Passionfruit

[Destyn]

"Of course! That is why I follow him to places and live with him sometimes. While I have no clan, he is my clan. You say before, how I dislike but spend time in Kalzasi, it is for love of the friends who are fonder of the place. Maybe he will wish to move here and you will be happier, because you go where he goes and are at ease here more than there. I understand this, for Sol'Valen smells better and it is, uhhh... rigged? No, rigid! It is rigid, as you are." Destyn might have missed some of the nuance in Laurevere's question, but perhaps he'd just sidestepped the second part with classic Fae trickery.

"Fallen elfs? Ah, it is easy, I think, to fall in the desert. It is difficult to walk in sand, I think. That is why I pity you for lacking wings, as you pity Sivan so you care for him. I will help you if you must walk on sand so you are not, you know, also a fallen elf. It sounds dangerous there, because if there is also a volcano, then you might fall in the lava. I will not go there if you say so. Thank you for the advising." Destyn considered the question for longer than a blink, which was a pregnant pause for him. He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin upon them, only his toes now submerged in the muddy water just at the edge of the bank.

"Partly so, yes. I think you can teach me things that the others cannot. Sivan treats you as an elder. You teach and train and chide and, rarely, reward. I like your rewards, but I do not think I know how to earn them. That is something I would like to learn, but I do not know that it is something you would like to teach to me." He let his cheek fall to one knee so his half-smushed face was tilted toward the elf at his side and he looked up at him.

"Anyway, I already told you why I want to be where you are, Laurevere. Because I like you. This is also why I wanted to show you this glade. I like it also. And thought you might enjoy a piece of your homeland that you did not know before."

[Hekatos]

"I am here to report back to my father about Val'Istra holdings in Kalzasi and our family business there," he corrected. It was true, but it was also a flimsy ruse that had been built up over time. When Sivan settled there, they had kept an eye on him. But then his father died and an attempt was made on Sivan's life; Laurevere was sent as a bodyguard and a guide, and Val'Istra business had been established there under his eye.

"It was convenient to align my visit with Sivan's, especially as he would have to watch out for you and Torin who are unused to Hytori ways."

His posture was somewhat rigid even at his ease here on the bank of the pool where the waterfall splashed, carving the earth and humidifying the air. He looked hard at Destyn, always critical even if he didn't intend to be mean. Finally, he relented.

"Thank you for sharing this with me, Destynrael. I do not know what best to teach you, though; I have tried to be a paragon of Hytori to counter my Siltori blood. That is a part of why I look out for Sivan when I can. Sometimes, I wonder if my teaching, my corrections, don't do you more harm than good. Could I teach you to be Hytori? Possibly. Should I? That I no longer know for certain. I speak some of your language, but I am not an expert in your culture. You adapt as... hm, my mother's people do, but you do so because it is your nature as much as it is your philosophy."

Laurevere reached out and took the exposed nape of Destyn's neck in his hand—his hand, which juxtaposed a swordsman's calluses with a native softness. It was meant to be comforting, perhaps, but he was stilted in that.

"What reward do you seek of me?" he finally asked, quizzical.

[Destyn]

Destyn shrugged uncomprehending at Laurevere’s pretexts. Be they falsified, earnest or hyperbolised their significance meant nothing to him. ‘Business holdings’ were anathema to him and he didn’t much care why Laurevere came here, his care for Sivan was a much more palpable motivation to Destyn and one that seemed as clear as the water that babbled over the rocks.

“To counter?” Destyn grimaced, slightly. “I can change my ears to be more elfy, but I cannot change my blood to be less Fae. Nor would I wish to. Do you believe that your father is better than your mother? That golden tints are better than silver? My clan would have told me this is wrong-headed, and that people are good or bad based on themselves not on their blood. I was taught that it is a great evil to think in this way. There are fables from the Wilds about these things… foreboding yarns with, you know, a lesson at the end.

“I do not think blood is important. Blood is only the fuel that works the heart. It is only as good or bad as that function. How the heart tends… how you care and love and treat others? This is how to measure the worth of a person.” His frown deepened,

“Would you like me more if I was more Hytori? I believe I am your lesser but, you know, not because of my Fae blood. Because you are wiser and smarter… at least about most things, but perhaps, I think, not this.” He softened at the touch and a purr emitted from his chest— a sound Laurevere had never heard him emit, and one that might remind one that he was a creature of another world. The sound underscored his subsequent sentiments.

