Archive of Our Own

I had thought I loved him tenderly, detachedly, as the wind loves the flowers as it caresses their petals in passing and carries the memory of the encounter with it, taking their aroma along on its travels.

I had thought I loved him warmly, amicably, an innocent culmination of comfort, support and encouragement, a deep mutual understanding that lit both our eyes as we found each other’s, again and again.

I had thought I loved him with the purity and chivalry engendered upon me by my creed, my code. The admiration of a kindred soul, a being endowed with a similar mission. All-embracing, unreserved, as the Beauty bids—but unfettered, non-exclusive, unsentimental.

I had thought I loved him within the realm of what was expected of me, of what I had committed to. My life’s duty.

Perhaps that is why the signs that that had changed never registered. Perhaps I never allowed them to.

When my hand lingered atop his after a hearty handshake, unable to focus on anything but the feeling of his fingers, I looked away in ignorance, knowing the heat in my cheeks to be naught but a consequence of a fight well-fought.

I wilfully shut my eyes to the way my body was drawn to him, eager to bask in his presence - one so warm, alight with both righteousness and grief, both strength and fragility, warm enough to counteract the cold of his metal anatomy.

I barred my soul from the truth of my own feelings, foolishly traced them back to admiration, to friendship, to compassion. I longed not for him, but for mere moments of his time. Footsteps on the sand along a greater journey, not a destination.

Because wanting anything more meant forsaking years of piety. Betraying that which I believed in, THEY who had saved me. Giving in to temptation, losing myself.

But a sliver of doubt had ensconced itself in my heart, one I could not shake.

For what could be evil about loving, regardless of what it entails?

How could devotion be a sin, when it means being devoted to his happiness?

And how could I possibly stop now, when I carry the imprint of his eyes, the echo of his laughter in my soul?

Argenti gently placed his vambraces and gauntlets on the table, humming softly to himself, continuing to remove the rest of his armour. He had always ardently looked after it, working tirelessly to ensure each piece was polished, glistening, the red fabric reverently washed and dusted, everything nearly giving off the impression that it had never been used. It was a lengthy, meticulous, taxing process, the daily commitment to which further proved his fervour and devotion to the Beauty. Any less, and a person would not have the mental or physical strength to upkeep this routine through injuries, exhaustion and emotional turbulence. But Argenti had never had reason to doubt his piety.

Until recently.

He stared, feeling a bit dazed, at the individual pieces of armour, lovingly spread out on the table. His muscles were sore; a gunshot had grazed his neck, just below his right ear—it would need looking after. But, after all, he had cared for his armour even in much more dire circumstances. He found, to the acceleration of his heartbeat in his eardrums and the bitter sting of shame eddying at the back of his throat, that tonight, he would have to leave his armour unattended. For the first time in years.

He cleaned the wound, dabbed some salve on it. It was hardly more than a scratch (“The fudge, Rosey, you’re wounded”), nothing Argenti had not dealt with before. It did not warrant any particular concern, and Argenti knew well how to take care of himself. But even he had to admit he had paid closer attention to it after Boothill, shortly after dispatching the criminal who had shot him, had rushed to his side to take a look at it. Boothill’s eyes had held real fear in them, real panic—likely not for what was, but what he feared could have been.

Argenti could not blame him. Did he not feel the same fear when Boothill was in harm’s way?

The physical fatigue had little to do with his inattention to his usual knightly pursuits. No, the real reason was resting (or, likely, pacing back and forth) in the One and Only’s guest room.

Though even calling him the reason felt like shirking responsibility. How could something external cause Argenti’s faith to waver? It was his own lack of resolve, a want of spirit. How could he err in the face of anything had he a firm grasp of those?

Boothill opened the door almost as soon as Argenti’s knuckles touched the metal.

“Rosey! Ya… ya doin’ all right?”

Argenti’s lips pulled into a smile. His eyes flickered behind Boothill; the cyborg immediately stepped back and allowed him inside.

“Why, my dear ranger, you worry too much,” Argenti said, settling down on the edge of the bed. What was he doing there? Admittedly, there were no chairs in the guest chamber—an oversight he would have to remedy. “The wound was superficial at best. It will be fully healed within the week. You can rest easy.”

Boothill itched towards him, his hand coming up to move Argenti’s hair to the side and reveal the injury, stopping just short of grazing Argenti’s skin, like he thought better of it last minute. Argenti watched the hesitation in Boothill’s usually confident demeanour with awe: the cowboy’s gaze would not meet his, flitting instead between the ground and his neck. Worry was inked clearly into the lines of his face, as well as something else, something Argenti too had become well-acquainted with recently.

Shame.

Argenti grabbed Boothill’s hand and pressed it to his neck, even as the latter momentarily stiffened and tried to pull it back.

“Genti! I could… I’ll only hurt ya more.”

“Indeed? Then why do I not believe that for a moment?”

There was something deeply vulnerable in Boothill’s eyes when they met his for confirmation.

Slowly, his fingers traced the outline of the wound, applying just the barest of pressure. Seeing as his metal components had no real sense of touch, it likely took a particular mental care to achieve it. Argenti’s heart warmed at the thought. Even though ‘feeling’ the wound was only instinct for Boothill, only a mere desire for comfort and acknowledgement, the gesture softened Argenti’s heart.

“Hmm, yes. I rather appreciate the chill of your fingers. It’s soothing.”

Boothill halted his movements, but did not withdraw his hand.

“You… We… ‘m sorry, Rosey.”

Argenti’s head lolled back, looking up at his friend. He had turned his face to the side, and the half that Argenti was met with was covered by his fringe, concealing his expression.

“By Idrila, what reason could you possibly have to be sorry?”

Boothill seemed to recoil at the question. “That gunslinger, he’d… he was fightin’ me at first, and I’d seen ‘im pointing his gun at ya, but I… I was too slow. You coulda gotten seriously hurt, and it woulda been my fault.”

Argenti heard the helplessness, tainted by self-directed anger, in Boothill’s voice. He knew him to be reliving something of his past; Argenti had done his fair share of it himself. Flashes of a war-stained childhood, of fear, of cowardly hiding away while the people he knew perished to the horrors above ground. He had later sworn to protect those in need, carry the will of the Beauty throughout the universe—any less and it was enough for feelings of inadequacy to spring to his mind, cloud his better judgement with bitter vestiges of the past.

And Boothill had lost a family—a daughter. In the face of such pain, such anger, such guilt, Argenti’s own looked like mere ripples on a lake.

“Boothill.” He stood up, urged his companion to look at him. If Boothill leaned slightly into the hand Argenti had laid on his cheek, neither were going to draw attention to it. “You cannot protect everyone, nor blame yourself for their fate. And I am a warrior myself, seasoned by years of solitary battles. When we are fighting side by side, I expect you first and foremost to look after yourself. If you have done so and left the fight unscathed, I will want for nothing else. There is no need for guilt or regret. As for today, we are both alive and well, are we not? What more could we possibly desire?”

The last words tore sickeningly at Argenti’s composure. Ask a question and your brain will immediately strive to provide an answer. Images that did not quite dare form fluttered in his mind, and Argenti found himself acutely aware of their closeness, of his hand on Boothill’s cheek, the shape of Boothill’s moles, a hair’s breadth away from his fingers. Boothill’s eyes, softened by genuine regret, somehow further saddened by the shape of his moles beneath them.

Immediately, Argenti’s insides coiled in agony, in foreboding, in a dizzying flood of disgrace. His hand quivered, almost retracting, but what intensified his guilt was partially what was holding him in place: Boothill’s vulnerability. How could he say such words of comfort, then flinch back from him so cruelly?

Not privy to Argenti’s inner thunderstorm, Boothill could blissfully only take his words at face value. Even so, they hardly alleviated the pall which so clearly hung above him. He did not look even mildly less discontent with himself. His lips pursed, before a self-derisive cackle snuck past them.

“I’d desire ya not to get hurt ‘cause of me. I can take a beating, darlin’, but you… A shot like that more’n graze your neck, and you ‘n I wouldn’t be here havin’ this conversation.”

“Alas, that would scarcely have been your-”

“I don’t care ‘bout fault!” Boothill erupted. Anger, fear, helplessness and a dozen more emotions even Argenti struggled to get a grasp of all bubbled to the surface. He did not resemble himself. It was not the same kind of righteous determination he wore when he spoke of the IPC, nor the resentment felt in the face of injustice yet to be eradicated. No, this was raw, scathing. “I care ‘bout not losin’ you when… When I’m right there, ‘n I’m made of metal, I’m not even entirely alive, and even if some pretty bullet ruined a fudging part of me I can get it fixed, I’m disposable like that, but you’re-”

He did not finish the sentence. Argenti’s hand moved to the back of his head and, without any warning, pulled. He cradled Boothill against him, his other hand resting on the small of his back. He channelled as much warmth as he possibly could in both the touch and his voice.

“You are not disposable.”

He could tell Boothill had not been dissuaded. Anything Argenti might have felt was drowned by one urgent aim. He smoothed Boothill’s hair with his hand, held him firmly in this position through his hold on his back, enunciated the words with steadfast earnestness.

“You are not, my dear. I will not hear it. All I see, all I have ever seen, is a man of honour, shaped by unthinkable horrors and sorrow, who, in spite of them, has retained a righteous aspiration, and is to be greatly admired for it. I could not think of one single part of you that could be considered disposable.”

