violate common sense and ignore eir saviour like that. And then there’s hold off the engagement, which implies there will be an engagement, which implies a wedding, and…

Well, it’s something to look forward to.

So Tarry keeps eir mouth shut and eir head down and listens. Ey wonder about taking notes, just to prove it, but ey’d have to ask around for the paper and pen and maybe send someone out to get it in the worst case, and ey don’t want people to think ey’re just doodling, so ey scrap that idea pretty quick.

It takes a few days of best behaviour, but Twain eventually kisses em again, hard and blatant and showing off like the first time. It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world, being looked at, but it’s miles better than the uncertainty so ey thank him; he kisses em again as a reward.

He kisses em a lot, actually; it’s not quite every time they run into each other, but it’s as good as. Kisses to show off, kisses to celebrate Grand Plan Milestones—some of which Tarry even understands—kisses for no reason in particular. Kisses so frequent that Twain even starts wearing (slightly) lower heels so he doesn’t have to bend down as far, which Tarry reckons is the most romantic gesture in all of history.

One evening, before dinner, he kisses Tarry, and then turns to leave as usual; then, as if on a whim, glances back and beckons for Tarry to follow. It’s not eir most elegant exit; ey have to run for the door as it closes, and narrowly miss catching eir cloak between them, but ey do manage to catch up.

“What’s up?”

“I want you to eat with me tonight,” he says, hand finding its way to the nape of Tarry’s neck. “And tomorrow, if you’re good.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Tarry says, wondering which God ey’ve pleased to earn this, “I will be!”

Tonight and maybe tomorrow quickly turn into every few days, then every other day, and after a month it becomes opt-out. Ey still aren’t good at listening—never have been, really—but Twain is rather good at helping em keep eir mouth shut. Of course, sometimes it means they miss out on dinner, but hey. Can’t have everything. Ey’re sturdy enough to manage without, anyway.

Of course, the meal isn’t the point—otherwise Tarry would just decline, wouldn’t ey? It’s the evenings away from the others, the quiet, the head in lap that ey’re after, and that Twain is more than happy to provide. Some part of eir geology must be magnet, the way ey chase after his touch.

Some part of him, too, must be magnetic, because he can’t keep his hands off em. The first time Tarry gets to sleep in his bed, it’s because he simply doesn’t let go of em when he falls asleep. His are wandering hands, and it isn’t long before they find the places Tarry expected to stay between emself and the Gods.

Not that ey’re complaining. It’s a pleasure to be held, and a privilege to be held by Twain, although ey think sometimes he forgets who he’s touching.

“That’s not my name,” ey mutter once; it’s meant to be just to emself, not wanting to start anything while Twain’s got knuckles inside em, but of course he’s listening.

“Slip of the tongue,” he says, but mercifully bites down on Tarry’s neck so that neither of them get to continue the conversation.

Tarry never does find out who Thanyil is, only that ey remind Twain of him. Ey can surmise that he is—was?—a man, and that he wore glasses (and it really is the glasses that draw the comparison, because Twain keeps putting them back on em, even though ey don’t really need them and they only get in the way), but Twain shuts em up before ey can get any detail. Asking around proves unhelpful, too; nobody seems to know anything, with the sole exception of Jasper, who laughs unsettlingly, and does not actually provide new information in doing so.

Ey really do try to push it to the back of eir mind; there are far more relevant things to be focusing on. The upcoming war. The maybe-wedding. Being grateful.

“Look at me,” he says one evening, then slaps em when ey do.

Ey’re sturdy. “Why did you do that?” ey ask, readjusting eir glasses knocked askew. “I was listening.”

“To see if you could handle it,” he says, and that’s that.

Ey’re sturdy. He knows—why test? Tarry doesn’t question—he loves giving questions back.

Tarry pulls eir weight.

When it rains, ey can work repairs with the resulting mud. It mostly amounts to sealing cracks in the pavement, with a bit of foundation work and prayers for structural integrity; with what’s left over, and what ey salvage from eir boots, ey form dozens of little trinkets and charms. Ey’re not as good at shaping the terra as Twain is (ey’ve never been able to change eir body, try as ey might to add a few inches to eir stature) but ey’ve got a knack for little crafts and smoothing out a rough surface. It’s childish and silly, so ey keep it to emself—Twain would definitely laugh at em, anyone else would pretend they aren’t—but the clay beetle in eir pocket and the silt ring on eir finger are tiny, comforting weights.

Twain keeps testing what ey can handle, makes a habit of tugging eir braid (just the one, Tarry has to do the other one emself) and dragging shards of Hive across eir skin. It never takes—that’s the goal, isn’t it?—just leaves speckles of dust around the scar that Tarry can never get out (not magically, anyway; ey’re not brave enough for surgery).

“We’ll make a Beast of you yet,” Twain tells em, but it never happens and ey're not sure whether to look forward to it or not. Jasper says it gives them something in common—incompleted and immune, somehow—but the notion isn’t particularly comforting, because Jasper creeps em out.

Weeks ramble by. Tarry wonders when the war is meant to start; all ey hear promised is ‘soon’, which it has been for months. Ey wonder if the wedding’s ever going to be on, but ey haven’t mentioned it since the third time Twain kissed em and ey haven’t felt up to it since. The room ey shared with Mantra is functionally hers alone; ey spend near enough to every waking, unwaking, and in-between moment with Twain. The bed is far more comfortable than eir old one, although the trade-off is not having eir own closet.

Against eir lips, Twain makes the suggestion. “Ask me to stop,” he murmurs, tugging eir underwear to eir knees.

