Chapter Text
One of Ifan’s quirks that was the frequent subject of Francis’ ridicule – the fact that he absolutely refused to go to sleep without a proper pair of pants on, no matter the occasion – had ended up being yet another pearl of outlaw wisdom. The first time Francis had commented on it, Ifan had simply raised an eyebrow and shrugged, but of course, the scientist never gave up that easy. Ifan had patiently smiled through his answer.
You can put a shirt on while running, he’d elaborated eventually, but a pair of pants? That’s a bit of an art form.
He’d been right, of course. And so, Francis was forced to bolt through the fields in nothing but his underwear, Ifan part naked and part armored next to him, after jumping out of a first floor tavern window and thoroughly twisting his ankle in an uncanny throwback to his teenage years.
Only instead of Guil Levieve’s mother on his heels with a rug beater, it was the men and women of the Magistrate’s road patrol in pursuit of two fraudulent gamblers. Which was somehow significantly less terrifying. Oh, he felt so young.
When they had finally lost their unwanted company and stopped for a bit for Francis to heal his foot and put some clothes on, he regaled the tale to Ifan, who found it immensely funny. And not for the reasons you’d think.
"I’ve never understood it," he said, bemused. "The human obsession with hiding your desire. And with who is allowed to desire who. It’s all so… stupid."
And that, of course, explained a lot. Francis grinned.
"Oh, get off your high horse, ben-Mezd. No sins of the flesh in your elven youth?"
"Not that it would've been considered a sin," grumbled Ifan. "But no. I was pretty lonely in Tiriana. The language, you know. And obsessed with never making a mistake for the same reasons. I had a few friends, but – my first time was in the army."
Francis’ eyelid had never twitched so hard. He held up a hand.
"Hold that thought."
After rummaging around in his pack for a while, he finally found what he had been looking for – a dusty bottle of wine of more than dubious origin. Francis wouldn’t have said he was above getting people drunk in order to get information out of them, but an already tipsy and talkative Ifan was a rare enough sight to behold, and he firmly intended to make the best of it while keeping equal ground. He triumphantly held up the bottle.
"There we go. Now you can tell me."
Ifan shook his head.
"We should keep moving," he said. "Where on earth did you get that from?"
"Found it in Ryker’s mansion - hope it's not embalming oil. And we can drink while walking. So, Ifan – who was he? Your army fling?" He grinned. "Nice elven boy?"
Ifan snorted. "Human woman. DeSelby. My commanding officer at the time."
Francis made a dramatic gasp. "Scandalous."
"Yeah, well." He took the bottle from Francis and giggled. "We were both way too young. It didn’t last long, because she went on to discover her taste for the female population, and I realized that she wasn’t exactly my type either. We were good friends. Pulled my ass out of the fire more than once. And she got me promoted."
"Oh, gods. Sleeping up the ranks, were we?"
"That too." Ifan grinned. "But also – I never realized it before, because everyone else was always years ahead of me, but being trained in elven martial made me a tough bastard to keep in the infantry. They put me in charge of a gaggle of other kids, until most of my unit was crushed to death at Ataraxia, and into an elven archery regimen after that. Because of the language. That’s where I had the nice elven boy. If you can call him that."
Francis had the sudden impulse to take notes.
Ifan took a sip of wine, a melancholic little smile on his face. "Lysanthir, was his name. He was… a special one. I was mostly a translator, commander in title only, but he – Seranna-ma. I’m talking your goddamn ear off."
"I’m literally begging you to keep going."
"Nosy bastard." He handed the bottle back to Francis, gesturing impatience. "Fine. He was one of the best archers in the unit. Taught me a lot, both in bed and outside of it. He got tried for insubordination right before the war reached the valley of forests. Threatened to cut our leading general’s face off and wear it as a festival mask."
Francis snorted. "You do have unique taste in men."
Ifan clicked his tongue and took another sip of wine.
"And DeSelby?" Asked Francis, noticing the shift in mood, "What happened to her?"
Ifan shrugged. "No idea. I deserted after – you know."
Francis grimaced. "Oh. Yeah." He smiled at Ifan, in an attempt to cheer him up. "I can see her point though. You would make a beautiful woman. Not that you’re not beautiful now."
Ifan laughed. "So people kept saying. You know that it took me almost a year to understand it wasn’t a compliment? The South is just fucking strange."
"You guys literally eat each other. But I do mean it as a compliment." Francis clapped him on the shoulder, his words beginning to slur. "I’ve always loved the in-between, you know? Feminine. Masculine. Why pick one when you can take what’s best from either."
"So you’ve said." Ifan smiled, slightly crooked, gearing up for his counterattack. "How’s it looking, Doc. Are you drunk enough to tell me about your first love yet?"
The scientist sighed. “Give me the bottle.”
And so, Francis told him about Eshe.
How he’d met her the first time, a freshly enrolled student of archeology out for a night of drinks, ending up in the blue hours of the morning in a delightful little hive of hedonism called the Starling.
How he’d been completely unable to stop staring. How she’d pulled him up on stage to twirl him around in a dance with her, completely unbothered by the fact that he didn’t know a single one of the steps – her red dress fluttering around her, eyes shining like the sun, a human hurricane of energy, passion and elegance.
How he’d gone to see her every week when she danced, and eventually met her outside by chance, meaning to ask her out but unable to say a single thing. How she had laughed and asked him out instead, taking him for a walk that very evening, talking about love and science and poetry and music, the world and everything in it, until the break of dawn.
How for the first time in his hard-earned academy career, he’d begun skipping class and sneaking off to see her whenever her busy evenings allowed it. How he’d seen her without a wig and make-up on for the first time and almost didn’t recognize her. How relieved she’d been that Francis didn’t seem to mind her occupational necessity for seeing other men. How they’d gotten a little apartment and started making a life together, rarely seeing each other but enjoying each other’s presence as much as they could. Ifan smiled.
"She didn’t have it easy," Francis said eventually, lost in thought. "But she always kept her head high. She was just… born in the wrong body, you know."
Ifan hummed. "That’s a bit offensive to say, I thought."
