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It’s raining in Dock Town, as always. Lucanis looks up at the churning gray sky and takes a deep breath. Beside him, Fahad finally pulls his eyes away from the entrance to the bar where the Shadow Dragons still linger in the dim lighting of their meeting.
“Perhaps,” Lucanis says, speaking over Spite, who tries to catch his attention by standing too closely to Fahad, an image of himself sniffing Fahad’s curly hair. “Perhaps we may stop by the market here and pick up some coffee beans.”
“Here?” Fahad frowns at him. “Didn’t you say Minrathous coffee is bad?”
Once, in passing. And not directly to Fahad. Spite makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a gasp.
“He remembers,” it says excitedly.
“We are already here,” Lucanis says with a shrug.
“No matter, we can make an additional stop before returning to the Lighthouse.”
“No, that’s not necessary. I insist.”
Fahad crosses his arms over his chest. “I also insist.”
The demon looks between them, holding its breath.
“If we both insist, then it cancels out,” Lucanis says. “Neither of us gets coffee. We return empty handed.”
“Who made that rule? It makes no sense. You just made that up.”
“It makes sense.”
“It doesn’t. Ask Spite. Ask it if we should go to Treviso to pick up coffee. A tiebreaker. That makes sense.”
“And what if I lie? How will you know I am conveying its words correctly?”
A wrinkle appears between Fahad’s thick eyebrows as he frowns. Spite moves too close to him, squinting at the wrinkle, its hands—Lucanis’s hands—moving as though to touch it.
“Some space, please,” Lucanis say sharply.
Fahad leans back, startled.
“Spite is… standing too closely to you,” Lucanis says.
“Oh.” Fahad’s eyes move over Spite several times unknowingly. “Let me speak with it, then. I will ask for myself.”
“Ask what?”
“Ask for a tiebreaker.”
“You can’t,” Lucanis says, at the same time that Spite hisses, “I. Want Rook!”
“Stop,” Lucanis says firmly, and closes his eyes as a shiver suddenly passes through him.
When he opens his eyes again, Fahad is standing closer.
It takes several beats for Lucanis to realize that he is the one who has moved closer. Fahad is still standing in the same spot, his arms still crossed over his chest. He leans forward slightly, toward Lucanis. Warmth from his body seeps into Lucanis, through his light armor, into his skin. There is a freckle just above Fahad’s upper lip, on the soft skin where a mustache would be. A detail he has somehow overlooked in all the time he’s spent trying not to look so very closely.
It’s another moment beyond that, one that seems to stretch between them, thin as silk, before Lucanis is aware that his hand is on Fahad’s elbow. He quickly lowers it and puts some distance between them. Blood rushes to his head, warming his cheeks. Fahad clears his throat.
“Spite votes Treviso,” he says, a little gruffly.
“What?” Lucanis reaches inward but for once, Spite is quiet, satisfied by its little maneuver. “What did it say?”
“It said Treviso.”
“Yes, but nothing else?”
Fahad starts walking. Raindrops collect on his hair, alighting gently on the curls, and as a beam of sunlight makes it through the perpetual cloud cover of Dock Town, the drops reflect the light and his head looks like it’s glowing.
Lucanis grabs his wrist before he can get away. Even through the gloves, his hand feels warm, he’s always so warm. Like magic, Lucanis is transported back to that bubble of warmth in the pantry. An almost kiss. A hand on his chest. A rustle of fabric as Fahad leaned in. Another rustle as Lucanis leaned away.
“You’re in a hurry suddenly,” he says, loudly, over his own racing thoughts. “Perhaps we should just get the coffee from here instead of travel across the world.”
“We’re not arguing this, Spite broke our tie.”
“Tell me what it said.”
Fahad twists his wrist out of Lucanis’s grip. Their fingers brush, Fahad’s bare skin slipping through Lucanis’s leather gloves, the sound sending a ripple of goosebumps skittering on his skin.
“It said that it voted Treviso so we can spend more time together. And that it likes me. That’s all. Happy? Can we leave now, please?”
Lucanis bites his tongue. Fahad’s face is flushed, pink painted across the bridge of his tattooed nose, like a smudge of ink. He starts walking. Lucanis falls into step beside him. On Fahad’s other side, Spite presses in, too close, whispering under its breath.
.
It happens again at the Lighthouse. Lucanis steps outside for air, or whatever it is that constitutes as air in this place. The Fade has a weight to it, the air seems to shiver, and he shivers too, a thrill down his spine. When he opens his eyes again, Fahad is there, leaning against the railing on a balcony somewhere above the kitchen.
Lucanis allows himself exactly one moment of bewildered confusion. Then, he quickly rearranges his face into a mask of calm and says, “You were talking with Spite.”
