The floor of the Flagship Landing was chill, the grating pressing into his knees. Sartauvoir could imagine vividly enough the marks that grate would leave behind, embossed into his skin like the time Basch had fucked him against one of the lockers and it’d left a deep imprint in his lower back and arse for half the day.
The room was… empty. Odd. Hadn’t he been… fighting? He must have been, for there was the scent of fire on the air, and that particular smell that told him summoning had occurred - ozonic but with an acrid, coal note that caught in the back of his throat every time.
He closed his eyes, took a few breaths of that scent, tried to centre himself. His muscles seemed to work, flexing at his command, and when he lifted one hand, the flames came to his call as they ever did. They danced above his palm, and he lost himself in their crackling music for a moment. Right up until the clang of armoured boots on steel rang in his ears.
Sartauvoir closed his eyes, hardly daring to look. He focused on the flame at his hand, the way it moved with the twitching of his fingers. And then there was a gloved hand, closing about his, extinguishing the flame as his fingers curled shut around it.
“You kept me waiting.” The voice was warm with a smile, and it made Sartauvoir’s belly lurch. “Not going to open your eyes?”
There was a dull clunk and the figure went to one knee before him, tipping up the brim of his hat so that Sartauvoir had no choice but to look. To open his eyes and see that face he’d thought he’d never see again.
“I kept you waiting?” His hand shook, and his throat thickened. He swallowed hard, willing himself to not succumb to those tears. “What sort of time do you call this for a ghostly visit? Just as our ship is about to be invaded, and all?”
The other hand came up and cradled his cheek, lifting his chin up to gaze directly into those green eyes. “Look around you, my love.” Basch’s voice was soft, tinged with sorrow. “You gave your all, already. I was watching, see. Just as you prayed.”
Memories flashed before his eyes: time turning and reversing, conflagrations turned tertius est as Basch taught him so long ago, flocks of his Phenexes and then, inevitably, the final transformation. The one he’d not brought to bear in any battle ‘til now, ‘til his last-
“Oh.”
“Mm-hm.” Basch gripped his hand tight, then turned and flopped down on the floor next to him, leg and shoulder pressed up against Sartauvoir’s. “So, how does it feel?”
“What, to be dead? Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
“Hm, I suppose so.”
“Basch? How does it feel to be dead?” Sartauvoir turned to look at him, still unable to quite believe he was there, beloved glasses and beard and big nose and all.
“Freeing.” Basch looped one arm around Sartauvoir’s waist. “Relaxing. Worrying, though that part will be done I suppose, now that you’re here.”
“Worrying? About me?”
“Well of course.” Basch shook his head in disbelief. “Although I missed you with every onze of my being, I was hardly going to wish you to an early death, love, no matter how much I longed for you at my side once more. Every time you clashed with the Warrior of Light I was watching. And praying a little too, aye.”
“Sounds like a stressful existence, not a relaxing one.” Sartauvoir leaned into Basch’s chest. “You’re so warm! And… solid. How can that be?”
“I’ve long since stopped questioning this place, to be honest.” Basch grinned ruefully. “Just accept it and you’ll feel a lot better, believe me. You’ll go spare, trying to figure it all out.” He patted Sartauvoir on the thigh, then heaved himself back to his feet. “Now. I know this was a monumental final effort for you and all, but don’t believe everything you heard about spirits. We’re not tethered to where we died, nor are we forced to haunt people or any of that sordid dross. Come with me, I have something to show you that I think you’ll enjoy.”
Sartauvoir took Basch’s outstretched hand and got to his feet, noticing for the first time that his knees and hips didn’t complain at the movement. Nor had they done so when he’d been kneeling on the hard metal floor. Interesting. “Now you have me intrigued. Is it far away?”
“Nay, just a few breaths. That’s one positive about this place, wherever it may be - nothing is particularly far away, if you wish it to be so.” Basch clasped his hand and strode off towards the wall of the Flagship Landing, and before Sartauvoir knew it, they’d passed through that wall with nothing but a slight chill, and then they were out into a glorious field on what appeared to be a beautiful golden Autumn afternoon.
The shape of a great old oak was framed against the horizon, and there was a little cottage just ahead. An intensely familiar little cottage, at that…
“Basch?” Sartauvoir looked around, wonderingly. The tree, the cottage, the little picket fence and gate that- yes, that creaked when it was pushed open, still needing oil though he’d reminded himself a thousand times to buy some at the next market day.
“I thought you’d recognise it.” Basch turned back to him with a soft smile, his mane of hair glinting in the golden light. “Although I will admit, I’ve made a few alterations. I hope you don’t mind too much.”
“How do you remember all this? It was one night!”
“Not just one night, we had a little more time than that, remember?” Basch drew him up the garden path and Sartauvoir noted the neat patches of growing things; vegetables and herbs, from the savoury scents on the air.
“Aye, so we did…” The memory began to filter back; the scent of petrichor in the air and drying wool in front of the fire, tea and honey biscuits shared over lively discussion, and through it all, those green, green eyes, alight with curiosity and interest.
Sartauvoir sighed, feeling an unnamed emotion well up within his belly as they stepped over the threshold and into his old cottage - though as Basch said, some things were different, now. There were more rooms, for one, and they were separated by homely walls lined all about with bookcases and shelves full of bric-a-brac, much as their quarters had been back when Basch had lived.
“So, what do you think?” Basch turned to him, eyes sparkling, and Sartauvoir could do nothing but scoop him in close, wrap both arms around him and hold him so tight he felt he’d never let him go again.
Basch expelled an oof of surprise, but he leaned into Sartauvoir, face buried in the fur of his coat and his own arms tightly about his waist as well.
They stood there for he knew not how long, just taking in the warm solidity of Basch, finally in his arms once more. The little cottage was warm, and Basch’s arms were strong around his waist, and the relief and stress and all the feelings he’d dampened for so many years welled up in his gut all at once. His hands began to shake, and then his chest heaved out a sob and the floodgates opened. His legs joined in, and before he knew it, he was on his knees on the floor in Basch’s arms, face buried in that creamy white scarf he always wore as his eyepatch grew wetter and wetter.
“I know,” Basch murmured, rubbing gentle circles at Sartauvoir’s back. “I know, love. Let it out, I’m here, you’re here now, all is well. All is finally well.”
A new wash of tears took over Sartauvoir at that, his entire body all over goosebumps. He was right - Basch was right. His scarf smelled just as he remembered; flames, even the way he rubbed his back felt just as he remembered. Solid, warm hands with their firm, calloused grip and near-constant movement and expressiveness.
“‘ve missed you,” he said into Basch’s scarf, feeling calm begin to settle over him once more. “So damn much.” He tightened his hands into Basch’s coat, then forced them to relax. He wasn’t going anywhere, Basch wasn’t going anywhere. By all the flames…
“I missed you too. Like a part of my soul, torn asunder.” Basch sat more upright and fussed with the fur collar of Sartauvoir’s coat. “I know that sounds incredibly sappy, but ‘tis the truth.”
Sartauvoir sighed shakily, eyes stinging. He lifted his face from Basch’s scarf, painfully aware that he probably looked a sight. “I don’t care if it’s sappy.” Ugh, his voice sounded so… gooey. Disgusting.
“Well, good.” Basch continued fussing with Sartauvoir’s coat, but the look of pleasure on his face warmed Sartauvoir through. His hands moved upwards ‘til he was cradling his face in both palms, green eyes mapping every inch of Sartauvoir’s face. Every visible inch, anyway.
“M’eyepatch is soggy.” Sartauvoir scrubbed at his uncovered eye with the back of his hand, fingers hesitating at the edge of the fabric for a moment. Then he remembered the last few moons they’d spent together, the first time Basch’d seen his scars, and all the old fear fell away. Before he could hesitate any further, he tipped his hat back and let it fall to the floor, then unfastened the eyepatch.
Basch took over, taking both ends and lifting it from Sartauvoir’s face with such a look of adoration he could barely take it.