“My body’s made of–” Boothill muttered against his shoulder, though his voice sounded less wretched.

“Metal. It must be why you have a heart of gold, then,” Argenti said.

Boothill’s breath caught in his throat. If he had not had the body he so vehemently renounced, he might have shaken all over.

“...Fudge, Rosey. Can’t just say sugar like that.”

He pressed his face deeper into Argenti’s shoulder. His arms circled Argenti’s waist, held him gently for a long time, though Argenti could feel a thrumming desperation in his every hollow breath. Even in his state, he took care not to lean too close to Argenti’s neck and the wound that had started all of this. Yet there was an odd sense of comfort to have him so close to it.

If Boothill could have still shed more than a couple of tears, Argenti was sure the material of his tunic would have been stained wet.

“You do not wish for me to get hurt. But neither do I wish to see you hurt. Metal or not, I would… I would be profoundly distraught by any injury you sustained,” Argenti said, voice lowered to an almost-whisper. He could never dream of being disingenuous or untruthful, but this was sincere to a degree that hinted at something deeper. “As such, dear cowboy… let us both endeavour to keep ourselves safe.”

To head into battle, fully aware it may be the last time you do so, but hold no fear in your heart—that was what being a Knight of Beauty entailed. Hesitation was not an option. Purity of spirit and unyielding courage came before all else. If it came to it, he would readily sacrifice himself to ensure Boothill’s survival. It was not even necessarily emotion—it was a promise, a fiery conviction, a sweeping principle. Each battle was fought in the name of Beauty; upholding the good in the world, even if it ultimately meant breathing one’s last, unable to continue to carry the Beauty across the stars, was that not what Idrila would want? Was death not one step closer to Beauty?

But he need not tell Boothill that. He would keep his word, try to stay alive… even if there was no certainty of bringing such a vow to its resolution. Such is the unpredictability of life.

“Fudge, Rosey,” Boothill repeated like a mantra, more static in his voice than usual. A few more moments of silence, of words contemplated. Then, “Stay safe, will ya? I don’t want to… Stay safe.”

Argenti’s fingers tightened in Boothill’s hair. “Yes. Yes, my dear.”

Argenti never returned to pay his armour and spear the reverence they deserved. But he had known he would not. He had sensed that Boothill needed him more—and in this instance, though there were countless sources of shame and guilt and fear rising in his heart, he could not count this among them.

What did it mean, that he felt the pit of shame had he left Boothill alone at such a time would have been the far more unbearable option?

Companionship was not an outright foreign concept to Argenti. He had travelled with others before, had even formed a certain regard for one of his fellow knights (one he would later have to strike down—but this was not a memory he often lingered on). Still, agreeing to take Boothill aboard his ship, to travel together for a few months and to fight side by side with someone as skilled as him had been new, to say the least. Yet it had come easy. Naturally, even.

This was because they got along well, going from playful banter on their journeys to heartfelt conversations during the nights. Despite their initially contrasting personalities, they understood one another; there were aspects of their lives which tied them so intrinsically it felt like facing a lost half of oneself. They had similarly noble aims. Argenti had long come to consider him a true friend, quite possibly the only person in his life who genuinely fit that description. Whichever way you looked at it, there was no reason, for now, not to set out on their individual paths together.

Nonetheless, it had to be said that his ascetic vows required isolation, which he had mostly adhered to throughout the years, voyaging the galaxies alone, with only short intermissions. It could be argued that this, too, was such an intermission, if already longer than any other. Nothing more.

Though knowledge he strangely kept at arm’s length, the reality was that sooner or later he and Boothill would part ways. Argenti could support Boothill’s objective, yet he could ultimately not dedicate himself to it when he had to religiously work on strengthening his faith, his spirit, such that his body and soul remained unblemished and his connection to his Goddess pure, so that he might one day succeed in finding Them. They had known this from the beginning, had agreed to embark on this journey out of a sense of camaraderie that was reined in by the condition that this was to be only temporary.

This would not be the first time they had parted ways. It would likely not be the last. Maybe the beauty of their current circumstances was that they were but fleeting.

Yet this time, Argenti could find little Beauty in the prospect of seeing Boothill leave. Of once again being faced with the uncertainty of when they would cross paths again. Thus, in a distinct show of selfishness (or cowardice?) he decided not to ponder on it until it would eventually become unavoidable.

Which was easy, too easy, because finding a rhythm between the two of them and their new living circumstances happened so seamlessly as to feel as if they had always travelled together. Or had always been meant to.

They never seemed to run out of stories to tell from their travels, nor ever to struggle to keep a conversation going, no matter the topic. That said, it was equally delightful to spend time together without the need for words. Sometimes cleaning their respective weapons, other times lounging on the sofa, one absorbed in a book, the other searching for bounties on his phone, other times cooking together, albeit neither was particularly proficient in this regard.

Boothill would mindlessly leave his mark all across the ship: a gun (he had an impressive collection, to Argenti’s surprise) or some extra ammo left unattended in the cockpit; a half-empty glass of whiskey forgotten in the living quarters; the kit he used to clean his metal components with discarded carelessly on the sofa; a hair tie or other fallen next to the sink. Argenti liked his space to be tidy, seeing as a pristine home was an outward reflection of inner Beauty, but for some reason, he had no desire to clean up after him or return these bits and bobs to Boothill’s quarters. There was something inexplicably… domestic about having them around. He tried not to think too deeply about that, either.

It should have taken more getting used to, this having another person on the ship, but Boothill was surprisingly patient, leisurely company. Argenti would never get interrupted when he was deep in his meditations or prayers, nor ever rushed if he, used to a life of slow-living solitude, made Boothill wait around more than he probably would have liked to, given how hot his blood ran sometimes. And for all the talk of tidiness, Boothill was more so disorganised, not negligent. He helped Argenti with any chores around the ship without having to be asked to, and never left any outright mess in his wake.

In short, Argenti respected Boothill, and he felt truly respected in turn.

It was easy, too easy. The difficult part was not to grow accustomed to it.

To his great torment, Argenti had already failed that part.

One of the chores Boothill would help with, repeatedly, without exception, was the upkeep of the ship.

Space travel did not take a significant amount of time anymore, and Argenti's ship was deeply treasured in this regard. Old though she was getting, she was still a force to be reckoned with whenever he had the opportunity to participate in the odd space race. However, the time required for travelling was prolonged by the regular cleaning of her fuselage, which, thanks to Argenti’s intricate engravings, took an extensive amount of time, even with a helping hand.

“Dash, this here ship ‘s a heck of a beauty, don’t get me wrong, but cleanin’ her ‘s a hard row to hoe if there ever was one. Where’d’ya even get a ride like her?”

Argenti laughed from where he was hoisted up on the One and Only, damp cloth in hand, admiring the newly polished section he had been working on for the past half hour. It glittered in the diffused light of the two moons of the planet they were docked on.

“Alas, the responsibility for all this extra work placed on our shoulders resides with me. It was I who etched these into her. An excess of zeal, even I myself might call it such. Easier to realise such a thing in hindsight, you see.”

Boothill threw him what could only be called a look of utter stupefaction, his hand halting in mid-air.

“Huh?! Ya what?”

He leaned in to analyse the engraving he was working on, brow furrowed, as he ran his oily hand through his hair before Argenti could call out to him to warn him against it. Ah, and he was so very fond of his hair. But it was just as well. Argenti had a magnificent collection of hair products he could use. He rather enjoyed knowing Boothill had almost exclusively been using his rose-scented shampoo those past couple of weeks. The smell lingered in the air around him, and it brought a certain softness to his aura that he was likely unaware of.

“You tellin’ me you did this?” Argenti gave an innocent nod. “Wh- I never knew that! How? Why? How long did it even take ya?”

Argenti hummed, remembering the day he had first begun. A lifetime ago, it felt like. A much younger, more naive self.

“I had hoped I could merely bring her true Beauty to light, seeing as we were bound for such a long journey across the stars together,” he said, trying to decide on which of Boothill’s questions to focus. “I finished the uppermost half first, and worked on the rest whenever we found a place to land for longer. You would be correct in thinking it was arduous work, but I took it as… another form of mediation, training, complete focus. And it, too, was in the name of Beauty. I know no worthier pursuit.”

His story was met with a thoughtful nod. Amazingly, not the stumped or otherwise appalled reactions he was used to getting, whenever people heard how far he was willing to go in his pursuit of Beauty.

“I see. But how’d ya learn?”

“A kind soul I met on my travels first guided my unsteady, youthful hand. What followed was such as the honing of any craft is—a symphony of trial and error, patience and perseverance.”

Boothill chuckled deeply. “Yeah, yeah, pretty boy. Lots of flowery words to say that yer one of a kind. Dunno many crafts that’d have ya engrave a ship of this size, on yer own, without any experience to back it up.”

Argenti watched him with piqued curiosity. Had he mistaken Boothill’s initial reaction for understanding, purely because it was what he yearned for?

“Is there, perchance, something that does not sit right with you in regards to this?”

Boothill arched an eyebrow. “Nah. ‘M just awed, ‘s all. Know a thing or two ‘bout metal, as ya can imagine, ‘n I know it ain’t easy work. ‘N these? These here engravings are darn near professional work. If I didn’ know yer as sincere as all that, I’d be questionin’ the truth of what yer sayin’.”

