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Geoffrey can't see her well, just the faintness of her body in the midst of those waiting to do her harm. Can barely catch the flash of her shorn hair beneath the wooden arches. He stretches, as if he could reach out his hand and shield her. Elincia stops him though, fingers digging into his elbow, saying words that he can't hear over the rush of blood in his ears. She pulls, but so does he, away and over the rampart, falling down into the writhing mass of rebellion. He surges forward, screaming his fury.
But nothing comes out, the air trapped in his chest, not even a whisper past his lips as Lucia throws back her head. There’s such determination in her eyes, such pride. It terrifies him, makes Geoffrey move faster, makes him run. The rebels are nothing, as substantial as mist, and he passes through like a ghost, arm again outstretched, like he can snap the rope in his fingers. He’s close, almost there-.
“Behold a true queen,” she roars. He runs faster, tries to, still reaching, but she doesn’t see. Never saw if Elincia was there to look at instead. “Your queen!”
“Don’t,” he finally screams, could leap and touch the stage, “Lucia, don’t-.”
The rope goes taut.
-
“Don’t,” Geoffrey mutters, sight blurry, head between his arms, chest shuddering with the force of his rapid breathes. His jaw hurts, teeth ground together so tight, blood rushing through his body like he’s on fire. “Don’t.”
Nobody can hear him, certainly not Lucia.
Nobody can see how ridiculous he is, how it takes naught but a dream to make Crimea’s general shudder and shake.
-
He can’t see.
There’s too many people blocking his view, more swarming the harder Geoffrey pushes. He can only look up, to the wooden frame. The blade inside shines in the sun, as new and unmarked as a sword just forged. It towers so menacingly, an instrument made for no purpose but to lend swiftness and efficiency to execution.
“For crimes against the Senate, this man shall go to face the goddess’ judgment!”
The crowd cheers, too many for Geoffrey to press through, chest seizing in their sick jubilation. He jumps, tries to crawl over their shoulders, but he can't go forward, can’t understand. Still can't even see, but he knows, stomach churning in terror, voice broken as he screams, “Not you!” He can't part the crowd, can hardly draw breath, stomach gone so sour and tight, “Please, not you!”
-
There’s blood on his fingers when Geoffrey touches his lip, the skin likely broken as he’d snarled into his pillow. He can hardly see it in the faint luminance of the moon. Just a deeper darkness against the blue-greyness that is his nighttime skin. He must have been quiet though, no movement on the other side of the bed. The faint rise and fall of a chest in continued slumber.
Geoffrey sighs, rubbing his knuckle against an eye, spots of color and light erupting behind his eyelid. To be silent is an accomplishment. One he doubts he manages often, at least when he’s alone.
-
The torches smoke, too much to be real. A great billowing greyness that blocks the sky overhead, the flames flicking against it in a horrid orange hue.
Screaming still, all of them, hurting Geoffrey’s ears, his throat raw as he tries to shout over. But he is only one, incapable of making the tide of revolutionaries even ripple as he presses against them. The strength of his arm nothing to the bellow of radical rhetoric.
Lucia shines like a beacon from the smoke, light erupting from her face, no color left in the world but for the shine of her hair, the flushed fury of her skin. The rope is coiled around her throat like an adornment. Harmless. Almost domestic in its slackness.
But only for the moment, his sister never one to let things lie. “Long live-,” the hangman doesn’t let her finish, and Lucia chokes on her words.
-
People tell him he looks tired. His sister usually, stretching the loose skin beneath his eyes with her thumbs until he swats her away. She thinks he’s being playful, even though it’s the furthest thing from his mind.
Their father used to do the same thing when Geoffrey’d been up late reading, eyebrows curving up in weary amusement. The same way he would look at Lucia if she'd forgotten to tend her bruises after sparring, dark blue swatches against her cheek and shoulders.
Father’s gone though, and it’s like Lucia’s constantly trying to fill the gap, touching the evidence of Geoffrey’s nightly distress the least obvious of her attempts.
He’s not sure why she’s bothering to try, when she was nearly a gap herself.
-
He moves to takes his hand, but Volke glides away, “I'm on assignment.
