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A little bit of rain never hurt anybody, but it makes battle a miserable, sloppy mess. They ought to have already made it to the next town by now, yet it still looms in the distance as a reminder of what they might have if only they can manage to trudge their way through the mud fields and break through the pocket of bandits that decide they make a good target. Not very smart bandits, obviously.
Legault blinks away the rain sliding from his soaked bandanna into his eyes, though at this point he might as well close them and hope Mark steers him clear of any large obstacles. Still, not the worst conditions he ever fought in though the way both Kent and Sain fight to advance even a few feet through the mud means he ought to keep that thought to himself over dinner. He shoots a glance up to Florina, undecided whether he might prefer getting rained on from the back of a Pegasus or not.
“Legault.”
He turns toward the sound of his name; Mark’s attention rests elsewhere for the moment so no harm in investigating. Heath stands under the wing of his wyvern, shielded from the rain pummeling the rest of them and nods his head towards the sliver of space beside him. No one has ever told him he has to be told something twice.
Hyperion blows out a breath when he steps over his tail and stands beneath the canopy of his wing. The rain pelts his hide in a steady pat pat pat, but the beast appears unbothered, the droplets rolling swiftly off without soaking him. Must be nice.
“Lovely weather we’re having.”
“Hm.”
Unlike his wyvern, the rain most certainly did soak Heath; his hair sticks to his neck and face, the rivulets of water from it snaking down the plate of his armour and dripping at his feet. He stands with his arms cross over his chest and a shiver runs through him every few seconds.
“I take it you’re not among those who find rain refreshing,” he does nothing to hide the smile; a grown man pouting rarely manages to be cute, but they too often lack Heath’s other attributes.
He stares at the dark grey sky, gold eyes ever scanning for enemies, “I’m not unused to it.”
“Oh give it up, your misery is as plain as day.”
Heath’s glances at him sideways, “I suppose you find it amusing.”
Legault snorts.
“Does it not bother you?” he asks after a moment of relative silence.
“Sure, but last I checked I lack the ability to control the weather. Best to just roll with it,” he offers a damp shrug before squatting down, elbows on his knees, “besides, the company is good.”
Heath huffs out a sigh and raises a hand to push his hair off of his forehead. Legault struggles to decide whether it makes him look rogueish or not.
“We won’t make it tonight. Probably not tomorrow, either,” Heath says, interrupting the assessment in progress.
“You are surprisingly cynical for a knight. Keep it up and I might fall in love with you,” he decides on yes, rogueish.
“I’m not a knight anymore,” he murmurs and Hyperion shifts to poke his head in as though checking on him. He continues, louder, after a touch on Hyperion’s nose, “I thought you already love me.”
Legault hums his remembrance of the event, “well, that was a joke.”
“You don’t strike me as the type to lie about matters of the heart.”
“Oh, matters of the heart is it. As I recall your heart told you to run off,” he smirks, his hand placed over his heart in mock offense. It unbalances him and he straightens up instead, “and I will have you know I’m adept at lying about my feelings.”
Heath regards him with eyes that remind him vaguely of Hyperion’s, like he can see right through him. Dangerous person to have around for a thief. “I don’t believe you.”
“If you must know, I got these scars from a jilted lover.”
His eyes flick to the pair of scars that drag two ragged lines down the left side of his face, “I think not.”
“Oh? And where do you think they came from?”
He turns and holds up his hand as though measuring, “an animal of some kind. You wouldn’t allow your enemy a second strike, I see you when you fight.”
“And now you flatter me, something you want to say, Heath?”
“I want you to tell the truth.”
“And the moon, would you like that as well?”
“Be serious,” he starts to turn away and Legault shakes his head and steps in front of him. Heath’s eyes widen in surprise minutely, finally shifting away from the clouds longer than a few seconds and Legault takes the opportunity to lean in closer.
“Now now, what makes you think I’m not?”