A smile pulled at Argenti’s lips at the surprisingly fond way with which Boothill had spoken the words. So perhaps he did understand.

“I am sincere by nature, my silver cowboy. And as for lying to you, I could scarcely fathom the notion,” he said, and found he could outright hear the smile in his voice too.

‘As sincere as all that’ kept buzzing in his ears, leaving his chest warm and giddy, and suddenly he felt like a break was a wise choice at the moment. His focus was already elsewhere.

He expertly lowered himself back to the ground, motions imprinted in his very muscles after years of caring for his ship. Steady on his feet, completely unshaken, not a hint of wobbliness or of having taken a wrong step—and yet Boothill’s hand immediately came up to wrap itself around his elbow to balance him.

For a breathless moment, the simple, clearly unconscious gesture pulled at Argenti’s heartstrings so painfully as to render him frozen in place.

“Now if you’ve done the ship, reckon the carvings on yer armour might be yer work too?” Boothill continued, already pulling away to return to his work, as if nothing noteworthy had happened.

All while Argenti’s heart was stuck in his throat, and he had to physically gulp to get words out.

“An astute guess. Indeed, the armour as a whole was my design, and the carvings my own work.”

Boothill gave a low, impressed whistle, but did not turn around, still focused on scrubbing one of the rose engravings to perfection. He was putting his whole back into it, not the slightest indication that it was all perfunctory, meant to get it done quickly so they could be on their way or merely to appease Argenti. He was showing as much due-diligence to the process of cleaning Argenti’s ship as Argenti himself was.

It was then that Argenti really took in the sight of him.

He had discarded his leather jacket in favour of one of Argenti’s spare linen tunics, something he had grown fond of doing over the past weeks whenever they spent time around the ship. He had also tied most of his hair in a messy bun, which did rather work wonders at enhancing his rugged, casual beauty, as well as drawing even more attention to the bullet earring Argenti loved.

Boothill was focused, thorough and meticulous, fully committed to such a dull and tedious activity purely because it mattered to Argenti.

He was doing it for him.

The inherent intimacy of the scene before him was not lost on Argenti, so much so that before he knew it, he was struggling against the urge to wrap his arms around Boothill’s torso from behind, to lean his chin on his shoulder, and to simply… be with him, the way everyone else was permitted to. To hold him in his arms, his feelings for once allowed to ebb and flow and bounce off each other, the weight of duties, vows and beliefs muffled in his mind, his focus honed in only on the comfort of Boothill’s back against his chest, the simple joy of having him near. To put an end to weeks of torment, throughout which this had been an ongoing train of thought, a constantly resurfacing wish he had had to silence every single time.

The need was so sharp, so overpowering, that Argenti had to force himself to take two rushed steps back instead.

He could not make sense of any of it, and to consider what it really meant, what it could never mean, was something he could not do.

‘But surely there is nothing wrong about embracing another, spontaneously, in the moment.’ He could tell himself this, or he could admit that the hug was not in itself the issue; it was rather an outward expression of underlying misgivings.

He had had feelings before. Not quite this kind, certainly, but all the same. He had mastered them through years of solitude, training, mediation, unwavering belief in the oath he had taken up. How could he possibly be so deeply affected by them?

“Seriously? Designin’ armour too? Heaven, Rosey, what can’t ya do?” Boothill said, completely unaware of the ceaseless tumult he was putting Argenti through.

Let go of you, clearly.

“A great deal,” Argenti said, discarding the cloth on the table and propping himself back against it to catch his breath. That the spot offered a perfect view of Boothill in the process could only be called a happy coincidence. “You may find my talents lacking in many regards, should you continue to spend time with me. I am but human, after all.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause the talents kept tallyin’ up, each time we meet. A break might do me good. Leave a man feelin’ mighty inadequate by comparison, you do.”

“Boothill,” Argenti said, sounding both upset and firm. He did not know how he could make Boothill stop putting himself down.

Boothill lifted his hands above his head in a playful gesture of submission. “I hear ya, I hear ya.”

“Do you indeed?” Argenti sighed. “You know I cannot accept you thinking so poorly of yourself. Now least of all, when I am supposedly the point of comparison through which you do.”

“Aight, I really do hear ya,” Boothill said, laughter dangling from his tone. “Didn’t mean it like that, don’t get all riled up. Just wanna be worthy of ya, ‘s all.”

Argenti’s breath hitched. His pulse quivered in his veins. A couple beats of stifling quiet passed, until it seemed the reality of what he had said caught up to Boothill.

He swirled around to face Argenti. He raised his hands again, only this time he looked at him like Argenti was a spooked animal who might bolt at any moment. Was he?

“Holdup. Didn’t mean that like that either.” His expression was frantic, alarmed. “Companionship-like. Seeing we’re, uh, travellin’ so, and I ain’t wanna besmirch a Knight’s honour or nothin’. Meant no offence.”

Argenti had dodged a bullet aimed straight for the heart. By all means, he should have been relieved its course had veered. Yet the would-be gunshot wound had been replaced by a sinking emptiness instead. It was hard to tell which was worse.

“None taken, my friend.”

The word felt bittersweet on his tongue; out of place. Suddenly he wanted to pick up the piece of fabric again, return to polishing the ship, pour this unsteady energy in his body into something physical. Simultaneously, he wanted to run away to his room, to Idrila’s shrine, or anywhere where he could sink his feelings into prayer instead. And worse yet, he still, even now, wanted to rush to Boothill’s side and hold him in his arms, soothe both their discomfort through touch. The tingle in his muscles seemed to call for this action above the others.

In the end, he chose something far more pitiful.

“But we have been at this for some time already. Perhaps we should consider a break, replenish our energy with some nourishment. What say you?”

Evasion. How deplorable a thing.

“...Sounds good, yeah.”

They did, even as a tension hung in the air between them for some time afterwards. But seeing as Argenti did not outwardly show any discomfort at his slip, Boothill’s worry at having said something wrong eased, so perhaps that was enough. Even if Argenti’s same worry never quieted, even after he had gone to bed.

Their joined travels meant they would do well to honour both their pursuits. Whenever they caught word of a dispute in need of a resolution or Boothill received news of a worthwhile bounty between his search for the IPC, they would naturally lend a helping hand. Violence was not always required, but often had to be employed.

Their different paths allowed for surprisingly seamless control of the battlefield. They were well-balanced, each shining in either close or long-range combat, which meant they could fill in each other’s gaps. When they fought side by side, Boothill could focus on a particularly dangerous enemy, while Argenti would work on dispatching the swarms of lackeys at its command. Rarely did they encounter any difficulties in battle, and Argenti had so far kept his word faithfully—he had not left a battle with much more than scratches in many weeks. One had to wonder if that was not in part due to Boothill always watching his back.

But it was thrilling to know they were so well suited in this regard too. In all regards, it seemed.

It was equally thrilling to notice the look Boothill would leverage him with after a fight, sometimes even during one. The spark of excitement that burned low in his eyes, stoked by the high of a fight, was electrifying, but it was intermixed with another emotion that lit up the pride Argenti did not know he had.

Captivation.

“Rosey boy, Rosey!” Boothill said, whistling, just as he was kicking the last of the monsters they were fighting square in the face with his rowel. The force of impact would have been enough to stagger anyone, but it carrying the full weight of a metal leg behind it made the beast topple to the ground, unconscious. “It don’t ever grow old, seein’ ya fight. Ya move like you’re jammin’.”

Argenti laughed, shifting his spear to his left hand so that he could roll his arm and release the tension in it. They had thoroughly cleaned up the area around the quaint town they had arrived in, which had been tormented by monster attacks for many weeks, and they had barely broken a sweat. His muscles were starting to get vaguely sore after three days of doing little else but this, though.

“In truth, any exchange of blows is akin to a dance. Master the movements, and the rhythm will meet you halfway.”

Pressing down on the creature’s back with his boot, Boothill rested the barrel of his gun on his shoulder and watched Argenti with a roguish grin.

“Yeah, that’s a fine metaphor for a fight ‘n all. But I was meanin’ more that you actually look like yer dancin’, pretty boy.”

“It is how the old man who first showed me the ways of Beauty taught me,” Argenti said. “Though I maintain that there is inherent elegance in all the traditional martial arts, beyond what the more… modern weapons have to offer.” A pause. “Not to say your gunslinging is not impressive, of course.”

The addition was made gently, though Argenti knew Boothill would not take such a thing to heart even without it. Especially not when it was coming from him.

“Ha, ‘long as it gets the job done,” Boothill said in good humour. “There’s some art in gunslingin’ too, but yer right. I’ve always wished I’d taken to more hands-on weapons, myself.”

“Have you never had the chance to?”

“Nah, ‘sides archery. Always liked bows. Though it’s been… been a long time since I’ve used one.”

“Hm? How so?”

Boothill cleared his throat. Argenti had started wiping the blood off his spear and was no longer looking at him, so he could not explain exactly how, but he immediately realised something was wrong upon hearing the sound.

“Used to shoot with my ‘ol men. Graey and Nick, I’ve told ya about them. Went huntin’, mostly. My daughter, she… she liked watchin’ sometimes. Was too young to understand what we was doing exactly but she’d watch with these big, curious brown eyes. Was a helluva lot braver than any little ones I ever seen. Surely braver ‘n me at her age, I’ll tell ya that. So I promised her I’d teach her someday too, after she’d mastered the guitar. But only after. Make music, not war, or whatever whacky thing Graey liked sayin’. Was right, to teach her to honour life before showin’ her how to take it.” Boothill’s voice was tainted with barely-contained sorrow. He drew in a shaky breath. “Never did teach her neither, in the end.”

