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“If I could’ve made it all end well, I woulda chosen Restoration,” the Kid says one night, and Zulf pauses in the middle of a word that he’s writing, looks up from his map at the Kid, and lays down his pen.
“Really?”
The Kid shrugs, but it’s not denial, just another non-word in the Kid’s vocabulary, and Zulf finishes the bit he’d started, sets aside the map to dry, and cleans the nib of his pen before putting it away and rising to sit beside the Kid, turn his head and comb hands through his hair.
“If I coulda known that it…” The Kid shrugs again, helplessly, hands rising palms up, falling, as though unsure what to do with himself, and Zulf’s been with the Kid, has fought against, lived with, shared space with him long enough to recognize the gesture, and pulls him in to kiss his cheek, his temple, his lips, speaking his language.
“You would,” Zulf says, and smiles reassuringly at him; he can read the words behind the actions, that if he could have known that Restoration would have worked, he would have chosen it, the thought tangled up with unspoken guilt about what he’d done to get the Cores, the Shards, bringing Zulf back in the first place, and the incredible emptiness of his life before the Calamity.
“You were happier then,” the Kid mumbles against the skin of Zulf’s face, and his eyes snap open at that, blinking in surprise before he exhales gustily.
“Come on, get up,” and Zulf stands, pulls at the Kid’s shoulders and takes him by the hand, tugs him to the bed and starts pulling off their clothes, his vest there, the Kid’s shirt, his skirts, both their pants, and the Kid’s eyebrows are furrowed in confusion that turns into equal parts surprise and arousal when Zulf drops to his knees and sucks messily on one of his hipbones.
He tangles fingers in Zulf’s hair and manages, “Thought we were talkin’,” before Zulf opens his mouth and swallows him, makes a humming noise of contentment against the Kid’s cock that makes him gasp.
Zulf sucks leisurely, pulling off to just let him rest on his tongue or to dispense tiny nips along the Kid’s hips, thighs, balls, fingers pressed against the muscle in his legs, sinks slowly back down until his nose brushes the white curls at the base of his cock.
Zulf moves his hands then, reaches up to touch the Kid’s, tangles his fingers with scars and calluses before bringing them to cup the back of his head. The Kid stares down at him, confusion managing to overpower the arousal, and Zulf rolls his eyes when he doesn’t get it, pulling off just enough to say, “Fuck me” before sinking down again.
The Kid gets it then, makes a protesting noise even as his cock jumps in Zulf’s mouth, and Zulf’s hands dig nails into the Kid’s hip to keep them in place, glaring daggers up at him over the line of his chest.
“You’re crazy.” And Zulf hums in response, sucks hard, and feels a thrill of triumph when the Kid moans, surrenders, and grips his hair, tugging at the strands for a better grip as he thrusts, fucking into Zulf’s mouth with a grunt.
Zulf hums, moans, tries to relax and loosens his throat to allow the Kid as deep as possible, tongue pushing up against his length whenever he can manage; he grinds the heel of his hand against the head of his own cock, groaning deep in his throat at the spark of pleasure that causes, making the Kid shudder and tighten fingers in his hair, speed up his thrusts. His movements are sloppy now, spit and precum-slick, and Zulf can taste him all the way down his throat, drowns in the smell of him deep enough to gag. He finds himself holding his breath, reminds himself to breathe when he realizes, takes air shallowly through his nose, and forgets again as a rough thrust pushes the Kid’s length hard enough against the back of his throat, stuffs his mouth full enough, to make his eyes water; the Kid rolls his hips as he comes in hot pulses down Zulf’s throat, fingers tightening hard in his hair, making his throat spasm from a muffled cry.
“Fuck,” the Kid mumbles, and Zulf pulls off of him, swallows and swipes the back of his hand across his face and pushes the Kid down onto their bed when his knees give out; Zulf pushes his legs apart, settles in the cradle of his hips, and thrusts slick and hot and needy into the crease of the Kid’s groin and thigh, plants hands above his white head and kisses like they’re fighting, openmouthed and fierce and sloppy with too much teeth and tongue. His lips are swollen, hot, and the Kid’s making lazy little rolls of his hips below him, and Zulf is already close from waiting and the yank on his hair--he comes with a hoarse groan of the Kid’s name (his real name, gifted to him like the treasure it is), shoots white over his tanned skin, and collapses on top of him when his arms give out. (It’s okay though; the Kid’s already shown that he can handle his weight.)
“So,” the Kid says eventually, hand spread in the small of Zulf’s back, casually possessive. “What was…?”
Zulf grumbles and works up the care to lever himself up on an elbow, grimacing at the way their skin unsticks at the movement, but looking into the Kid’s eyes despite it.
“I am happy,” Zulf says, continues despite how he can feel his face going red at his sex-rasped voice and the words he’s saying. “I regret that the Calamity happened. I do not regret us.
“This future,” And he pauses, presses a kiss to the crease in the Kid’s forehead, soothing him, “this future is not bad. I’ve found happiness in it just as great as before.”
“It’s not the same...” The Kid cups his cheek; Zulf lets him and turns his head to kiss his thumb.
“Are any two sunrises the same? Are any two downpours?” He smiles. “I’ve long forgiven you. It’s time to let you forgive yourself.”
The Kid snorts, and Zulf laughs at his unspoken words.
“Yes, maybe a little hypocritical. But no less true.”
The Kid just strokes his hand along Zulf’s jaw, the line of his neck, cups around it to pull him in for another kiss.
Zulf says in reply, eyes crinkling at the corners with his smile, “I love you, too.”