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Tarquin should have known Ashur wouldn’t leave it alone, because Ashur never leaves anything alone. Always sticking his stupidly perfect Altus-bred nose in everyone’s business—especially if it’s something that needs fixing, then he’s there like a vulture circling a dying animal.
A bit of an unfair comparison, Tarquin is aware. But he is also annoyed and upset, and currently dealing with a grown man dressed in a snake outfit trailing him home to sit outside his window. Ashur is watching him patiently from beneath the brim of his hat, waiting for Tarquin to let him in.
Tarquin considers his options for a beat, fingers curled into fists at his side.
“Oh, for fuck’s…” he mutters to himself, admitting his defeat as he goes to open.
“Hello,” Ashur says, easily slipping in through the window.
“What do you want?”
Ashur takes his hat off, then unclasps the mask. Calmly and with ease, like Tarquin’s welcoming him with open arms instead of hissing at him like some venomous creature warning him to back off.
“You’re upset.”
“Dunno what you’re talking about, I’ve never been better,” Tarquin says with the voice of someone far too defensive for that to be true.
The way he’d left the Safehouse earlier without saying goodbye, after snapping at anyone who so much as looked at him all night, might have also given it away.
It’s no one’s business what’s going on in his personal life, though. Tarquin barely wants to think about what day it is himself, and distracting himself with work didn’t do the trick like he’d hoped. He doesn’t need to be poked about it in his own home on top of it all.
“Since you let me in here,” Ashur says, “I’m going to assume it wasn’t something I did this time.” There’s a hint of humor in his voice, but Tarquin keeps his face straight, frowning at him.
“You assume everything is about you?”
“I said I don’t think it is about me. If I did do something to piss you off—more than I normally do, at least—I would prefer to know about it, though, yeah. How else would I be able to make it up to you?”
Tarquin stares at Ashur like he’s insane, unable to help himself.
In the time they’ve known each other, building a fast friendship and slow realization of—something more, undefined and untouched, something Tarquin refuses to think about, Tarquin has quickly come to realize there is something very, very wrong with Ashur.
Kind of has to be, of course, to be born into the life Ashur was, and still grow up to decide you’re going to be running around Dock Town at night in an expensive costume to save those your own kind is responsible for fucking over.
Maybe whatever is motivating all of that is why Ashur seems to have taken a weird, strange liking to Tarquin too.
Some fucked up fetish about caring for a—to rich shits like him—less fortune soul.
Not that it’s the kind of man Ashur has shown himself to be. He’s not all empty words and wide-eyed promises; stupid and clueless at times, sure, but he gets in the middle of fights, risks his life, takes charge to actually get things done, and lets himself be chewed out even when he does fuck up. If anything, Ashur seems happy about Tarquin’s ability to call him out on things he disagrees with or thinks Ashur shouldn’t get a say in.
Stranger still, Ashur seems happy about… a lot of things that Tarquin does.
Even unrelated to Shadow Dragons business.
He keeps seeking him out, keeps striking up conversations, keeps complimenting him. Even when Tarquin mostly glares and doesn’t reply because what the fuck is there to say to someone not just being nice in general but being nice in the particular way where it’s targeted towards him, like Tarquin deserves that kind of kindness. Like Tarquin could be special to someone—to Ashur, of all people, no less. Ashur who gets all eyes on him in every room he walks into, who has people stumbling over their own feet to catch his attention no matter what getup he’s in, who has plans and dreams and hopes because he believes in the goodness of people and what the world and this city could be. Ashur who’s a constant bright burning sun of optimism, no matter what the world throws at him, while Tarquin’s light went out a long time ago, if it was ever there at all.
Although there might have been a spark returning lately, maybe in big part thanks to—
Fucking Ashur, who’s managed to worm his way beneath Tarquin’s skin, get inside the caged closed chest where his heart sits and now actually does something to Tarquin’s pulse anytime he looks Tarquin’s way.
Tarquin sucks in a breath and turns away, can’t stand the sight of Ashur’s face.
He can’t afford to think about these things. He can’t even entertain the thought or he’ll be more hurt than he already is from his silent pining, more than he’s prepared to deal with when it’ll all come crashing down, inevitably. Wanting Ashur, admitting even to himself that he wants something—worse, someone—is already so fucking stupid.
Blinking a few times, today and everything that he doesn’t want to think about starts to catch up with him again.
He can shove it down all he likes, but just like his heartbeat speeding up when he thinks about Ashur, his body refuses to let his brain forget about the things he tries to ignore.
“Tarquin,” Ashur says. His voice is too damn nice, too damn distracting and disarming, like everything else about him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, I don’t want to fucking talk about it!” Tarquin snaps, way too forcefully. “I mean, there’s—I’ve got nothing to talk about.”
“Hm.”
Silence stretches between them for a moment, and then Tarquin startles as Ashur steps in closer, his hand touching Tarquin’s bicep before sliding up to his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Tarquin stares at Ashur with wide eyes. He manages to fight the instinct to take a step back, to flee—because it’s Ashur, and while his own feelings might scare him, Tarquin’s never had reason to fear him.