Francis shrugged. "She said it about herself. I doubt it had anything to do with gender, either. She was quite confident in that. Her body just kept antagonizing her. She was a sourcerer too. But no one ever taught her how to handle it, and by the time she was an adult, it – attacked her. Ate her up from the inside. No healer knew what to do about it."
Ifan shot him a compassionate glance.
"Is that why you studied medicine?"
"Partly. I was a blood mage already, and during my excavations I learned quite a bit about necromancy. But I needed the anatomical knowledge, and the alchemic one to apply it. Her nerves kept dying off and I kept reviving what I could, but – it had side effects. That kind of magic, it’s – it takes a lot. A lot of source. A lot of blood."
Ifan stopped and extended his arms.
They hugged for a long while, until Francis felt tears coming, pulled away and kept walking, gesturing gratitude.
"I worked on a cure of source instability for my doctorate thesis. But it took so fucking long, I kept getting denied funding, not to mention those Celests and Order bastards at the academy kept trying to get rid of me every step of the way. I put everything I had into it, and Eshe was – I think we started hating each other a little, at that time."
The tears didn’t stop, but he kept talking.
"I met Tarquin. He helped me out a lot with the more inaccessible parts of my research, if you understand. Forbidden knowledge. And during it all, Eshe kept disappearing. Gods know where to. I think she felt guilty. Had to drag her out of opium dens, away from violent men, off the fucking bridge railing sometimes – and I get it, you know, I never blamed her for it, she was in pain, I fucking get it–"
He made a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh.
"Who knows if we were even in love with each other anymore. Or if we ever really were. Sometimes, she didn’t even recognize me. Yelled at me to stay away from her, and when I tried finding comfort somewhere else, begged me to come back. I was hell-bent on keeping her alive, and she was tired of living. The worst combination you can have. But sometimes, we’d dance in the kitchen together. And we kept doing that. Until the end."
They were silent for a long while after that.
Francis appreciated it. As far as it platitudes went, he’d heard them all. When Ifan turned to him, it was with a little bow of his head.
"You’ve taught me," he said. "I promise you to stay alive. And to tell you where I’m going."
Francis wiped his face and smiled at him.
"I know you will. I trust you."
They talked of lighter things for the rest of the night, as far as it was possible.
Laughed about things that shouldn’t be laughed about. They stayed off the main road on their way back into town. Ifan told him the stories of the stars, and summoned Afrit to walk beside them. Francis told him the shit he’d gotten up to while at the Academy.
And of course, they argued. And made out. And argued again. With much less malice than before, little jabs and rolling eyes, nothing under the belt line. More banter than injury, but it was comfortable to them. Calculable. Familiar. They pulled the book out and read poems to each other, fell in love with each other some more, and got drunker by the second.
And that was the story of how, with the sun peeking over the horizon, Francis received the blowjob of his life behind the Driftwood freight docks. Ifan looked up at him, seeming insufferably pleased with himself, as Francis fought for breath with his head leaned back against the wall, holding himself up with all the graceful steadiness of a newborn giraffe.
"I think I’m ready to forgive you."
"Oh." Ifan cackled and threw his head back in a grin, his voice delightfully frazzled. "That’s a dangerous path to set me on, Lowbridge."
"You’re right. I’ll hold it back."
Francis’ newest secret weapon in the game wasn’t an allrounder. But that didn’t sway him from his holy mission of driving Ifan insane by being nice and gentle. It only worked in very specific circumstances.
Whenever he was at ease.
Shortly after waking up next to Francis. After working out. And, of course, while being high.
Ifan relapsed on day three of being back on Driftwood soil. Although it wasn’t exactly fair to call it a relapse when he’d declared no intention of stopping in the first place. But Francis wasn’t too worried about it. It was just a bad day.
The man had woken up in a cold sweat before the sun had even began to rise, muttering something indistinct that he only understood once Ifan had jerked upright and opened his eyes. Get away from the window. And instead of laying back down and crushing Francis with his full body weight, he’d put a shirt on and left. But not before, unaware that Francis had woken up as well, leaning over the table and scribbling into his notebook to let him know where he was going. The warmth flooding his heart was indescribably embarrassing.
at effie’s, it read. back tonight. i love you.
The uncapitalized chicken scrawl and the seven words it declared upon the second attempt of trying to decipher it was enough for Francis to fall back asleep with a serene little smile.
Shameless, truly. He’d get the bill.
He woke back up at a slightly less ungodly hour, had some tea, stocked up on a few things in town and exchanged a few more than unfriendly words with a scrap metal salesman at the market before making his way to the Black Bull in the late afternoon.
It felt almost domestic.
Thrash waved him through with a good-natured roll of his eyes, but not before congratulating him on the number him and Lohse had pulled at the magister’s favorite pub, grinning widely. Francis hadn’t been there to witness the end of the brawl they’d caused, but allegedly, it had been quite spectacular and involved multiple serious injuries among the lawmen. Apparently, good enough for the bouncer to change his everlasting attitude.
Effie was less forgiving. She clearly hadn’t forgotten his last visit.
"Miss Effie, apple of my eye," Francis announced himself, extending his arms in greeting. "So glad to be back in your humble establishment. How are you? How’s business?"
She raised both eyebrows and crossed her arms, looking up from her book.
"Francis."
"The very same." He grinned. "And significantly less wasted this time. I’ve made a fool of myself, I’m well aware. Sorry for the trouble."
"I find apologies best received in coin," said Effie. "What do you want?"
As if she didn’t know. Francis dug into his reassuringly heavy purse and counted twenty gold coins, Effie’s going rate for headaches, if he remembered correctly. She hummed.
"Now for the question of the hour. Where is my man?"
She indicated it with a nod. "Tent."
Francis made his way through the room and knocked on the door.
"Ifan. It’s me. You want some company?"
No answer.
"Oi, dickhead. You can tell me to fuck off, but you do need to tell me." He knocked again and shook the paper bag in his hand. "I got you some food. Speak."
A laugh. Francis smiled.
"Fine. I’m bought. Come on in."
He found Ifan leaned against some pillows, pipe in one hand, shirt open, a glass of tea next to him and apparently, in the process of playing a round of chess. Against himself. And the smile he greeted Francis with was, for lack of a better word, a little silly. He was high as a kite.