He felt himself blush to the ears - by the flames, it’d been long since anyone had looked at him like that - but he didn’t look away. “I know I’ve… changed, since last we met. Grown old…”
Basch smiled, his eyes lidded with pleasure. “You’re beautiful, Sartauvoir. By all the hells…” His fingertips traced the edge of Sartauvoir’s scar then ghosted across every ilm of his face, mapping out wrinkles and lines, the way beard met sideburns, much fuller and thicker now than when he was a slip of a thirty-and-one year old, his larger nose, the way his eyes sagged underneath and crinkled at the edges when he smiled, as he was doing now.
“You’re an old flatterer, that’s what you are.” But Sartauvoir couldn’t keep that smile from his face. He closed his eyes, leaning into Basch’s touch as he carded fingers through beard, tilting his head enough that- oh, that he could lean in and kiss him with a soft, barely-there sigh.
Sartauvoir opened himself to Basch, lips parting and tongues meeting like a gentle breath of cool air on a hot Summer’s day; tempting and addictive, even though he could taste the salt of his own tears, it just added an extra depth to the sensation of finally, oh finally kissing Basch again.
He brought his own hand up and threaded his fingers through that unruly mane of hair, still as greyed-blonde as it ever was, and so soft and familiar he could cry all over again.
Basch’s breath hitched into Sartauvoir’s mouth, and he smiled at the reaction he’d drawn from him. The man ever did love to have his hair touched, and it seemed that dying made no exception of that. He slid his other hand in, cupping Basch’s head as they kissed and then kissed some more, greedy, but slow and steady.
When they finally broke apart, Sartauvoir’s vision was soft and blurry with pleasure, his body near trembling even though they sat on the floor where he’d collapsed in a pool of their long coats, hat tumbled off to the side with his eyepatch draped over it. He pressed his forehead against Basch’s, smiling down at him through the curtain of his hair, now much, much greyer than it had been thirty years ago.
“Do you think we should get up off the floor?” Sartauvoir murmured, nuzzling his nose against Basch’s.
“Mm, I suppose we should. But-” Basch nuzzled him back, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “you’re so close, I barely want to move from your side.”
“More like my front, is it not?” Sartauvoir shot a smirk at Basch.
“Pedant.” Basch swatted him on the pauldron, then winced as the side of his hand caught one of the curlicues branching off it. “Alright, enough of this. I want you out of that coat.” He got to his feet and Sartauvoir watched, noting with mingled pleasure and relief that he seemed perfectly able to do that without the pain that had been so much a part of his life for the few years he’d known Basch before.
“And then what?” Sartauvoir stood too, placing both his hands on Basch’s somewhat bedraggled scarf.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Basch bent and scooped up discarded hat and eyepatch, then hung the hat on a short hat stand, where it took pride of place right in the middle as though it was being worn by the thing. He hesitated with eyepatch in hand, and Sartauvoir took it from him gently.
“I don’t think I’ll be needing this again,” he murmured, looking down at the length of tear-dampened fabric. “Perhaps I’ll burn the thing.”
Basch swatted him again, this time on the wrist. “Sartauvoir quo Soranus, you will do no such thing. I’ll not have you burning fabrics in the bloody doorway - if you want rid of it so badly, you can toss it in the hearth or, hells, we can hold a service for the damned thing in the back garden if you must.”
“A service?” Sartauvoir shook his head, amused. “Fine, no burning fabrics in the bloody doorway. Mayhap it can go in the hearth after all.”
“Good.” Basch patted him on the wrist, then went to work unfastening the toggles and sashes and other accoutrements that held Sartauvoir’s coat closed, finally hanging the thing on a peg and draping the sash on another spoke of the hat stand, just below the hat itself.
Sartauvoir could hardly wait to start on Basch’s - those straps across his chest had always been tempting, and his fingers near shook as he unfastened them, allowing the greatcoat to fall open. He pushed it back off Basch with his palms skimming the breadth of those wide shoulders. He moved in closer to take hold of the thing before it fell to the floor, then stepped away again just as Basch leaned up and into him.
“You’re being a tease.” Basch crossed his arms and glared at Sartauvoir’s back as he hung up the heavy coat next to his own, but he softened as Sartauvoir turned back round.
“For all the times you’ve done as much, I think you deserve a little teasing, don’t you?” Sartauvoir held out his hand and Basch took it. “Now, will you show me around your-” he paused, tasting the shape of the words in his mouth, “our house? I want to see what improvements you’ve made, if you please.”
“Oh, I would have thought you’d be dragging me straight to bed.” Basch quirked an eyebrow, but he grinned anyway. “Very well, I’ll give you the grand tour. I did make quite a few changes, I have to admit.”
Sartauvoir returned the smile, trying to ignore the chill that begun to bloom in his stomach. So Basch had called him beautiful before, but… he’d just finished crying, of all the things. People said comforting, nice things to other people when they were crying, didn’t they? And who was to say he’d still think the same when they did get into bed and out of all the rest of his clothes? Hell, Sartauvoir couldn’t remember the last time anyone had seen the whole of him, apart from the few times he’d needed more intensive attention from the Medici, and that was hardly comparable. No, not worth considering.
He shook his head and blinked to try dispel the damp distress that’d settled over him, focused his attention back on Basch, who was leading him into the kitchen. It stood alone now, a room apart from the living room, and it was suffused with warmth from the large range that spanned the entirety of one wall. There was a softly glowing fire lit within - Sartauvoir could sense it through his aether - and an invitingly savoury smell rose from it.
“Cooking anything nice?”
“Haunch of boar, a load of popotoes and onions, some root vegetables. They’ve been going for an hour or so, by now.” He glanced at the large clock on the back wall, above a long table with invitingly comfortable-looking cushions padding the benches on either side. “I was planning on leaving them the whole afternoon, what do you think?”
“Sounds good to me, but… do we even need to eat?” Sartauvoir rubbed at his beard, pondering. Did ghosts have stomachs? Digestive systems?
“Not exactly, but that wouldn’t be much fun, would it? I’d hate to not be able to eat anything ever again, wouldn’t you?”
“Mm, yes good point. And no more wine, hm?” Sartauvoir eyed the well-stocked wine rack atop one of the polished wooden surfaces, with a sidelong glance at Basch, who chuckled.
“Yes, well. You’ll never guess what I have in there, either.” He drew Sartauvoir over to the rack, five bottles high and ten wide, and some few of the slots empty.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense.” Sartauvoir bent to eye the variety of corks poking out from the ends of each slot.
“You remember Leá Monde, of course.”
A sigh. “Of course.” How could he forget it?
“Their speciality was a beautiful Valendian red, they called it Valens. Turns out that imagining yourself a lovely cottage and food besides isn’t so limited as that wine was back then. I’ve been working on replicating it.”
“Ah, the wine cellar, no?” Abandoned, or so they’d thought.
“Aye, the very same. Of course, I could hardly step into the living firmament and retrieve myself some forgotten bottles from their cellarage, but it seems that having intimate knowledge of a thing does make it somewhat easier to create, here.”
“And how long did you study the wine there?”
“Oh, I forget. A day or two, perhaps?” Basch chuckled, and brushed back some hair that’d fallen across his face. “I really fancied another taste of it, that’s all - although my efforts haven’t quite paid off yet. That’s when I had the idea for all this, actually.” He laid a hand on the wine rack, fingers caressing the dark wood. “It was quite satisfying, you know? Creating it from scratch. Well, from scratch as much as things can be, here. It’s a different process I suppose, spinning up something from your thoughts alone rather than from actual materials.”
“It is quite lovely.” The wood even had its own scent, and Sartauvoir inhaled of it deeply. It made him think of the huge bookshelves back at the academy, laden with slightly vinegary old books bound in creaking, oft-times flaking leather and the wooden shelving oiled to gleaming by a rotating series of students. “So much detail!”
