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Comparatively to Crixus, who laid bleeding and infected from their adventures in the arena, or even Doctore, Agron was but barely pricked with a thorn. One downside to burning the entire fucking arena down was, naturally, the fire. The all consuming power, the smoke that left bitter taste in nose and mouth. The burns, seared flesh that peeled from body and formed raw patches prone to infecting. No, Agron was not laying injured and diseased, but it didn’t necessarily mean he was pleased.
Breath was hissed out between teeth, his foot bouncing in his restlessness. Nasir was forever patient, though, paying no mind to the jittering and Agron’s pure need to get this bandaging over with. No, it seemed as though Nasir was just ignoring him in general. Not out of cruelty, Agron knew, but out of pure concentration. He was sitting before him, removing whatever skin he could by hand, dipping his fingers into a mixture of water and wine between each piece of flesh he managed to gather.
“The gods find new and creative ways to fuck me,” Agron murmured, his attention towards the people mulling around with the late day. Food to prepare, supplies to gather, wounded to tend to. There would be a small reprieve of peace tomorrow, when plans were once more struck and the injured healing. But until they were ready to move, they were safe, with roof overhead, and food in bellies.
Agron could see the appeal in such a thing.
“They are nothing if not creative,” Nasir answered, tossing another patch of skin into the liquid. He wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, offering Agron a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You will live to fight another day, brave warrior.”
If use of his hands was possible, he would have grasped at his chest in dramatic overture. Instead, he simply wiggled his fingers tentatively while Nasir retrieved some salve and wrappings. “Not only to fight. To see another day, to cherish those close for another day,” he said, smiling warmly to the dark man.
Nasir did not meet gaze, but the smile was there in his eyes, then. No other comment was made while Nasir applied the salve, harsh smelling and potent, hands wrapped tightly with great skill. The Syrian had truly been an important addition to their cause, not only with growing battle prowess, but with medical capabilities.
“These hands have known little tenderness,” Agron commented through a wince, looking at the bitter burns that littered his knuckles and palms as they disappeared beneath cloth. He had been right to question fucking plan, but at the same time, no regrets could be shared. They had been successful in not only securing Crixus once more and bringing him to safety as Spartacus intended, but Doctore and this Gannicus that he had heard but whispers about in the ludus. A success, if all things were considered. Besides, Agron was not one for regrets.
Nasir was painfully gentle. Hands capable and strong, so delicate with his broken flesh. “They can yet learn, with patience and proper guidance,” he pointed out, eyes flicking up to meet Agron’s gaze with a short grin.
The grin was met with a lazy smirk and an raise of his brows. “And who plans to teach them so?”
It was Nasir that lent in for the kiss, finally, a lick of his lips and the drop of his gaze to Agron’s mouth the only warning. Agron’s hands longed to bury themselves in Nasir’s thick hair, pull his head back and completely devour his mouth to make sure intentions were not misunderstood. But he refrained, lips sincere and eyes fluttering shut at the barely there touch.
“Heart skips a beat when considering what you would do if use of your hands was granted,” Nasir mumbled quietly, earning a soft chuckle from Agron.
“In due time, little man,” Agron mumbled back, lips brushing against Nasir’s with every word. “In due time.”