Ifan wiggled his eyebrows. "Miss me too much?"
"Yup," said Francis. "I got you dumplings."
"Mh." He closed his eyes and leaned back a little. "You do know how to bribe me."
Francis crouched down and examined the board, pointing a finger between the opposing rows of figurines, elaborately carved but smooth and chipped from use. "Who’s winning?"
Ifan grinned. "Me. Wanna play?"
"I don’t know how."
Ifan looked at him in extended confusion, eyes a little too bright in the low flicker of the oil lamp. "Hell, I had no idea. Sit down. I’ll show you. I’m a pretty good teacher, you know."
Francis rolled his eyes. "Yeah. I remember."
They played for at least two hours, finished the dumplings while Ifan described the different moves he was making and what their purpose was, hands flicking, and almost completely forgetting about the pipe next to him. Francis listened intently. He quickly picked up on the rules. Ifan congratulated him on it, earnestly so, and his eyes became a little more focused, his movements a little more directed as he repeatedly dragged his ass to defeat anyway, seeing no point in going easy on him, but never ridiculing him.
Francis smiled. He was a good teacher.
When Ifan was done destroying him at chess, Francis scooched over to his side of the board and put his arm around him. Ifan leaned into it.
"What happened?" Asked Francis eventually. "Is Rhalic giving you shit?"
Ifan shook his head.
"Nope. He’s been quiet. I think he’s getting what he wants now that I’m using source again. I still don’t like it, but at least with what Saheila did, I’m not destroying anyone’s memory."
"What… is it that she did, exactly? I get that you’re a scion now, but what does that mean? Can you see the future?"
"No." Ifan chuckled briefly. "At least, I don’t think I can. She connected me to the roots, using the source of the ancestor tree that I – that Rhalic consumed. Allows me to read and channel memory, the way that elves do by honoring flesh. Scions are memory keepers, first and foremost. The tree part is… expected, but not necessary."
Francis thought this over. "I don’t think I get it."
"I don’t think you need to."
Francis rolled his eyes. "This, again. You can’t just open an unsolved mystery right there before my eyes and expect me not to ask questions. Dirthara na hellathen."
"Learning and prying are two different things. It ain’t unsolved," Ifan disputed. "Just not solved by humans. And it’s good that way. The root network holds the entire history of the elven kin. Very centralized, very vulnerable. Easy to use against them."
Francis slipped a hand under his shirt and pinched his waist. "Always the tactician."
Ifan made a deep noise somewhere between pleasure and complaint. Francis grinned and let go again, drawing little circles on his skin instead, slow and patient.
"It’s… weird," mused the scientist. "The way Rhalic was with you. It was never the same for me, and part of it may be because you’re an addict, but – I’m not the most well-adjusted person either. I talked to him just the other day. He was annoying, sure, but he did help me out without much trouble. And I’ve never exactly been all that devout to him."
Ifan sighed and ran his fingers over his leg in return, over the embroidery of his robes.
"Have you tried it?" He asked. "Not drawing source after you use it?"
Francis nodded. "Yeah. Right after you told me. No changes."
Ifan raised an eyebrow. "That is weird."
"It really is, huh?" Francis scratched his head. "It’s like we have a completely different god in our heads."
Ifan hummed. He was nuzzling against his neck, while Francis continued drawing his fingers across his side – breathing deeply, leaning into the touch as much as he could.
"Thank you," he said eventually. "For playing with me. And for the food. It helped. Felt like shit when I woke up."
"Nightmares?"
Agreement.
"Don’t worry about it," said Francis with a little grin, "I’ll play with you anytime. All you gotta do is ask."
Ifan gave a low chuckle, and kissed his neck. “That a promise?”
"It can be if you want it to be."
"What if I asked now? Not chess, to be clear."
Francis raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"
Ifan smirked and reached up to turn his face toward him, one finger under his chin. "Do I look like I got somewhere else to be, Lowbridge?"
That made Francis forget everything for a second. He lost himself in Ifan’s face, in his deep, warm eyes, before finding himself again and smiling back.
"Bossy. I like it."
Ifan grinned. "Could’ve fooled me."
Francis pushed him back against the pillows, ran one single finger up his chest, very slowly. Ifan shivered. "Not really," Francis hummed. "I’m happy when you ask for things. I got no interest in making you mine, or whatever. I want to learn what you like."
His fingers ran up the side of his neck. Ifan tilted his head up, closed his eyes and sighed, the anticipation clearly written in the way one of his teeth caught on his lip as he did.
"Make me yours?" He drew it out, just like Francis did with everything else. "Don’t flatter yourself. A dozen men have tried." He snickered. "And don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the reminders. But make no mistake. I choose to be yours."
Fuck patience. Francis grabbed the side of his face and kissed him deeply, if slowly still, basking in the way he received it – rarely demanding, but never timid or passive, tilting his head back between his hands when they separated to take in the sight of him.
"What gives you the right to be so goddamn sexy?"
Ifan flashed him a grin, lips wet and and cheeks a little flushed, and so – at ease.
"You should do something about it."
"Gods. Get new material."
"Why? It always –"
Francis gently grabbed his hair with one hand. Ifan actually moaned, low and shameless, a little too quickly, but offensively hot. Francis got closer and quirked an eyebrow.
"It’s not that I don’t love to hear you enjoying yourself, but you might wanna be a little more subtle. The walls are made of fabric."
Ifan bit his lip and nodded. Francis immediately got to work on making him forget it, and everything else as well. Kissed down his body, gently playing him with his free hand, like he had all the time in the world, until he started squirming a little. Making him flinch with a drag of nails or a soft bite here and there, teased him without respite while holding him in place with a gentle grip on his hair. Needless to say, Ifan didn’t keep quiet for long.
He arched into him when Francis dragged a steady hand along the inside of his thigh, Ifan’s lips forming around a muted profanity as his fingers wandered up higher, breathing sharper – Francis stopped in his movement and grinned. Ifan rolled his eyes.
"You’re killing me," he confessed in a whisper.
Francis pinched his thigh, making him hiss in pleasure. So sensitive.
"I didn’t even get started yet. There’s so much to learn. Turn over, would you?"