The weight of that last sentence knocked the air out of Argenti’s lungs. He had experienced how cruel the world could be firsthand, when he had been a boy not much older than Boothill’s daughter. She had not had the luck he had had. An innocent child, lost so senselessly, and so many more with her.

“Guess ya can figure out why I haven’t been able to pick up a bow since. Thinkin’ ‘bout my ol’ men, and her too… I don’t know.”

“Oh, my dear,” Argenti breathed. His heart ached as deeply as if he were experiencing Boothill’s pain for himself. “I am sorry I brought this up.”

Boothill shook his head. His expression was deliberately neutral. “Nah, don’t be. ‘S my fault, really. Now ain’t the time for sob stories.”

Argenti let his spear dissolve beside him and approached the cowboy. Squeezing his shoulder would have provided a diminished physical sensation of comfort, so Argenti dared something else, bringing his hand behind Boothill’s head, at the base of his skull, holding him firmly yet with the full extent of his empathy.

“There is no such thing as the right time. What you experienced is horrific, and you should talk about it, not hold it inside of you like poison, festering. I wish to listen anytime you need to talk about this, my dear. Your pain matters to me. You matter, in your entirety.”

Boothill’s expression cycled through multiple emotions, before finally settling on unbridled wonder.

“So do not hold back. If nothing else, I will always be here to listen.”

The concept of ‘always’ was so far removed from what they had, and they both knew it. They had never had an ‘always’ to yearn for. Their time was creeping through their fingers, day by day. But if Argenti could provide Boothill any sort of lasting relief from his pain, any semblance of resolution, he was prepared to extend their not-‘always’ a bit further.

Still blinking at him in tentative, awed disbelief, Boothill lowered his head and puffed a quiet chuckle. Then he said something that brought the same touching disbelief to Argenti’s face.

“...She’d have loved ya, y’know.”

That simple statement was more poignant than any number of thank you’s or florid declarations. Argenti had to bite his tongue to hold back the sting in his eyes.

“I would have loved her too.”

Just as I love you, surged to Argenti’s mind, but for once he was so given in to his feelings, to this tender moment fluttering between them, that he missed the line of thought and the gravity of it altogether. He just stood there, smiling at Boothill, as Boothill smiled back.

Said moment was interrupted by an animalistic grunt from below them. Both their gazes followed it to the monster, who had apparently regained consciousness and was squirming about, intent on getting back to its feet. Boothill pushed down on its back once more, effectively holding it in place.

“Ha, darn near forgot ‘bout this guy,” he said, looking almost sheepish, his voice a bit cracked. A remnant of what had passed between them. “Wanna do the honours or should I?”

He did not wait for an answer, already cocking his gun. But he was stopped in his movements by Argenti’s hand gently touching his. Argenti spoke without much thought, spurred on by the hope of perhaps fulfilling one of his cowboy’s dreams.

“Allow me to teach you how to use a spear. We can spar together.”

Boothill shifted his weight on his other leg in surprise, and the monster nearly leapt away at the opportunity. Well-honed reflexes kicked in and he quickly caged it in before it had the chance to.

“You…” he trailed off, once again out of his element. He seemed further off kilter because of the fact that he was not used to being out of his element. Certainly not as often as he seemed to be nowadays. But he deflated and let his lip pull into a half-smirk. “You just wanna show off your skills, dontcha?”

Argenti entertained him. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply wish to see if the cyborg body I have been praising all this while is indeed as formidable as I was led to believe.”

This drew a boisterous laugh from Boothill. “Yeah? And if it ain’t as proficient with spears as it is with guns, what? Ya’ll hold it against me?”

“Hm,” Argenti pretended to consider this. “Not necessarily. Of course, Beauty knows no such limitations or bounds, and I would not be upholding my title as Knight if I placed such asinine, superficial expectations upon anyone in order to consider them beautiful. However… A body that can yield a weapon such as this well? It might have a particular way of stirring the… proverbial heart, as it were.”

“Mighty roundabout way to say you’re into a man with a spear, Rosey. Mighty conceited too, seeing it’s yer weapon,” Boothill said. He was clearly teasing back, but something told Argenti, even in all his inexperience, that the teasing was meant to be taken as flirting. He did not have the heart to stop it. “But I’ll bite. Can’t shoot down a chance to fight a Knight of Beauty, can I?”

Before Argenti could get too excited about it, though, he felt his hand being turned palm-up, and a gun being placed in it.

“But indulge me first. Expect me to spar with ya with yer weapon? Finish this guy off with mine.”

Argenti cocked an eyebrow at the sudden proposition. He tightened his grip on the gun in his hand, feeling its unusual weight settle in his palm. There was no warmth to it like you would expect a gun that had been held by another person the whole time. But just like with Boothill’s hand, the slight chill felt oddly comforting. Even if the instrument itself was not.

“May I ask why?”

“I’m less roundabout. Seeing a pretty man like ya using my gun? Can’t say it’s a sight I’d wanna miss.”

Argenti hardly had any time to flounder or ponder why Boothill was suddenly being so bold, because the words were followed by a quick succession of events: the cowboy stepped back from the monster and the creature sprung up in a flash, not even hesitating as it rushed straight for the one who had been toying with it all this time. Boothill had been serious—with his hands sunken into his pockets, it was obvious he was not going to make any move to defend himself.

Argenti’s instincts flared, because now he had no choice but to protect him, one way or another.

He had never used a gun, had more or less avoided them for how crass they were, but he had seen them used enough to understand the mechanics behind them. That, and the creature was such a close shot; practically anyone would have managed this much.

He pulled the trigger before he had even properly aimed, heart in his throat, right as the monster reached Boothill. It croaked in a foul way before it crashed at his feet, lifeless.

Boothill, the scoundrel, looked entirely unconcerned for how he had rattled Argenti’s heart to nearly bursting out of his chest. He gave a long whistle, skipped over the body, recovered his weapon and returned it to its holster with his classic theatrical twirl, after which he clapped a slightly dazed Argenti on the forearm.

“Oh Rosey. What a knight in shining armour you are! I’m in yer debt.” He grinned, his pointy teeth making it seem even more mischievous than it was. His gaze was particularly intense as it took Argenti in this time. Argenti could feel its prickle on his skin, warm and compelling. “Thanks for the show. Oughta let the sheriff here know the monsters ‘ve been dealt with. We can start training tomorrow.”

The ghost of Boothill’s grin and the insinuations haunted Argenti all the way through the talk with the sheriff and the walk back to the One and Only, and he had a hard time tracing back the heat lingering low in his stomach to the adrenaline of the moment or to Boothill himself.

“Ya sure ‘bout this, Rosey?”

After their help the previous day, the sheriff had pointed them towards a cosy, secluded nook down in the valleys, not far from their ship, where they could relax for a day or two. The opportunity came with a tent, two bottles of aged wine, and some local delicacies to boot. Not the kind of thanks either of them was particularly accustomed to, but it had been well-received, and if Argenti had to admit, much needed and well-timed.

The spot was off the beaten path, cloistered between the steep cliffs of the valley, in an opening of sorts to the side of the river, and it harboured a small, still lake. The lake itself was surrounded by wild, lush, vividly coloured vegetation. Enormous trees stretched above it, painted either periwinkle or alabaster, and native birds warbled from their branches, their song intermingling with that of the frogs. The sheriff had been right—this was the perfect place to unwind, and knowledge as to its whereabouts was more precious than any number of credits she could have given them.

It was also, as luck would have it, the perfect place to make right on the promise of training Boothill in the art of spearmanship.

“Whyever would I not be, my dear?”

Boothill made a show of flexing his metal body, which seemed bathed in a mellow aura because of the reflected light from the lake, now that he had discarded his jacket altogether. It was most certainly not at all distracting.

“Sure ya wanna fight close combat ‘gainst a cyborg? Dunno if ya realised, but I pack quite a punch. One wrong move and ya’ll definitely feel it.”

Argenti raised an eyebrow. “You underestimate the power of technique.”

“‘N you underestimate the power of sheer strength.”

This back and forth drew a smile from Argenti. It was always so easy to banter with Boothill. He closed the space between them, clapping Boothill on the shoulder.

“You will not hurt me,” he said, with absolute conviction in his voice.

It was Boothill’s turn to cock an eyebrow at him. He kept the motion playful, but his eyes betrayed palpable surprise. “Ya sound mighty certain.”

“I am,” Argenti insisted. “I do not wish you to hold back, per se, but I have utter confidence you will not use your physiology to take advantage. I hold no fear towards the prospect of meeting your attacks.”

This was true, but there was more: Argenti felt and believed instinctively, viscerally, that Boothill would never hurt him, no matter what. The trust he held towards him was heart-and-soul.

Boothill’s eyes widened before creasing up into a small smile. “What d’ya know, my reputation as a felon doesn’t precede me after all,” he said, softly.

“I would argue your reputation as a just, remarkable Galaxy Ranger is the one which does.” He retracted his hand, turning around to pick up the training spears from where they were propped on the yet-unopened tent bag. “But I know you. Your reputation could be any number of things, yet it would not change that irredeemable fact. And I know you will not hurt me. Today, or otherwise.”