“Right.” Foolish to forget the rules. Not that Volke hasn't broken them before, won't always refuse Geoffrey a kiss if Bastian’s hired him for some task.
Won't talk about his work though. Won't say where he’s going. What he’s doing.
Geoffrey comes close again, chest tight when Volke pushes him away, “I'm on assignment.”
“But you’ll come back?”
Volke doesn't answer. His eyes are so red though, like he’s on fire inside, just like Geoffrey is. Maybe feels the same ache, the same vicious twisting the further they get from each other.
“You’ll come back to me?” Geoffrey tries, taking hold of Volke's coat and pulling him near.
But it’s a mistake, Volke’s head tipping back, too far, the white shard of his spine so vivid against the red muscle around it.
Geoffrey flinches, starts to cry when Volke hits the ground, when his head rolls, a bloody trail painting its path.
His lips still move, “I'm on assignment.”
-
Awareness comes to Geoffrey in a jarring suddenness, eyes open before he consciously realizes that he can see. The canopy of his bed looks almost like a cloudy sky, the ripples of fabric dark and oppressive in the vague light of night. His heart still beats heavy in his throat, sweat cooling on his forehead from the open window. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, tries not to breathe so heavily.
Geoffrey turns to the side, looks down the lean length of Volke’s body, the small ripple of fabric where his feet are pressed together. He mustn’t be asleep, no murmur of drowsy surprise when Geoffrey reaches for him.
They come together slowly, the night too deep to replicate the swiftness of earlier, a languidness to every touch.
Volke isn't as quiet as usual, little half bitten words telling Geoffrey that he’s moving exactly right. It’s a puzzle more than a race. A constant coaxing of another’s pleasure warring with the fulfillment of his own. Heat builds like they’re made of fire, a long smolder that builds in his belly, climbing his chest with each breath, flaring high with every quiver of Volke’s thighs. Geoffrey can’t keep his own sounds in check, everything just so fine. The barely there shimmer of Volke’s moonlit eyes, the sheets grasped tight between his fingers, the impatient strain in his furrowed brow the closer he gets.
There. The final clench of his jaw as he presses back, dark hair darker against the pillows, the unmarked column of his throat forced pale in the moonlight.
Geoffrey can't look away from it, holds still as Volke weathers the storm of his pleasure, eyes tracing every contour. Can't dispel how it might look broken.
How weak and exposed his throat really is, the clearest target for an arrow.
The easiest thing if someone jerked back on his hair and slid a dagger under his chin.
They come apart as slow as they came together, though Geoffrey leans again forward, has to, presses his face against the junction of shoulder and neck. Volke finally finds enough air, his hand ghosting along Geoffrey’s arm, observant even through breath-stealing completion, “You finished?”
Geoffrey slides flat, pushing his arms along Volke’s sides, burying his hands in the coolness under the pillows, “How couldn't I, when you make such sounds?” Volke isn't affected like he is in daylight, doesn’t avert his gaze and flush like he will when Geoffrey whispers filth in his ear on the sunlit balcony. Only smiles now, a lazy thing that makes his eyes crease.
The lie isn’t remarked upon though, Volke drowsy in his contentment, lids eventually falling shut, his chest hair soft when Geoffrey slides further down and rests his head.
-
“Did you need something?”
Geoffrey does, can't remember what it is. He feels his mouth open, can’t understand his own words, the heavy weight of anticipation straining his shoulders.
Lucia makes a mark with her quill, nodding her head, something loose in the movement. Unnatural. “Good to know. I'll talk to the quartermaster about it, unless you're headed that way?”
She looks at him, so Geoffrey nods, skin prickling, throat swelling, his stomach a storm of terror and pain.
Lucia sighs, folding her fingers together and cracking them, “Done for the night I think. I'll see you in the morning.” She stretches and rolls her shoulders, but too far, the line of her neck incorrect, too lank and stretched. Her eyes are wrong too, bulging now, pink veins so delicate against the cloudy white of the rest.
-
A hand touches his shoulder, “Are you alright?”
Geoffrey blinks away from his roster, looks up into Elincia’s concerned face, “What?”