"Oh, gods." Ifan muttered, but did as he was asked – Francis looked at him laying there, put one hands between his shoulders and pulled his hips up with the other, flush against his, causing him to snap an unfamiliar curse with that movement alone. He smirked.
"Is this what you meant when you said you wanted me to watch your back?"
"Ma halam. That’s beneath you."
"No. You’re beneath me."
Ifan clicked his tongue, in, finally – annoyed impatience. Francis counteracted it by dragging his nails slowly over the side of his ribcage. He groaned and buried his scarred hands in the pillow in front of him, as Francis leaned over him and left a trail of soft kisses down his spine, giving his back the same meticulously gentle treatment, reaching around to flick a finger against his nipple once or twice until Ifan seemed to be on the verge of finally fucking losing it, chasing every small bit of pressure, his noises muffled by the pillow, thighs beginning to twitch.
Francis decided it was time for a small mercy.
He slipped a hand into his pants and began stroking him, slow and light as a feather. Ifan yelped. He pressed his face into the cushions, hands clenched into fists, shivering, swearing and moaning in equal measure. Francis had the time of his life. Until he heard, between the obscenities and deep, involuntary sounds of pleasure, a string of words even he in all his grandiosity hadn’t expected to pluck from him. Faster. Please.
Francis stopped in his tracks, drawing a downright desperate sound of frustration from Ifan, and looked down at his lover in complete amazement.
"Strike me down," he whispered. "Are you begging?"
A deep exhale. Ifan’s head snapped up rapidly, the glare on his face rivaling death itself.
"The fuck does it look like," he hissed, "Yes. I’m begging you. Please fuck me already."
The amount of self-control Francis suddenly found in himself surprised even him. Small mercies be damned. He was gonna make him scream. Francis removed his hand, and Ifan collapsed completely, cursing him three ways to hell as he did.
"You don’t have to tell me twice," said Francis, followed by a gratuitous smack on his ass. "But not here. I don’t wanna ruin what’s left of my diplomatic relations with your family. Meet me on the ship. Do what you gotta do. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t."
Ifan turned around to him, very slowly. The look on his face, Francis wasn’t gonna lie, made him shiver a little. He was hot when he was angry, damn him thrice.
"You’re evil. You’re an evil man, Lowbridge."
Francis stood up and raised his hands.
"What can I say. You have a type."
Apparently, Ifan had decided that his audacity couldn’t go unpunished. He was making him wait. And that would have been just fine with Francis, if he had anything else to do but sit there and wait for his lover like a nervous teenager before his first lay.
Until he heard a noise.
A slow, clapping sound, like an applause. Francis jumped up and looked around. Checked behind the curtains, even, until he realized the sound was coming from inside his head.
A laugh echoed in his mind.
Godwoken. Relax. It’s me.
Francis rolled his eyes and threw his hands up, sitting back down on the bed.
"Aren’t you all-seeing?" He snapped. "Shouldn’t you be aware that you have the worst timing?"
It will relieve you to hear that I’m not. But comedy is all about the timing.
"Yeah, I'm laughing my ass off," deadpanned Francis, "What do you want?"
A short silence, then a cackle. When Rhalic spoke, his voice was no longer strained and cracking, like that of an old man months away from his demise, but lilting and smooth. The twilight glow was closing in on the edges of his vision.
You’ve finally figured it out, haven’t you.
Francis’ eyes widened.
"Oh, God’s tongue and tits. You’re not Rhalic. Who the fuck are you?"
A snicker.
Took you long enough. My name is Xantezza, your god and gracious host tonight. Nice to officially meet you.
Francis scrunched his lip up in confusion.
"What? Xantezza? Why? Why did you… pretend to be Rhalic?"
Because it’s hilarious. How much that bloated humorless prick hates his godwoken. And the look on his face when he watched you rise to holiness, believing you’re his. It kills me.
"Let me get this straight," Francis drew out slowly, "You’re doing this just for the fun of it? Aren’t you, I don’t know. Dying, like everyone else up there?"
My time has come, she said, unperturbed. Besides – if anyone knows the value of gallows humor, it should be you, shouldn’t it?
Francis tilted his head. Huh. She might have a point there.
"Aren’t you the god of imps, or whatever? Why did you pick me?"
I am the god of mirth. You were the funniest choice.
"Ha, ha," snarled Francis. "Yeah. I’m laughing, in case you can’t see. Now please kindly, fuck off. I have important things on my to do list before I go and fight your holy war."
Only you would talk to an immortal that way. She cackled. Suits me fine. There’s nothing quite as boring as devotion. And I won’t keep you. I thought you were simply going to fight the Silver Claw for your position in the well. But bedding him? That’s so much better.
She wheezed with laughter.
What could be funnier than you, balls-deep in Rhalic’s chosen. Did you know he picked Ifan just to spite Tir-Cendelius? Serves him right. The god of power, stuck with the one man who wants it least. It really is to die for.
"Oh, for fuck’s sake. Please stop talking."
Don’t beat yourself up about it, continued Xantezza. You have an important role to play. You are a trickster, well and truly. Just like me. You’ve beaten the game, Francis. You tricked death. You tricked fate. You tricked the social order, and I dare say, even nature itself. People tend to underestimate us. To most, I am the least important god.
She yawned. The twilight glow began to fade.
When the time is right, I will show you. For now, suffice it to say – without a trickster, change would never happen. Mirth is the opposite of hopelessness. It drives a revolution.
“How very fucking philosophical of you. Good night.”
Ifan had apparently found it in himself to take a bath.
His hair was still wet, curling a little at the edges, when he showed up at the door of their newly-carved room on the Lady Vengeance. Francis got him naked before they’d even made it inside. He’d proven his constraint. The game had gone on for too long, and he no longer cared who was winning.
It was all in the play, anyway.
The mystery, not the solution.
Ifan picked him up like a sack of potatoes while he kissed him, ignoring his complaints, and Francis banged his head against the doorframe while he got carried to the bed. It was ridiculous, really. But to be fair, his last concussion hadn’t hurt the matter either. Ifan threw him onto the mattress with a little more gusto than necessary, the bed creaking, before his intense stare softened.