Basch looked pleased. “Ah, you don’t know how good it is to have someone else here to appreciate my workmanship. I’m quite satisfied with how realistic I managed to make the thing, even down to the scent of the wood.” His eyes slid closed and Sartauvoir knew he would be remembering Arnsbeirgs. “Reminds me of the forest near where I grew up, it was full of Rosewood trees. Really bloody big ones, too.”
His fingers went to his left side, and he opened his eyes to grin ruefully at Sartauvoir. “It’s how I got this scar, you know - the one by my ribs, here? I used to climb the things, much to mother’s displeasure. Fell out once, got a huge branch right through me. Hurt like the blazes, but I still managed to run home.”
“Adrenaline, hm? Nothing like it, in a panic.”
Basch laid his hand against Sartauvoir’s cheek, thumb unerringly at the edge between scar and whole flesh. “We’re both quite well acquainted with that, aren’t we.”
“Honestly, I don’t think I’d have it any other way. I like your scars.” Sartauvoir’s eyes slid closed as Basch’s thumb caressed his cheekbone, fingers sinking into the beard at his jawbone. He inhaled sharply as Basch moved in to kiss him again, risen up on his toes, then melted against him, moulding their bodies together with a happy sigh.
“I like yours too,” Basch murmured as they broke apart, “and I could do that all afternoon. I think I- I hadn’t quite realised how much I was craving contact.”
“Well, you can kiss me in every room, it might take up the entire afternoon.” Sartauvoir smiled down at Basch, then bent to suck at his bottom lip, chasing it with teeth.
“I think I know one I’d rather show you first,” Basch said, breathless. He shot a grin up at Sartauvoir, then tugged on his hand again. They left the kitchen, Sartauvoir’s heart thumping in his chest and that chill in his stomach still.
The door to Basch’s bedroom was dark wood, and it opened with nary a squeak, revealing a cosy room with a small fireplace on one wall, opposite a large, comfortable looking bed. There was a chaise longue in front of the fire, and an arm chair besides, along with a well-stocked bookcase and a low coffee table, upon which was set a copper coffee pot and a book, open and face down.
Basch pulled him towards the chaise, and Sartauvoir focused his attention on the banked fire, eyes tracing the coals and embers over and over for comfort as Basch sat him down, then went to his knees in front of him. He lifted Sartauvoir’s hands and began to tug off his soft gloves, finger by finger until he could drop each one on the floor beside him.
A soft inhale of breath, and Basch paused, both hands holding his left. Sartauvoir looked down at him, suddenly dragged back in the moment to see Basch’s wild eyes, blinking down at his fingers.
“Ah,” Sartauvoir said. “I can explain.”
Basch sat back on his heels, the life seeming to sag from his body. “I understand,” he whispered. “Thirty years is a long time, to be alone…”
Sartauvoir sighed and leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. “I made it myself,” he began, very aware that his face was hot to the damned ears. “Do you- do you remember the day I told you about my eye, after Leá Monde?”
“How could I forget it? You said you’d be my bondmate, if I asked it of you…”
“Yes,” Sartauvoir replied, simply. “After you died, I stole one of your swords, before… before we committed your body to the pyre. I don’t know if you remember, but I’d been talking about taking up blacksmithery?”
“Oh. Aye, I do remember.”
“I also… stole your glasses too. Melted them down with the sword and…” Sartauvoir twisted the ring on his finger, eyes fixed to it. “Made this. So I could remember you.” His heart clenched as the memories of that day flooded back, how he’d lost himself in the workshop, ignoring the outside world until he was done.
Basch’s hand atop his own brought him back out of his head, and he smiled shakily down at him. “I know it’s not the same as if you’d given me the ring, but… it helped.” His other hand went to his neck, and before he could doubt himself, he reached under the collar of his top and pulled out a long chain, where a matched ring hung. The pair of them were dark silver, with a stripe of blue down the middle from the wootz in Basch’s sword, and it was warm in his hand from being against his skin. “This one was for you. Would have been for you, had you-” he shook his head, fighting the lump in his throat, “had you lived.”
Basch lifted a hand and reached for the ring, and Sartauvoir let it drop against his palm. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered, voice full of stifled emotion. “And you wore it like this, the whole time?”
“Of course.” Sartauvoir took Basch’s hand, with the ring, and pressed both against his chest. “Right against my heart, where you ever dwelled.”
Basch’s breath hitched, and the next thing Sartauvoir knew he was being pushed down onto the chaise. Basch crawled atop him, scrabbling at the bottom of his top and pulling it up and over Sartauvoir’s head before he could protest, and then oh, he was topless underneath Basch, and it was all he could do to squeeze his eyes closed and turn his head away, unwilling to see the disappointment on his face as Basch finally saw what he’d become.
There was silence above him, and then a firm hand was at his cheek, turning his head gently back so he was looking at Basch. “What is it, love?”
Sartauvoir opened his eyes and swallowed hard, looking into that green gaze. “Like you said, it’s been… thirty years.” His voice was rough, and he coughed to clear his throat.
“Yes, it has.” Basch sat back on his haunches, legs straddling Sartauvoir’s waist. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, love.”
Sartauvoir made a frustrated sound in his throat. “Okay, it’s just-” he pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath. “I keep thinking about what you said, after Leá Monde. About me being so young.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Basch, please. I love you, but please, think about it. It’s been thirty years. How old were you, when you passed, hm?”
“Sixty summers, or thereabouts?”
“Exactly. And how old am I now? Sixty summers and one. I was thirty, Basch. In my prime, fit and strong and… young, by all the flames! And now I’m… older than you were, when you passed.”
A look of comprehension dawned on Basch’s face, and his eyes softened. “And you think I won’t find you attractive, is that it? You think that I loved you because you were young, and eager, and in your prime?” Basch laughed, then, low and deep, and wiped his eyes with the back of a hand.
Sartauvoir opened his mouth to complain, but Basch laid a finger across his lips. “Hush, now. Let me.” He bent and nuzzled against Sartauvoir’s nose, hair falling about his face. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Sartauvoir’s eye, his cheekbone, the tip of his nose. “Let me show you.”
He kissed Sartauvoir’s ear, his jawbone through the thick beard there, then moved down to his neck, dragging lips along collarbone followed by his fingertips, tracing the line of the fine silver chain that still hung there, down to his chest and across the scarring there from the Dalmascan comet all those years ago in Leá Monde. He bent his head and kissed that scar, nuzzling it with his nose as his fingers moved to one nipple.
Sartauvoir arched underneath him as he tweaked it, unable to stifle the moan that fell from his lips. “Flames, Basch…” he murmured, one hand scrabbling for the edge of the chaise as the other sank into Basch’s hair.
“Hmm? Want me to stop?” Basch’s voice was deep and full of the languid smile Sartauvoir just knew would be curling on those plush lips of his. He replaced fingers with lips, sucking the nipple into his mouth and biting down gently, and Sartauvoir’s hips jumped in response.
“N-no… please…”
“Good.” Basch spread both hands across Sartauvoir’s stomach, where he knew the skin sagged as it did in so many places, now. “Hells, you’re gorgeous.” He turned his attention to the other nipple, biting and suckling at it until it was hard and pebbled red, embossed with little toothmarks all about.
He shuffled further down, hands caressing the waistband of Sartauvoir’s trousers, pulling them down enough that he could get a good view of the now-thoroughly-white pubic hair trailing up to blend in with the downy fuzz dusting his stomach and upwards. He grinned up at Sartauvoir under his hair. “It’s not just me who’s a greybeard, now. I like that.”
Sartauvoir felt his cheeks pink again, but Basch’s deft fingers unfastening the cords at his trousers, pulling them down his hips, was enough to stop him worrying about it. He lifted his hips and Basch pulled them all the way down to his boots, then made quick work of removing those too.
As if suddenly remembering their existence, he paused a moment to get out of his own boots - thankfully not the tall armoured greaves that he used to favour - tossing both sets aside and then turning back to get Sartauvoir fully out of his trousers, leaving him in just his smalls and the blush scattered across face to ears.
Basch sat back for a moment, running both palms up Sartauvoir’s thighs to frame his rapidly hardening cock straining against the soft fabric of his smalls. “How could you think I wouldn’t find you attractive any more?”