Tarry’s awful at talking into kiss, so ey break away. “Why—ah—why would I do that?” ey ask, giggling at the absurdity of it.

“Variety?” Twain suggests, nipping at eir jaw. “You’re so easy, Tarry, surely it’s boring by now.”

“No?” There’s probably a better, more strongly-worded (or, frankly, worded) retort, but with Twain thumbing at eir clit Tarry can’t find it. “I like you.”

“If you liked me, you’d play along.”

“So it’s a game, then?” It makes sense, ey suppose. Tarry grimaces at the familiar discomfort of rearrangement as Twain coaxes eir cock into existence. “Eugh…”

“Oh, be nice.”

“What if…” It feels like such a juvenile question. “What if I want you to stop? Like, actual?”

“I’ll know.”

“But—”

“Listen, Tarry,” he says, so ey have to listen. “I know you.”

Better than you know yourself, Tarry fills in; ey know this one. He looks at em like he’s giving a speech; like this is crucial, like you can do something for me. For the cause.

“You’ll stop if I need you to?” Ey don’t mean to needle, but it seems a rather important point.

Twain smiles. “Could you stop me?” he asks. Goes in for a kiss.

Tarry ducks away; are they playing already? “Wait a tick, I don’t want to…” Half-heartedly ey raise a hand to his chest, trying to find some distance.

Instantly he’s got eir wrist, and he shoves em down into the mattress. “Don’t be stupid.” He shifts to straddle em properly, grinds down onto eir cock. “You can’t lie to me.”

“Ah—get off me, please—” The wind is pulled from eir lungs, first when Twain presses a palm into eir chest and then again when he sinks down onto em. “I don’t…”

“I don’t—what?” he taunts. “You don’t what?”

Like it? Want it? Ey don’t have an answer. The question nags at em. “Fuck off,” ey try.

Twain laughs; Tarry feels sick. “Watch your mouth.”

Ey don’t understand the joke until he drags his hand up from eir chest over eir throat up to eir mouth—“No, you can’t—”

“Oh, I can.”

“Stop it, stop it, Twain!”

Talking seems like it ought to stave it off, but it just prolongs it, and ey’re never careful enough with eir words to make the extra time worth it; eir lips meet for the P in please and that’s it, they melt together and ey’ll never get used to the feeling of eir vocal chords going paralysed. Tarry feels him clench around em, and a feral urge to scream. Bite his fucking fingers off. Vomit.

Ey try very hard to stare at the ceiling until it’s over, but his hand on eir face is incessant and ey can feel a disquieting twinge radiate from his fingers.

Eventually—finally—ey come, without even the satisfaction of a gasp. With eir free hand, ey reach down to try and finish him off; he bats eir hand away. “Hands off,” he barks, breath heavy as he gazes down at em. It seems an eternity before he, too, comes, and collapses onto the bed beside em.

Ey envy his panting.

Clumsily, ey nudge kisses to his neck, a silent plea for eir mouth back. Twain sighs; presses his lips to the blank stoneskin, and Tarry’s mouth morphs back into existence. Ey don’t say anything.

Twain breaks the silence. “You’re beautiful,” he says. “You’re a wonder,” he says. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” ey whisper.

They rest in silence, and Tarry makes it halfway to being asleep before Twain nudges em.

“Go bathe.”

“Ugh.”

“You’re filthy.”

“Am not.”

“You’re filth.”

Can’t argue with that one. Tarry extracts emself from Twain’s arms and bedsheets, tugs eir pants back on, and trudges to the ensuite. Ey glance back, briefly, before letting the door shut; Twain doesn’t even acknowledge em.

Ey start the bath; ey run the water so hot ey contemplate whether or not ey can melt, and add altogether too many soap bubbles. The ensuite is poorly ventilated, but ey catch emself in the mirror before it fogs up. Frowns, removes eir misty glasses. Ey hope ey're imagining the extra freckles.

It’s always a chore to bathe, but tonight ey can stomach it, which calls for full measures; ey strip, as normal, but also unwind eir braids. Twain sometimes cuts his fingertips on them, but ey’ve never run into it emself. Ey’re sturdy.

(He would have stopped.)

By the time eir hair is out, the bath is done, so ey stop the tap and slip in, feeling the day dissolve from eir skin as ey submerge and soak.

(If ey’d really needed to.)

Scrubbing won’t do, but ey’ll do eir best. Take off the easy stuff, see if ey can’t get to some of those freckles.

(He knows em.)

Tomorrow ey’ll ask around for sandpaper.

(Right?)

Ey hold onto eir mud ring for as long as possible—forgetful thing, left it on, now ey’re lopsidedly stained, dirty the right next time—but it, too, must go, clouding around eir water with the rest of the filth. Ey drain the bath and run a second, hotter than the first. Fewer bubbles. Ey want to melt.

After—what, an hour? Two?—Tarry rises from eir third bath (zero bubbles), and it occurs to em that ey didn’t lock the door. Bit late now, but ey get to it, and stare intently at it as ey do eir braids. The left plait is far too loose, but ey get it right the second time; the right isn’t correct, but ey manage to fix it without redoing the whole thing. Ey redo anyway.

Having air-dried (eir plaits always take far too long, but ey could never stand to have just one), ey pull on eir shirt and cloak, not entirely certain where eir trousers ended up. Ey contemplate the glasses, but leave them where they are, and mentally prepare an explanation for leaving them (and taking so long, and using so much water, and— and—)

When Tarry opens the door, the bed is empty. The room is empty. The door hangs open into the hall. Ey collapse at the foot of the bed and ey dream of beetles.