And he looked like he was about to say something, about to give another unhinged declaration of love to one of the curious things he found interesting about Francis, like he did often in these moments. The man had a very peculiar way of percieving beauty. Francis had a hard time believing it on most days, weren’t he so sure that Ifan was completely incapable of false flattery, not caring in the least about decorum, time and place. The pure warmth in his gaze made him believe it.
He waved Ifan toward him with a smirk.
“I know I’m pretty, ben-Mezd. Come do something about it.”
Ifan laughed and crawled onto the bed with him. He had recovered a little, apparently – the sly sensuality that came so easy to him back with a vengeance. Francis dug into his shoulders and kissed him deeply, once more, fingers running down his back. He felt the muscles move there as Ifan arched into the touch, a perfectly smooth, graceful play, in control of every single inch of his body. Like a dancer, he thought for the first time, as he bit into the skin under his ear, the resonant moan that followed it making his own skin vibrate. Ifan was fierce. He always had been. Fierce and intense and still, so gentle.
And Francis enjoyed that side of him as much as any other, but the novelty tickled him. The novelty of snatching Ifan’s ferocious, demanding intensity from him, the one he displayed while completely lost in the rise of uncontrolled pleasure. It was very attractive.
He guided his warm, lean body into the mattress, without pulling him along. Enamoured by the way he simply followed his intent, without mistrust – and looked up at him in calm anticipation. Francis took his sweet time once again, building up what he’d lost on the way here. Putting the results of his week-long research to good use, pushing his buttons – encircling them slowly, building the tension, making him writhe under him to reach the places he really wanted him to go. His touches became a little sharper, a litte deeper, and Ifan audibly more desperate, his sensitivity strained by the events of the day and the week, until Francis decided that the man had suffered long enough.
And so he ended up, indeed, balls-deep in Rhalic’s chosen.
It wasn’t like he had forgotten the sight since their last time, different as it might have been. Frenzied, vulnerable, and so fucking beautiful. His hair splayed over the pillow and sticking to his neck, his breathing hot and ragged, lip pulled up slightly, and crying out a little from the first push alone. Francis couldn’t help staring as Ifan twisted his body, trying to deepen the contact, followed by a frustrated whimper.
"Please," he panted. "Move."
Francis grinned and snapped his hips forward. Ifan gasped for air, throwing his head back.
"Is that an order, Commander?"
Oh, that did it. Ifan bared his fangs in a pained snarl and glared at him, his fingers twisting into the blanket, then cried out again when Francis pulled out torturously slow, his whole body tensed around him, barely able to grind out his answer.
"Move, you demon–"
"Yessir," purred Francis, smitten with Ifan’s sudden fury, and continued, slow and deep and thorough, leaning over him, pulling him in closer by his hips with every thrust until Ifan lost each scrap of precious self-awareness. His legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him closer still, hands reaching up to claw into his back, his moans strained and breathless.
Francis wasn’t anywhere near the end of his show. He lowered himself over Ifan to reach his chest while keeping his slow pace – the angle was complicated. The noise was worth it. Ifan’s torso jerked upward, the movement deepening the penetration. A startled, inarticulate curse broke out of him, interrupted by him biting his lip, while Francis held his body in place with a firm grip on his waist – and Ifan immediately bucked again when Francis’ tongue flicked against his nipple.
A barely muffled cry of pleasure.
Ifan grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him up further, trying to make him go deeper. Francis chuckled. There was time. As much as he loved Ifan’s hand where it was, he had a plan to bring to fruition here. He reached up while a particularly deep, agonizing thrust made Ifan twist his neck and push his head into the mattress, nailed his wrist to the bed, stuck his tongue out and swirled it around the sensitive nipple in time with his strokes.
The string of drawn-out whimpers he received as a reward made him very aware of his own rising pleasure, suddenly. But he wasn’t gonna give up that easy. Damn Ifan and his iron body control. He was gonna finish him.
Francis pinned his other wrist down, watching in fascination as Ifan released the bite on his lip, his mouth open, brows raised in ecstasy, arching into the touch of his tongue, his moans becoming more and more frantic until he drew back from it a little, overstimulated, and unable to move away.
Francis left his nipple alone for a moment to add another diligent love bite to the growing collection under his collarbone. He hadn’t much cared for it before, but Ifan loved it.
"Harder," he gasped, breath hot against his ear, "Please. Fuck."
And who could say no to that. Francis fucked him into the mattress with a boldness that surprised even him, the creaky bed slamming against the wall, while Ifan’s eyes rolled back and the sounds he made became so obscene that Francis had trouble holding it together.
Until Ifan, on the edge of insanity, snapped his head up and bit into his shoulder. Francis cried out in shock. Fuck, those teeth were sharp. But it did pull him back to reality a little. He had a mission to finish here, dammit.
Ifan let go of him again, suddenly self-conscious of the act, but it didn’t last for long. Francis released one of his wrists and began jerking him off in tune, holding himself up on one trembling arm – Ifan’s broad thighs wrenched around him like he was about to crush him, his body glistening with sweat, his free hand dragging over Francis’ back, pulling him closer, deeper.
Francis gave in, snapping his hips in a rough, intense pattern, moaning, moving his hand in accord, until he saw the muscles on Ifan’s abdomen tense, his neck twist, his teeth grinding together around sharp, frenzied gasps, stubbornly refusing himself to reach the peak, until – Oh, thought Francis. He’s waiting. That’s so sweet. And then, he stopped thinking altogether. He just managed a warning, and two last, deep strokes. His mind blanked as he came, barely registering the fact that the desired result of making Ifan scream had been achieved, his spine arching under him and his entire body twitching violently as he followed with an agonized cry of relief. Francis collapsed on top of him.
What a beautiful thing it was, to have time.
They laid there like that for a long while, dizzy, overheated and completely exhausted. When Francis began touching on his place in reality again, he raised his head a little to look at Ifan’s face – his half-lidden eyes, the bitten lips – and decided that his downfall had been the best thing to ever happen to him if it meant getting to witness the blissful epiphany of Ifan after a drawn-out orgasm.
Complete serenity. Francis smiled softly.
"You okay?"
He reached out and ran a gentle hand over his chest. Ifan flinched. His legs twitched, and judging from the way he looked, there wasn’t a single thought left in his head. He waited.
