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Vanguard. It held a significant meaning for Stark, considering it is his role in Frieren’s party. For men like Wirbel, who tirelessly defend their country from demons, that word also carries a strong responsibility.
Wirbel had been adamant at trying to recruit Stark. Adamant at trying different techniques and ways to sneak in his recruitment strategies while having a conversation. Stark found it vaguely amusing. Clearly, the older man has had experience trying to wrest determination and conviction in other fighters before.
Frieren had told Wirbel that he could do what he wanted in trying to persuade Stark. The redhead didn’t particularly mind it. His mind was set anyways.
And yet he spent the afternoon with Wirbel and his friends, Ehre and Scharf, until it was evening and the moonlight shone high upon a cloudless night. Ehre had wanted to sleep in early and Scharf wished to do the same. They needed to start early tomorrow for their journey back home after all.
But Wirbel had wanted to walk Stark back to their inn, “It’s fine. It’s not like we’ll take too long to walk back to your inn, eh?”
Stark vaguely shrugs, “Okay. If you want.”
Wirbel leads them both out of the bar they were in and out into the small town’s narrow roads, “It was hard, but you had to find just the right timing—it was in his swing, you see—the moment he would swing his staff high up in the air, you had to go for it.” Wirbel says enthusiastically, walking backwards as he animatedly tells his story.
Stark smiles, “That must’ve been hard. I still get shocked sometimes with magic. I fought a demon once who could imitate somebody’s fighting style.”
“Oh? And how did that go?”
“It was hard. But it was only an imitation. She didn’t have the strength for it to really hurt.”
Wirbel makes a low sound of appreciation in response, his fanged teeth glinting in the moonlight.
“Say, Stark?”
“Hm?”
“How about we spar for a bit?”
There is an empty plaza near the edge of the small town. Wirbel and Stark make their way to it, the small round fountain in the center of the empty square is dried up. Not many people seemed to frequent this place.
Wirbel starts by taking off his jacket, revealing the tight and long-sleeved black undershirt that hugged his well-built body. He spawns his short staff, “No magic. Just sparring.”
Stark chuckles, “You promise.” The redhead takes off his jacket as well and readies his axe.
“I promise.” And he does, faithfully so. Wirbel, despite being a mage, has had years and years of fighting experience and fighting sense to be able to go head to head in a battle with Stark. But Stark does not let up so easily, parrying and returning blows with the older mage.
Panting, the two of them come to a mutual agreement to stop their sparring match. They had definitely taken up almost an hour clashing in the square and Stark is sure that Fern is starting to get worried at how late it is already.
She might even be getting angry now, Stark grimaces internally and fights the urge to shiver in fear.
Still warm from their spar, the two men start walking again, jackets in their arms and letting the night air cool them off.
Wirbel laughs, “Been awhile since I’ve fought against someone with an axe. You seriously should consider my offer, Stark.”
Stark laughs as well, “Thanks, but I’m good, old man.”
The inn that Stark and his party are staying in is already in view. They only had to cross one last alleyway in between two buildings. With how late it is, the alleyway looks almost pitch black.
Wirbel leads them both in the alleyway, the space just enough for the both of them to keep walking side by side, albeit a little cramped.
Stark could feel the heat from both of their bodies, still tensed after their sparring. Sometimes, their shoulders would touch from the forced proximity.
“Still… You’re still young, Stark, you've got plenty of time to keep improving," Wirbel says with mirth and the redhead feels a hand over his shoulder.
“You're strong, too.”
Wirbel says this in a slight whisper, their pace slowing down as the older man’s hand cups at Stark’s bare bicep firmly. Stark stops walking and turns his head slightly to the left, not expecting Wirbel to be right there, his eyes reflecting brightly despite how dark and cramped this alleyway is.
“Fast reflexes,” Wirbel continues in a whisper and Stark sees his fanged smile as the older man travels his hand from Stark’s biceps to his chest.
“What are you doing?” The redhead asks, keeping his voice steady.
“I’m just admiring you, Stark,” he replies, his shining eyes scanning Stark’s body. But how could he? They were both surrounded by darkness, after all.
Wirbel’s finger hooks under Stark’s chin and tilts it up at him, their eyes meet and before Stark could react, Wirbel drags his calloused thumb over Stark’s bottom lip, “Might taste great, too.”
Stark feels heat instantly travel up his cheeks and ears and he hastily pushes Wirbel off of him and walks briskly out of the dark alleyway. A strong but gentle grip stops Stark at the entrance of the inn.
“I was just playing around, Stark.” Wirbel says amusedly, his fanged smile reflected by the moonlight. But the intensity of the older man’s gaze is the same. Stark still feels heat around his ears.
“Well, stop it, then.” Stark says, wresting his hand free from Wirbel’s hold.
“Hai, hai, I’m sorry,” The older man says, “But I had lots of fun sparring with you, Stark, maybe next time you could actually take that sparring to the frontlines.”
Stark rolls his eyes, already forgetting what had happened, and he exasperatedly says, “And I keep telling you, I’m not interested.”
“Mmhm,” the older man hums, smiling, “well, I’ll see you around, Stark. Good night.”
Wirbel walks off with a wave and swiftly puts on his jacket. Stark does the same with his own red jacket and enters the inn quietly.
As Stark makes his way up the stairs of the inn and to his room, his hand finds itself touching his lips absently. The phantom touch of rough and calloused skin over his lip sends a new wave of heat that pools in Stark’s stomach.
Might taste great, too.
Stark wonders what Wirbel meant.