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It usually starts on the battlefield, with the two of them back to back, slicing through the flesh and bone of their enemies with the same ease as a maid could take a knife to hot butter. Where Fayt usually spends a good amount of time shouting orders or supporting their other comrades, he is deathly silent when he is partnered with Albel. There is no need for words between them – they are flawless on the battlefield, complementing each other almost unconsciously with a significant look and a few sword strokes.
It boils over when they’re back on the Diplo or in the inn of their latest stop, when they’ve managed to separate from the group and Albel’s slamming Fayt against the wall of his room, ripping off those clothes with his clawed hand/burying his human hand between the boy’s legs/crushing that mouth with a kiss. No words again, just the ragged breaths of two swordsmen desperate to move from the fighting back to the fucking, and the occasional, needy moan.
It finally ends while they’re back to traveling, dusty from the road and ragged around the edges from the constant fighting. Fayt’s switched back from avenging angel (killing machine) to reluctant leader of the party, walking and talking and balancing the feelings of his different comrades out simply by breathing. Albel, in turn, watches Fayt when he is certain that the latter is not watching, and finds himself thinking, as he does every time they travel like this, why he stays with this infuriating whelp who doesn’t know when to speak and when to shut up. All it takes is the memory of their latest skirmish and the bed sports to answer the question for him, time and time again.