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The blood that pooled on Torchbearer’s tongue was hot as he bit down on it, teeth sinking into the soft flesh. It dribbled down his chin, a thin stripe trailing off his jaw and onto the dirt in front of him. His boots thud along the grass, the stem of a dandelion bending beneath his feet. He can’t even bring himself to feel bad about it— in his exhausted haze, all he feels is numb.
A soft, muttered apology leaves his lips, anyway. As if Trench herself was listening to him, now. He prays she is, prays some day he’ll stumble upon her beauty standing there, arms outstretched, and tell him that she’s sorry too and that this Clancy— his Clancy— is the one he’ll get to keep. That they’re free.
She doesn’t do any of that, of course. Instead she leads him back to his tent, the sounds of Clancy’s soft breathing just barely audible through the heavy fabric, and something sags deep in his chest.
He walks a circle around the tent— slow, avoiding any stray branches. Clancy’s asleep, and he’d like to keep it that way. For a moment he just stops, listens to the sound of it— the prettiest melody. If Clancy could write a song with just that— the notes of his laugh, the beat of his breaths— he’d never listen to anything else.
One circle, two, three, until a branch snaps behind him and he turns, padding towards the trees. When he makes it to the clearing, his stomach drops, because there’s nothing there. No paw-prints, no footsteps, no glowing eyes in the forest, no red, no red, no red—
He’s losing it. Goddess above, below, everywhere, he’s losing it. All he sees when he closes his eyes is blood, and he doesn’t want it. Never has he been afraid of blood. He’s watched Bishops and Banditos bleed the same dark, velvety red with the same sense of nausea, the same ache in his chest. He’s dreamt of beating Nico to a bloody pulp more times than he can count, cycles and cycles and cycles ago. He’s older now, and the only blood he ever sees is Clancy’s, and he thinks, numbly, that it’d make him sick. The only taste for blood he has is his own, and even that is making him sick.
But the nausea is keeping him awake, for now so he swallows hard and tries to focus on the metal he needs to fill his mouth, even if the taste is lost, even if he no longer craves it.
He bites down on his tongue, harder, but that’s not doing it anymore. He drags his teeth along his bottom lip, hard enough to reopen an almost-healed cut, hard enough for blood to drip down his chin, onto his bandana. His fingers tremble as he clutches the cloth, scrubbing at his chin with it, dragging his forearm over his eyes as his vision blurs.
No. He can’t sleep, not yet. Nobody would fault him for it— he knows he looks exhausted. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced, the shake in his hands more obvious, the stiffness of his shoulders a dead giveaway that something is Wrong, but he can’t bear to close his eyes.
He glances down at his hands— still trembling— and his eyes burn all over again, the nightmare from the night before echoing behind them. He blinks, and they’re red, Clancy’s blood coating the fabric of his gloves. A shake of his head and it’s gone, his gloves are back to black, but he can still feel it dripping from his fingers, staining the grass below. He wipes them on his pants and he can’t close his eyes. Blinking is hard enough already with the weights on his eyelashes, the heaviness of his shoulders. He’s dragging against the ground and he wants to smack himself. He should be stronger than a stupid nightmare, but he blinks and the blood comes back and he wants to cry, collapse, scream.
So he paces, laps of footprints around the perimeter of the camp, tent to tent until he feels like his legs are about to give out. He stops at every tree, checking behind, the torch in his hand nearly slipping from his fingers as he rests his forehead against the trunk of a particularly sturdy one.
His eyes flutter closed, the burning behind them becoming more pronounced. Just a moment, he tells himself, it’s just a moment.
But in that moment, he could lose him. That’s all it’d taken before— a blink, and he was back in Dema. A single ignored glance a few cycles past, and he was lost beneath the waves in Vøldsoy. One fleeting, stolen caress that had broken too soon, that he’d had to run from, and he’d found him bleeding on the floor of his cell, Torchbearer’s hands covered in his blood just from touching him, his pulse dropping and Torchbearer’s stomach following with it, his heart swept away in the steady stream of blood, Clancy’s blood, Clancy’s blood is everywhere and it’s on his hands and it won’t come off, it won’t come off, and he can’t fucking breathe because Clancy isn’t breathing and he can’t fucking breathe—
“Torch?”
