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There's a predatory cast to Navarre's features, the wolf almost painfully visible beneath the thin veneer of humanity he wears more and more like an ill-fitting suit. He thinks, sometimes, that he can feel the wolf bleeding into daylight hours, and he wonders how much of his humanity will remain in five years, or ten...or a hundred, for he does not trust the Bishop's dark magic to grant them even the small mercy of finite lives. He foresees eternity in this hellish half-life and tries not to wonder if Isabeau - his beautiful, luminous Isabeau - is fading as he is.
And as his humanity slips away day by day, a little farther gone with each setting of the sun, he clings all the more tightly to his honor...or his perception of it. As if clinging to that tooth and claw might somehow redeem him. He knows it won't, though. Nothing will. He's had two years to realize that. Two years of wandering in the desolate wilderness the plague has made of once populous and civilized places. Two years during which he has sometimes had so little contact with his fellow man - is he even a man anymore? - that he sometimes wondered if he'd lost the capacity for human speech. Two years of empty, aching days, and nights lost in the half-life of the wolf. Two years of unseen sunrises and sunsets, the beauty they once admired together forgotten as they strain futilely towards each other. Day passing to night and night to day as he passes from one hell into another.
And now...now it has all changed. He stares unblinkingly at Mouse as the boy crouches next to him by the fire, ragged tunic pulled closed again to hide the marks of the wolf's mindless fury. Imperious took himself away, muttering something about beseeching God's blessing, and Navarre dismissed him with a wave of his hand, not bothering to watch him as he lurched away. The old monk can pray all he wants, it will not weaken his resolve. Will not change what the next day will bring. This is his one chance, and he will end it the only way he knows to. Bring them both peace while they're still human enough to want it.
"Tell me." His voice is a harsh rasp in the silence and Mouse jerks slightly, as if surprised, and his eyes are wide.
"Tell you what?" he answers immediately, not giving Navarre even a moment to elaborate or clarify, and he's sure he's never met anyone so fond of the sound of his own voice. He doesn't admit to himself that he's become quite fond of it as well, just glares quellingly at him, a look the boy obviously disregards entirely, before answering.
"Tell me more of her." He almost growls the words, shifting slightly closer as he speaks, long-fingers curling over his own knees as he continues to stare intently at Mouse. He doesn't bother to elaborate; Mouse knows what he wants to hear.
"She was magnificent," he answers softly, voice tinged with the same awe and wonder it has held since the first time he spoke of her, and Navarre knows he's as thoroughly besotted with her as every man who's ever had the fortune to look upon her. The jealousy he feels at the thought is a bitter thing - not for Mouse's love of her, but for his access to her - and it fades only somewhat as the boy continues to speak. "You should have seen her, my lord. She threw herself across the ice with no thought for her own safety, only caring that the wolf - that you - must be saved." As always, he imbues his words with a strangely compelling melodrama, and Navarre shifts closer as he listens, gaze still fixed unblinkingly on his face, mobile and animated as he relates his tale. "'Save him, Philippe!' she cried. 'For he is my life. And should he die I also shall perish even in the same breath!' And the wolf, my lord! It struggled mightily, its only thought to reach her, clawing frantically at the edge of the ice as she wound her hands in its great shaggy ruff."
He's caught up in his own story now, face flushed and brown eyes sparkling, but it's not this story Navarre wishes to hear. He knows her devotion, has never doubted it for one moment, he wants to hear of her. The little things he's missed these long years. "Not of that," he interrupts harshly. "Tell me of...of speaking with her. The lilt of her voice, the look of her in the firelight. Tell me that," he demands, though his voice has faded away as he speaks.
"Of course, my lord," Mouse answers, voice subdued for the moment, and he looks up at Navarre through dark lashes and tousled hair before speaking again. "She is...so very lovely." His voice is almost reverent now, and Navarre lets his eyes slip half-shut as he thinks of those agonizing moments as the change takes them, of almost but not quite seeing her. "Even in ill-fitting peasant's garb she could command the adoration of kings. And every movement...graceful as a swan." Or a hawk.