Her eyes flicker some, for no reason he can imagine. Just a faint tightening of her brow, the weight of her hand less, “You don't sound it.”
“Sound what?”
She looks distressed, not the Geoffrey knows why, a hand against his forehead now, the ends of her long fingers reaching past the line of his hair. “You sound so awful. Do you feel well?”
Geoffrey pulls back enough that Elincia’s hands drop, refuses the unease that tightens his stomach when her brows curve up. Her eyes are never so soft as when she’s sad. “It’s nothing,” he tries to assure, voice as hoarse as it was when he got up that morning, startled awake by his own shouts. “I was doing drills with the recruits earlier. I might've gotten a little carried away, making sure they could hear me over Kieran’s squad.”
She smiles then, though there’s little authentic in the curve of her lips. “Silly boy.” Geoffrey can't fix that though. Doesn’t know how to span the distance between them, how to wade through the awkward courtesy that has become their relationship.
-
They build the pyre as Geoffrey watches. He wants to stop them, sure he’s never desired anything greater.
Can't lift his arms though.
Or his head, either. There’s such a weight on his body, like his clothes are made of lead and holding him to the ground. The wood piles higher as he tries to call out, barely uttered mutterings that no one cares to hear. He tries harder when they drag Volke into his sight.
Still fighting, just like Geoffrey should be, his thin lips pulled back in a snarl, kicking and writhing in an incessant attempt to be free.
Geoffrey wants to help, his tongue heavy and swollen, his legs impossible to move.
They tie Volke to the pyre, too many for him to break free of.
The fire comes in a startling suddenness, at once climbing Volke’s limbs, his feet already blackened, the flames touching his face, dancing through his hair, a man of fire more than he’s ever been before.
-
His sight adjusts slowly to the darkness, the minutes long before he can make out the hourglass.
Didn't even make it past midnight.
Geoffrey sighs and kicks the covers away, rubbing his face, stubble scratching his palm. Been awhile since he’s shaved proper. Doesn’t let the barber to it anymore. Can’t keep himself still under her blade, no matter that she’s been doing it since Geoffrey got old enough to grow a beard.
Should just do it now, not like he’s getting anymore sleep tonight.
Could read instead. There’s a novel that appeared in his office a few weeks ago that he hasn't had time to investigate.
He hasn’t the motivation to dress though.
The window then opens in a near silent swing, night air standing up the hairs on Geoffrey’s limbs.
He doesn't say anything, doesn't move as a shadow climbs through, lithe and soundless. A pack is set on Geoffrey’s dresser, the shadow slipping off boots as he approaches, coat and scarf tossed across a chair. Belts make the barest of noise as they’re undone, a soft rustle as gloves are peeled away, left to fall in an evident familiarity. The shirt is stripped off with a slowness born of security, speed unnecessary where danger is trusted not to tread.
Geoffrey watches, has never not been stirred by the lazy reveal of Volke’s body. Darkness softens the hard jut of his hip bones, makes longer each strand of hair against the faint light of stars. He’s such a creature of the night, moves in darkness with a tranquility rarely seen in the day.
Something makes him stop, not that Geoffrey made a sound. Volke straightens some, the shadow of his head tipped to the side, “You awake?”
Geoffrey folds his hands behind his head, the lines of his stomach and legs molded in moonlight and shadow, “At the moment.”
Volke climbs across the mattress, his knees cold against the inside of Geoffrey’s thighs, “Plan on staying that way?”
Geoffrey would gladly never again shut his eyes. “I could be convinced.” No more invitation is required before Volke sets to warming himself against Geoffrey’s skin.
-
The wind is so erratic, the sails constantly alternating between fullness and a billowing flap.
Lucia doesn't seem to notice, her long hair whipping around her face. “Isn't this great?” She doesn't wait for Geoffrey to disagree, climbs even higher.
He can hardly see her through all the rope, tells her to slow down.
Tries to at least, the barest whisper coming out.
Lucia’s laughter is louder than the shift of canvas, her cheer so jarring against the constant drone of waves against the hull. Maybe too loud, because she doesn't hear the angry snap of the sails. Doesn't notice the weakened beam until it breaks under her feet.