“Come here.”
“Wh—”
Wordlessly, Ashur cuts him off by pulling him close, slow enough for Tarquin to wrench away if he’d want to, but he’s too stunned to do anything but follow, and then he finds himself pressed against Ashur’s chest. Two strong arms snake around his back, wrapping him up in a tight embrace.
Tarquin stands rigid as a lamppost, arms frozen at his sides, unable to figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to do in a situation like this.
No boss of his has ever done this before.
Not really any of his friends, either.
There have been half-hearted pats on backs and loose what could maybe be considered hugs before in his life, sure. Hands clasped after surviving battles together with fellow soldiers, arms slung around necks, palms on shoulders before parting ways after a night at the inn with people he’s been friendly but never friends with.
This isn’t anything like that, though.
Ashur is squeezing him hard, unfazed by Tarquin’s own unresponsiveness, holding him tight like he could handle the full weight of Tarquin’s worries if he’d just relinquish it to Ashur, one hand coming up to cup the back of Tarquin’s neck. Tarquin shifts, just a little, turns his face towards the curve of Ashur’s throat, unable to help himself.
He might have been sort of hugged, but he sure as fuck hasn’t been held in—in so long he can’t even remember when the last time was. Probably when—
No.
That’s exactly what he’s not thinking about today.
Closing his eyes and breathing Ashur in to bring himself back to the present moment, to stop himself from doing something like start crying, Tarquin has the horrifying thought that Ashur’s touch feels protective, not belittling.
It’s with that realization Tarquin’s brain starts working again. He quickly pulls back, needs to get away from the overwhelming sensation of whatever the fuck it is Ashur makes him feel.
Ashur lets go, easily lets him step out from his hold like this wasn’t awkward as shit for him while Tarquin fears his cheeks have gone flaming red.
“I’m fine,” Tarquin says, like he can still salvage what little dignity he might have left after this.
“Okay.” Ashur’s quiet for so long Tarquin has to glance up at him, then adds, “You don’t have to be, though. You know that, right, Quin?”
No, Tarquin wants to snap, what the fuck?
Of course he has to be fucking fine. If he’s not fine he has nothing left. If he lets himself think about what day it is, how after twenty years the day his parents shoved him out the door from his childhood home—the last time he ever saw them in person—still makes him sick to his stomach and want to cry like a little kid, what does that make him? What would that mean for his life?
If he can’t get over shit from his teens, what hope is there for forgetting the horrors that followed?
And in all of this, Ashur standing in front of him, calm and reassuring, gaze so soft on him like he can tell, like he understands, even without Tarquin saying anything. Like he cares just for the sake of caring, whether Tarquin explains and elaborates or not.
More than he cares for most people, despite Ashur being the most loving bastard Tarquin has ever met. Like Tarquin could ever do something to Ashur’s heart that no one else does. Like Ashur could look at him and feel the same way Tarquin does, that longing to be close in ways he isn’t supposed to want from anyone else, let alone another man.
“What are you even doing here, Ashur?” Tarquin says, but any bite in his voice is gone, resigned and sad from emotional exhaustion now.
“I told you. You’re upset. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Like Tarquin means something to him.
“I can leave, if you’d really rather be alone,” Ashur continues when Tarquin stays quiet. “I just wanted you to know that you don’t have to be on your own, if you’d like some company. I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener.”
Tarquin scoffs, mutters, “Maybe when you’re not too busy interjecting with your own opinions about everything.”
“I can be… enthusiastic sometimes, I know. That does not mean I can’t shut up when it’s needed.”
Looking up at Ashur again with a roll of his eyes, Tarquin crosses his arms. “Guess you can stay, since you’ve dragged yourself all the way over here. I’m serious, though—I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Okay.”
“Or about much else.”
“That’s fine.”
Nothing about Tarquin has ever been fine with anyone else before, least of all the ugliest and hidden bits of himself only shown when he’s alone.
“I mean it, Ashur. I’m going to get a drink and sit at my kitchen table and stare out the window.”
“All right.” Ashur stays where he is, like he has no issues turning that into some kind of friendly activity.
There really is something seriously wrong with this guy. Tarquin has always known that, but it’s never been more clear to him than now.
To be fair, Tarquin supposes he has always known that there is something seriously wrong with himself too.
Maybe, whatever this thing is between them, the world has conspired to make them find each other so their weirdness can meet in the middle.
“Then go sit down,” Tarquin says and heads for the kitchen so he won’t have to look at Ashur anymore. “I’ll grab us mugs. Can’t wait to see if you can actually manage to shut up for once.”
Ashur chuckles, fond and low, then salutes without a word as he walks past Tarquin to do as he’s told. He summons up a ball of magelight in his palm before placing it above the kitchen table, always lighting up the world wherever he goes.
Tarquin dares a glance over his shoulder at Ashur’s face only to get an easy smile in response, and feels something bright and warm glow behind his own ribs, like morning sunlight spreading through a dark abandoned forest.