Fahad glances at him, still leaning forward onto the railing, facing the endless drop into the depths of the Fade. “Yes. It brought us up here. Told me this was one of your spots. I was trying to figure out why.”
“Why it brought you here?”
“No. Why this is one of your spots. It’s bright. Visible. The opposite of your pantry room.” He looks back out at the simulated sunlight, the bright void. “I think maybe Spite likes this spot, and not particularly you. Just another way the both of you are compromising. To share your body, I mean.”
Lucanis leans too, suddenly too tired to stay upright. “You are right about this spot being needlessly bright.”
Fahad repositions himself, facing Lucanis, and his shadow falls over him, a miraculous break from the brightness. “Better?”
Fahad’s face is in shadow, but his eyes still seem to absorb the light around them. Lucanis picks out the green from amidst the brown. His eyes always look like a forest, like a tree, so alive.
Spite appears on Fahad’s other side. “Rook. Likes us,” it whispers, a hiss in Lucanis’s ear.
“You need to stop taking over just to talk to him,” Lucanis says sharply.
“Tell it that we can talk with your permission,” Fahad says. “No hijacking your body. Spite, listen to me. Please.”
Spite groans, a sharp sound like paper tearing. Then, it disappears, its projection shimmering in the air and blinking out of existence. Lucanis feels a headache building behind his eyes. Everything in this in between world feels like an itch he can’t scratch.
“Spite seems to have more power in the Fade,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “When it takes over, I can hardly feel it coming.”
“It must be disorienting, like walking in your sleep.”
“Yes. And embarrassing. I have no idea what it says to you. Please excuse any rudeness.”
“It’s not rude.”
“So you say, but you have a higher tolerance for bad manners.”
Fahad smiles, a softening of the skin around his mouth. It gives him an entirely new look, and Lucanis has to force his gaze away, down to the floor where their shadows pool together.
“Are you saying I have no manners?” Fahad asks, amused.
“I am saying that years spent in the company of Wardens and darkspawn have left something to be desired as far as manners are concerned.”
“I have table manners. I use a fork.”
Lucanis laughs, an unexpected burst of sound. Fahad looks pleased. Warmth coils in the pit of Lucanis’s stomach, unfurling softly, filling him with a slow heat that travels outward, to the tips of his fingers and toes.
Spite’s voice is in his ear, a hiss, “He. Likes us. Us!”
Fahad moves a little, shifting the shadow back in line with Lucanis, shading him. “Perhaps you could both discuss another spot. I can’t always be here to be your shade.”
“We rarely agree on anything,” Lucanis mutters.
“Where would you prefer?”
“My room, of course.”
Fahad smiles at him, the barest flicker of his lips, a mouth not used to softness. “Shall I break this tie for you?”
“You would agree with Spite, no doubt,” Lucanis says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Like last time.”
“Actually, I think I agree with you this time. This area is way too open. I also find it uncomfortable. Back at Weisshaupt, in the barracks, one grows accustomed to a smaller space. I think your… time… in the Ossuary may be a little similar to that in a way. Right?”
Lucanis purses his lips but doesn’t respond. He feels exposed suddenly, despite the shadow falling gently over him.
“So, Spite,” Fahad says, raising his voice just a little. “Perhaps this spot can be used when I am also here to provide some shade?”
Spite shifts in Lucanis’s mind. A quiver in the tips of Lucanis’s fingers. No response.
“Silence is good,” Lucanis says.
“Good. There we go. Problem solved.” Fahad smiles again, pleased with himself.
“Would you tell me if it said something untoward?” Lucanis asks suddenly.
The tips of Fahad’s pointed ears are pink, or maybe that’s the light cutting through the thin skin there, simulating a flush. Just the light, Lucanis thinks, and looks away quickly, back at their shoes.
“It only ever says the same thing,” Fahad mutters, under his breath, almost a whisper. “It wants to know me.”
.
Lucanis has two cups of coffee ready when Fahad’s heavy footsteps announce his arrival outside of the pantry room. He knocks on the door, two knocks, one heavier than the other. The door is pushed open, then closed. Fahad’s hair moves about his face as he turns the corner. A touch of surprise in the lift of his thick eyebrows as his eyes fall on the second cup in Lucanis’s hand. Behind him, Spite stands in Lucanis’s image, glowing and unnatural, a smile twisting its face. Lucanis’s face.
“Hi,” Fahad says.
“Hi. I heard you making the rounds outside and thought you could have a coffee with me, if you were already on your way over.” The words had been rehearsed, and still they come out wrong, too eager, too nervous. Lucanis clears his throat and tries again. “Here. With cream. This roast is a little bitter.”