She falls faster than she climbed.
The blue brilliance of her hair tangles in the ropes, rigging catching around her throat.
-
“Don't take it personal,” Geoffrey mutters after he spits, bile still a sour taste against his tongue.
Lucia shrugs, forces a glass of water into his hand, “You get drunk last night?”
It was barely still night when Geoffrey got started on the bottle, his twilight hours an exercise in foolishness. He’d wanted to sleep though, no other solution presenting itself. “Observant as ever.”
She shoves her jaw to the side, no clearer tell of her annoyance, “Didn't realize Makalov had taken you under his wing.”
Geoffrey’s not in the mood for this back and forth, can’t stop staring at her throat, waiting for the angle of it to lurch or the skin to peel away in a messy gash, “You need something?”
She leaves, the snap of her boots against the floor the furthest thing from friendly.
-
“On the ground!”
He drops his lance, hands fisting without something to grab. But that’s fine. He doesn't need it.
Doesn't need it at all, even though he can clearly see the lie in the bandit’s face. The self-satisfaction twisting her lips, dagger already plunging.
Geoffrey runs forward, arm out stretched, even though he doesn't need to. Astrid is behind him, an arrow cocked, the twang of her string suddenly the loudest thing he’s ever heard. The whistle of the arrow through air as loud as thunder.
But still, Geoffrey reaches.
So close, but the blade is closer.
He’s fast, but the arrow has to be faster.
And it is, a hollow thud as it misses and pierces the wall behind the bandit’s face, her dagger forcing a red line around Volke’s neck.
-
“Your opinion.”
Red eyes flick Geoffrey’s way, “What about it?”
Geoffrey leans against the audience chamber’s upper balcony, his shoulder pressing against Volke’s, “I would like it.” A high collar blocks his view of Volke’s throat, makes it easier to watch his face, to ignore the incessant need to reach and feel the truth of its wholeness with his own hand.
“On assignment at the moment.” Volke doesn't lean away, looks down at the assembly.
Geoffrey follows his gaze, can’t help that sigh the wells when the arguments flare again, voices carrying to his height easily. They don’t stop until Elincia’s voice joins them, a rare break of her patience. “Who hired you?” He doesn't expect to get an answer. Is amused at the slow glance sent his way, Volke’s eyes dark, a brow risen beneath his bandana. “Right, sorry.” He's gained Volke's attention though, lifts a dark block of chocolate to his mouth and breaks a piece off with his teeth.
A moment, the intensity of Volke’s eyes never wavering, “…I thought there wasn’t any left.”
“Wasn’t,” Geoffrey confirms, tries to reign the amusement that’s sure to be splashed across his face. “Got some more, though.” He turns, folds to the impossibility that is maintaining his composure when Volke is scowling so fiercely at him.
A scowl that doesn't disappear even when Geoffrey hands the block over. He just flushes and mutters as crossly as he ever does when Geoffrey gifts him something, “Whatever.” He still tugs his mask down and takes a bite, the pressure of his shoulder yet firm and constant, Geoffrey’s reward delayed a moment as he chews. “Woman there, with the cloak. Lying about the raids on her caravan, doesn't have any evidence about who it was.” Geoffrey looks down and watches the dark skin of the woman’s face pinch in frustration when Elincia again calls for rationality. “Other one’s lying too, about not hiring someone to rough up the first one’s crops.”
“That’s not an opinion.”
Volke holds the block out for Geoffrey to take a bite, quiet for a moment, “Usually better not to have one.”
Things get loud again, Geoffrey too much of a soldier not to feel the violent tension welling. “Can’t even get a straight answer out of you with chocolate.” He pushes off the railing, pressing his lips to the back of Volke’s head on the way past.
-
“Get down!”
Lucia doesn’t turn, still raging forward, the shaft of arrows snapping with the swing of her sword. She roars high and bright, “To the queen!” Soldiers run with her, the ground trembling with their vigor.
“I've got her,” Geoffrey bellows, “Listen to me, I've got her!” Elincia can’t help him convince them, lying senseless on the ground, a bruise blossoming on her temple.