“I want only what you think I deserve. If I tell you and you give it, then that is, I think, not pure or truthful. I just want to make you happy more than I make you vexed.”

[Hekatos]

There was so much that probably ought to have been said at that point, but Laurevere deflated with a sigh after a long moment of indecision. He gently—by his own estimation, anyway—massaged the Fae's neck, and when it was well-received and he was offered a feline purr, he pulled Destyn down so his head rested his leg, a long, lean pillow under supple black leather.

If he purred like a cat, he would be pet like a cat. Laurevere tousled his hair.

"I may be proud, but I do not think myself wise enough to know what you deserve, Destynrael, and you treating me as though I am... well..."

The elf said nothing for a while, then, eventually, began to whistle. Fingers curled through Destyn's hair, he seemed to relax. No musician, the inexpert performance was of a song that mimicked the fall of water and seemed apropos of the situation, at least to him.

His gaze alighted upon an insect that had crawled from a long, slender blade of grass to his knee. Carefully offering it the ramp of his finger, he held the bamboozled buggy before Destyn's eyes in case he was still hungry and would eat from the elf's hand.

[Destyn]

Destyn was not unaccustomed to having his lengthy orations answered with relative silence. Laurevere, in particular, was far more conservative than the Fae with words (amongst other things). He did not take offence, though he hoped he'd given none to Laurevere with his critiques of the elf's world view. If so, it didn't seem to have caused too much damage, as the the Hytori aspirant waxed affectionate. This pleased Destyn greatly. It was exactly the kind of reward he'd been talking about and, as usual, he had no idea what had earned it. Apparently the criteria did not demand being more like the Hytori, because he'd just gone off on a speech about how he didn't want to do that.

"Treating you as if you am, well, what?" Destyn wondered, looking up from Laurevere's lap with wide, curious eyes. He settled back, nestling into the comfort of the affection and uncharacteristic warmth being offered. He smiled, silently gleeful as Laurevere was compelled to make music. He, too, would be uncharacteristic, as he fell silent and allowed the reticent elf to play cantor to underscore their moment. It was a relatively private moment; spirits, flora and fauna notwithstanding. But even they fell silent or shifted toward complementary tones to welcome the melodies freely offered.

Destyn smiled at the offered insect and took Laurevere's wrist in hand, pulling the bug-bearing hand closer to his face as he parted his lips and guided that finger between them. He closed his lips around the elf's finger and drew them along the skin as he pulled back, taking the little treat with him and leaving Laurevere with a slickened digit. He swallowed and quietly, bashfully said:

"Thank, you know, you."

[Hekatos]

As if I were what indeed? he asked himself.

Laurevere was pondering a more articulate, honest response as he offered the morsel of local life to Destyn and the Fae'ethalan confounded him once more. At this point, he did have some idea what primal urges were lurking under that innocent mien, but whereas he would know how to react if almost anyone else in the world took his finger into one's mouth like that, it was startling from Destyn.

He squinted, but his lips parted.

"Se do bheatha," he said with his funny accent and a lower timbre.

With his damp finger, he traced petal-soft lips, considered parting them once more to feel the slick, soft slither of that clever tongue.

"Treating me as though I were your revered elder, I suppose," he managed finally, eyes heavy-lidded, running his knuckles over the soft curve of Destyn's cheek, along his impossible jawline.

He wouldn't admit it, would, in fact, deny it if a sembler read his mind just then, but he realized that Destyn had all the charm of a wild creature who deigned to sniff tentatively at an outstretched hand, wary, but unafraid, and choosing him to trust. The boy who would have been beguiled by a forward deer or a dragonfly that landed upon his palm to flex its iridescent wings just for his pleasure briefly returned to the taciturn Laurevere, and he smiled something quiet, private, and vulnerable.

"Rud fiadhaich," he whispered, though it might have been chiding or amazed. It was difficult to tell with him.

