Chapter Text
Chilchuck sighed as he examined the label on his newly acquired bottle of alcohol. Looked like he couldn’t drink this one either. Out of all the problems that came along with being a half-foot, the worst was their inability to drink other species’ alcohols without getting irredeemably hammered. Chilchuck had forcibly learned that lesson when a single sip of alcohol had ruined a night with a hot half-foot lady he’d scored at a dwarven bar.
At the end of the day, there were too many horror stories involving failing livers and stupid decisions for Chilchuck to risk a bottle. A closer look at the label revealed, in bold, a slogan bragging of its ability to get even the toughest of dwarves drunk.
The bloom of pride, born from his successful lock picking, shriveled when he realized the hefty bottle would be wasted on Senshi, who always stowed away his portion for cooking purposes, and Laios, who didn’t even enjoy alcohol’s properties. Marcille was the only one who occasionally drank with him and Namari back when the original band was together, but she was a lightweight who retired to Falin’s lap after two drinks.
Chilchuck looked at the auburn-colored liquid as it sloshed within the glass. Maybe a sip wouldn’t hurt. He cautiously looked around the small treasure room he’d been sitting in. No enemies poised to maim him. Their little camp was also relatively close, so if the worst-case scenario occurred and Chilchuck really did die of liver failure, then at least his friends wouldn’t have to go far to find his cooling body.
With a loose shrug, he uncorked the booze and took a gulp. Huh. It was high-quality stuff. As his arm automatically went to take a second swig, he had to stop himself. Every sip was a mini version of Russian roulette. He shouldn’t go overboard. It was about time he practiced some self-moderation.
He was twenty-nine for God’s sake; he could responsibly handle some booze.
______________
Ten minutes later, Chilchuck opened his bleary eyes to a blob of off-white covering most of his vision.
What the fuck?
It took a moment for the half-foot to realize the off-white lump was quickly rising up and down. It took even longer to connect that observation to the idea that the off-white blob was a breathing person’s clothed chest.
He was starting to remember why he didn’t drink dwarven alcohol.
Chilchuck tried to tilt his head up to see just who had the audacity to smother a drunk, unconscious half-foot when the action caused a horrible wave of nausea. He shut his eyes and forced down the tsunami of vomit consisting of alcohol and walking mushroom.
It was only when Laios’ voice rang out that he opened his eye in muffled disbelief. Of course, it was Laios. Of course, it was the one guy in the entire party that didn’t seem to understand nor respect his need for space. It stood to reason that it was the tall-man of the group too. He’d been extra touchy recently with the loss of Falin and her solid support. Now, there was no one to interpret Laios’ actions in a sea of subtle social cues and unspoken signals: there was no mediator.
Chilchuck supposed this was what prompted Laios to flock to him for support. As the technical oldest of the group, he played the mother hen role often, more so when Senshi wasn’t around. Even with his presence, Chilchuck liked to think his experience with raising three daughters lent some nuance to his ability to keep his party members functioning. He didn’t braid people’s hair like Marcille or feed the entire crew like Senshi, but he was the first to offer help with fastening buckles or his portion of dinner to someone who was still hungry.
He took a certain measure of pride in being one of the party’s spinning cogs, but Laios’ level of attachment recently had been excessive and out of place. The blonde oaf had made a habit of slipping into his sleeping mat in the dead of night. The first time he did it, Chilchuck had begrudgingly allowed it out of pity. The guy had been “secretly” sobbing all night while whispering Falin’s name. Maybe his fatherly instincts were finally kicking in a couple years late, but he couldn’t muster the usual desire to kick the man’s shins.
After that, what Chilchuck had intended to be a singular, isolated instance became a reoccurring habit. The fact no one commented on it was somewhat worse. He saw the odd looks leveled by Marcille, yet she never gave voice to her comments. If Chilchuck had been her, he’d pretend not to see too.
A common side effect of his drinking was just this: too much introspection. Chilchuck should have been pushing Laios off, not reminiscing on their shifting relationship.
“L-laayus…” His tongue felt like an anvil.
Ah yes, here was the mild paralysis that Chilchuck had been trying to avoid from the beginning. It was dangerous to be in a dungeon at all. To be paralyzed in a dungeon was dangerous and stupid.
“Chilchuck.”
The half-foot was suddenly face to face with dark golden eyes. They reminded him of a large cat’s. Specifically, one that had cornered its prey after a long day’s hunt.
“You’re so small.”
Immediately, Chilchuck felt the burning rage that came with half-foot discrimination. How dare he. How could Laios of all people not know better than to say something so careless? Yet, it was in character for what Chilchuck expected from the man.
Chilchuck’s attempted response came out as unintelligible gibberish.
He didn’t even notice when Laios’ large hands drifted down to his waist. He was forced to notice when they squeezed.
A breath wheezed out of his nose.
“Chilchuck.” He said his name again like he was tasting the flavor of it. “Have you… noticed me recently?”
Chilchuck wanted to say “yes” then proceed to complain about it, but what came out was a high whine tinged with what he refused to call fear. Laios’ hands were mapping the grooves of each rib like what a cartographer would do for a mountain. Their movements were hungry.
Laios chuckled like he just said something funny, and Chilchuck longed to bite off a limb—maybe two.
“I’ve been closer to you.”
Laios slipped his calloused hand under the half-foot’s shirt like it was just another Tuesday morning. The warmth shook Chilchuck to his core.
“I slowed my pace to walk beside you during the day…”
His nails dug in just a tad and Chilchuck’s back arched. He gasped—not from pain, though there was that too, but from the realization that his body was betraying him. And that terrified him.
“And I slipped into your sleeping mat at night…”
A rude finger roughly thumbed a sensitive nipple, and Chilchuck thought he was going to die. He’d die without ever seeing his daughters or wife again. Worst of all, he’d die in Laios’ arms. What a way to go.
The rubbing turned into cruel pinching that forcibly cleared the drunken haze still occupying Chilchuck’s mind. It hurt so good.
Laios was still staring at Chilchuck with an oppressive intensity he usually reserved for monsters. He seemed sure to bite into his neck when he tilted forward to whisper in his ear.
“I’m going to fuck you.”