He was not sure why he had turned the banter into something raw and earnest. He could not help it. Boothill might have been joking, but there were underlying, stagnant beliefs rooted in his words, obstinate for how long they had festered. Dispelling them would be daunting work. Planting some seeds of doubt as to their credibility, though? That was as good a start as any. And straightforward enough, since all Argenti had to do was… be honest.

It was becoming increasingly harder to be honest with himself, but there was no hesitation in being so with Boothill.

He threw one of the wooden spears at Boothill to catch, which he did without the slightest falter. Even as his cheeks looked darker all of a sudden, and he had gone suspiciously quiet.

“All right, we may get started. I worked on carving these last night. They more or less have a similar feel to a real spear, although I am aware weight is hardly a significant aspect for you. All the same, in the spirit of sportsmanship, I endeavoured to keep things fair.”

Boothill bounced the spear from one hand to the other, presumably to get a feel for it. Channelling the well-meaning severity of his old master, Argenti met the spear mid-air during one of these back and forths, knocking it to the ground with incredible speed.

“Wha- Hey!”

“We must approach this with seriousness if we are to get anywhere.”

“I am approachin’ it seriously!” Boothill said, sounding offended.

He made to pick up his weapon, but Argenti was faster: he hit the fallen spear with his own, then, when it bounced up slightly on the ground, he struck it hard in an upwards motion so that it practically leapt back up into Boothill’s arms of its own mind. This only made his companion scoff.

“Well now you’re just showin’ off, Rosey.”

“I would not dream of it, my silver cowboy,” he said, voiced laced with mirth. Oh well, maybe he was having a bit of fun. Purely so he could witness such a wide array of emotions flash on Boothill’s face. A bit of a sportive warm-up before a training session, one might say. “I hoped only to show you what horizons might reveal themselves to you, were you to master spearmanship. Now, we must tackle the prospect of your stance. Mirror mine.”

He brought his right leg forward, distributing most of his weight on it. His spear, pointing upwards, was drawn close to his body, one hand holding it close to the tip and the other positioned lower, in front of his waist.

This was transporting him back to the rigorous days of his training, back in his youth, when even a simple stance like this one had seemed novel and inspiring. The novelty would soon wear off, and the supposed simplicity unveiled its hidden complexity, as the stances became more and more challenging the harder he tried to perfect them, per his master’s guidance. ‘Nothing is simple in battle’, his master would always remind him, ‘Do not ever fall prey to such callow notions. The sooner you imagine something to be simple, thus inherently trivialising and understating it, the sooner you are to fall in battle.’

It was timeless advice which he had instilled in his fighting ever since.

“We will first practise defence. Seeing as you are new to this, it is vital you first know how to counter and deflect rather than attack. It will serve you far better.”

“Pretty sure I can find a way to get the upper hand even if-”

Boothill trailed off and deflated the moment he noticed Argenti’s scolding gaze.

“Beg yer pardon.”

Barely suppressing his smile, Argenti continued, “This is a basic defensive stance. If someone were to attack you, regardless of the direction, all you would have to do is sweep the spear forward in a semicircle, block their weapon, then promptly rotate so that you may counter with an attack of your own.” Boothill, to his credit, was clearly making an effort to follow Argenti’s description and to visualise it in his mind, though even Argenti could tell that, “It would be much simpler to see it in action.”

“Darn right.”

Just as he was about to execute the movement, he noticed Boothill had, in fact, not mirrored his stance. Or rather, he had, just not correctly. His legs were not positioned properly; he could still block (albeit there was no guarantee it would be successful, what with his faulty hold on the weapon), but he would only take too long to right himself into a position where he could also manage a counterattack. That could, in spear fighting, prove deadly even for a cyborg, since many moves had the head or neck as the direct target.

“Wait. First allow me to help you out.”

He set his spear on a rock nearby and approached Boothill.

He gently kicked his shins, guiding the first back and bringing the other a bit more to the right, in their correct positions, and explained how best to balance himself and how to distribute his weight evenly.

“Huh. Thought I did a good job of copyin’ ya…” Boothill mumbled as he accepted Argenti’s guidance without complaint.

“You did, you did,” Argenti encouraged. “The fault is mine. I should have known you could not find the exact stance on your own. It is the master’s duty to fine-tune the crucial details.”

He moved in closer, wrapping his hand around Boothill’s and, once the cowboy had loosened his grip, urged it higher to the ideal position, parallel to his chin. With his eyes trained so close to it (so close to him, his mind obnoxiously provided) Argenti noticed the slight stubble that had appeared on Boothill’s face. He himself was used to shaving, in the same supposed preservation of pearlescent Beauty, but that stubble seemed preordained on Boothill. It added a hint of roughness, a sort of natural wildness to the lines of his face that suited him magnificently. Argenti found himself hoping that maybe he would grow it out just a little bit more, so it may be noticeable even from a distance.

And with that mystifying line of thought, he tore his eyes away, adjusted Boothill’s other hand, and promptly stepped back.

“You are…” He cleared his throat, willed his voice back to the seriousness befitting a teacher, not the softness it had suddenly acquired. “You are ready, I believe. We may begin practising the actual movements.”

Not long into the training, it became clear Boothill was a quick learner, as well as surprisingly adept at using a spear. On top of this, Argenti’s words had proven true. Boothill kept his attacks light, harmless, slowed his movements right as a blow was about to land, letting the weapon touch flesh like little more than a tap. It seemed his cyborg parts were, indeed, formidable in this way, since Argenti had hardly seen such incredible limb control in anyone else.

He did, however, struggle to follow instructions. While he did what was required (block, parry, counter or attack), he rarely employed the technique exactly as Argenti demonstrated. Which admittedly worked all the same, even as Argenti’s devotion to the traditional teachings squirmed in his chest, mildly indignant. He continued insisting on the “right way”; perfectly amenable, Boothill would adhere to it for a while, only to unconsciously drop it soon after, adding his own flair to the attacks. Not a bad thing, in truth, but perhaps flair could wait until after mastering the basics.

“Ha! ‘M gettin’ the hang of this, ain’t I!” Boothill said jovially, after the first successful counter of one of Argenti’s blows. The technique used? Spinning around before Argenti could reach him, kicking his foot from under him and toppling him to his back, the spear now pointing at a stupefied Argenti’s throat.

Certainly not an attack Argenti should have allowed to destabilise him, but perhaps he had relied too deeply on Boothill to actively follow the techniques he was attempting to teach.

“‘The hang of it’ is perhaps the correct manner in which to describe your… idiosyncratic fighting style, indeed,” Argenti said.

He stared up, blinded by Boothill’s genial disposition at having one-upped him, and the bewilderment seeped out of him. He shook his head with a chuckle, then dropped it in the silky sand beneath him. One of the white-leaved trees above shed washy shadows over him, shifting as the leaves trembled in the breeze. It helped with the heat his body had built up through the physical activity, especially in such dry weather.

“Idio-what now? My fightin’ style bad enough to get a Knight to resort to insults?”

Argenti had to take a moment for his brain to follow this line of conversation.

“Idiosyncratic, my dear, not idiotic,” he explained, measured, hoping his smile would not come across as mocking. He simply had a hard time not smiling around Boothill nowadays. “It means… unconventional. Unique. I was not insulting you.”

“Ha!” Boothill laughed. The spear had not moved from where it held Argenti hostage. “Was havin’ a hard time imaginin’ you callin’ someone that. Or bein’ a sore loser. ‘Cause I did win, right?”

He seemed adamant in wanting to hear those words directly from Argenti’s mouth.

“My dear, you did not implement the technique we were practising, so regrettably-”

“Ah-ah,” Boothill tipped the spear forward just a bit, until it was lined with Argenti’s Adam’s apple. Despite the wooden, dull tip’s minimal danger, he still took infuriating care not to press down too hard. Argenti’s eyes moved from the sky back to Boothill, catching his smug expression. His throat bobbed against the spear as he swallowed.

“Thought we were sparrin’, no? And you’re down there, while ‘m up here, huh? ‘S pretty clear to me who’s got the upper hand here.”

He grinned wolfishly, took a step forward and lowered himself on one knee next to Argenti’s outer thigh, his other leg bent between Argenti’s own, leveraging his elbow and the spear as he went. “What’s it you Knights say… do ya yield?”

The lambent flame in Argenti’s heart swirled, twirled, soared in a rush of ardour, before capering about his entire body like wildfire. The proximity rendered his mind blank, while Boothill’s smile disarmed him more than any weapon could. He sucked in a breath, and for the briefest of moments his whole being felt beguiled by the urge to devote himself solely to the man in front of him.

“Yes,” he murmured on the most soundless of exhalations. “Yes, I yield.”

What he was yielding to, he was not entirely sure.

Upon hearing the words, Boothill’s demeanour wavered, giving way to a slight flush to his cheeks as he stared down at Argenti. Once Boothill physically shook his head, it was replaced once more by a victorious grin.

“Phew. Winnin’ ‘gainst a Knight of Beauty with ‘is own weapon! I’d brag about it to the Nameless when we meet again, but I dunno if anyone’d ever believe me,” he said.

Argenti was becoming increasingly convinced Boothill was taking far too much pleasure in this. He flung his spear away to the side theatrically, lifted himself a bit higher on the knee that was on the ground, then offered Argenti his hand.