Sartauvoir groaned, slinging one arm across his face, hiding in the crook of it. “Ugh, stop. I’ve had a lot of years to worry about this, alright?”
“Mm, I know.” Basch’s hands stopped their tantalising movements, and Sartauvoir peeked out from under his arm. “Well, look, if we’re to be confessing… I wasn’t sure whether you would have, you know. Moved on. Thirty years and all that, and we had barely any time together to boot.”
With his other hand, Sartauvoir took hold of Basch’s, tapping his ring finger against the back of his knuckle. “I think the moral of this tale is: we’re both idiots. You heard my prayers in the Dalriada, I’m only amazed you didn’t hear all the other times I invoked your name.” He steered Basch’s hand onto his cock, rolling his hips upwards to meet it.
“Oh?” Basch ran his palm up the hard length and Sartauvoir shivered.
“Like all the times I touched myself, wishing it was you, mm.” He buried his face in the crook of his arm again, hips jerking as Basch’s grip tightened through the fabric.
“Hmm, tell me more about those times.” Basch’s other hand joined in, and before he knew it, Sartauvoir’s smalls were down and on the floor, and he was stretched out completely naked beneath his love.
“Ngh, little hard to- to concentrate, love-” Sartauvoir’s words bit off as Basch took hold of his cock proper, running a thumb down the length of the underside.
“Oh, am I being distracting? I am sorry.” He jerked Sartauvoir’s cock lazily, drawing a moan from his lips, muffled by the flesh of his arm.
“Flames, you’re no less- ah! No less infuriating! But if you must know, I made myself a replica…”
Basch paused, and Sartauvoir could almost hear the interest writ plain across his face. “A replica?”
“Mm, of your cock...” Sartauvoir squeezed his eyes shut, glad his face was covered by his arm. “Or at least, how I remembered it. Added a bit of your sword as well, that I’d kept back from making the rings.”
“Hells, Sartauvoir,” Basch growled. “I wish I could’ve seen that.”
“Oh, I enjoyed riding it, let me tell you. Your name on my lips every night…”
Basch groaned and bit down on his lower lip. “Maybe you can show me some time?” His hands dropped to his own trousers and he fumbled with the cords until he managed to get them unfastened, wriggling out of them and letting them fall to the floor with their boots and the rest of Sartauvoir’s clothes.
Blush calming down, Sartauvoir uncovered his face just in time to get a delightful view of Basch’s arse before he sat back down straddling his thighs, their cocks flush next to each other.
“You’ve still got your shirt on,” Sartauvoir pointed out. He wrapped one hand around both their cocks, jerking them together slowly and watching Basch under his lashes as he tried to gather himself enough to deal with the shirt. “Now who’s the distracting one, hm?”
Basch bent over him, one hand braced against Sartauvoir’s hip, lips wet and parted as Sartauvoir’s hand slicked up and down their twinned cocks. “Yes, very good,” he panted. “How do you want it, love? I’m not sure I can wait any longer…”
Sartauvoir’s eyes widened. “Fuck me,” he breathed, too far gone for embarrassment. “I want you in me, Basch. Now.”
Basch groaned long and low, then straightened up enough that he could lean over and reach for the table, where a bottle of scented oil waited that Sartauvoir could swear hadn’t been there before. He uncorked it quickly and poured a generous amount across both their cocks, both their hands spreading it together before he shuffled down a little, lifting one leg so that Sartauvoir could move his own out from underneath.
His legs tucked around Basch’s waist like they belonged there. Sartauvoir’s hand stayed on his own cock as Basch shifted, nudging his slick cock up against his arse and then pushing inside, ilm by blessed ilm, until he was as deep as he could go.
Basch fell forward and Sartauvoir surged up to take his mouth in a kiss, even as Basch pulled up one of his thighs, letting him go deeper still. Sartauvoir gasped into his mouth, both hands sliding into his hair as Basch rocked into him, their hips moving with fluid abandon, better by far than the cold metal replica even warmed by his flames, better than his own fingers. Oh, how could he have forgotten this? The way Basch sounded as he moaned and gasped into Sartauvoir’s mouth, the way his chest felt against Sartauvoir’s own, so softly furred and broad; the way those calloused fingers gripped his thigh and his cock, coaxing him towards oblivion so soon and oh-
“Basch- Basch I’m going to-” Sartauvoir’s back arched, the twin sensations of Basch’s hand jerking him and his fat cock filling him, pressing insistently against his prostate ‘til he was coming in thick, hot spurts between them. Basch stroked him through it, his hips moving languidly as though he had all the time in the world.
Sartauvoir fell back onto the chaise, hair sweated to his face and chest heaving, but Basch didn’t let up. His eyes flashed green fire, holding Sartauvoir’s gaze as he continued to roll his hips, using Sartauvoir’s own spending as extra lubrication, slicking it up and down his sensitive cock as slow and steady as his hips.
“You’re trying to kill me,” Sartauvoir panted. “What makes you think I can go again so soon?”
“My love,” Basch murmured, a wicked grin on his face, “we’re no longer beholden to the rules of the living. Which means I can keep on fucking you until you can’t complain any more, because you’ve no voice left from screaming. How does that sound?”
Sartauvoir shivered, hips twitching violently as Basch’s cock fucked up against his prostate again. “W-when you put it that way… ah!” Basch did something with his hand, squeezing tighter and twisting, and Sartauvoir’s cock hardened all over again, as though he didn’t have sixty-and-one summers under his belt.
Well, who was he to complain? He brought up his other leg and twined the two around Basch’s waist, drawing him in deeper as he laid back, losing himself to the sensation.
The chaise was soft and comfortable under him, and Basch’s other hand was at his chest, playing with his nipple again as he fucked him long and slow, languid in the gentle heat coming from the fireplace, and no longer plagued by pains that would have had them finishing sooner than they’d like. There was just this moment: the soft noises Basch made as he fucked into him, Sartauvoir’s quiet moans growing louder as Basch increased his pace, hand moving from nipple to waist, holding him fast as he drove into him with new urgency.
Sartauvoir felt his orgasm build again and he scrabbled for Basch’s hand, joining their fingers together at his cock as he came again, feeling Basch tense and the deep growl of his orgasm pulsing inside his arse, filling him up hot and sweet and by the flames, he’d forgotten how much he missed that feeling.
Basch laid forwards, pressing his face into Sartauvoir’s chest as his breathing calmed. “Is it… hotter in here, or is it just me?”
Ah. The previously banked fire now crackled merrily in the fireplace next to them, and Sartauvoir couldn’t help but laugh, tears coming to his eyes as he held Basch, hands roaming across his broad back. “No, not just you. I suppose I probably have something to do with that.”
“Ahh, of course, I should have guessed.” Basch looked up at Sartauvoir, chin resting against his chest. “I missed that, as well.”
Sartauvoir chuckled. “Aye, I bet you did.” He conjured up a thin coating of flame across both hands, continuing his movements across Basch’s back, down to his waist and hips, kneading into his arse.
Basch shuddered with pleasure at the attention, hips moving again lazily. Sartauvoir could feel his cock hardening once more inside him, and his breath caught as Basch’s movements became more intent.
He shifted atop Sartauvoir, pulling out enough that his seed oozed out a little, then pushing it back inside, his movements guided by Sartauvoir’s fiery hands at his arse, rocking them together so slow and sweet it felt like the best of dreams; Basch’s hand going to the ring at his heart, the other cupping his face for a deep kiss as they lost themselves all over again.
Flames knew how many bells passed like that, but Sartauvoir felt fucked dry, his whole body exhausted in the best possible way as Basch laid draped atop him, gently snoring. He had one hand in Basch’s hair, rubbing against his scalp and down the back of his neck, while the other trailed onto the floor, playing with the strands of the thick rug.
“Mm, I’m not dreaming, then?” Basch looked up, a drowsy smile on his lips.