“You’re a frustrating man.” His tongue slides over his lips, drawing Legault’s eyes for a moment before he raises them back to Heath’s gold ones. Same colour as Sonia’s but somehow he manages to pack all his knightly sincerity and honesty into them when he doesn’t stare at Legault while calling his bluff. They remind him less of scum and more of treasure ripe for the taking.
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he takes the last half step separating them and Heath stands his ground even as he lifts his hand to his jaw. He tilts his head to one and sees the motion mirrored willingly, his lips parted just slightly.
Mark’s voice calls for him and Legault smirks as he steps backwards, “think of what you want before I get back.”
He hears Heath huff and a second later Hyperion echoes it.
--
Mark, as it turns out, belongs in the last spot on his “list of people who want to kill me”. Mud, despite it not being in any way human, belongs at the top. His feet slide out from under him as he launches an attack on a bandit and practically deliver him to his foe. He manages to fling himself to the side to dodge the axe but getting to his feet proves more difficult than he thought.
“Now just a moment, man to man, how are you managing to keep upright in this?” he somersaults backwards, the axe slamming into the muck and splashing it across his face. Better mud than his own innards, though, he has to admit. “Not much of a talker. Too bad.”
Even with a moving target and the rain still steadily pouring down the knife he throws hits the bandit between the eyes. The man gurgles out a breath, only managing to half-raise his axe before dropping dead.
“Okay, Legault?” Mark calls out. He raises a hand in confirmation and Mark sets his sights elsewhere for now. Good thing, he needs the time to figure out how to keep his feet though his embarrassment lessens slightly considering the state of the other ground units. Even Mark wears almost as much mud as clothing and he hears Serra shrieking something to that mage kid that she always drags along with her.
He looks to the sky and gives a wave to Heath, who quickly returns it before looking the other way and continuing his slow circle. It won’t kill him to pick Legault up, probably, but Mark has a better idea of the battlefield’s current climate than he; better a little romp in the mud that a permanent nap in it.
His next fight goes better, his opponent manages to fall on his own sword with the help of Legault’s foot tripping him up and the rain begins to slow some. Heath flies slightly closer to the ground now, just ahead of him which allows him a front seat view to the arrow headed straight for his head.
“Archer!” he shouts a second too late. The first impact knocks Heath back, his front obscured from view. It doesn’t matter. The second sends him sprawling, arms reaching for the reins and grabbing air instead. None of the arrows have hit their target but one juts out of his chest plate, the other embedded in his thigh, not that it will matter when he hits the ground.
In moments like these other people’s hearts beat faster or jump, their hands shake; Legault’s remains steady, his breaths coming regularly, the fingers on his right hand curl around his blade without wavering. He hears nothing, feels nothing, and sees nothing except for his target.
Before Mark can call out he strides through the mud towards the archer. Their eyes remain on the sky, their sights set on Florina next. Archers’ armour differs little from Legault’s own, just strong leather and cloth covering their chest and forearms. He jams his blade into the enemy’s exposed neck with a squelch and finally they lower their wide eyes to him. He stares into them as blood pools around his knife, ironically keeping the archer from bleeding out quickly, and then he drags it across lengthwise. The quick spray warms him for all of two seconds before the rain comes back and the archer falls to his feet, scrambling to try to hold their neck together.
“Guess I am in a bad mood after all,” he flicks the blade clean before shoving it back into his sheath. He turns away.
“Legault, I need you back in position!”
“Yeah,” he calls back. Hyperion stands hunched on the ground with wing spread out like earlier as if protecting his rider from the rain might help even a little. Legault risks the walk over anyway and gets a face full of snapping wyvern only held back by the insufficient length of his neck.
“Relax, I just want to see if there’s anything I can do,” he holds his hands up and the beast stares at him a second before allowing him closer.