Clancy’s voice snaps him out of the dream— nightmare, really— he’d been about to fall into, entire body jolting as he half whips around to face him. Wide eyes lock on soft, tired ones, lit up by the twinkling of stars, the grin of the half-moon shining down on him. He’s beautiful.
Clancy blinks as he fully turns around, a startled laugh breaking from his lips. “Woah! Sorry. Didn’t mean t’spook ya.”
He’s apologizing. The words almost don’t click in Torchbearer’s head so he just stares, dumbly, blinking at him. Clancy doesn’t disappear— just stands there, matching his gaze, running his hand through his hair. What little there is is still mussed with sleep, a few short ends sticking up all over the place, and it’s so utterly cute that Torchbearer has to close his eyes and breathe for a second so he doesn’t do something stupid like rush over and kiss him right then and there until both of them forget how to breathe and Clancy forgets that Torchbearer doesn’t need to be out here, that “Night Watch” is a bullshit excuse and they both know it.
His name comes out on the exhale— “Clancy”— and he opens his eyes. Clancy is still there, shoulders rising and falling with soft, slow breaths. “What’re you—“ his voice cracks, and he clears his throat, tries to disguise it as a cough, and Clancy just stares still, still there, and fuck, he’s done for. “What’re you doing out here?”
Clancy shrugs. Shrugs, like he didn’t throw off Torchbearer's entire night— probably morning, by now. “Followed your footsteps,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like he’d follow Torchbearer anywhere, and he has to swallow back a harsh lump in his throat before speaking again.
“You followed my—“ he breaks off as Clancy yawns, a soft noise, muffled by his hand. He was exhausted, and he was out here for him, and he still looked half-asleep and Torch’s heart aches. He should be sleeping. He should be safe. The world is red and he should be safe and he risked himself for Torch, and his first instinct was to lie about it. He’s terrible. How does Clancy bear to stay? “That’s dangerous, Clance. You came out here alone?”
Clancy has the decency to look at least a little ashamed of himself, grimacing slightly before he nods. “I told Debby and Jenna where I was going. Told them if I’m not back at our tent in ten minutes to come get me.”
He sighs, running a hand over his face, hoping the tremble isn’t obvious. “Thank Trench,” he murmurs, and he does, thank you for keeping him safe, our lady. Yet why keep him safe if he can’t keep him? Why haunt him with Clancy’s blood on his hands?
“You followed me out here,” he echoes, flatly. “Why?”
Clancy shrugs again— can he stop doing that? His casualness is going to drive Torchbearer insane, he knows it. “Woke up and you weren’t there. Looked out of the tent and saw your footprints and followed ‘em”
There’s nothing he can say to that. A million and one things pop to mind: That he’d recognized his footprints, the shape his boots made in the dirt. That he’d woken up— possibly from a nightmare— and had been looking for him, for him, and he’d chosen to be out here instead. That he’d told Debby and Jenna because he knew Torch would worry.
The guilt hits him so hard he nearly staggers back, exhaling quietly. “I’m…sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Clancy’s expression flickers, but he nods, swallows, looks down, around, up, fuck. “I’m fine,” he says, and he’s not but Torchbearer nods like he is, because he’s been lying too, he can’t fault Clancy for it now. “I just…” he trails off, sighs, looks down again, then up to the moon. “I thought you were off Night Watch for a while,” he whispers, like it’s a confession, and maybe it is. “Why’re you out here?”
His face heats, the mortifying realization that he’d been caught sinking in— he hadn’t expected Clancy to remember that. How did he remember that with everything else? How did Torchbearer’s nightly routine somehow slot its way into his brain when he couldn’t even remember where he was when he woke up screaming?
He starts to tug the bandana over his cheeks to hide the red creeping up, but then just sighs. It drops to hang back around his neck and he watches Clancy’s eyes lock onto the faint stain of blood still visible at the front.
“You’re bleeding?” He blinks, looks from the blood to Torch and back to the blood, eyes widening minutely. “Torch, what the fuck?”
He winces. “I’m fine,” he says, and it comes out softer than he’d meant and he mentally kicks himself as he watches Clancy’s brow furrow. He was getting worse and worse at lying. Next cycle he was just going to tell Clancy about the projection thing sooner— the thought of lying to him again put a sick taste in his mouth, slick with bile and salty with the tears he was choking on.