“Nay, not dreaming. You are sticky, though. I’ll be surprised if you can get up at all - you’ll be glued to my belly, no doubt.”
Basch grimaced and shifted his hips, wincing as his cock peeled away from Sartauvoir’s thigh. “You may be right. Hells, I’m exhausted. Did you not sleep?”
“Honestly? I-” Sartauvoir looked away, focusing on the dancing flames in the fireplace. “I didn’t dare. Didn’t want to wake up, in case ‘twas a dream.” He chuckled dryly. “Better to not sleep at all, eh? Just in case.”
“Hm, understandable.” Basch levered himself up and onto his elbows, wincing again as the hair at his stomach tugged away from Sartauvoir’s, stuck together from their messes. “Well, what would you say to a nice hot bath? I promised you a tour and I haven’t even shown you the best part yet.”
“A bath sounds amazing.” Sartauvoir crooked an eyebrow at Basch, who stood up on shaking legs. “Will there be room for both of us, or is it a squashed-up-in-one-tub kind of situation?”
“Oh, you just wait and see.” Basch held out his hand and tugged Sartauvoir upright, then led him by the hand through the second, smaller door in his bedroom. Right into a-
Sartauvoir gasped, one hand going to his mouth as he took in the room. The middle was taken up entirely by a bath so large you might as well call it a pool, sunk into the dark wooden floor. There were two ornate golden taps at one edge, and an area under the water that was shallower, like a kind of seat. “By all the flames,” he breathed, “you weren’t joking about the best part.”
“All those times we crammed into that tiny tub, or forced to have a sponge bath on the field? I wasn’t having that. If you’re going to have a bath, why not make it absolutely ridiculously self-indulgent, eh?” He gestured towards the back wall, which was taken up by some wooden seating in front of a large bank of coals. “There’s a sauna too. Thought you might like that.”
“And hot coals, I see. You’ve thought of everything.” Sartauvoir headed towards the bath as though drawn by a string, bending down to turn both taps on and get the thing filling.
“In all honesty, I felt like I needed some luxury, I suppose. All that time in various Castri over so many decades, just the idea of something large and warm to soothe my old bones. I couldn’t resist, even though I technically don’t need them soothing any more.” He came and sat down on the floor, both legs hanging over the edge into the bath as it filled up merrily.
Sartauvoir joined him, their bare shoulders and thighs pressing against each other. The room was warm, despite their nakedness, and he arched his feet into the water as it rose steadily up the side of the bath. “I can’t say I blame you. Sometimes it felt like those places never got warm, no matter how many huge roaring fires there were.”
Basch looked sidelong at him, eyes dancing. “And some of them contributed by you, of course.”
“Well, of course. What kind of pyromancer would I be if I didn’t start fires, hm?” Sartauvoir looked down into the water, watching his reflection shift and shimmer. “None as bad as the day you left, though, I have to admit.”
“Oh?” Basch took his hand, twining their fingers together. “You don’t have to tell me, if it’s painful, love.”
“It’s been thirty years, Basch. It’s more the pain of an old wound, by now. And being here with you? That’s a better panacea than anything I could have got from the Medici, let me tell you.” He sighed, rubbed Basch’s hand with his thumb. “No, it’s alright. You remember the parade grounds, no doubt? At Castrum Valnaini?”
“Mm. All those inspections and practice days in full armour under the sun, I’d be hard-pressed to forget that.”
“Well, I may have… caused a small conflagration.” Sartauvoir rubbed his free hand into his hair, sheepish.
“How small?”
“Uh. The whole parade ground? And some of the stables as well, apparently. I didn’t hear the end of that from Lyon for at least an entire moon, and then some. Honestly, if it wasn’t for him blustering in and giving me a good dressing down, I’m not sure I would have remembered anything from that day. It was… Hm. Stressful.”
Basch’s hand tightened in his. “I can only imagine.”
“I heard them all talking about it, afterwards. About me. Apparently it was like a comet had fallen and not stopped flaming, just a whole column of fire. Of course, they’d all shut up as soon as they noticed me, but I’m not stupid. I think… if it wasn’t for Lyon, and Menenius, in his own way… I’m not sure what I would have done, Basch. Burned myself up, no doubt. I just remember Lyon stalking into the parade grounds in those sandals of his - somehow I could hear them against the flagstones, over the sound of the flames. Isn’t it funny, what the brain chooses to focus on?”
“Something familiar, that’s what they say. Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad he was there for you.”
Sartauvoir laughed. “I’m not sure I’d call it ‘being there for me’, but he was certainly the only one in the Legion with the power to drag me out, I suppose. Or at least, one of those flaming serpents he’d been training did, anyway. Got hold of my collar and pulled me out like a trained dog, and then Lyon gave me a good wallop on the chin for good measure. It’s hard to keep up a flaming tornado after that, I suppose…”
“I dread to think how long it took to get that all fixed up.”
“Long enough, believe me. Noah assigned me to most of it, too.” Sartauvoir pulled a face. “I needed it though. Hard work, it kept me tired enough to fall into my bunk every night without laying awake and thinking.”
Basch frowned. “He kicked you out of our rooms?”
“He had to.” Sartauvoir sighed, long and deep, his stomach clenching at the memory of those newly-lonely nights. “Had to keep up appearances, you know. Can’t show any favouritism and all that.” He clenched a fist, a small flame winking into existence and dancing across his knuckles.
“He let me keep some things, though. Our bedding, your pillows. That little wooden box you always kept your glasses in, things like that. And besides, I know it was basically common knowledge by then, but it was never… official, I suppose. And with us being unbonded, it wasn’t as though he could use that as an excuse.” Sartauvoir squeezed Basch’s hand tight. “Don’t blame him, love. It wasn’t his fault - he had to be strong, after.”
“I know. It’s just painful to think of you alone like that. It must have been so hard.”
“Like I said, the work helped. Some.” He smiled ruefully. “And when it didn’t, I used to go out into the forests and practise my accuracy. I got quite good at burning up one single tree in its entirety, you know.”
“Oh? And just how decimated were those forests, by the time you were done?”
“Hm. There was… another bonfire, well before then. Let’s just say that.”
“Poor trees.” Basch’s thumb circled the back of his hand. “I can almost smell the smoke. I suppose it could have been worse, eh? At least you didn’t burn down any more of Lyon’s stables.” He leant forward and nudged both taps off with his foot. “Come, let’s get clean. I think we both need it, hm?”
Sartauvoir slid into the bath, feeling the heat of the water seep into his bones, and sighed happily as Basch joined him. “Okay, I think you were onto something with this.”
The ledge, though slightly uncomfortable, let them both sprawl out in the water full length with their heads pillowed on the edge, which was an especial novelty for Sartauvoir, who had always found bathtubs far too short for his legs - even the so-called Elezen-made ones.
“I knew you’d like it.” Basch’s hand floated towards his and they twined fingers again. “I have some oils and things as well, if you’d like?” He gestured towards Sartauvoir’s side with his free hand, droplets of water sparkling through the air. “Pick whichever you fancy.”
There was indeed a wealth of scented oils and potions set in neat rows against one edge of the tub, inset into small depressions in the floor to keep them upright. Sartauvoir’s hand hovered above a few before selecting a red oil and a shimmering, golden bottle. He uncorked the two and poured a generous helping of each into the water, eyes sliding closed as their scents wafted into the warm, steaming air. Honey and mild spices from the golden bottle, and a fiery red musk undershot with wine from the red - mixed, they were reminiscent of the honey cakes his mother used to make before he’d been packed off to the academy, with a deep undertone of Basch that made him sigh with pleasure.
“Smells like home,” he said, quietly, setting both bottles back into their places.
“Mm, it does doesn’t it?” Basch swirled his hand around the water, watching as the oils beaded and shimmered. “I’m glad you think so.”
“Thank you,” Sartauvoir murmured. He slid through the water to settle between Basch’s sprawled legs, leaning back against his chest with a sigh like a satisfied cat. “For all of this. I don’t know what I expected, after the Dalriada and all, but… it wasn’t this. It’s so perfect, I could not ask for anything more.”