For once, even though he knows the boy embellishes every word he speaks to suit what he feels his listener wishes to hear, Navarre knows the Mouse speaks only the unvarnished truth as he sees it. Isabeau needs no embellishment to her beauty or grace.
"We were going to dance, you know," he adds quietly, a choked almost-whisper. "Before the wolf hunter."
"She was made for music and dancing and laughter," Navarre cuts in, the words almost torn from him. "Not this shadow of a life."
"My lord." Navarre doesn't move as the boy's hand settles hesitantly over his. "Tomorrow, if Imperious is right-"
"He is a deluded old drunkard," Navarre interrupts evenly. He has so little anger left in him now, it has been washed away by resignation, and sheer, bloody-minded determination to see this nightmare ended. "Chasing blindly after an absolution he will never find. Tomorrow this ends. It will not be a happy ending, but it will be a just one." He looks up at the boy again, expression softening slightly at the sight of his distress. "And a peaceful one," he adds quietly. He'll swear Imperious to that. She'll go out quick and easy, and unknowing. And this, what Mouse can give him, will be the last he has of her. It isn't fair, but he's never labored under the delusion that life would be.
"It doesn't have to be that way!" He's more surprised by the hesitant touch on his neck than by the boy's words. He might have a man's years, and have seen much more of the world in his capacity as a petty thief than many, but he has somehow come through it with a strange sort of innocent optimism, as endearing as it is out of place. He can't seem to understand despair, or resignation. His God has gotten him out of every corner he's found himself in and he can't bring himself to accept that the same God has long since turned His back on Navarre...and he's turned his back on Him in return.
"It does," he insists quietly, not moving away from the touch. It's been so long since anyone touched him, since he let anyone touch him. Two years since Isabeau last ran gentle fingers over his skin. He doesn't mean to lean into the touch, doesn't realize he has until Mouse's fingers shift, slide upward to brush at his jaw then cup his cheek. His eyes have lost their almost manic glitter when Navarre meets his gaze, gone soft and slightly unfocused.
He's not surprised - though perhaps he should be - when Mouse leans closer, stretches up and presses his lips hesitantly to his own. He is surprised when he finds himself kissing him back. Mouse's lips are soft beneath his, and he knows that he could close his eyes and delude himself. Pretend that it is Isabeau he kisses. Her soft lips yielding beneath his, her slender waist that he settles his hand against. Even the rough homespun of Mouse's tunic wouldn't have to jar him from the fantasy, not knowing what she's had to wear these last two years. It would be so very easy, as he teases the lips beneath his open with his tongue, to lose himself in memory and delusion, even if only for a moment.
He doesn't, though. He won't dishonor any of them with such a fantasy, he'll at least be honest in his betrayal.
His free hand slides up to cradle the back of Mouse's head in one broad palm. After two years without any meaningful human interaction, the boy has wormed his way beneath his skin. It's nothing like Isabeau's hold on him, but there's warmth when he thinks of him, and a grudging tolerance for his antics, things he's not extended to any other. And this- He could never call this right, but it's good. Easy to let the heat rise between them as Navarre kisses him deeper, draws him closer. He's rewarded with a soft gasp and the feel of fingers twining in his hair as Mouse shifts eagerly to straddle his lap, and he finds that he wants to hear him make that sound again. It's a novel thought, considering he's usually trying to get him to be still.
And even if he'd allowed himself that moment of delusion it would have been shattered now. Mouse might be slight, soft-handed and smooth-limbed, without the bulk of Navarre's muscle, but he's not soft as a woman is soft, and there is no mistaking the hardness pressing against Navarre's belly for anything but what it is as Mouse moves against him. He's grateful for that.