But Lucia must hear him, as loud as he is. Must not believe him, the trust in Geoffrey to be able to protect anything of note a notion long departed, if ever it was even there.
“Lucia,” he tries again, eyes burning in such frustration, throat swelling even as he still calls out, “please, I’ve got her! Don’t-.”
But she’s ever done what she wants, no regard for Geoffrey’s fear, the arrows then sliding through her skin like she’s made of water.
-
“Will you calm down?”
“Will you-, will you-,” Geoffrey can't even finish, can hardly see or plant his feet, so-, so infuriated! He feels a hand on his elbow and immediately jerks away, can't deal with her attempt to be fraternal when he’s so furious. “I know you don’t think that blasted much of me, but you needn't throw it constantly in my face!” He’s so hot, almost shaking, such fury in every beat of his racing heart.
Lucia moves around him, her eyebrows high, “How did you get that idea?”
Geoffrey won’t listen to this, won’t listen to another single lie. “Training,” he snaps in her face, all of him so tense and ready to shatter, “you said training in the mountains. Not a damned thing about poking around Greytop Ridge. Nothing about flailing around that hornet nest with no guard, no backup, not a word to me, not even to Elincia!” Lucia’s jaw tightens, and it’s nearly enough to make Geoffrey tackle her.
But he doesn’t, even though violence is relentlessly clinging to his spine. Doesn’t, because Elincia is always so upset if she finds out they've fought. And that still tempers him, no matter that Geoffrey hasn't had the urge to take her hand in over a year. Maybe it’s unfair, being annoyed at Lucia after his own deference for Elincia’s feeling, but Geoffrey at least considers his sister’s thoughts in anything he does. Has ever striven not to cause her worry or concern.
It’s just…so extremely difficult, seeing she doesn't have the same compulsion for him.
“It needed to be done-.”
“You didn't need to be the one to do it,” Geoffrey returns hotly, “and even if you did, you didn’t need to do it alone! Bastian, one of his agents, anyone could have watched your back, anyone could have stopped you from being locked in a cellar for three blasted days!” He can't do it again. Can’t deal with the sudden reappearance of his sister after so much frenzied worry and pretend like it doesn't break him, that it doesn't make want to scream and rage and cry.
Lucia sighs, so much obvious dismissal in the tip of her head. Maybe this isn't the first time she’s had this argument today. “And what would you prefer I do?”
Is it really so hard to guess? Is the simple wish for Geoffrey to have knowledge about his loved ones so difficult to comprehend? “Just…just tell me before you go, at the very least.”
She doesn't try to touch him again, just crosses her arms, foot tapping to a rhythm Geoffrey can't hear. “Would you sleep better if I did?”
His hands fist, shame heating his face enough that Geoffrey has to turn away, “…I might.”
-
“I’m coming!” He’s almost there, barely a distance between them. But he doesn’t get closer, no matter how hard he runs, the distance never less, each step more difficult to place.
Volke watches him, eyes lidded in such exhaustion, red stains bleeding through his shirt as he lies crumpled on the ground, holding himself up with shaking arms.
Geoffrey puts his head down, chest heaving, all of him aching as he moves his legs, each breath more difficult to take.
Can’t stop though, not even to breathe, a grey stampede rising in the distance, impossibly closer with each blink. Dust rises and dulls the sky from the heavy gallop of a hundred horses, a helmed rider at each, nothing wholesome in their visage.
Nothing but the determination to take anything of worth in Geoffrey’s life.
There’s no goddess left to hear him beg, but Geoffrey does anyway, promises anything and everything to just be let closer, to pull Volke into the safety of his arms.
But he can’t.
He can't, and the gleaming leather of a blood slickened whip wraps around Volke’s neck, snapping it on the back swing.
-
“Ah,” he groans, words impossible to articulate as he rears up, heart so loud in his ears. His chest is on fire, air barely making it past his gaping lips. Something touches him, someone, and Geoffrey immediately turns and crawls over, the bedding twisting as he clutches at Volke’s shoulders, crowding him against the headboard.