Basch twined both arms around Sartauvoir’s neck, leaning forward to press a kiss to the back of his head. “You know what would make this more perfect?”
Sartauvoir tipped his head backwards, turning a little so he could see Basch. “Hmm?”
“Marry me,” Basch whispered. His fingers went to the chain around Sartauvoir’s neck where his ring hung.
Sartauvoir’s heart nearly stopped, stomach performing a great swoop. “B-Basch!” He turned sharply, water splashing in an exuberant wave. “How can we do that here? I can’t imagine there’s a chapel complete with celebrant just waiting for us? Not that I don’t want to, because I do, it’s just-”
Basch pressed a finger against his lips. “Hush, love. Who says we need chapel and celebrant, hm? All that matters to me is that you’re there, and that we exchange vows and rings. And since you’ve already provided us with the latter, then I see no reason we cannot do the former.”
A great peace settled upon Sartauvoir, and tension he hadn’t even realised he was holding seeped out of him. He took hold of Basch’s wrist, pressed a kiss to the finger at his lips, then to the back of his hand. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” he murmured, a shy smile curling on his lips. “When are you thinking? It will take time, no? To create something appropriate to wear from the aether of this place?”
“A few days, perhaps. I am quite adept at it now, but I would like to teach you the methods at the same time, so I imagine it will add on a little time. Shall we say next sevenday?”
“Aye, that sounds good to me.”
- - -
The next six days passed near in a blur. Basch had wasted no time in showing him just how to create things from the aether, and Sartauvoir had taken to it like an imp to fire. It reminded him of conjuring up a Phenex, and when he’d said as much, Basch had chuckled and agreed that the principles were probably similar, but that the magick of it went completely over his head. But he had been as happy to listen to Sartauvoir waxing lyrical about magickal theory as he had been to sit knee to knee opposite him and teach him how to painstakingly weave a small bolt of practice fabric from nothing.
“Just pure companionship,” he’d said, twinkling over his glasses as they worked. “You don’t understand how good it is, to have another person here to speak to after all this time.”
“I only can imagine. At least I had the rest of the Legion, in your absence.”
“Our family.” Basch smiled, pausing his work for a moment as he gazed down at the weave building between their hands.
“Aye, that they were. And full glad I am that I had them.” The cloth had come together, aether shining over and under and over until it was complete, and Sartauvoir had felt once again that heady rush of learning that he’d missed. He hadn’t been able to help but smile up at Basch, giddy as he’d been the first time he learned to summon a Phenex or give himself over to the flames in transformation.
Of course, since they would be having a very non-traditional ceremony of Eternal Bonding, half of the rules that people would normally be sticklers for hardly applied. The only thing that Basch - ever the traditionalist - had insisted on was that while they were creating their own clothing, neither of them saw the other’s outfit until the hour came for their vows.
And so, Sartauvoir sat in the study that Basch had set aside for him long ago, in the hope that nothing would have changed between them when they finally met again, weaving and embroidering and adorning with aether as his fabric and his own will as his tool.
He was working with a deep rusty red, of course, and the base fabric came together under his fingers warp by weft until it began to form shape. A heavy cloth with a most satisfying drape, he ran his fingers across it, feeling the way the weave lay under his fingertips, the way it felt in his lap. This cloth was plain in weave and pattern, but he wanted something special for the accents.
Sartauvoir leaned his elbow on the heavy wooden desk, gazing off without focus into the rows of books shelved neatly across the entirety of the opposite wall. There was a bright, bobbing flame just above his shoulder, illuminating his work with a pleasant, warm glow, and he stroked the underside of it with his other hand.
A brocade, that should do it. But a subtle one - he had designs in mind for an extravagant ascot of jacquard, with an ornate pattern of flames and phoenixes worked in. Too much pattern would clash, of course, and so: black on black, yes. He set the red aside, draping the swathe of it across the desk, and began his work again.
Both hands wove the aether, stroking fibres from the air and soon he had them dancing to his tune as if they were on a jacquard loom entirely; up and down and across and back, fingers moving smooth and near-musical, as though he was a composer and the warp and wefts were his choir.
The new bolt came together ilm by ilm until he had a goodly quantity, and Sartauvoir allowed the aether to slow, then altered the shade of each thread, fixing the new pattern in his mind for the ascot material and then allowing the weaving to recommence.
After that came creamy white cotton for his shirt, a closer weave and a lighter fabric that would starch well at the collar, and then he turned his attention to forming buttons and findings, leathers and buckles, for belts and embellishments, each burnished gold button and buckle marked with a tiny Phenex on a trailing comet backdrop.
Many bells had passed, the sun long since set. Sartauvoir sat back in the tall leather armchair and let himself relax, feeling the pull of muscle in his back and neck from bending to his work for so long. How had Basch fared, he wondered. And what would he have created to wear? Well, he would find out soon enough.
A tingle went through him at that thought, raising goosebumps and sending his stomach to fluttering. It was really happening. So many years, and this was his reward.
Sartauvoir set aside all his work in neat piles on the desk, placing each buckle and button safely in the top drawer. He had all of the morrow to craft his suit, and he intended to take the utmost care with it. For now, though? His appetite made itself known, and he knew Basch would be waiting for him in the kitchen with some morsels or another for them to eat together. He snuffed the flame at his shoulder with an elegant sweep of his fingers and headed towards the kitchen and his love for the evening.
- - -
The day of their ceremony dawned bright and beautiful, a brisk chill in the air and dew shimmering on the fragrant wildflowers in their kitchen garden. Sartauvoir sat on the deck with bare feet hanging off the edge, toes in the damp grass as he inhaled the wild morning scents.
Basch came up behind him, barefoot and silent on the decking, preceded by the warmer, more bitter scent of the dark, sweet coffee they both enjoyed. He sat down and pressed his shoulder to Sartauvoir’s, handing over a cup and then slipping that arm around his waist.
“We picked a good day for it, hm?” He sipped his coffee, inhaled sharply as it presumably burnt his tongue, then blew across the top of it.
“Certainly feels like it.” Sartauvoir blew on his own coffee, content to let it sit for a moment, even though the heat of it would barely hurt him anyway. He slung his free arm around Basch’s shoulders, fingers playing with the wild fall of his hair.
“Mm, I’ll fall asleep right here if you keep doing that.”
“I have an idea.” Sartauvoir’s nimble fingers combed through his hair as he measured the length of it in his head. “Come, sit here between my legs.” He set his coffee down on the decking to his left and spread his legs apart for Basch, who shuffled along and down onto the single step before the ground, coffee still held in his hand.
“What are you planning?” Basch sipped at his coffee, getting comfortable against Sartauvoir’s inner thighs.
“Just wait and see.” Sartauvoir ran both hands down the sides of Basch’s hair, gathering it towards the middle and eyeing up the amount. The top section was a lot shorter, being the hair that Basch wore brushed back and away from his eyes, so he separated that out first with his fingers, combing it forward and a little to the side, ‘til he knew it would be covering a little of Basch’s eye.
With efficient movements, he split the rest of Basch’s hair into three sections, holding them with one hand as he combed his fingers through the top parts, neatening it up enough that he could start to braid the sections together into a thick grey plait. When he got to the end, it reached the top of Basch’s shoulder blades, and Sartauvoir held the end of it tightly as he leaned forward. “Pass me the lace from your tunic, would you?”
Basch obliged, it hadn’t been tied anyway, and it slipped out of the eyelets easily. “I’m not sure how much I’m going to like this,” he said as he passed the lace to Sartauvoir. “Hair in my eyes.” He made a pfft sound, and the hair over his eye lifted under the breath he’d aimed upwards.
“I beg to differ.” Sartauvoir wrapped the dark grey lace around end of the braid and then tied it neatly, then took a moment to fuss with a few straggling hairs that had managed to escape the bounds of the braid, tucking them in carefully until he was satisfied. “There. I think it looks quite handsome. Turn around, let me see you?”