Next cycle. He hates himself for even thinking the words, hates himself more for letting it show on his face. He knows it is, knows it’s obvious, because Clancy’s eyes soften and the softest little exhale leaves his lips and his eyes dart back into the trees behind him.
“You’re not on night watch right now, are you?” He tilts his head, a single step forward eliminating the little distance there is between them. “This is for you, isn’t it?”
He could lie, he thinks, but he can’t. A lump builds in his throat and he knows there’s nothing he can say— he swallows it back with a choked off noise and settles for nodding, because he can’t deny Clancy anything. Why would he, if he’ll simply lose him either way?
Clancy’s fingers graze his cheek and he almost whimpers, tears flooding his eyes, breath catching in the back of his throat. He’s gentle, so soft, and he nearly drops to his knees. Please, goddess, let me keep him. He’s being taunted; taunted with gentleness, with the taste of love, of Clancy’s lips on his, sweet and perfect.
The taste of metal on his lips haunts him, the blood on his hands dripping to spell it out, as if Trench is speaking straight into his soul. All this gentleness is temporary, fleeting, like before. He is not for you to keep.
He’s terrified, but Clancy’s hands are dry on his face, the scar on his wrist healed over now. He doesn’t move, though— just stands there and lets Clancy tilt his face this way and that until he’s satisfied with the lack of visible injury. Something hot and heavy blooms in his gut at the gentle touch; he’s the only one who sees Clancy like this— brow furrowed in concern, eyes crinkled and shiny, and he opens his eyes to see him still frowning at him. “You’re bleeding,” he repeats, firmer, more insistent and Torchbearer just sighs because he’s not going to drop it.
“I bit my tongue, alright?” He smiles, weakly. It doesn’t reach his eyes, and Clancy’s frown deepens. “Gotta stay awake somehow.”
Clancy’s hand drops from his face and he wants to put it back, wants to keep the cold feel of his skin there forever. The thought fades as Clancy’s hand finds his wrist, tugging him forward so harshly he actually stumbles.
“Clance, careful!” He hisses, grip on the torch tightening. Yet he follows, thud, thud, thud, boots on the ground, and he knows deep down he would’ve gone even if Clancy hadn’t dragged him. All Clancy had to do was turn, a single step forward, and he would’ve taken one in tandem.
“Nope!” He chirps, turning around just enough to level him with an easy smile— too easy. He can see the mischievous glimmer of I-have-a-plan in his eyes that Torch loathes (and loves) and he almost smiles back. “You’re exhausted, so you’re coming to bed with me.”
He raises an eyebrow, lips parting, but Clancy slides so he’s holding his hand, not his wrist, giving a firm squeeze as if to say don’t even think about it. So he does just that— only that— and thinks about it, lets himself dream about having Clancy all to himself, no fear of losing him. Tears spring to his eyes as he pictures it— Clancy with gray hair, with wrinkles, with lines from smiling creasing his eyes as he finally has reason to.
He lets himself indulge in the fantasy— because that’s what it is, isn’t it? a dream dusted in moonlight— until they get back to their tent, Clancy all but shoving him through the flap before following him in.
“Sit,” he commands, pointing at their cot, and he does before he even thinks about it, blinking as he realizes.
A soft huff leaves him. “I feel like a dog,” he grumbles.
Clancy laughs, sharp and quiet, nimble hands making quick work of his shoelaces. “Should I start calling you pup?” It’s a light tease, but Torchbearer will forever be thankful for the tight knots tied in his laces, keeping Clancy’s eyes from seeing the embarrassing pink that floods his cheeks.
“Don’t you dare,” he breathes, and it’s not convincing at all. Clancy doesn’t comment on it— just sets his boots to the side and gently pushes him to lay flat against the bed.
“Sleep,” he whispers, and Torchbearer almost listens, until he feels it— hands starting to pull away, hands starting to drop to Clancy’s sides, lifeless, blood dripping down the palms—
Torchbearer— embarrassingly— whines, a soft noise that wobbles in the air just long enough for Clancy to catch it, eyes widening, flickering with some emotion Torchbearer doesn’t even try to decipher— not when his mind already feels like mush, not when his heart is racing, not when the only thought in his head is just Clancy’s name, over and over again.