“Stop!” Volke barks, but Geoffrey doesn't listen, has to keep on, chest still heaving as he grabs at Volke’s neck. “Don't-.”
“Let me!” He doesn’t mean to be so loud, to sound so pathetic. Hasn't the time to care though, chest less tight when he finally touches Volke’s throat, when he can feel the fullness of it. Air still rushes through his nose and teeth like a foreign thing, heart pounding hard enough that he can feel it in every line of his body, in the bloodless fingertips that are pressed to Volke’s skin. “Okay,” he manages weakly, even though he’s the furthest thing from it. “Okay, right, sorry.” He doesn't stop though, circling the warm skin with both hands, Volke’s forehead keeping his own up. He can feel each breath against his cheek, the constant beat of Volke’s heart against his palms. “I-, I’m sorry.”
Volke’s eyes are bottomless in the darkness, so much hidden in their garnet depth, “Do you ever sleep?”
Geoffrey takes a harsh breath, dropping his hands. He turns away, has to, hotness sweeping across his face and neck. It shouldn't surprise him, that Volke has noticed his dysfunction. Shouldn't bother Geoffrey so that whatever opinion Volke had of him has surely withered.
There's a slight shift in the bedding, but Volke is still there when Geoffrey glances, legs crossed, face clear and so strangely open in the moonlight, “Do you dream?”
He can't talk about this, can't recount the nightly fabrications of his mind. Volke is such a rare one for conversation though, and Geoffrey would rather anything to shutting his eyes again, “...You ever see anyone lynched?”
It isn't a surprise when Volke eventually nods.
Geoffrey drops his eyes, focuses on his hands. Would it be different at all, if he'd ever actually witnessed a hanging? Would it have made seeing a rope around his sister’s neck less horrific? Would he so constantly be forced to endure the nightly imagining of Volke’s death?
“My uncle.” Geoffrey looks up at the quiet words, Volke like an island in the sheets, “I tried to stop them. Couldn’t. Too many between him and me.” He doesn’t look at Geoffrey, speaks to the bedspread, elbows propped on his bent knees, fingers worrying the bedding the same way he does his scarf when he’s uncertain. “They held me down, but I could still see.”
Geoffrey waits a moment before reaching out, tugs the fabric from Volke’s grasp before he tears it, “When was this?”
Volke curls his fingers into his palms, still doesn't lift his head, something far away in his eyes, “…Couple weeks ago.”
Geoffrey takes a deep breath, incapable of not wondering how easy it would've been for Volke to be hanging alongside his kin. How Geoffrey wouldn't even know, would only wonder and worry for months, unsure if Volke was hurt or dead or had just lost whatever interest he'd had in Geoffrey’s attention.
He clears his throat, the sound gritty and exhausted, “Why?”
Volke doesn't answer, and Geoffrey realizes the blunt callousness of the question.
For all his projected threat, Volke is no harder than another. His flesh soft and easily bruised, his discomfort and apprehension an easily seen thing when one is familiar enough to look for it. Geoffrey would count himself familiar enough. Can see the small furrow of Volke’s brow that pronounces his distress, the faint curl of his toes under the edge of the quilt.
It’s sometimes easy to forget that a man is not always his occupation.
Geoffrey shifts over and lifts a hand, passes it over the back of Volke’s hair, running his fingers through the long brown strands. A moment, and Volke melts, as he always does when Geoffrey puts a hand against his hair, going slowly slack against the sheets. He doesn't complain when Geoffrey moves closer, only turns away on his side so Geoffrey can reach all the way to the back, fingers carding through the thick length that covers his neck.
This isn't something they do often, though Geoffrey doesn’t know why. It’s not hard to see that Volke enjoys it. Would be a lie to say Geoffrey didn't too, something so softly relaxing in the motion.
“I don’t know.”
Geoffrey returns to awareness, to the world outside the safe density of Volke’s hair, “Don’t know what?”