With a long-suffering sigh, Basch took a deep drink of his coffee, set it down on the decking and then turned as requested. “I can hardy see your face with all this in the way,” he grumbled, blowing another draft of air upwards.
Sartauvoir set both hands on Basch’s face, lifting his chin and turning it this way and that as he examined his handiwork. “Just as I thought,” he said with a slow smile. “It does suit you, you know. Makes you look very ah, distinguished.” And on top of that, it gave him a wonderful view of the entirety of Basch’s face, the sharp line of his cheekbones more evident without a mane of hair in the way, and the way the shorter parts flopped over his forehead, and the dashing fall of fringe framing his face made Sartauvoir’s stomach flutter.
“You’re staring.” Basch smiled up at Sartuavoir, blinking slowly like a pleased cat. “You do like what you see, don’t you.”
“How could I not? You’re… ah Basch!” Sartauvoir swatted him on the shoulder, face pink under that sparkling gaze. “Always, you tease me!”
“I would apologise, love, but I do love to see you blush.” Basch leant forward and pressed a kiss to the tip of Sartauvoir’s nose, nuzzling it with his own. “So, do you think I’m sufficiently neat for our ceremony? Will I pass muster?”
Sartauvoir laughed. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ll have to see how you clean up when we’re both dressed, I think.” He tilted his head and kissed Basch, his mouth tasting of dark, sweet coffee.
“You should let me do yours,” Basch murmured against Sartauvoir’s lips. “We can match, what do you say?”
“I suppose tying my hair up like usual wouldn’t be very special, would it?” He kissed Basch again, long and slow. “Mm, very well.”
Basch reached up and pulled the loose tie from Sartauvoir’s hair, pressed another kiss to his nose and then stood up and moved behind him on the deck. Sartauvoir moved forward until he bumped down onto the step and their positions were switched, and Basch pressed up against his back, twining both arms around his neck and leaning in to kiss his ear.
A shiver went through Sartauvoir like lighting, and he leaned back into the touch just as Basch moved away with a deep chuckle. “Ah-ah, if we keep on with this we’ll be late to our own ceremony.”
“And whose fault would that be?” Sartauvoir turned, mock-indignant, trying to cool the blood stirring in his crotch.
Basch turned his head back with firm hands. “Yes, I know, I am as incorrigible as ever. An evil little man, who lives only to tease you.” He settled both hands on Sartauvoir’s shoulders, leaning forward again to whisper into his ear, “but I do love to see you squirm.”
Sartauvoir sighed, exasperated, but it was soon driven from his mind as Basch’s fingers began to stroke through his hair, carding it back gently into his cupped hand. His eyes fluttered closed as Basch worked, splitting the hair loosely and pulling it to one side then braiding it together with sure fingers.
When he was done, he slid Sartauvoir’s hair tie from his wrist and into the end of the braid, looping it until it was tight. He ran a hand down the back of Sartauvoir’s head then stood once more, moving in front and bending over enough that he could fuss with the rest of his hair: he pulled some loose parts from the braid and then combed with his fingers until Sartauvoir’s usual fringe was soft and neat, before lifting the braid and bringing it over his shoulder to the front.
“There,” he said with warm satisfaction.
Sartauvoir opened his eyes, blinked away the comfortable sleepiness that’d settled upon him. “How does it look?”
“You look devastatingly handsome.” One of Basch’s hands went to his cheek and tipped his head back, and he bent and took his mouth in another kiss, their tongues sliding together with soft sighs.
His face was still pink - how could it not be, after those words? - and Sartauvoir smiled up at Basch. “Old flatterer, you are. But thank you. I suppose that makes two of us, doesn’t it.”
“Aye, that it does.” Basch leant down further and scooped up his coffee mug, draining the rest of it in one draught. “Well, if you deem me to look acceptable enough, then we should eat something and get ready, no? Before I completely lose my nerve.”
“You? I didn’t think that was possible.” Sartauvoir picked up his own coffee and smirked at Basch over the rim of it. “The great Legatus Basch van Gabranth, losing his nerve on the morn of his own Eternal Bonding Ceremony? Surely not.”
In reality, his own stomach had not stopped entertaining a flock of Phenexes since he’d seen Basch with his hair braided back so neatly, framing his beautiful old face in the morning sun as it filled their little garden. But he was hardly going to admit that, now, was he?
“It has been known to happen, you know. I nearly disappeared, the morning Noah was born. I faced down how many charging armies, and yet the birth of my son nearly unmanned me enough that I almost spent the whole time vomiting in the toilet from the fear of it.”
He gazed off into the distance above Sartauvoir’s head, eyes misty. “Of course, I could hear Amalie screaming through the door, threatening to castrate me herself if I ‘didn’t get my mangy arse to her bedside at once’.” He chuckled. “She was a hellion, that woman, and no mistake.”
“Well, it did the trick, didn’t it.” The thought of Basch, young and afraid of fatherhood, was so utterly foreign to him that Sartauvoir almost didn’t know what to do with himself. He tapped his fingernails on the outside of his mug, then took Basch’s hand in his own. “I will scream through the door for you, if I must.”
“Hah!” Basch looked back down at him, eyes dancing. “I know you, Sartauvoir quo Soranus. You’ll burn down that door before you waste your breath shouting through it, and don’t try to pretend otherwise.”
Sartauvoir laughed, and a tiny flame winked into existence at their linked hands, dancing merrily across Basch’s knuckles. “You know me too well.” His stomach audibly grumbled, and he realised suddenly that yes, he could definitely eat breakfast, and lots of it.
“Right, that’s a sign if ever I’ve heard one. Get your arse up, love, and I’ll make us some breakfast so we’re not facing our day on empty stomachs.” He pulled Sartauvoir up and they headed back inside, hand in hand.
- - -
The rest of the morning had passed in a whirlwind. Pancakes and syrup and good streaky bacon, more coffee and then Sartauvoir departing to his office and Basch to their room to get ready.
Sartauvoir’s hands shook a little as he got dressed; lacing up his pressed trousers, buttoning the white shirt and then black brocade waistcoat, lifting the starched collar and settling the cravat around it, pinning it in place with a wrought Phenex brooch. He eyed himself in the mirror and smiled as the outfit came together - tailcoat next, then boots polished to a shine and finally cufflinks to match the brooch.
The ring he usually wore about his neck lay on his desk atop the pooled chain it hung on, and he removed his own too, setting it down for a second as he parted chain and ring. The matched pair of them glinted in the morning sunlight, and he just stopped for a moment, gazing down at the two, one hand flat on the polished wood of his desk. He breathed slowly, grounding himself, then picked the pair up and slipped them into the small pocket on his waistcoat. Safe and sound.
There was a little fabric left over from his suit making efforts, and he used a strip of it to tie around the binding of his braid, then scanned another critical eye over himself in the burnished mirror he’d pilfered from the bathroom. It had taken a little time to get used to seeing himself without an eye patch, but he could look in the mirror now without hating what he saw. That loathing had been replaced by Basch’s softly murmured words of love, kissing his burns and scars over and over until all he could remember when he saw them was Basch, Basch, Basch.
He was going to marry that man. Sartauvoir’s fingers played with the end of his braid, stomach performing such a series of flip-flops as to put a whole flock of butterflies to shame, and then his reverie was interrupted by a soft knock at the door.
Sartauvoir checked his pocket for the rings, then, satisfied that they were still there and with his appearance, strode over to open the door for Basch.
His eyes widened at the sight before him, and he bit his bottom lip as he took it all in. Basch wore grey, as he so often did, but this was…
“By the flames, Basch,” Sartauvoir murmured, reaching out to grip him by the shoulders. “Where have you been hiding this?”
His jacket was dark dove grey with long white sleeves, trimmed with pristine white fur at the collar and shoulders. It nipped in at the waist with a white belt, which in turn attached to a wide, diagonal white belt across one shoulder, buckling at his chest. The belt across his chest was parted by a beautifully embroidered, broad blue sash draped across the opposite shoulder - this, combined with the various small knives, pouches and what seemed to be bullets, lent an undeniably military air to Basch’s outfit, though a formal one. His trousers were pressed as sharp as Sartauvoir’s were, and he wore a pair of similar boots, equally polished to a shine.
