contractuallybinding | (no subject)

Wisp thinks of a number of questions he could ask. Practical ones, like who he saw, or what he was doing, but -

"Why were you blushing?" he blurts out instead.

"Ah, a specific detail. That is easy enough."

He looks Wisp straight in the eyes, with absolutely no hesitation or embarrassment. "Apparently, in my other life, I was quite keen on our Fawn." Though he presses a hand over his heart, mockingly, he... does cut an ever-so-brief speculative glance back towards the door.

"Well, specific detail for specific detail." He's quick to sink his teeth back in "What was the terrible thing you did?"

Incredible. He regrets this already. He - he shouldn't care what feelings anyone else has about Fawn, given he barely knows the man, but - his memory surges up like bile in his throat. He's mine, it whispers, with all the thrill and power and horror of truly feeling entitled to another person. (He can't see how it's real, given how little power he has in this dynamic. And yet ...)

He flushes, deeply.

"That's an obvious lie," Wisp snaps, not answering Bastard's question just yet. "You're entirely too old for him."

"Do you know? I will indulge this blatant bit of fishing."

With the way Wisp's expression hardens, flushes and tone cracks, whiplike...? Oh he couldn't resist, really.

"Apparently we were both in our better days. Hardly any grey in his hair, skin unblemished..." He shakes his head, watching Wisp in the corner of his eye. "A fling of my yesteryear?"

That ... is actually a fair point? He doesn't know how old Fawn is, and he does have a lot of grey in his hair ... Wisp flushes a bit as he mentally compares the two men. It's possible they're closer in age than he thinks.

But that thought does precisely nothing to lessen his hatred of the idea. Mine, the memory echoes, with a force that makes him clench the edge of his tunic with white-knuckled ferocity.

"I doubt it," he says, seething a little. And then - something else pops out. "He's mine, not yours."

He hadn't actually decided how he felt about that lingering, delicate feeling. It was an aberration, certainly, something soft in a mind and soul of edges. (And yet, it lingers, still persistent and unbendingly his.)

And this scrap of a whelp dares to trod there. It's not the laying of the claim, it's the denial of his that was odious.

His voice drops to a low, arctic cold and menace poisoning his tone, "Uphold your end of the deal, Wisp." There's no delicacy in this compulsion, it tears, searing him.

Wisp chokes as the compulsion tears into him quickly enough that he hardly has time to regret having said that last bit out loud. (He does, and will continue to regret it, but now he's distracted.) He hadn't precisely meant to deny Bastard, but. Here he is anyway.

"I - I know what scarred Fawn," he gasps after a moment, as the compulsion drags out more than he'd intended to give Bastard in the first place. "They were - they were these worms. And I was able to save him by turning on the fire suppression system, but I waited." He squeezes his eyes shut. "I needed to watch him get marked first."

With his eyes closed, Wisp only hears a sharp, inhaled breath from the Bastard.

It was... awe inspiring. Awful in the oldest terms of the word, to find something so twisted in one like this. What an expression of that possessiveness, to lay a claim like that.

(Even as some part of him twists, horror rooted in a compassion he didn't ... know he had. Could barely even identify. He wanted-)

He didn't think Wisp had it in him. His esteem rockets up by quite a few steps (and down, blackening in another. A minority in the considerations, for the moment).

But now? Now he HAD something on the other man.

"Do you... regret it?"

Wisp wrings his fingers, knowing that this is a terrible, terrible thing for the Bastard to know. That's exactly why he hadn't wanted to go into detail, because now, well. He has two options: beg for secrecy (and give the Bastard more power over him) or tell Fawn what he's done to the other man. That his entire nickname derives from something that Wisp did to him.

God. He hates this whole cave system already. First his renaming, then that awful game, and now the results ...

"Of course I regret it," he says, shaking miserably. "I don't know why I would - would do any such thing." Only that possessiveness gives him any kind of explanation. He's mine, so there has to be a good reason.

"Well," the Bastard straightens. "I'm sure he'll forgive you."

He eyes Wisp. And make a decision.

"When you're ready, of course. I wont say a word, beyond your rescue. I'm sure you had your reasons."

No, it was Wisp's decision now entirely. Organic and unforced.

Stew in it. Lose your claim all on your own.

What little colour Wisp has drains from his face. There's the slightest flicker of relief - he doesn't have to beg Bastard to keep his secret - before it's overtaken by muted horror. His decision now. His decision and he has no idea what to do ...

(He desperately doesn't want to lose ... whatever he has. That sick, hot feeling inside his chest, brighter than the memory itself.)

"G-good," he manages to get out between clenched teeth. "I'll - I'll decide later, then."

