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Gortash had been working feverishly for as long as he could manage, driven by a stubborn determination to avoid the pitfall of his own thoughts. Sleep, when it did come, had been stolen in small bursts: in his workshop, slumped over blueprints; in his office, head cradled over unfinished letters.
Willpower alone could not deny the limits of a mortal body and its need for actual, restful sleep, however. Now, he lay in his own bed for the first time in days, the sheets cold and almost unfamiliar beneath him. He stared up at the dark ceiling, mentally drained but still irritatingly awake, alone with only his thoughts for company. Denied their due for so long, they finally surged forward to fill the deafening silence.
The last time he had slept in this bed, there had been someone beside him. Memories struck, unbidden and with a clarity that was almost tangible.
The Dark Urge had never been demonstrative with his affection. When tenderness did occur, it was almost always Gortash who initiated: a hand on the shoulder, a casual brush of hair, an occasional caress on the cheek. Igarak seemed content to keep his walls up even in the confines of private moments--but something had changed in the days following their raid on Mephistar.
It began like a cautious experiment. His touch was no longer fleeting, though there was a vulnerability behind every gesture, as though he feared some terrible consequence. As far as Gortash knew, he may very well have. When their partnership had first crossed the line into physical intimacy, he had warned Gortash in no uncertain terms that he would hurt him. For a Bhaalspawn, gratification in any form came with a blood price--and so it always had.
Their encounters were volatile, violent, exhilarating, but while the act itself remained a source of wounds, over time, a pattern began to emerge. The aftermath had softened. There was care in the looks Igarak gave, but rarely did he return the gentleness Gortash offered.
Until one day he did.
"So, this is it," Igarak had murmured. He was propped against the plush headboard of the bed, fingers threading through Gortash's hair. His claws grazed the man's scalp, dangerously close to piercing but never quite committing to harm. It was soothing. Gortash wondered if he was tempted to dig deeper, to leave his mark as he often did, but the moment remained unbloodied. "Moonrise tomorrow."
Gortash responded with a hum of acknowledgement. Anticipation had coiled within him all day and colored his tone when he spoke. "The pieces are falling into place."
"You're excited," Igarak observed, a note of amusement in his voice.
Gortash shifted to look up at him, regrettably dislodging the fingers in his hair, which he missed immediately. "Of course. Aren't you? Our plans are coming to fruition."
A faint smirk tugged at the tiefling's lips, wry and elusive. "Am I ever?"
"Is that a trick question?" Gortash cocked a brow. "Blood. Violence. Murder. Does any of that ring a bell? And that's only foreplay."
Igarak's smile bloomed then, though he turned his head to hide it. Gortash caught the expression and sat up, trapping Igarak's chin between his fingers and coaxing him back to meet his gaze. "Come now, my darling assassin, you can't hide from me."
Igarak's sneer was laced with mock irritation as he grabbed Gortash's wrist. "I wouldn't dream of it," he said. With deliberate force, he pried Gortash's hand away from his chin and lifted it to press a kiss against his knuckles before shoving it away.
Unbothered, Gortash pressed on. "But truly. Tell me you're as enthused as I, otherwise I shall worry you're no longer interested."
"In what? You? Or the plan?"
"Both. Naturally."
Igarak rolled his eyes and leaned his head against the headboard as he considered the question. After a moment, he finally replied, "I'm not… not enthused."
Gortash's brow arched. "Hardly a ringing endorsement." He tilted his head, gaze intent. "And? Don't keep me in suspense, my dear. You're doing nothing to ease my concerns and may, in fact, be inspiring entirely new ones."
"I'll feel more certain when the brain is under our control."
"Fair point," Gortash conceded, though his spark of enthusiasm dimmed slightly. He sighed, sinking back against the headboard, as a brief silence settled over them.
After a moment, he sensed Igarak tilt his head beside him. "Are you sulking?"
"I don't sulk," he replied curtly.
"You are." The tiefling's tone softened. "Enver."
At the use of his given name, Gortash turned to meet Igarak's steady gaze, his frown fading into something more guarded.
"Why do you fret?" Igarak continued. "I'm only cautious."
"As am I," Gortash said, though the words carried a note of petulance. "But would it kill you to show a shred of enthusiasm? Honestly, I'm not asking for much. A smile, perhaps? A toothy grin? At the very least, pretend you're looking forward to this as much as I am."
Igarak stared at him, his expression inscrutable, until a glimmer of warmth softened his gaze. He reached out, a single claw tracing a line down the side of Gortash's face. "I don't celebrate victories before the battle is won," he said firmly. "But don't mistake my caution for indifference. I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe in the plan--or in you."
Gortash studied him for a moment, searching for some sign of deception. When he found none, he let out a sigh, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.
"You'd better," he muttered. The corners of his mouth quirked upward. "I'd hate to think all my charm and efforts were wasted."
That earned him the smile he wanted, paired with another, long-suffering eye roll. Igarak held Gortash's gaze for a moment, then surprised him by leaning in for a kiss. "Never."
The kiss was quick, but Gortash was quicker. Before Igarak could pull away, he caught his chin once more, prompting a familiar tableau. Igarak's hand shot up and grabbed his wrist, claws digging in just enough to remind him of their sharpness. He did not push his hand away this time, however, nor did he fight Gortash when the man guided him into a deeper, more thorough kiss.
When they parted, Igarak met his gaze with something dangerously close to adoration. It warmed something deep inside Gortash, as much as it satisfied him to see.
He smiled. "Good."
That warmth lingered, just as the memory did, as vivid as if it had been moments ago. Gortash blinked, his bleary gaze still fixed on the ceiling, and the warmth immediately gave way to a cold, bitter emptiness.
He sighed and pressed the heels of his palms against his aching eyes, as if he could force the memories out of his mind, but the effort was futile. Exhaustion only left him more susceptible to an onslaught of thoughts, and they came at him like adversaries from every direction.
He suddenly found himself thinking of his parents, of all things. They had once told him he was a hateful child, incapable and undeserving of love. He hadn't argued. He didn't love them, after all--and why should he? They had proven themselves unworthy of it on countless occasions. Their lack of ambition had disgusted him even as a boy, and when they rewarded his own ambition by selling him to the Hells, his disgust had hardened into contempt.
Indeed, no love had ever been lost between them; as such, he had decided, without question, that the feeling was useless to him. His time in the Hells only solidified that conviction.
With a sharp exhale, he dropped his hands to the bed, his fingers curling into the sheets to ground himself against a tide of unwanted emotion.
It would have been so much more convenient if it were true. Something had shifted, though. Try as he might, he couldn't deny it: he felt something. Gods, he felt it. Whether it was love, he couldn't say--how could he recognize what he'd never known?--yet, as his mind replayed the memory of fingers in his hair, fleeting smiles, and easy affection, the ache swelled to unbearable heights, filling every part of him until it spilled out his eyes, hot and unrelenting.
Whatever it was, it was more than he'd ever felt for anyone.