Fahad steps forward. He accepts the cup. His fingers brush the back of Lucanis’s hand. Spite shifts on the far side of the room, whispering to itself, a steady sound but unintelligible.
Fahad takes a sip and closes his eyes. A sound escapes him, a low sigh, and Lucanis’s teeth clench as he hears it. “Oh, that’s good. Thank you.”
“With cream,” Spite says suddenly, two words rising above the incessant whispering. He stands too close to Fahad again, peering over his shoulder into the coffee.
Lucanis tries to ignore him. “As you can see, you are here and Spite has not taken over. I believe it really does listen to you. Certainly with more ease than it listens to me.”
“We. Like him. Rook. Want.” Spite sniffs around Fahad’s hair, bringing the smell of sunlight to Lucanis’s nose, bringing the warmth of Fahad’s body to Lucanis’s face. The feeling is overwhelming, the proximity of Fahad, the distance between them both too much and too little, and Lucanis clutches his coffee and tries to ground himself as the heat of it sinks into his palms.
Fahad is looking at his coffee, his unnecessarily tight grip on the cup. “You’ll spill it. And then we’ll need to reconsider our discussion on table manners.”
Spite barks out a laugh. Lucanis sets his coffee down on his bedside table.
“I’m still growing used to sharing myself with it,” he says, haltingly. “There are things it… wants.”
“Oh.” Fahad lowers his cup. His face is turning pink. “What, uh. What kinds of things?”
The air feels heavy suddenly, heavy and hard to breathe. Lucanis takes a deep breath. Spite takes one too, breathing with the image of Lucanis’s own mouth, a disjointed movement, copying him.
“Things like making you coffee,” Lucanis says.
Fahad takes a few slow steps closer, cutting through the thick air, the moment twisting into itself, time dilating until there’s nothing but the sound of his shoes scraping the stone floor as he approaches. He sets his coffee down on the bedside table. Slowly, he sits beside Lucanis on the cot that nobody ever sleeps on. His body is warm. His hands are clasped tightly on his lap.
Lucanis feels the ghost of one of those hands on his chest, in this room, an almost kiss, an almost something. His stomach flips at the memory. There are times when he thinks he imagined it, hallucinated the whole thing. But there’s no mistaking the warmth. It radiates from Fahad’s body and seeps into Lucanis beside him, bringing back the memory of the whisper of distance that was between them before Lucanis was jolted back to awareness and slipped away.
Spite nudges him, in his head, a soft touch, almost reassuring.
“He. Wants,” it says.
Yes, Lucanis thinks, and so do I.
“He. Likes you. Us.”
“What are you thinking?” Fahad asks, his voice a whisper in the wisp of air between them.
“Spite is trying to convince me to do something,” Lucanis says.
“Do what? It seems you’re at an impasse. Perhaps I may break the tie.”
Spite gasps, a sharp sound. “Yes. Break!”
Lucanis swallows his trepidation, along with the aftertaste of his bitter coffee. This feeling, this swooping something in his chest, this stuttering beat of his heart, is unfamiliar. Nerves, he’s used to. Every high profile kill has come with nerves, and too much caffeine with too little sleep has created jitters, and shakes, and a sense of urgency despite the slow moving air of the Fade. But he’s sitting still, Spite is quiet, and Fahad is close enough to touch. Without thinking, Lucanis lifts his hand, or it lifts itself, and touches the tip of his finger to the freckle over Fahad’s upper lip, the pad of his finger brushing the soft, too warm skin.
Fahad’s eyes flutter shut. A soft exhale of hot breath touches Lucanis’s hand.
“Was that it?” Fahad whispers without opening his eyes. “The thing that Spite wanted?”
It’s easier to look at him like this. Lucanis absorbs the details, the branching tattoos on his forehead, the slope of his nose, the old scar on his cheekbone. The softness of his usually furrowed brow. The softness. The softness.
Spite nudges him again, a gentle touch.
“I think it wants a kiss,” Lucanis whispers back.
“Oh.” Fahad’s eyes open just a little, his heavy lidded gaze raising goosebumps on Lucanis’s arms. “Can I break this tie?”
“There is no tie to break. Spite and I are… in agreement.”
Fahad’s breath hitches, a soft touch of warmth on Lucanis’s still extended hand. “Oh.”
“He. Wants.”
“I know,” Lucanis says on a sigh.
Fahad doesn’t question it. He places his hand on the bed behind Lucanis and leans in, closing the distance, his mouth hot on his. In the back of his mind, Spite shifts, but softly, the movement not as disjointed as usual, their body moving singularly, together, as they sink into the warm touch and feel Fahad’s lips curve into a smile against theirs.