Agreement, signed Ifan eventually. Understatement. Fuck you.
Francis laughed. Ifan reached up to squeeze his ass with a lazy grin, feeling him there, earning a small, startled yelp followed by a warning look. It didn’t seem to bother him in the least.
"I take it I’m forgiven, then?"
"Ugh," groaned Francis. "Don’t ask me that while I’m still inside you."
Ifan hummed, the picture of self-satisfaction. He hissed through his teeth when Francis carefully pulled out, sore and oversensitive, and Francis left him there to recover a little while he got something to clean them up. His legs were trembling. Gods.
When he finished his job, he left a soft kiss on Ifan’s stomach and laid down next to him while Ifan wrapped his arms around him and pulled him in. Francis’ fingers drew light circles on his skin, making him shiver a little.
"Yes, dickhead," he murmured. "Of course you’re forgiven. You have been since the quarry. But you don’t need my forgiveness, you know that. Right?"
"Yeah," drawled Ifan with an incorrigible smirk. "But I want it. And I usually get what I want."
His hand landed on Francis’ head, playing with his curls, softly scratching over his scalp. Francis hummed. It did feel nice. Those warm, rough hands, so gentle at times – there really was something different about being touched by someone you had feelings for.
"Mostly, at least." Ifan snickered. "Ma enaste. You really drove me crazy. I’m impressed. You did learn a thing or two about self-control since last time. Quick study, indeed."
"I could tell. Fuck. Those teeth are weapons. And I had to get creative," admitted Francis with a chuckle. "Treating you like shit just turns you on. Not much else left to do."
Ifan hummed. "I’m sorry to tell you, then. It felt great."
He let go of Francis for a second, raised his arms over his head, curving his spine and stretched until he heard the joints pop, with a sigh of satisfaction. Francis took advantage and reached over to pinch his nipple. A deep moan, followed by a smug grin.
Francis rolled his eyes. "You are a glutton for punishment."
"Pain," he corrected with a smirk. "Not punishment. I’ve learned my lesson on punishment. What about you, gorgeous? Are you okay? Need anything?"
That voice, vibrating through his skin under him – it did things. It always had. Damn him.
"Nah," said Francis, closed his eyes and patted his shoulder. "You’ve made me very happy tonight. Don’t worry. I’m good."
Ifan didn’t respond to that for a while, but reached back down and kept running his fingers over Francis’ nape and his back, only speaking again when he’d succeeded in drawing a pleased little sigh from him as well. His hand stopped over the crab tattoo. He hesitated.
"Don’t you ever get tired of being kind?"
Francis snorted. "Kind?"
"Mh-hm," confirmed Ifan. "You always are. And I’m not naïve, I know you’re no saint, either. You go to extremes, but…" He put a hand under his jaw and tilted his head up, meeting his eyes. "You always do it to make sure that everyone’s okay. It can’t be easy."
"Yeah, yeah. Keep thinking that."
Francis clicked his tongue, trying to evade those intense eyes, but Ifan didn’t let him. He insisted on staring at him with conviction, until Francis relented and looked back up.
"You are kind, Francis. You are caring, and considerate, and you’re fucking beautiful. Deal with it. You always take care of me, and everyone else. Let me take care of you too."
Francis grumbled something indistinct, feeling the blush rising to his ears. Fuck.
"Please," insisted Ifan. "Let me learn. Tell me what you like, and what makes you happy. Tell me what to do on your bad days. Stop making me guess." He squinted at him. "Promise me."
Francis groaned.
"Whatever, dickhead. Fine. I promise."
Ifan closed his eyes, and laid his head back to rest on the blankets with a smile.
"Good."
It took the others three more days to reach the harbor, and needless to say, they made good use of those days. Between fixing up the ship, and the armory, they had ample free time. Jahan the demon hunter joined them one day before, expressing the desire to come with them to hunt after Lohse’s abyssal passenger.
It was the first time he met Ifan.
The hunter spotted him, in the process of hammering down a protective rune against airborne objects on the deck that Francis had sketched out, looked the mercenary up and down, and – bowed to him. Saying a few words to him that Francis couldn’t understand, but identify. Mezdhe. Ifan returned the bow, and the words, and they finished the greeting with a kiss on both cheeks. But after, when Jahan kept talking, Ifan looked to the floor and scratched the back of his neck apologetically. Francis couldn’t understand what he said, but that sentence was easy to figure out in any language.
I’m sorry, I don’t speak Mezdhe.
Jahan laughed, clapped him on the back, and continued in common. Ifan immediately adapted his mode of conversation. Genuinely charming, but vague as always, he somehow both answered and evaded the question of how he’d ended up not speaking his own mother tongue. Underneath it all, he seemed a little – sad.
He couldn’t claim to understand, but it was comprehensible to Francis. To be this far removed from the language and the culture that could have been his home, but never was. The more he thought about it, the more Ifan’s almost religious reverence of cultural practises and beliefs, outdated or strange as they may be, made sense to him.
Francis could never seem to escape his heritage. Even back when he’d tried and wanted to. His dialect and mannerisms immediately identified him as someone from Lower-Arx to anyone in the upper city and beyond. His roots stuck to him like dogshit to the sole of his shoe, and his academy peers never seized to remind him of that fact. It hadn’t taken a day until he’d given up on denying it to anyone.
Instead, Francis had done the opposite and developed an almost spiteful patriotism towards his place of origin, one that only ever really came out once someone spoke badly of it in any conceivable way, even if the criticism was justified, and no matter how much pain it had caused him while spending his youth there. He was a Lowbridge man, dammit, to anyone who asked. Unless someone from his own district asked. In that case, fuck Lower-Arx and everything in it.
Yes, he was aware of the cognitive dissonance.
No, it didn’t change his mind.
And then there was Ifan. Who had been raised not only in another culture, but among a different species as well. Who had been too young to remember most of the nursery rhymes and recipes and puns and songs and games and ghost stories of his first language when the war came. Who’d tried to make a new home, only for that to also be destroyed, and by his own hand. Who spent the years after on the coast, roaming and guilty and rootless. What could he say – it wasn’t hard to imagine, that he’d cling to what he could.