“Why.” His word are soft, the movements of his jaw barely felt where he’s pillowed his head on Geoffrey’s bicep. “He had debts. But they were being paid.” He grasps the bedding again, a slow flex of his fingers in the sheets, drawing them tight before releasing, a slow maneuver he repeats like a cat kneading cloth. It seems an unconscious mannerism. One that doesn't impart any comfort, stress drawing his shoulders high and tight. They relax when Geoffrey leans down and kisses the back of his neck, burying fingers deep in the dark depth of his hair. He continues even softer, “The payments weren't late, not once.”
They're at a depth Geoffrey’s never before thought to reach, perhaps at a level where inquiry won't be rebutted, “Is that why you charge so much?”
Volke releases the sheets, instead grabbing the edge of the quilt and pulling it up, the fabric covering them both again. He gathers the edge against his face, maybe doesn't realize he’s doing it. Never seems more comfortable as when he’s got something to hide behind. “Mhmm.”
It’s less thrilling than Geoffrey had once imagined, to have that one puzzle solved. A strange weariness drapes across his skin as he thinks of how grand a debt that must have been. He presses his forehead against Volke’s hair, can't halt the need to slide a hand around the side of his neck, “I...I'm gladdened that they didn't make you join him.”
Volke doesn't stiffen at the thought, seems as unconcerned with death as Lucia ever does. “Is that what you dream?”
Geoffrey hesitates, finally just closes his eyes and lies, “Not every night.” His stomach starts to clench, but he ignores it. Focuses on the thickness of Volke’s hair, the firm warmth of his back. “You or my sister, usually.” Always. He’s seen them die a hundred times, dresses for bed every night dreading a hundred more.
Just… if he knew. If he was at least shown enough consideration to be told even the barest of information. He doesn't need to know Volke’s task, but the destination would bring him such ease. Lucia couldn't do her work with Geoffrey hanging over her, but she could at least tell him how long she would be gone. And no matter what she'd promised, Geoffrey knows she doesn't always tell him. Has even watched her slip out the East Gate, nothing but a cloak and blade to be her protection.
“You could stop now,” Geoffrey realizes aloud, as nonchalant as he can manage. “You don’t…don’t need to go on like you are.” It’s difficult to verbalize, hard not to make the death of Volke’s kin sound like a boon.
And maybe he wasn't entirely successful, as Volke doesn’t respond. Doesn't really move at all.
Geoffrey switches hands when the silence stretches, curling his lower arm under Volke’s head and up to tangle in his bangs, drawing him closer with the other around his stomach. He doesn’t care what Volke thinks of his sudden clinging, will stay as close and near as he’s allowed until Volke leaves.
“What would I do?” The words are nearly too quiet to hear, tone uncertain. “I…I don’t-.” Volke can't seem to finish, some new frustration in the line of his shoulders.
“You talk like Bastian wouldn't hire you in a second,” Geoffrey murmurs behind his ear, putting a palm flat against Volke’s stomach. It’s a ridiculous thought, one foolish to even consider. Volke has no king, no country, likely wouldn't care to change that independence. Certainly wouldn’t take an oath, wouldn’t swear fealty to Crimea, no matter how it would ease Geoffrey’s sleep to have him so constantly near. “Can’t imagine there would be much you couldn't do, really,” he continues, clearing his throat, lying his head against the softness of Volke’s hair. “Wouldn’t have to keep to shadows anymore, not if you didn't want to.”
Maybe Volke wants to though.
Maybe the shadows are more enticing that whatever light Geoffrey might offer.
The night is deeper when Volke murmurs, quiet as a midnight sigh, “And you would like that?” The whole of him is so slack and warm, his soft breaths and closeness a balm to Geoffrey’s still restless skin, “If I weren't the Fireman?”
A long moment passes before Geoffrey has the desire to answer, long enough that Volke will be asleep again, “What I like matters but little.”
-
“I hope you enjoy it.” Elincia didn't use to be so cautious with her words around him. Like she thinks her honest opinion would annoy him. Geoffrey knows why he’s being sent to Canteus, and it’s got little to do with updating maps of the coast. Sea air has long been lauded as the surest cure for the restless.
“I’ll try.” He’s never felt so awkward with her, not even after they'd stopped being together.
They part after a careful embrace.