He grips Mouse tighter, not gently as he did Isabeau once, so very long ago, and pulls him closer as he licks into his mouth. It's hot and wet and almost violent, the way their teeth clack together and their tongues tangle. Mouse gasps again, the sound more drawn out this time, almost a moan, and clever fingers shift to work at the buckle of Navarre's belt. He almost stops him then - should stop him - but he doesn't. He finds he wants this too much, betrayal though it is. There's something inescapably human in it, and he finds that he wants it too much to let it pass. Wants this last chance to grasp at the tattered shreds of his humanity before he gives it up entirely. That's what he tells himself in the brief moment he lets himself consider the situation, anyway. He doesn't want to look too closely at the possibility that it's the wolf's desires driving him now.
His belt falls away to the snowy ground with a clatter and Mouse pushes chilled hands up beneath his tunic and shirt both, stopping all thought as Navarre shudders at the touch. His own hands take it as permission to push their way beneath Mouse's rough, shapeless shirt and splay across the narrow width of his back.
He should, perhaps, wonder what Mouse saw when he looked into his eyes. What moved him to close that gap and expect not to be brushed off or pushed away. Or killed. Or if he simply moved without any thought at all. He doesn't waste time on that, though. Or wondering about his own reaction. He can spend every minute of what will be left of his life on self-flagellation later, for now everything around him is cold except for Mouse, warm and pliant against him, and he lets himself sink into the heat of him with a quiet groan, the first sound he's made since they stopped talking.
It isn't the last, as they move against each other with muffled groans and ragged, panting breaths, hands sliding beneath clothes and over heated flesh as they rock against each other in a steady rhythm. Too much, as everything from the moment Navarre failed to pull away has been too much, but nowhere near enough. He growls low in his chest, a sound eerily reminiscent of the wolf, as he slides a hand between them, down the front of Mouse's baggy trousers, and curls his fingers tight around his erection. Navarre pulls back just enough to see the look on his face, the way his head falls back and his eyes go wide even as he pushes his hips into Navarre's grip. It's beautiful in its way.
When he leans back in, it's to sink his teeth into the meat where Mouse's shoulder and neck join, hard enough to leave a reddened imprint not far from where the wolf already left its mark in a far different way. Mouse's cry is unmistakeably one of pleasure despite the pain, and Navarre growls again as Mouse's hand shoves gracelessly down the front of his pants, thrusts up hard as still chilly fingers encircle his erection in a firm grip. If he weren't so far gone in pure sensation Navarre might be amused at how awkward this has made Mouse, how jerky and desperate his movements have become as he thrusts into the circle of his fist. Would definitely be amazed at his continued silence, when the one thing he thinks he knows beyond all doubt is that Mouse is hopelessly enamored of his own voice.
He's not thinking of that at all now, though. He's thinking of nothing beyond heat and friction and the incredible, aching need that's built so fast it's almost dizzying. Two years of solitude and self-abnegation and creeping despair insinuating itself into every corner of his life wash away in a flood of want that blots out everything else. He ruts almost mindlessly now, faster and harder, and he's not even sure when he's shifted to pin Mouse beneath him on the cold ground before the dying fire. It doesn't matter, though. Not now, as heat coils in his belly and tension arcs along his spine, as Mouse writhes beneath him, keening wordlessly as he pushes towards his own release.
And then it's there, wet heat spilling over his hand as Mouse goes tense and still beneath him with a high-pitched, strangled cry. He leans down again, teeth sinking hard into flesh to stifle his own cry as his climax rips through him.
Navarre holds himself above Mouse for a long moment as the aftershocks of his orgasm shudder and spark along his nerves, and when he finally opens his eyes - he doesn't know when he closed them - it's to find Mouse gazing solemnly up at him, obviously trying not to let his uncertainty show. There will definitely be more than enough time for brooding and self-recrimination before he brings everything to an end on the morrow, but for now Navarre wipes his soiled hand almost absently on a tuft of frigid grass, then cups it behind the nape of Mouse's neck in almost the same gesture he used earlier, when he first learned of what the wolf had done to him. He sighs as he presses their foreheads together and breathes two words into the negligible space between them.
"Thank you."