Ifan spoke Mezdhe in the way that Francis spoke Elvish. Some words and some phrases mixed with just enough cultural knowledge to avoid the worst of the clangers, but with far more grief and longing connected to the fact.
Which was why Francis had gotten him the book.
And he didn’t pry when, on their first days at sea, he rarely ever found Ifan in another state of being than sunk into the poetry and prose of Khaba ben-Mezd. Only he wasn’t reading it, Francis suddenly noticed. Ifan had a pen between his teeth, a piece of paper next to him, holding the book close to his eyes, squinting like that made the words easier to understand. Oh, for the gods, he thought with an embarrassing amount of pride and endearment rising in his heart. Ifan was studying.
Francis left him to it, until Ifan eventually waved him over, a frown curling his eyebrows. "You’re a linguist," he muttered. "What the fuck does that word mean?"
They tried figuring it out, turning the line over many many times, until Francis decided that it must have been a translation error.
"Start with the prose," he advised. "A lot gets lost when you have to try and make it sound good in translation. And why don’t you ask Jahan? He could teach you a little."
Ifan looked at him like it was the first time he’d even considered the idea. Oh, thought Francis. But it was. He remembered, suddenly, that no one had really taught him Elvish for years, either. And before Ifan could protest, Francis dragged the demon hunter away from where he was staring out at the horizon and into language lessons with a surprised mercenary.
This went on for a while. Ifan was almost shy about asking him any sort of question, about anything he couldn’t figure out on his own, part pride, but disbelief that someone would readily give him an answer. Jahan, however, seemed to be flattered by the fact that Ifan took an interest in the language he rarely had an opportunity to speak these days, and used any spare minute to have slow and dragging conversations in Mezdhe with him.
Francis watched them from a distance, smiling to himself.
There were worlds of things they didn’t know about each other. And there was so little time to learn.
The entire crew tried their best to distract themselves from what they were sailing towards. The Nameless Isle. Destiny.
Each in their own way. Francis, clipping runes out of wire, preparing bombshells and enchanting weapons, or playing cards with Tarquin and Lohse. Ifan, by learning his parent’s language and conspiring with Sebille. Francis knew that the final targets of their blood pact would be found on the island. He tried not to think about it too much.
The further they sailed, the more their destination hung like a raincloud above the mood on board. Lohse called everyone together on deck and got her lute out.
"You’re all looking like you’re about to attend your own funeral," she asserted. "True as it may be. Lighten up."
She played a couple of classics, songs that everyone knew. Salted Damned. Birds in the Hay. They held Gus’ ears shut for the duration of The Priest and the Pig, but it was unneccessary. The little brat knew all the words anyway. They laughed, and drank, and sang along, the mood got lighter, and by the time she pulled out Cherries and Wine, everyone was banging their cups against the planks to the rhythm. They recognized the song by the first chord alone. And it wasn’t like Francis hadn’t known Ifan to have a beautiful voice, but he was still surprised by the way that it translated into him carrying a tune. Sure, he missed a couple notes, he was no professional. But he made up for Lohse’s missing singing voice more than enough. The bard grinned at him and picked up the pace.
The world turns to darkness, but this room is just fine, sang Ifan, leading them into the chorus, with you in my bed it’s all cherries and wine.
And Francis would have been lying if he’d said that the way Ifan beamed at him for the duration of the song didn’t make his heart jump a little. Their voices needed a break after that one, and Lohse played Tides of the Heart, a soul-wrenching ballad that made everyone tear up a little, and when she announced that she needed a break as well, Jahan stood up and produced an instrument from his trunk that Francis had only seen once before, on a travelling performer on the road to Arx.
An Oud.
It looked not unlike Lohse’s lute, but had double the amount of strings, a bent neck, and intricate carvings decorating the wood. Ifan looked at the instrument with something close to enamoration the entire time Jahan played, using a quill to pluck it in an asymmetrical, rapid melody. The same look on his face he displayed when he was about to tell Francis that his eyelashes looked like bonfires.
When Jahan was done with his song, one that he seemed to improvise and had no clear beginning or end, nor lyrics to sing along to, Ifan held out a hesitant hand towards him.
"Be’sekhte?"
Jahan raised his eyebrows, but invited him to take it. Ifan placed the Oud in his lap, almost timidly, briefly twirled the feather quill between his fingers – and began to play.
Francis looked at him with the awe of someone discovering a new star in the sky.
There were worlds of things they didn’t know about each other.
Ifan began slowly, much slower than Jahan’s melody had been, striking the same note multiple times at first, then adding more to it as he went along. Using the base note as his rhythm, pausing altogether sometimes, then speeding up again. The same, deep tone underlying all, an entrancing, slow build, a rise and fall. It was like – a poem. His eyes closed in concentration, he seemed to discover the sounds as he went along, no clear way to predict what came next. Improvising. His hands simply following his heart.
Francis had stopped breathing somewhere after the second gamut.
His heart sped up every time Ifan paused in his play, wondering if he would pick it up again, and finding himself relieved every time he did. When Ifan finished the melody, fading out his base note like he wanted it to stay in the air a little longer, like he was mourning it, everyone was staring at him.
Catching on to the stunned silence of his companions, Ifan looked up. He gave a sheepish little grin and handed the instrument back to Jahan like it was scalding hot.
"God’s tits," said Lohse, once she’d recovered from the shock. "I don’t suppose it’ll do me any good to ask where you picked that up, chief?"
Ifan shrugged.
"I told you. Had a contract in Mezd City once. Lotta downtime."
"So you learned a whole instrument?" The bard’s disbelief was written clearly on her face. "How long was the contract? You know what, I don’t even wanna know. The answer will just terrify me. Care to play along? You, Jahan?"
Francis didn’t say a single word. He was busy. He was busy being in love with Ifan ben-Mezd, and the entirety of his being. And it occurred to him then that he had never needed to figure him out in the first place. Ifan had told him his truth at the very beginning of their journey, and he simply hadn’t treated it with the gravity that it deserved.
It’s easy to be bitter in a world like this. I’ve been there, believe me. Stuck in the mud. But there’s still plenty of good things to go with the bad. Good music, good food. Good company. I’d rather embrace it and deal with the shit in my own way than allow my own head to numb me to it all.