Heath lies in a crater of mud, arm bent in an awkward angle and most of his body turned brown by the dirt. The arrow in his thigh has splintered off, leaving only a small length of wooden shaft protruding. Legault bends at his side, listening for breaths. He wheezes slightly, but he breathes.
“Heath, can you hear me?” he doesn’t dare touch the arrows, nor any other part of him but his face.
“Fell.”
“You did. Don’t move.”
He gasps loudly for breath suddenly as though Legault’s appearance reminds him of his need for air. His uninjured arm reaches for his chest, for the arrow shaft as he jerks, still gasping. His eyes search wildly and Legault turns his head towards him instead.
“Medic! Serra, whatever your name is!” he yells out and now his heart does skip and beat too fast. He pushes Heath’s hair back from where it once again hangs in his eyes, “it’s alright, just keep calm. Not gonna leave you.”
He fumbles with the buckles of Heath’s chest plate then takes a deep breath and finishes the job. It doesn’t help, but at least it will make for easier visibility. “It’s alright, you’re okay, you’re not going to die,” he repeats, until the words blend together. His hands don’t shake, but they can’t decide where to rest either, flitting from chest to face and back again.
“SERRA!” he snaps.
“Ohmigawd, is he-no, of course not,” Serra squeaks out. Her eyes dart quickly across his body, surveying the damage, “those need to come out.”
“I’m more experienced in dealing deadly blows, not healing them.”
“Get the plate off, first, obviously!” she orders and he doesn’t bother saying anything before yanking the fletching off of the arrow. She helps him pull, and between them both and Heath clawing at it they manage to get the armour off. “Okay, it’s fine, it’s totally fine uh, Heath? It’s not deep, I can-hey, can I use your knife?”
Heath shuts his eyes, going mostly silent and they cut and pull the padding from his chest too.
“Okay, so we just,” she slowly slices at his chest on either side of the arrow, “that’s just a little bit of blood it’s no problem don’t worry.”
Her face contorts for half a second before she slides her finger into the wound-Heath doesn’t scream, and she glances up, “we have to hurry or he’s gonna die.”
“We?”
“Like, when I say pull you grab the shaft and pull.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that one,” he mutters, despite of how Heath’s life hangs by a single thread. Or maybe a pair of pink twintails.
“Okay pull.”
The arrow gives little resistance to his yanking but Heath remains silent, and still. “Serra.”
“I know,” she shoves him back with her bloody hand, “you’re bugging me so butt out!”
He manages not to fall but he misses whatever movement causes a whoosh of air.
“I can work with this part for now,” she murmurs to herself. The blue orb on her staff glows brightly and he watches as the wound from the arrow closes in on itself. “That other one needs to come out too but-“
“Serra!” someone calls. She rolls her eyes.
“Stay here.”
He finds himself grateful for the privacy, because the moment she leaves the energy drains from him. Heath’s chest rises and falls regularly, though his eyes remain closed and he takes a deep breath himself. Embarrassing how easily this man got through his defences; The Hurricane, a deadly force to be reckoned with except for now, apparently.
“You’re alright,” he says, though he doesn’t know if he vocalizes it for Heath’s benefit or his own. The rain lets up, and the battle comes to an end.
--
“It was my fault,” Mark says, pacing the medical tent, “I didn’t see that archer until it was right there, I should have.”
“I should have seen it and taken evasive maneuvers but,” Heath shakes his head. Even now he glances towards the sky through the small strips of holes in the tent structure. “I was a fool, too concerned with my own troubles when I should have been worrying about the battle, forgive me.”
“No, it’s my responsibility to keep you all from being injured, it was my fault.”
Legault sits on a crate beside the bed, waiting for the self-flagellation to come to an end, and lets his eyes slip closed. Not much else to do but wait, after all, and after the battle his entire body cries out for a bed or at least some place he can get mostly horizontal. A blanket might be nice to keep the chill of the rain soaked earth out but he tries not to be too picky when the accommodations guarantee he won’t be killed in his sleep.