“C’mon. I’ll help ya up.”

Perhaps it was the smugness, or the way Boothill had tossed his weapon. Perhaps it was his emotions running high in the aftermath of the fight. Perhaps it was a sliver of his pride acting up in the face of being bested by a total beginner, or a culmination of the above. Yet perhaps it was none of them, but rather a baser instinct he could not follow to its source.

Whatever it was, Argenti accepted the proffered hand, wrapped his fingers solidly around Boothill’s forearm, but instead of letting Boothill pull, he did it himself. He drew the cowboy down, then, taking advantage of his surprise and his now rickety pose, kicked his right leg, the one that was still stuck between Argenti’s, with striking precision. Metal or not, he had angled the blow so as to knock him off balance. It helped that Boothill had not been expecting it, much as Argenti had not earlier. With one last strong shove to his chest, he pushed him to the ground beside him and quickly climbed on top of him.

Boothill groaned as he went, landing on his back, caged in between Argenti’s knees around his hips. Now that the roles had been reversed, he blinked in utter surprise up at him, dumbstruck by the turn of events.

“Pray tell, sweetest cowboy, who is it that has won now?” Argenti said, as he pinned Boothill’s wrist above his head and maintained the last bit of distance between them by propping himself up with his other palm beside Boothill’s shoulder.

Something dangerous swam in Boothill’s eyes, dangerous in that Argenti was starting to recognise it in himself. Something moonstruck and tentative and excited.

“A Knight like ya, ‘Genti? Ya yield only to start fightin’ dirty when yer opponent lets his guard down?” he said, voice low. “Ain’t there a code or somethin’ against it?”

“Nothing quite as dramatic as all that, I fear.” He attempted an expression of innocence. “It occurred to me, in the spirit of us both honouring each other’s fighting habits, that I should… borrow a page from your book.”

“Hah! Ya sure this is my book?”

“Trickery is not something you shy away from in a battle, is it?”

Boothill laughed. “All right all right, ya got me. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a lil’ trickery if it means you’re getting some fun outta it. Gotta make sure a fight don’t get boring. So? Now ya’ve seen what it’s like, got a rush? Feelin’ any different?”

Well. Perhaps Argenti was feeling different, but likely not for the reasons Boothill was envisioning.

His thighs were framing Boothill’s hips perfectly, and considering he had forgone his armour and worn only plain trousers that day, he could feel each and every hard line of Boothill’s metal body beneath them. The touch stirred something dormant, unknown in the pit of his stomach, which beseech him to hope for things too frightful to consider.

Their positions left his mind in a daze, their surroundings fading into fog, his line of sight trained entirely on Boothill. Seeing him below him, watching him attentively, fully disarmed and vulnerable and trusting, Argenti found himself wanting, in such a way his entire body felt frozen in fear.

“‘Genti?” Boothill whispered, his voice serious, devoid of the playfulness of just moments ago.

And he could fall into the spiral of thinking about what this meant, about how he was not allowed to have any of it, of how deeply sacrilegious it was even to have these thoughts.

But the closeness was startling in another way, one that nagged at his soul, leaving it bare before him. Because Boothill was below him, looking at him with the eyes it felt like only Argenti knew could turn so soft and grounding, and he was beautiful in every single way, body, mind and soul, and he ignited frightening emotions in Argenti that he had not once felt in his 36 years of life, and he was suffering in such a way Argenti knew not how to soothe, but he wanted to, and, and…

And he would have to leave soon, and things would go back to normal, and Argenti would no longer struggle between the man he was growing increasingly aware he was falling for and the One who had saved him and given his life purpose, and he should have been happy for it, but all he could think about was that Boothill would leave.

He did not realise his body was trembling until Boothill cupped his cheek with his free hand.

“‘Genti, what’s happenin’? ‘Genti.”

Argenti’s eyes finally focused back on Boothill, only to realise his sight was blurry, Boothill’s worried expression looking murky, like he was watching him from the other side of a turbulent ocean.

Oh.

He tried to blink the tears away, but perhaps that was a mistake. One fell, soundlessly, and landed on Boothill’s cheek below him.

“‘Genti, ‘Genti, ‘Genti,” Boothill said again, like repeating his name might coax him back to the present moment. “Ya didn’ do nothin’ wrong. We were just havin’ a bit o’ fun, I know ya wouldn’t do this in a real fight.”

He carefully swept the tears from under Argenti’s lashes with the pads of his fingers, as Argenti tucked his chin in and squeezed his eyes shut.

“I… I apologise,” Argenti finally said, voice small. He drew back the hand pinning Boothill’s down, dropping his weight in Boothill’s lap in a clumsy sitting position. His head remained bowed. “I do not know what has come over me.”

Quiet reigned between them for what simultaneously felt like an eternity and the blink of an eye. Then, Boothill straightened himself and followed him to the same sitting position, his hands solid and anchoring on his shoulders.

“This ain’t ‘bout the sparrin’, is it?” he whispered.

Argenti shook his head, trying to get his breathing under control. It did not work.

“No.”

“Figured so.”

His hand tenderly caressed the top of Argenti’s head.

“Ya don’t feel up for talkin’ about it, I’m guessin’?”

“...No.”

“And if I hugged ya?”

Argenti instincts were roaring ‘no’ at him, but they were drowned by the static of the crying in his ears, like the thrum of a waterfall. He nodded, feeling more grateful for Boothill’s surprising tact and the patience and understanding with which he was treating him than he could hope to express.

A strong arm circled his torso, Boothill’s body lining fully with his. Another stopped short of circling around his upper back, bending at the elbow to card its fingers through his hair. It massaged the point between neck and the back of the head with just the right amount of pressure to be deeply soothing, inducing a relaxation that spread right to Argenti’s bones. Without his say so, Argenti found his next exhalation morphing into part-sob, part-whimper. His own arms squeezed Boothill’s waist, while his legs drew him nearer as they surrounded him.

“Ya said I’ve gotta talk, so the feelings don’t fester. Imma say that to you now,” Boothill said. His very presence was reassuring. “But right now we can just stay like this. I’ve got ya.”

He did have him. Argenti was full to the brim with unspoken trust and affection for this beautiful man. He felt another bout of tears threatening to spill, but these arose from a place of gratitude and care and reassurance, just as vulnerable as what had preceded but warmer around the edges.

“Thank you,” he murmured against Boothill’s hair. “Let’s do that? Simply stay.”

“Mhm. ’m here as long as ya need me,” Boothill said.

His hold around Argenti tightened, and he held him against him, sweaty and teary-eyed and defenceless as he was, never once wavering or giving any impression that he was not exactly where he wanted to be, until Argenti calmed down.

Argenti lowered his face directly into the lake, hoping to remove the dried salt from his cheeks. The water was surprisingly cool, despite how hot the day was, and he emerged feeling refreshed and brand new. Almost as if the tears had never happened.

He dried his face with the hem of his tunic, feeling strangely self-conscious as the motion revealed a patch of his abdomen underneath. But Boothill had not noticed—he was busy setting up some manner of makeshift nook at the base of the cliffs, facing the lake, with the blankets and the pillows and the basket of food waiting within.

“Figured we’d be more comfortable,” he explained when Argenti stepped up behind him. “Well, ya would. Drawback of all that skin ‘n muscle: rocks hurt like heaven.”

Argenti placed one of the bottles of wine, cooled in the water under the shade of the trees, next to the rest of the food.

“You have done a most wonderful job with the aesthetic,” he said, appraising the little cranny.

“Yeah, well, thought ya might like it.”

The intention behind it was clear enough. Boothill had made an effort to create a sense of symmetry with the placement of the pillows, had even brought an extra blanket from Argenti’s red silk ones from his sofa. Everything was arranged much more neatly than it surely would have been had he created the space with himself in mind. The spot itself was lovely, with a perfect view of the lake and the hills beyond it, just in time to appreciate the slowly shifting colours of the setting sun.

“I do,” Argenti admitted. “Terribly so.”

He caught the small grin on Boothill’s side profile when he said, “‘M glad.”

They made themselves comfortable in that safe little space, but not after Argenti had forsaken one of his two pillows and snuck it behind Boothill’s back, right before it touched the bare rock behind.

“‘Genti, ‘m fine, not like it matters if–” Boothill started, trying to return the pillow, but Argenti would have none of it. He caught Boothill’s wrist in his hand, grip careful yet insistent, and gave a warning look.

“You are no less deserving of basic human comforts just because your body is different,” he said. “Why not let us both take pleasure in this abode you so skillfully were able to bring to life with so little?”

There was still a complaint on Boothill’s tongue, but he held it back. It dwindled away entirely when Argenti said, “For me?”, and he reluctantly made himself comfortable against the pillow. He stretched his legs out and propped them on a rock that was too advantageously placed for Argenti to believe it had been there from the start.

Satisfied, Argenti was able to find a comfortable position of his own, one knee drawn to his chest. The reminder of his earlier tears hung about him like a haze, but the silence between them was not tense. Boothill had not asked him anything else about it, not when they were embracing, nor once Argenti had found the heart to let go. He was being nothing if not accommodating.

“Here,” Argenti said, holding out the wine bottle for Boothill to take.