Sartauvoir realised his mouth was open and promptly closed it.
“I take it you like what you see, then?” Basch turned round slowly, the long jacket fluttering with his movement.
“Like it? You can say that again. You look… Ah Basch, you look amazing. The hair was a stroke of genius too, if I do say so myself.”
Basch looked pleased. “Mm, I do rather like it, as well. But let me look at you!” Both his hands went to Sartauvoir’s waist and he took a step back, eyeing him up and down. “This fabric is lovely, it really suits you.” One hand went to his cravat, and then Basch was pulling him down for a fierce kiss. “Can’t wait to get you out of it later, though,” he breathed against Sartauvoir’s lips, then broke apart with a deep chuckle.
“You’ve tightened my damn cravat,” Sartauvoir grumbled, looking down as he loosened it again. He fussed with the fabric, face pink, until he was satisfied once more. “Well, are you ready? Not going to go and vomit in a toilet?”
“Hm, no, I think not. Not this time. Now come, let me show you what I’ve been working on.” Basch took his hand and led him out of their cottage, their pace sedate.
The morning was growing warmer, though not so warm that they would be overdressed. Sartauvoir couldn’t even focus on the pleasant weather, or the life bustling in the hedgerows they passed, for the fizzing in his nerves. He knew that his hand shook, but it felt as though Basch’s did too, and since Sartauvoir wasn’t about to call attention to that, he just tried to take some deep breaths. Centre himself, as though preparing to cast a long, difficult new spell.
His attention was so focused inwards that he didn’t notice their surroundings until he was right on top of them. He stopped suddenly, looking around and then upwards with renewed awe.
“The same tree,” he murmured.
Basch squeezed his hand. “I reckon you can hardly recognise it now, hm? So, what do you think?” He let go and moved in front, facing Sartauvoir with his arms out.
The old familiar tree was wreathed in small, twinkling globes, shimmering with light even though the day was getting brighter. They hung from every branch, interspersed with wildflowers and what seemed to be wrought golden Phenexes, dancing in the gentle breeze.
Sartauvoir reached up and cupped one of the lower hanging lights with his palm, laughing with delight as he realised that they were little fireballs, their strings cunningly made to resemble the blazing trail behind each.
“How long did this take you?”
“Oh, you know. A few nights, here and there.”
“Nights? Basch!”
“What? You were asleep, love, and I was hardly going to wake you up to help with my surprise. Besides, I remember just how much rest I needed, when I first arrived here, and I intended to let you have it.”
“Hmm, well I suppose I can forgive you. Since it’s for our Eternal Bonding, after all.” Sartauvoir let the light fall, his stomach fluttering.
“Indeed.” Basch held out both hands, and Sartauvoir took them, allowed himself to be led into the middle of the beautifully lit bower.
He let go of Basch’s hands for long enough to pull both rings from his pocket, feeling their weight with new significance. “So,” he said.
“So.” Basch smiled up at him. “Sartauvoir quo Soranus. Well, I suppose we’re neither of us ranked any more, are we? Sartauvoir Soranus, then. Though we had scant few years together, I feel like I always knew that I wanted this. You… complete me. I love you with every fibre of my being, fireballs and transformation all.”
“Especially the transformation,” Sartauvoir breathed, an unexpected giggle slipping from his lips.
Basch’s eyes crinkled as he snorted. “Yes, especially that. So, Sartauvoir. We have no celebrant here to ask, but will you have me? For the rest of our, ah, unlives?” He reached out and took the ring Sartauvoir had worn for so many years, held it steady over the first knuckle of Sartauvoir’s ring finger.
“I will.” The words were simple, but they fell from Sartauvoir’s lips like a prayer. Basch slid the ring down both knuckles and it settled back into place as though it had never been removed.
Sartauvoir held the remaining ring - Basch’s ring - in the palm of his hand, a warm weight that had comforted him for all those years alone. “Basch Gabranth, I remember the way you made me feel, way back then, even from the day we first met under this very tree. Like I would burn the world down if only it would hold your attention, get you to ask more of those incessant questions you’re so fond of. We… had too little time, you and I. Far too little time. I would have grown old and grey by your side, but I suppose there’s no need for grand statements like that any more. We have all the time in the world, now, and I would spend it with you, if you will have me.”
He took Basch’s left hand, feeling the slide of his calloused fingers as he positioned the ring. “I feel like… I love you so much I could burn to ashes from it. Will you be my Bondmate, Basch? Will you have me at your side?”
Basch blinked slowly up at him, a slow, beatific smile spreading across his lips. “I will.”
With shaking hands, Sartauvoir pushed the ring down onto Basch’s finger and held it there, looking down into those green eyes as they caught the midday sun.
“I believe this is when we would be ordered to kiss,” Basch said in a stage whisper, and the laugh that burst from Sartauvoir’s lips startled even himself, though it was soon stifled by Basch going up onto his tiptoes and kissing him, and then their arms were twining about the other, Basch pushing him against the trunk of their tree as they lost themselves in a kiss like the most heady of wines.
- - -
The sun drifted languidly below the horizon, but all about were the little fireball lights and, now that the day had darkened, Sartauvoir realised that each little Phenex had glittering red eyes which glowed like embers in the dusk.
They lay on the soft grass below their tree, atop a thickly woven rug that Basch had produced from flames-knew where, with a bottle between them and a pair of red crystal glasses replete with a generous amount of richly fragrant red wine in each.
Sartauvoir’s left hand was in Basch’s right, and he smiled as Basch rubbed his thumb across the ring once more. “I can’t quite believe it, either,” he murmured, then took a sip of the wine. “Oh Mannatheihwo, this is amazing.”
“It’s not quite a real Valendian red, but it’s close enough. I haven’t quite been able to replicate that yet. Needs a little more work.”
“I still can’t believe you’ve been trying to replicate a Valens. Isn’t that blasphemy? Or, I don’t know. Illegal?”
Basch laughed out loud. “Oh yes, very illegal. Wine fraud is a crime of the highest order, you know. You’d better not mention that too loud or we’ll have the ghost watchmen knocking our door in.”
Sartauvoir swatted him on the thigh. “Alright, alright, point taken. It just feels… strange. Talking about replicating a priceless wine so casually.”
“I’m sure you won’t be complaining when you’re getting to drink some, finally.” Basch took a sip of his own wine and smiled. “Hm, not half bad. It’s getting there. I would have liked to have the Valens ready for this, you know. But alas, these things take time.”
“Much like good wine ageing, I imagine.” Sartauvoir took another sip, savouring the warmth of it.
“Aye, that’s what they say.” Basch leaned against his shoulder and sighed, deep and happy. He tapped his ring finger against the crystal of his wine glass and the sound rang out, a beautiful chime in the deepening dusk.
“So, back then?”
“Hm?” Basch looked up at him.
“When we first met, under this tree. Did you ever think that all your persuading would lead to this?”
“Never in a thousand summers. All I wanted to do was recruit this genius pyromancer I’d heard so much about.” Basch squeezed his hand, thumb rubbing across the ring again. “I am glad I finally came myself. Who knows how many more of my men’s arses you’d have singed otherwise.”
“I’m glad too. And not only because you ended up in my bed that night.” Sartauvoir smirked. “But ah! Speaking of singeing. Here, let me-” He let go of Basch’s hand and conjured up a flame, low and dim. He passed his hand over Basch’s glass, then his own, and their wine began to gently steam. “No spices, I’m afraid, but mulled wine is delicious enough without it.”
Basch cradled his now-warm glass, watching the steam for a moment before turning that gaze on him, such naked love in his eyes that Sartauvoir felt his ears turn pink. “By all the hells, I love you.”
Sartauvoir huffed out a laugh. “Well, it’s a good thing really. You’re stuck with me, now.”
“Good. I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d rather spend the rest of my eternity with.”