The conversation moves on to tactics for the next fight, and how they can best maximize the effectiveness of Heath and Hyperion against enemies. With his mind floating along and taking in only a fraction of the information he realizes too late they address him.
“We’ll talk about it with him in the morning, but I can’t see him being opposed.”
“Nor I. Until then, Mark.”
“G’night.”
The rustle of burlap precedes Mark’s departure and Heath shifts, settling after a moment with a quiet sigh.
“What are we talking about with me tomorrow?” Legault mumbles without opening his eyes. He hears Heath’s sharp inhale and smiles, “sorry.”
“Mark suggested you and I stay closer together from now on. My visibility is good, but yours is better. I can’t let another mistake like that happen again.”
“Mm, sounds a decent deal to me. A handsome knight at my side and a dry place from the rain in return for these eyes of mine.”
“I said as such.” The camp around them is quiet but for the occasional hoot of an owl or chitter of a bat. Heath’s hand on his leg startles him through the waves of exhaustion he continues treading water in. “you saved my life. Thank you.”
“Serra saved your life, I merely guided her in the right direction,” he peels his eyes open and covers Heath’s hand with his own before working his fingers beneath his palm, “you’d do the same for me.”
Despite the wounds being healed by magic the dark smudges under Heath’s eyes remain and his left arm hangs in a sling. Legault tips his lips into a smile before lifting the hand in his to his mouth. Hand kissing is considered more of a thing for woman thing, really, but the success rate leaves something to be desired. Heath stares at him, wordless. Maybe hand kissing isn’t really a thing for a man, either.
They stare at one another and Legault drops his hand, laughing, “you really are too easy to tease but I suppose I should go and let you get your rest.”
Heath shakes his head, “keep your excuses to yourself.”
“Can’t fool you.”
“No. You can’t,” he fixes that same gaze from before on him leaving him exposed, vulnerable.
“Keep staring at me Heath and I’m bound to get the wrong idea.”
“Or the right one.”
His skin buzzes with anticipation, but his eyes burn more with every moment he keeps them open. His limbs weigh him down so that even rising from his spot on the crate seems an impossible dream. A yawn works its way out of his mouth, “we’ll have to talk about what… ideas you’ll be giving me in the morning.”
“Shameless,” Heath murmurs and Legault smiles.
“Not much need for shame in my line of work. Goodnight, Heath.”
“I suppose not. Goodnight, Legault.”
--
Morning comes quickly, and with the sound of someone yelling and another someone laughing. Might be Guy and Matthew but he doesn’t bother checking, just groans. Yesterday’s battle leaves its mark on him not only where Heath is concerned; he sniffles and forces himself out of his bedroll.
The camp packing up to continue their journey into Bern takes up the majority of the morning and afternoon and so by the time they start moving for real his body aches. Is this the meaning of getting older? Best he tries to firm up a plan for after the war or he’ll be dead in a ditch sooner than he’d like. Still, he keeps his feet and no one gives him much of a thought considering his presence is still somewhat new in the faction, which suits him fine.
They reach the border sooner than he expects and after a discussion with the Lordlings he slips away to the back where the injured ride. Hyperion, of course, follows in the sky so as to not frighten the horses though he manages it anyway; Legault knows the feeling.
He hears the sounds of conversation as he approaches-definitely Matthew and Guy, and Serra as well judging by the volume level. Matthew’s laugh stops abruptly when he spots him. He holds his hands up, smiling, “I come in peace.”
Matthew glances at the two on either side of him, “Serra, did you hear Erk call you just now?”
“Huh? No, you’re trying to get rid of me!”
“Hm, I definitely heard it too, best take Guy with you; Bern’s army is well equipped,” Legault nods his agreement, “and they’ve no qualms about killing children either, I’ve heard.”
“Ugh, fine, I can take a hint! Let’s go, Guy, who wants to talk to a couple of geezers anyway,” she sticks her nose up in the air with a huff and drags a glaring Guy with her.