He remembered it as if it were yesterday. And he was so glad he did.
There were worlds of things they didn’t know about each other. And this, decided Francis, was the moment to tell Ifan his truth as well.
"Lohse," he said, his voice cracking a little, "Can you play an Arxian Tarantella?"
She raised her eyebrows.
"Not without a dancer, I can’t."
"Yup," said Francis, stood up and began unbuttoning his robe, "I’m aware."
Lohse squinted at him, then looked at Ifan, then him again.
"The things I’m learning about you lot today," she muttered, shaking her head. "An Arxian Tarantella? Gods. Those are hellishly difficult. But a simple one, I should manage."
She plucked the first two strings of her lute, gave the tuning pegs another turn until she was satisfied with the result, as Francis got rid of his robe and laid it down on the deck.
"You ready, chief?"
He nodded, and stretched his arms out.
"Play like the devil."
Ifan could only sit there and stare.
Stare as Francis whirled over the deck, his arms flying out, clapping his hands and stomping his feet in a frenzied, energetic pattern as Lohse strummed her lute like she was trying to break the strings on purpose. It wasn’t a graceful dance. It was a feral burst of energy, and Francis’ movements where sharp and erratic, seemingly interrupted by the constant changes in the music. He was so bright. Those heavy steps he’d cursed so many times now an expression of passion in themselves, those dangly arms like beating wings, his face pointed to the sky in a wild grin – Francis got closer to him, not stopping in his dance, and reached to pull him to his feet.
Ifan could only let himself be pulled along by the storm that was his love. Gods guide him, what else could he have done.
“I don’t know how to–“ was all he managed to get out before Francis lifted his arm over his head and spun him around. His first instinct, to catch his balance by any means, interrupting the movement. Francis cackled. He twirled his arm, spinning him back in the other direction. This time, Ifan let himself be pulled along, only to be stopped again when Lohse suddenly paused in her strumming. Francis reacted to it immediately and stood still, tapped his foot once, then clapped his hands three times in rapid succession.
Lohse picked it up again, instead of a rapid strum, an almost dainty, intricate melody accompanied by his claps. Francis immediately resumed his intent of grabbing Ifan and Lohse hit the strings with a force once again. Ifan tried his best to find the rhythm of whatever was happening here, but it was almost impossible. It kept changing, a couple times each minute, and it was hard to tell who was following who – Lohse’s lute, or Francis’ percussion. Francis spun him again, and laughed.
“You can’t count your way out of this one, ben-Mezd. Just let loose.”
He did.
And he understood. No one was following anyone. It was an equal play of rhythm, sometimes together, sometimes apart, sometimes leading, sometimes, being led. And it was all in the pauses, in the surprises, in the contrasts of sharp, sudden lute strums, delicate melodies, and the dancers standing still completely or stomping out an erratic rhythm. It was nothing like the elegant elven dances full of intricate, graceful steps.
This dance was made to lose control.
And Ifan lost it on purpose.
It was harder than he thought it would be. He didn’t trip over his feet, but it was a near thing. Something so unfamiliar to him, always in such perfect control of each movement that sometimes it seemed like it was just instinctual – the dance made him realize that it wasn’t. He let his instincts take over, the thoughtless little things that could bring death as well as life in seconds. Followed whatever rhythm he managed to find. And he looked at Francis, who was spinning him around, with a bewitched grin, completely lost in the music. Sometimes leaving him to do his own thing while he was too busy finding a new rhythm. Ifan closed his eyes and spun. A laugh broke out of him. He was dizzy, felt almost entranced, the way he did during an intense fight. And he was busy. He was busy being in love with Francis Lowbridge and the entirety of his being.
It felt like it lasted an eternity. When they ended, Lohse giving the final chord, sweaty and exhausted, forehead to forehead, Francis kissed him on the middle of the deck. Ifan raised his eyebrows in surprise.
Francis drew back and grinned at him.
"I knew you were a dancer," he said. "Thank you."
They’d stopped at the last port before the Nameless Isle, to fix a rupture in the Lady Vengeance’s front sail hawser that could be found nowhere on board.
Lohse appreciated it. She’d picked up new strings for her lute in town, a neccessary errand as well as an escape and was just returning to the ship, ready for one more day of respite before things got serious. And she heard them before she was even on board.
"Stop trying to fix everything, you fucking control freak!"
"Then fix yourself, asshole! Do I need to remind you of the last time you – oh, God’s balls, have you even looked at it? Sit your ass down!"
She rolled her eyes. It was one of those days, apparently. She greeted Tarquin and Sebille with a wave, who were hunkered down over an out-of-date nautical map, trying to make out their course. A loud noise from the cabin. Lohse raised a hand to her ear and opened her mouth in disbelief.
"Oh my gods. Are they still at it?"
"Again," corrected Sebille. "They are at it again."
The shouting got louder. Loud enough that they could hear what was being said.
"Will you calm down? It’s not even that bad!"
"Don’t ever tell me to calm down again, you piece of shit!"
Tarquin looked up, snickered, and sighed. He sat back and pointed at the cabin door. "Ah. There’s that famous Lowbridge temper."
Lohse nodded, with a groan. "Runs in the family then, I take it?"
"Oh, that too," replied Tarquin with a shrug, "But Lowbridge isn’t a family name. It’s the name of the district, where he’s from. How do I put it best – family names are something for people of my standing. They asked for one at his academy registration, and he just put down his origins. Almost made him throw the application out because of it, too – it was ridiculous, really."
He was interrupted by the sound of what was unmistakably a piece of clay pottery shattering against the floor. Tarquin raised his eyebrows.
"Stop throwing shit at me!" He head Ifan hiss. "You know damn well I can’t do it to you!"
"You cut my fucking finger off!"
Another piece of pottery found its bitter end.
"Na sumeil, aravas…"
"I told you not to call me that, that’s a fucking ground rule – Oi! Where the fuck do you think you’re going? I’m not done with you!"
"Out! I need to fucking think!"
"I’m sorry I threw plates. You didn’t deserve that."
"I’m going for a walk. Be back in an hour."
"I fucking love you."
"I fucking love you, too."