Geoffrey walks to the grounds with no company but the sound of his steps. Renning is there to see him off, Bastian waving cheerfully at his side as Geoffrey pulls away in a covered wagon. It’s hard not to be irritated by the enthusiasm. Unfair maybe, since Bastian’s cheer is nearly as constant as Devdan’s.
If he’s honest Geoffrey would be glad too, sending someone away as surly as he’s heard himself recently described.
Just, he'll be gone awhile, the maps being older than the foundations of the castle. It’s difficult to see everyone smile like his absence will be a good thing. Lucia had barely even given him a moment, a quick kiss and farewell before running off to do things unknown.
And Canteus is just the worst. Always cold and rainy even though it's half way through summer, and Geoffrey won't even be staying indoors. The coast is too long for him to return to the portcastle every night, the oiled canvas of the wagon to be his only shelter. No one but him and the ocean, the western cliffs too high for any fishing villages to sprout on the edge.
Right now his meager ability to make more than a squiggle on parchment seems a punishment, rather than the talent his mother always used to laud it as.
-
The bazaar is all full as ever at midday. People recognize the palace livery of the horses but only nudge aside, children running up incessantly to offer dried slabs of maple sugar or slivers of fruit. The horses pause without prompting and mouth at the treats, no more spoiled creatures in all of Tellius than the inhabitants of Melior’s stables. Geoffrey just sighs and lets them, hasn't the care to hurry the children along.
Hasn’t the care for much, really.
The crowds swell and compress as Geoffrey eventually edges the wagon forward, the streets teeming with stalls and citizenry. He observes them without much conscious thought until a man catches his attention, though Geoffrey lets the distance dwindle before he’s confident of his sight.
It’s so exotic to see Volke on the street, sunlight shining on his hair, the collar of his shirt open in the summer heat. As a rule Volke doesn't like to be approached in this public of a place, though Geoffrey’s not of the temperament to go past him like a stranger. Would have stopped even if Volke didn't have something expectant about his stance, a bag over his shoulder and a hand shading his eyes as he looks up.
Geoffrey leans forward on his knees, the reins slack in his grasp, “You're back quick.”
“Didn't go far,” Volke says as he shrugs off his bag, offering no explanation when he reaches past Geoffrey’s legs and sets it down on the other side of his feet.
There’s something different about him, Geoffrey’s brow low as he tries to guess it.
Maybe it’s just his hair, falling further down his neck with no bandana to hold it in check. Though it's probably just the strangeness of seeing him surrounded by Melior’s daily bustle. “Where did you go?” Geoffrey knows better than to ask, ready for the brush off even as the words escape. Wants to keep talking though, hates that Volke is back in town the moment he’s leaving.
“Had a bounty to finish in Marado.” Geoffrey’s eyes widen a little. He can't suppress the childish satisfaction that warms his chest, as if he’s just been told some grand secret. “Got some time on my hands now.”
Geoffrey starts to grin, not sure yet why, “Some?”
“A lot,” Volke amends, putting a hand through his bangs, not quite looking Geoffrey in the eye. “Hear you’re headed to the coast.”
Geoffrey nods, the corners of his mouth starting to hurt. He can't even begin to remember the last time he felt this elated, “Don't suppose I could hire the Fireman on for security?”
“Couldn’t, no.”
His cheer disappears like a line of smoke in the wind, his smile immediately less. Geoffrey’s own fault really, ridiculous thing to get excited. His shoulders still drop though, a heavy weight all through his body.
Volke looks away again, his skin reddening, hands buried in his pockets, “He’s not working anymore.”
“Not working?” It takes more time than it should for comprehension to bleed past his disappointment, eyebrows climbing high. Geoffrey drops from the wagon, can’t stop the need to clasp Volke’s shoulders, fingers tight in his shirt, one hand rising to curl against his neck, “He-, he’s not? Do you mean that?”
Volke could rival the sun with the heat of his face, still won’t look up, “Yeah.” He clears his throat as Geoffrey forgets how to breathe, “Thought you wouldn't mind some company.”
Geoffrey can't answer, can't physically articulate even a single word past the swelling of his throat. Just crushes Volke against his chest and holds him so close and tight, such love and warmth as he’s never felt blurring his sight.
-