“What do you want?”
“Cute how you care so much about their safety you won’t even let them stay while I’m around.”
“As I said, others might not see you as a threat but I-“
“I know, you see me for the monster I am or whatever it is you see me as,” he waves a hand and Matthew frowns. “I came by to see how Heath is doing if you must know.”
“I. The wyvern rider?”
“That’s the one. Unless you’ve a problem with it?”
“I suppose not,” he grumbles, turning his head away in ascent and sighing loudly, “eavesdropping isn’t very cleric-like, Serra.”
Legault catches her say something about how he really does care as he hops into the back of the caravan and shakes his head; kids.
Heath sits up straighter among the water skins and medicine, “hiding from someone?”
His arm still hangs in the sling but is otherwise bare of any bandages. The knot in his stomach eases and he flops on the floor in between a roll of bandages and a stockpile of staves. “Just playing favourites in my large friend circle here. Feeling better?”
Heath says nothing and Legault nods, “I know the feeling.”
His knee jumps up and down keeping a silent tempo separate from the one set by horses’ hooves and wagon wheels, “have you seen any wyverns?”
“Other than Hyperion, no. We’ve gotten far without being spotted.”
Heath gives a short nod, his eyes focusing on nothing in particular. Legault sighs and gets to his feet again. Better to cut to the chase. “I’ll be gone awhile to pull in some favours to get us in to Bern, much as I’d love to keep you company.”
“Alone?” he looks up at him finally and Legault finds himself caught for a moment, needing an explanation for some foolhardy plan that might just be the one that gets his throat cut.
He shrugs instead, “other people would only slow me down.”
The longer he stands, balancing as the wagon tips back and forth slightly, the more will to leave drains from him. Heath doesn’t need him here; he can handle a broken arm well on its way to being fully mended on his own, and he won’t be without anyone, people look upon knights more favourably than former Black Fang. Words hang between them, unspoken-perhaps Bern will be both of their graves. Might be some kind of poetry to that if he must choose a way to go.
He leans over and plucks a vulnerary from beside Heath’s head. “Guess I better get going.”
“Be safe,” Heath calls out as he jumps down to the ground. He doesn’t reply, but it echoes in his head for the remainder of the day.
--
After the fifth time his help gets rejected Heath begins to get the idea that this camp’s approach to injuries differs greatly from Bern’s. A patch up and a kick out the door unless you couldn’t see straight has been traded for rest and relaxation regardless of the degree of injury.
“I can still hold a weapon,” he tells Mark, passing by with an armful of tomes. He falls into step with him for a moment, “do you need my help carrying-“
“Take a break, Heath, you’ve earned it.”
He watches him hurry away and sighs. A break. His head will pop off from the pressure building in his neck but he should take a break and let the thoughts chasing him catch up. They can’t keep him from tending to his Wyvern at least-Lowen raises his head from the fire pit he constructs when Heath walks up.
“Sorry, I’m kinda in the middle of something but there’s some rabbits Rebecca caught over there; I think it’s okay if you take them.”
“I can help you,” he moves and Lowen holds up a hand.
“I’ve got it. Besides, what kind of knight would I be if I let an injured guy help me?”
Heath grunts and grabs the three rabbits from the sack Lower points to and keeps his thoughts to himself.
Hyperion stands to the far right of their camp, far enough from the horses that they don’t shriek with fright; they ought to be used to him by now, but perhaps they enjoy causing a fuss. He looks towards him, beating his wings and making a guttural sound as his rider approaches.
The Wyvern takes his offering without complaint, nearly catching Heath’s good hand in his jaws in his haste to devour his meal. “Hey, be careful or I might be rendered even more useless.”
He noses his hand, tongue darting out to taste his palm and Heath huffs out a laugh, “I don’t have anything else; you already ate it, you glutton.”