[Destyn]

“I like it when you are, you know, this way. Warm sunlight on my cheek. See? I know what is a metaphor.” Destyn said, softly, as he leaned into the touches tenderly tendered.

“But you are my elder and I do revere you.” Destyn replied, more matter of fact than defensive. He wasn’t sure what the observation betokened in Laurevere’s mind, but he hoped it wasn’t a bad thing when everything felt so good just now.

Destyn was certainly the sort to live in the moment and this moment was such a pleasant one. The environs were beautiful and tranquil, underscored by the gentle flow of the stream beside which they reclined. The company was coveted and the form of attention being offered was most welcome indeed.

“Usually when I fancy people they do not, you know, fancy me back. Or maybe it is the sort of people I fancy. It is, I think, sort of fun when someone does not make it easy. When they are a puzzle box rather than an open gift basket.

“I think, also, sometimes I am too weird for people. Maybe it is because I am not meant for this world, but rather for the Wilds. But I like it here even if it does not as much like me. And I like you, even when you do not seem to like me back. But when you do, like right now, this is very special and fills my heart with joy. I wish that I could feel like this more oftener.” He mused with a light, enraptured sigh.

“An ndéarfá liom dá mbeinn ró-fhiadhach?” He wondered aloud, eyelashes fluttering like dragonfly wings, even as his own were neatly folded at his back.

[Hekatos]

Laurevere considered him, considered the question. His steely gaze vivisected some, had sometimes pinned Destyn as to an entomologist's corkboard, but now just seemed to see him too much, too well.

Instead of speaking, his hands cupped Destyn's head, cradling it as he edged his leg out from underneath, and settling him down on the soft moss. The elf took a step back, eyes never leaving Destyn, and efficiently removed his boots, his clothing, and stood for a moment stark in the sunlight as a breeze whipped obscuring branches out of the sun's gaze.

"A bheil thu a’ smaoineachadh gur dòcha gu bheil thu ro fhiadhaich dhomh?"

It might have been a challenge. It might have been scientific curiosity.

Laurevere stepped carefully from moss to the water-weathered river stones under the water. They shifted under him, but he didn't lose his balance. A warrior learned to walk a straight line in shifting terrain. He maintained that eye contact, first over his shoulder and then, when he was too far into the water for that, he turned. He wasn't a wild thing; he looked more like one of the huge, ancient statues Destyn had seen in his flights around the nearby mountains, too remote to be reachable by most wingless creatures.

They were weathered, the paint long since peeled away. Laurevere was like that, scars reduced to silvery lines, remembered but not ravaging his skin. Then there was nature's graffiti upon him: his Siltori witchmarks.

Destyn had seen him unclad before, though Sivan had always been there and this was, perhaps, a present for him alone. He promised nothing. He asked for nothing.

But he was waiting for Destyn in the rippling water near the waterfall.

[Destyn]

“Sin suas duit a chinneadh.” Destyn offered timidly, whimpering plaintively as Laurevere drew away from him. He stretched his limbs and sat up to watch the elf disrobe. He seemed more appraising than surprised and his expression seemed to suggest that his appraisal was coming up favourably.

He unfastened his little vest and let it fall from the arms that propped him up, then stood to wiggle free of his trousers. He was already unshod, so that was all it took to align himself to Laurevere's level of undress. Unconsciously, his wings quivered slightly as he stepped into the cool water and waded toward the object of his infatuation.

"Why do you suffer me, when I seem to irritate you most of the time? Why do you, you know, offer me this moment that you know I want? Do you, also, want this or are you doing this because I would like for you to?" He seemed genuinely confused. If there was something of self-deprecation in it, he wasn't self-aware enough to have noted it as such. He was finding himself in a weird limbo between the Laurevere he thought he knew and the one about whom he fantasised.

The fae stepped up to whichever Laurevere this was, and looked him up and down unabashedly. It didn't even occur to him to do otherwise.

"It is, to me, strange that you would wish to be more one thing or another, when you are so perfect as you are." He reached up and poked Laurevere's nose. "I, you know, like this nose. The way it turns up at the tip is, to me, very cute." He took one of Laurevere's hands from his side and urged it to rest on his own hip as he pressed the front of his torso to Laurevere's.