He had insisted on bringing glasses, but Boothill had complained about the “right way of drinkin’” as well as how he had “broken ‘nuff glasses for a lifetime”, so Argenti had had little choice but to accept drinking straight from the bottle. Which felt rather… rustic, if anything. He had grown used to the occasional requirements for getting out of his comfort zone by Boothill’s side.

Boothill pushed the bottle back towards Argenti.

“Ya look like ya need it more.”

Argenti avoided his gaze. “You need not worry. That was but a momentary crack. I am quite all right,” he said.

“Still ‘n all. Can’t hurt.”

His stubbornness shone adamantine in his eyes.

“Very well,” Argenti conceded.

The wine was rich, sweet, with undernotes of roses and cherries. It left a pleasant aftertaste, demanding he get a second taste. The sheriff had clearly spared no expenses on their behalf.

“So?”

“It is truly exquisite. You should try it.”

Come a second offer, Boothill glady acquiesced. He grabbed the bottle and took one long, hefty gulp. Argenti quickly tore his eyes away from the bob of his throat, though the sight of it remained engrained in his mind.

“Darn, y’know me, Rosey, ‘m partial to a good whiskey ma self, but this here is good wine.”

“And you did good work today. It was hard earned.”

Because, for all the training session had ended prematurely and in the most unexpected way, there was no doubt Boothill was a remarkable fighter. He perhaps needed to learn a bit of restraint more than he needed to learn how to use a spear, but all the same, that he was able to hold his own in one-on-one combat with Argenti with a weapon he had not used prior to that day, albeit employing his own methods, was nothing to scoff at. He was resourceful, fast, and quick-witted—nothing Argenti did not already know, but certainly things that justified his renown as a powerful Galaxy Ranger, and the reason even the IPC themselves, numerous and strong though they were, had not managed to pin him down.

“Heh. ‘N you’re a good teacher, ‘Genti. Maybe we’ll make a habit of this.”

Argenti cocked an eyebrow, both surprised and pleased. “Indeed? You would not be opposed to continuing?”

“‘Course not,” Boothill said, like this was self-explanatory. “Said I’d always wanted to learn, didn’ I? ‘N now I have ya to teach me. I’d be a fool to shut it down.”

How something could fill one with equal parts warmth and iciness left Argenti nonplussed. For the prospect was tempting, but it reignited the same nagging reality of their transient circumstances. The reason he had cried in the first place.

“Indeed. Then we shall keep practising, for as long as we can. If today is anything to go by, you might master it faster than I ever did. Certainly faster than I could begin to handle a gun with your precision,” he said, trying to restrain the surge of pain from seeping into his words.

For some reason, the playfulness on Boothill’s face drained as he watched him. He followed Argenti’s movements with piercing intensity.

When Argenti made to lift a slice of an unknown herb pastry to his lips, which smelled vaguely of chrysanthemums, he spoke with a voice that seemed somehow faraway.

“You’re still not all okay, are ya?”

Argenti's breath caught in his throat. His world felt red-tinted, tilted on its axis. He wondered if his eyes were still bloodshot. Is that how Boothill had been able to tell? He could not have given anything away otherwise. He was, by all means, acting quite as usual.

“If I say I am not, will you ask me what reason I have not to be?”

It was a guarded question, uttered on a quiet breath.

“You clearly don’t want me to, so no. But I’ll ask if there’s anythin’ I can do.”

Stay, Argenti wanted to say. How simple that request sounded: one single word, one syllable. It could slip past his lips before he could even consider biting it back. Such burning sincerity was woven into it, yet it was frighteningly laden, with far-reaching consequences for the both of them were it to be given resonance.

He shook his head and the temptation of that one word along with it. “You have already done so much. And now that we are speaking of it, belatedly it dawns on me that I have not even thanked you. Please receive my heartfelt gratitude for the kindness you showed me earlier.”

“Don’t mention it,” Boothill said, making a flippant gesture of dismissal.

“But I shall. It meant a lot to me.”

A flush dusted Boothill’s cheeks, more bluish purple than red. He was the most achingly beautiful man Argenti had ever met.

“‘Kay, ‘kay… You’re welcome, fudge,” he said, relying on another sip of wine to hide his embarrassment.

Once more, they settled into the peaceful atmosphere of the sanctuary. It had become a regular occurrence, and Argenti was slowly coming to realise that silence alongside another was in itself comforting. His great discovery had been that solitary silence and silence with company were two different types of silence altogether; perhaps the mere presence of another was enough to bring a feeling of warmth, a sense of belonging. And this type of quiet held within it the guarantee of words to follow—it had a beginning and an end, enclosed between two conversations with one you cared about, and who cared about you.

The kind of silence he was accustomed to felt interminable, all-encompassing. It too would have respites, but sometimes it felt as though his world was one bathed in silence. Like there was only silence to return to, only his ocarina to pulsate atop it, only himself to hope for when returning home at the end of a journey. He preferred this to the reverberations of explosions, the cries and the shouts and the inertia of having no choice but to witness it all, powerless to put an end to it. He had traded that horror for a chasm, a stolen voice for a subdued one.

He had gained his faith, but there was merit in pondering whether, in turn, he had given up something he could not have anticipated he longed for. Parting with something comes easy, when you have never known the thing you are renouncing. And to an orphaned child, for whom solitude had been the only promise of survival and the only state he had been privy to for much of his childhood, companionship was a wholly foreign concept.

But it was no longer so.

He glanced at Boothill beside him. He seemed keen on examining the plant species on this planet—just then he had turned a fallen periwinkle leaf against the sun and was analysing it with genuine fascination. When he noticed Argenti’s gaze, he offered him a quirky smile in return, before letting the leaf drift away with the breeze.

No, now, at Boothill’s side, Argenti had experienced companionship in its truest sense. On the other side of it supposedly awaited the clutches of the Omen of Evil, but Argenti could not conceive of a world where such connection with another could lead to such calamity. But then again, he was not all-seeing, as his Goddess was. Surely Their insight ran deeper than that of a mere mortal such as he.

And yet…

“Do you ever get lonely, dear?” he asked against his better judgement. Boothill had afforded him the privacy of not addressing his concerns, yet here he was, bringing them up himself.

His question was quite unexpected, if the confusion on Boothill’s face was anything to go by.

“Huh? Lonely?”

“As a Galaxy Ranger, constantly roaming the stars. I imagine company might become a luxury in such circumstances.”

“I mean, yeah. Sometimes I go a fudgin’ long time without folk to talk to, if ya ain’t countin’ the criminals I sometimes chat with on the hunt,” Boothill admitted with a shrug. “It’s so-so. Lonely? Lonely’s ‘haps not how I’d describe it. Hard to say if I’d describe it any other way, neither. ‘S what it is. I chose this life, didn’ I?”

“I do not see how choosing something prevents one from enduring its limitations as well as its advantages,” Argenti said. He passed Boothill a biscuit, which the cowboy munched on as he seemed to contemplate this.

“Hm. ‘M not lonely when I take it as what’s to be expected. ‘Haps when I think ‘bout the past, but…” His face hardened, jaw clenching. “No. That just reminds me what ‘m fightin’ for.” He laughed that same self-derisive chuckle Argenti had come to know so well. “I don’t get to be lonely. I have things I needa do. People I needa find. None o’ this is about me.”

“Boothill,” Argenti breathed. “That is…” Unbearably sad. “You cannot live like that. You are not a means to an end, you-”

“Pardon, but I kinda am, Rosey,” Boothill cut in, gesturing down his body as if to prove a point. “‘S why I got this. So I could be what I needa be, to see this through.”

Something about these words sparked a full body chill throughout Argenti. He had known this, they had talked about this, but the flippancy and categoric disdain of self disturbed him.

“You are still you. You can still allow yourself to be, while you devote yourself to this. The two need not be mutually exclusive.”

“Hah!” That same scornful laugh. It was beginning to gnaw at the fringes of Argenti’s composure. The sound was in direct discordance with everything Boothill was. “They kinda became so, when I chose this.”

When he noticed Argenti’s state, he added placatingly, “‘S fine, ‘Genti. Nothin’ to get yerself worked up over. ‘M fine with it.”

“Yet you should not be fine with it. How can what you are fighting for be everything that you live for?”

“‘Genti,” Boothill warned. “‘Nough. I ain’t been lonely, end of story. Have ya?”

Never mind the attempt at passing the question over to him. Argenti was getting worked up, helpless against the tide of emotions, and no such artifices could stall him.

“No, Boothill. You.. you devalue yourself, trivialise your emotions as if you are not worthy of feeling them. Earlier you barely accepted my thanks, as though you had done nothing to deserve them. You say you exist solely for a purpose, but I see the full scope of who you are–honourable, good-humoured, a gifted warrior, stimulating conversationalist, with surprising insight into the world and people around you. Against a backdrop of loss and betrayal, you have still chosen to be kind, and warm, and gentle. Regardless of what you say, you were not poisoned by the villainy and barbarity you have suffered, and thus you cannot claim to live solely as an echo to it.”

For once, Argenti could not read Boothill’s expression at all. He was not looking at Argenti, had not been since the beginning of this line of conversation, and the leg he had crossed atop the other was bouncing in what looked like impatience. Had he angered him? Argenti had clearly ignored his wishes and spoken out of turn. He could not take it back, but neither did he truly wish to, whatever would follow. He would not mask what he earnestly believed to be the truth.