His heartbeat slows a little just being close enough to his mount to ride-the idea of deserting a second time brings him no pleasure, but one arm broken or not, he can still fly away if he has to. He stares up at the darkening sky, mind blank except to hyperfocus on every shape he sees among clouds to discern if they will become the Flying V formation of a Wyvern Unit here for his head.
“Home sweet home, right?” he murmurs, smoothing his hand over the scales of Hyperion’s snout. He swallows the lump in his throat, his thoughts turning to Commander Vaida-she will no doubt be here, her loyalty to Bern unwavering- and then to Legault within the belly of the beast.
He groans and looks to the sky again. At least here the worry is founded, but that does nothing to stop it.
--
By the time he drags his way back to the camp a week and a day later he bizarrely craves that Lowen kid’s food and the kind of mediocre comfort that only a bedroll on hard ground can provide. Things are moving quickly towards a mess with Sonia and her lackeys moving in on Bern; he considers, very briefly, turning tail and heading for Ilia or perhaps jumping into the sea and taking his chances swimming to whatever other landmasses might exist out there. A deserted island might be nice, but he returns to Lord Eliwood and gives him the news. Enough running.
“We have to move quickly,” the Lordling says-the understatement of the year award goes to him.
“More than quickly, we need to be there yesterday, Eliwood,” Hector runs a hand through his hair, “I’ve no patience for all this sneaking around.”
“Bern’s army is twice the strength of most, and at least four times the strength of ours not including the Black Fang,” his face goes hard, the guild name spat like a dirty word.
Hector groans, “I know that! Blast, where is my axe?”
“Your axe will do nothing if it falls on the wrong head,” Lyndis sits, while the other two pace, her hand on the blade laid across her lap.
“I will form a strategy for action, if you will give me a little time,” Mark slips in beside Legault and they turn to him instead of one another, “though our time is short if we make calculated moves our efforts will not be in vain.”
“Well met, Mark,” Lyndis nods, “now Hector can stop yelling about his axe.”
He and Mark take their leave before they can get wrapped up in the fight of the day between the pair, but instead of his bed he gets Mark’s tent where he gets interrogated until the sun comes up about Black Fang strategies. The tactician runs on something other than sleep because after their conversation he immediately launches into simulations of the possible outcomes of each of his plans. Legault manages to slip away somewhere between the fifth and sixth.
“Legault,” he hears as he heads for the furthest tent from Mark’s. At this point he can’t spare a care for who else sleeps in it-so long as it isn’t someone who uses magic considering they all seem to share the trait of talking in their sleep. He stops anyway, well aware he may be forfeiting the last non-mage inhabited tent.
“A sight for sore eyes,” he turns and smirks.
Heath runs a hand down his face. He looks about as good as Legault feels, most of his handsomeness hidden behind the mop of unwashed hair and paranoid eyes with dark circles so black they resemble soot. “How did it go?”
“My head isn’t on a pike so I’d say it went pretty well.”
“Where are you going now?” he takes another step forward, “wh-what was it like, in the capital?”
He tips his head to the side, “now Heath, I’m starting to get the impression you missed me. And you’ll see for yourself in a few days, I imagine. How long has it been since you slept?”
“Hm? What a foolish question,” he stares upwards and Legault sighs. The things he gets himself into with people.
“Well I’m going to sleep,” he takes a step backwards and Heath follows, “I think we have a few hours before we’re breaking camp if you want to join me.”
“In your bed?”
“Unless you plan to bring your own.”
“People will talk.”
“They already talk.”
It surprises him little when he starts towards one of the distant tents and Heath matches his stride. It surprises him a lot when he finds the tent empty of anything but rolled up beds; perhaps this tent houses mostly knights, then. He can’t complain about that, though surely they will once they discover him. He doesn’t bother caring at the moment considering a nice, hard patch of unused tent floor waits for him in the corner.
If Heath cares about his reputation beyond a surface level he doesn’t mention it. The two of them drop to the bed the second he gets it laid out.