Clancy, bless him, just does that little head tilt again, and Torchbearer’s heart melts and he’s falling in love with him all over again, his heart melting into a puddle in his chest. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t have to. Torchbearer’s lips part of their own accord.
“Where are you going?” he whispers, and he hates how anxious he feels, hates himself for letting it show in his voice. Clancy blinks, and then he smiles, smiles, and Torchbearer is gone. He’s going to devote himself to Trench all over again for letting Clancy exist in his orbit— for letting Torchbearer exist in Clancy’s.
“I’m just taking my boots off, okay?” Clancy’s voice is soft, gentle, fuck. “I’ll be there in a second. Okay?”
He nods, reluctantly, watching as Clancy kicks off his own boots. His eyes close, and he forces them open, and Clancy is still there and he sighs, digging his nails into his palms, focuses on the sound of him moving, breathing, alive.
A wolf howls in the distance, and Clancy hums, almost in response, a soft tune of his own under his breath. Torchbearer can’t help smiling as he hears it, slotting the melody away for future reference.
He hums back, the same notes— he thinks, at least, Clancy has always been better at the singing than he has— it has Clancy whirling around with wide eyes, tossing his boots to the side haphazardly and dropping to his knees next to Torchbearer, cradling his face with one hand and guiding their lips together. It’s soft and perfect and it’s blue from the glow of the moonlight.
Clancy pulls back, hand dropping. “You,” he breathes, gasps, one finger jabbing into his chest. “You need to sing more.”
Torch just laughs and presses their lips together, briefly. “Not a chance, dear.” Dear. Something giddy bubbles in his chest at the pet name, and it’s true. Nothing could be more dear to him than his Clancy. Nothing ever will be, he knows.
Clancy frowns, flopping down next to him with a huff. “I’m serious! You’re better at this than me and you don’t even use it. It’s not fair.”
He rolls his eyes, fondly, smiling as Clancy settles in next to him, head resting on his chest, arms slotting lazily around Torchbearer’s waist. He hums again, echoes the wolf’s howl, pulling Clancy closer and relishing in the way he sags, a contented noise leaving his lips. “I only sing for you, my moon,” he murmurs, so soft and utterly fond it almost makes him nauseous. “Only you.”
Clancy lifts his head, peers up through half-closed eyes and lidded lashes. The moonlight filters in through the tent, painting him in a soft glow. He’s not trying, yet Torchbearer thinks— knows— he’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. He’s beautiful and he doesn’t even know it, and yet the words don’t leave his lips. He knows Clancy would just laugh it off, roll his eyes the same way he always does when he thinks Torchbearer is being ridiculous, and Torchbearer would continue believing it until he did too.
Clancy huffs, “Your moon?” He’s trying for annoyed, Torch can tell, but his lips are tilted up, eyes sparkling. “Yeah. Definitely calling you pup from now on.”
Torch groans, tilting his head back. “You’re such an asshole.” He’s smiling, though, and Clancy grins back, lashes dusting his cheeks as he drops his head back to Torch’s collarbone.
“Your moon,” he mutters. “You’re such a sap. Go to sleep before you start calling me something even more ridiculous.”
Torch swallows, heart thumping once under Clancy’s weight, and he swallows as he shifts to get comfortable. He closes his eyes and the blood drips back down his fingers, and he exhales a soft, shaky noise into the night. Clancy’s arms tighten around him and he gives another quiet mumble of contentment, “..’s alright”, and he believes him. Their legs tangle together, Clancy’s breaths slowing back to sleep— alive, alive, alive— and Torch’s follow suit, and yeah, he is alright.
He hums something soft— notes Clancy had played him only days before, a song that didn’t have a name yet, but that he knew would already slot itself at the top of his favorites— until he’s certain the other is asleep, lips tilted in a gentle smile. His, to keep. Forever, he hopes, prays, pleads.
He vows, then— if this is the cycle, if this is the one, if he gets to keep the Clancy he’s so irrevocably in love with— he’ll sing for Clancy as much as he wants. He’ll howl at the moon like a lovestruck pup, and he is, he thinks.
“Only for you, my moon,” he murmurs, lips ghosting the top of Clancy’s head, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of it before his eyes drift closed again. Sleep finds him soft and fast, a red blanket tangled in his limbs, his moon shining— alive, beautiful, and utterly blue— in his arms.
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