That? That's a good look on Wisp.

"Quite understandable."

He tucks his own memory away, and stands, brushing off his uniform. "Now. Lets see what we have in the way of kitchen supplies."

"Not much," Wisp says, still trying to find his mental footing after all of that. (His memory is getting crumpled up and dumped under his bed, where it will never see the light of day again.) "Good luck making anything decent with it."

Though, with his new baking skills, Bastard might actually be able to manage something.

"It is amazing what one can make do with when there isn't much in the larder."

Though the kitchen ... is. A bit of a wasteland, isn't it? But there are eggs of some species. Something with the smell of flour. Dried berries along with the rations, and a tiny jar of syrup or honey. Yes. Yes, actually more than enough. Wouldn't have quite the pep of a good scone, but there were certainly things that could be done without the leavening or milk.

It...........

.... He supposed this was... soothing.

What an odd sensation.

It really is soothing, isn't it? Assembling all these ingredients, being able to see what they'll become. Knowing how they'll taste, and that you can make it happen. (Fawn might like whatever he makes. That might be reason enough to try.)

Wisp hangs behind him in the doorway, looking over the assorted supplies with some residual instincts but no actual skills. "I told you it wasn't much," he says.

(Reason enough... what a sneaky little unexamined thought.)

"Oh ye of little faith. Watch and learn."

After all, it was all precision, timing, organizing one's workflow that was the line between disaster and delicious success. (A shame none of the leaves looked like it would make tea.)

Now, first, is getting the fire going in the oven.

Wisp ... can't help but watch, really. He feels drawn to the whole process; his fingers itch to do what Bastard clearly already knows how to do.

"Fine. I - I will watch then."

And so, depending on when Fawn arrives, it... will look, remarkably, if unsettlingly like bonding DID happen (If a sort of petty, sniping, hate filled kind). It didn't take much to impress Wisp into work, he seemed eager enough if unskilled, and the Bastard did seem to enjoy ... directing as much as this newfound act itself. Though a wrong move was corrected by a stinging whap of a wooden spoon.

Either the two of them are setting small folds of batter onto an oiled pan or there's already the faint smell of baking beginning in the small wooden stove.

Edited 2020-04-12 14:06 (UTC)

Fawn's not gone that long. Having forgotten a change of clothes he re-enters with his arms curled around himself, holding the bloody rag that had been his shirt. The scars Wisp wanted him to have really do seem to be everywhere, scattered constellations all over his chest and back and shoulders.

He tries to make it back to his room without obviously running, but the sight of the two of them... stops him. "... Are you two baking?"

Wisp had almost been enjoying himself, in fact. Sure, the spoon smacks were annoying, and got complained about quite sharply, but the baking itself was ... pleasant? And Wisp found he enjoyed making new things, especially since they were going to get to eat the results. It was all just a matter of timing, anyway, and he'd learned that...

All and all, he's quite distracted when Fawn returns, jolting back towards the doorway with something like guilt? "W-well - yes, Bastard remembered something, I guess, so--"

And then finally Fawn's actual appearance sinks in. Wisp ... is not proud to say that he gives Fawn a full look over, seeing that those scars are indeed everywhere. (Scars that he's responsible for - scars that mark Fawn as being his--) He blushes furiously for a moment, and frankly looks a bit possessive before he manages to yank his gaze away, focusing instead on a small crack in the ceiling. "W-where are your clothes?"

And oddly enough, it's the Bastard's whose appraisal is more subdued. Inwardly interested, perhaps, to see if that odd ... warmth was there at the passing glance that he remembered.

... Huh.

He hardly knew what to do with it. Break it, or break Fawn to see if it dies. Or perhaps... merely observe it for now.

On the other hand, for as much as Wisp tears his eyes away... the Bastard's is level. Assessing. Cataloging.

"Tsk. Is it so odd to think one might enjoy an indulgence or two?"

Though the finder shadings are beyond him, the combined weight of the scrutiny of the other two makes Fawn acutely aware he is half-naked. Unconsciously, his arms curl more tightly around himself. "I would hardly think you'd deny yourself," he mutters to Bastard. "I, I'm g-going to change now."

And scurries off, into his room to do that.

Wisp is the one who watches him go, though he jerks his gaze back again at the last moment. Back to the cave scones they're working on. "R-right," he says, his cheeks still red. "Are these about done? I should set them out to cool."

His answer is just a sweep of a spoon to the somewhat smoothed stone counter, and a tap on it's surface. Over there.

"Not particularly subtle, are you?"

Wisp obediently ducks his head, then, moving to retrieve the pan of cave scones. "Shut up," he hisses. "You were just as bad."