“Got a little bit dirty out there, but-“
Heath’s arm wraps around his chest and squeezes, his chin hooked over Legault’s shoulder.
“Not the only thing that got a little bit dirty while I was gone I guess.”
Warmth at his back instead of the possibility of a knife settles him at the same time that it unsettles him; knives are commonplace, another body is unusual despite the wide net he casts when it comes to romantic partners.
“I regretted saying nothing more than ‘be safe’.”
“Oh? And what else might you have said? More flattery I hope, I never tire of hearing of my few virtues,” he mumbles. Words evade him at every turn-hopefully Heath doesn’t expect a full conversation.
“Something about,” he breathes out, “affection, I suppose.”
“Something about affection. Hm,” he draws the last syllable out, his sleep-deprived mind taking a strange sort of joy from the sound.
“I thought about what I wanted.”
He searches for context and ah, the conversation in the rain just before his fall. “And? The moon? Stars? An entire keg of ale?”
“You.”
His face goes unexpectedly hot, the words cutting through the veil of plausible deniability he can’t help but keep up. “You certainly have a way with words, Heath.”
“I thought you admired my honesty.”
“Oh I admire it alright…Among other things.”
“What do you say?” his hold on Legault loosens just slightly and he scrambles to hold them in place.
His fingers curl around Heath’s. They’re cool, like a stone, or perhaps like scales. “Well I thought I made it pretty-“
“The truth.”
“Thought you’d never come around,” he exhales. Strange, really, that he had. It’s a game Legault plays often-and one he rarely ends up winning-but Heath is as always full of surprises.
“If we die tomorrow, I’d rather have no regrets,” he says. He presses his nose against Legault’s shoulder, “Though I’d rather live.”
He tips his head to the side in ascent, “You’ll hear no complaint from me.”
“You were going to sleep,” Heath announces. He starts to pull back and Legault lets him, but grabs his hand.
“And you were going to join me,” he smiles, triumphant as Heath deflates with something like defeat behind him, “come on, promise it’s not so bad. I only kind of snore.”
The ground is like the hardest, most gnarled tree in an age old forest. With the promise of sleep to come he sinks into it with a groan as Heath stiffens against his back, “having second thoughts, lover?”
“Lover.”
“Too soon?” he twists around to ask. It leaves his back open to attack, but they aren’t exactly in the middle of a battlefield, or a Black Fang guild hall.
“In the interest of having no regrets,” Heath mumbles, “I suppose not.”
He feels, because his traitorous eyes have slipped closed of their own accord, Heath settle. He feels his breath against his face and his nose against his nose. Words come in short bundles to his mind, and he releases them just as slowly. “If you want a goodnight kiss you need only ask.”
“You’re exhausted. Sleep.”
“I’m exhausted.”
“If I kiss you will you stop talking?”
“I might,” he murmurs though kissing necessitates that he stop talking unless he wants to make a fool out of himself. His hand finds Heath’s waist, “I’d tell you no armour in bed, but.”
He presses their mouths together. His lips are cold, and Legault peels open his eyes just to make sure he doesn’t kiss a corpse, that this isn’t just a fever dream while Heath lies dying in the mud. He breathes out his relief, and slides his hand around to his lower back where the plate ends. He’s warm, there, and after a moment his lips are warm too.
But. He feels himself nodding off anyway. He squirms until his other hand rests on his dagger, and briefly detaches his other one from Heath’s back to pull the top cover of the bedroll over them both. Not exactly made for two, but Heath doesn’t complain and Legault can barely string two words together internally, nevermind outloud.
“Goodnight, Heath,” he manages.
Heath heaves a big sigh, “goodnight, Legault.”
Outside rain begins to patter a quiet beat against the tent as the others in the camp yell in surprise. He pulls Heath tighter against him and smiles. A little bit of rain never hurt anybody, he’ll tell them later. But for now, he sleeps, and only snores a little.