The tension persisted for a full, uninterrupted stretch of torturous silence. Argenti was beginning to fear Boothill had completely shut him out, when at last he spoke in a voice so hoarse and muffled Argenti had to strain to hear it.

“They didn’ get to live. Why should I?”

A beat, two. Argenti’s heart felt heavier than it ever had. Then, “Because they would want you to. Because I want you to.”

This finally made Boothill meet his eyes. The depths of his looked simultaneously blank and startingly anguished.

“I could say that, but ultimately I am not convinced it would matter,” Argenti continued. “You get to live because you are here, alive—never mind the implications of being a cyborg. You are already living; it is high time you allowed yourself to feel it, too.”

Their gazes held, and Argenti could see the rumination in Boothill, even as his standoffish attitude remained, a reliable wall to guard against the gravity of those words. You hold onto a belief for too long, even the prospect of forsaking it can feel earth-shattering. To say nothing of replacing it with something so contrasting to it.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, Argenti mused that he was in an eerily similar situation.

A sigh broke the tension. Boothill’s eyes flitted away, falling on a brightly coloured hummingbird perching by the lake.

“What ‘bout you, ‘Genti? D’ya get lonely?” Boothill asked again, but this time there was the dimmest spark of acceptance in his demeanour. That conversation was over, but perhaps its implications would linger.

“...I had not realised it before, but yes,” Argenti said, compelled still by the honesty in the air. “I used to have no line of comparison. Now that I do, it has shed some light on the past. Or, rather, revealed to me what, in all likelihood, I will experience in the future. And, if I am entirely honest, not being lonely feels lonelier still.”

Boothill frowned. “Lonelier? How?”

“Because I am aware it has no chance of lasting. Because in the moments of companionship, I feel the loneliness that will carry on on their behalf. It is a fragmented moment, wrung from two different sides. Such is the nature of all things—one cannot exist without the other. I feel this quite acutely, at present.”

That is why the tears had come, uninvited. Crept past his defences, fell like a confession of his soul.

One had to wonder if Boothill could intuit what this was about. He seemed particularly shrewd about these things.

When his frosty aura melted away with a breathy laugh, Argenti saw that he probably had understood.

“Darn, rose boy. We’re two broken sons of nice ladies, ain’t we?”

Argenti appreciated the tactful approach. He had been far more invasive in his dealings, but maybe Boothill needed some hard love more than he did.

“They do say birds of a feather flock together.”

“Seein’ we got to travellin’ together, guess they got that right.” After an experimental one-over of a blade of grass, he popped it into his mouth to idly chew on. “Ya hide it better than I do, though.”

“How ‘broken’ I am, you mean?” An affirmative hum. “It might be so. I hid it so well from myself, that not letting it show outwardly came as some manner of auspicious side effect.”

The question now was whether the fact that he had come face-to-face with the truth of what he had been deprived of was similarly auspicious… or rather a catastrophic blow to reality as he knew it?

As the hours passed, sunset turning into starlight, the flora took on a warm iridescence, glowing vermillion and amber, offering comfort not dissimilar to that of a dimly lit room. The periwinkle foliage overhead turned a dark indigo, the leaves seemingly becoming opaque, discarding their previous translucence. There were some sort of desert mice scurrying about the shrubbery, a jet-black crane fishing in the shallow water, and yet more birds flocking to the trees. Contrary to most planets Argenti had travelled to, they seemed more active at night here. The air was admittedly cooler now, pleasantly so.

They set about putting up the tent. Argenti noticed the exact moment they both drew the same, belated conclusion as to the consequence of having only one tent. A faraway part of him wondered whether the sheriff had done it on the assumption of what their relationship was, but that was a wild interpretation. More likely, she could only part with one. She had been sufficiently generous with the rest of her gifts.

Although he evidently wanted to suggest it, Boothill never articulated his offer to let Argenti take the tent for himself—the admonitory look Argenti sent his way squashed the urge rather instantly.

Yet even with the tent set up, they still found themselves dawdling outside in Boothill’s makeshift nook. Going to sleep would have meant missing out on the planet’s night-time magic. A true pity, seeing as the world had palpably come to life underneath the moonlight, calming their worries along with it. Argenti was finally starting to feel more like himself again.

“What enchantment! This is undeniably the calibre of Beauty the poets themselves wax lyrical about and the painters immortalise on their canvases,” he said, boundless amazement in his voice. This was what life was all about: partaking in its inherent Beauty, which prevailed all around them. He could never grow tired of it, could never miss out on it for all the worry and inner turmoil in the world. “Fragments of which can be captured, but the full extent of which can only be grasped within the intimacy of its present existence.”

He was nuzzled under his silk blanket, head leaned against the pillow, soaking in the atmosphere. The memory of the tears and the conversation they had prompted still lingered, but it was softened by the delight of the scene before him.

“Is it not so? To be allowed to indulge in such a moment is nothing if not a priceless gift.”

Suddenly, the hand which was resting at his side sank with the added weight of another hand being placed atop it.

Argenti’s heartbeat skyrocketed as Boothill’s fingers slowly, hesitantly, and with the utmost care, laced around his. He squeezed gently, his cheeks darkened, looking like he dreaded how Argenti would react but was incapable of holding back. But how was Argenti to react, when the only thing that still mattered was the feel of Boothill’s touch?

“Yeah. ‘s a heck of a gift,” Boothill said, an imperceptible treble in his voice.

The Beauty around them was only surpassed by that of Boothill’s eyes, the sea of grey which bloomed red at the very middle. And within that sea floated a type of Beauty Argenti had never gleaned before, certainly not directed at him.

For Boothill’s spellbound eyes told a story of their own: that he was looking at something he was in utter awe of, more beautiful to him than all else. And Boothill was looking at him.

Outright naming the feeling fluttering between them in that instant was petrifying, but… simply letting it ripple around them, quietly overtaking them? That Argenti could do.

“Dearest,” Argenti said, before finding himself at a loss. “This… That is, I… We… We should…”

He was losing all hope of eloquence. One thing he had never doubted was his ability to weave sentences, to find the lyricism in words. Boothill had left even that in disarray. Abandoning words altogether, he instead scrambled to his feet, saying, “Come.”

The question was written clearly on Boothill’s face as they stopped in front of the lake, but so was the trust underpinning it.

“Swim with me?” Argenti said, to both their surprise. “I want us to make the most of so special a moment.”

Another one like it might not be quick to arrive again. If Argenti could only know loneliness by coming to know kinship, he might as well experience said kinship to its highest degree. It would hurt once lost either way—why not make the most of it while he still had it?

Boothill had taken to blushing far more than someone with his anatomy had any reason to. As Argenti removed his tunic and carefully hung it from a tree, so as to not get wrinkled, Boothill stumbled over his next words.

“Y-Ya sure? ‘M a lousy swimmer.”

Argenti welcomed his nervousness. It made him feel better about being nervous himself, especially as he started slipping out of his trousers. Argenti was turning away from him, but the raspy shriek Boothill released could have only come as a reaction to the increasing skin he was beginning to show.

“Well, that will not prove much of an issue. ‘Swim’ is rather overselling it. The water is quite shallow. And I would not let you drown even if the reverse were true.”

He felt exposed, self-conscious in a way he had no experience with. There was nothing overly sinful about showing skin, no, although modesty was ideal, and this was called for by such circumstances as swimming entailed. It was not being done in service to anything improper, so Argenti could permit it. But still, the knowledge that another could see him in such a vulnerable state had goosebumps breaking across his skin. It being Boothill came both with an impenetrable sense of trust as well as stifling uneasiness. Which of the two was more potent was hard to pinpoint.

A sigh followed Argenti’s proposal.

“Right,” Boothill said. “If it’s what ya want.”

The sound of his belt coming undone carried over the song of the birds, exceedingly loud. Or perhaps it was simply that Argenti was listening for it ahead of all other sounds, his mind beginning to catch up with what he had proposed. In his daze, he arguably had not fully internalised that this would mean seeing Boothill in a similar state of undress. Boothill was partial to some rather revealing clothing on a regular basis, but in all those months Argenti had never seen him fully naked.

Suddenly, the very thought of it did a number on his stomach.

“I shall head in first,” he said, not waiting for an answer.

The water was lukewarm, smooth against his skin as he dipped in. Time flowed slowly around him as he gently drew his hand atop the water, creating ripples whose ebb and flow kept his thoughts from overwhelming him. The ripples intensified as Boothill drew close. Argenti shifted his line of sight, trying not to look directly at him. Still, as much as he tried to avoid it, the water was clear, and he could, if nothing else, catch a glimpse of the rest of his body. He swallowed dryly, but met Boothill’s face with a small smile. It did not feel entirely faked, not as he rejoiced in being near him. How was he to feel anything but gratitude?

“Gotta let ya know, ‘s been a while since I swam,” Boothill said. The static in his voice was rougher than Argenti knew it to be. Argenti could not shake the feeling that they were both equally affected by this. “Haven’t had much need for it. Doesn’t feel all that satisfyin’ anymore, neither.”

Argenti hummed. He could imagine there was less satisfaction, when the presence or absence of water might as well have been negligible to his body.

Argenti mourned Boothill’s loss of feeling. It did not make him any less whole or worthy, and he would remind him of this as many times as it took for it to sink in, but a loss was still a loss.

He still had some parts that could feel, though.

Spurred on by a sense of nervousness-induced confidence, he moved before his mind could catch up to what was happening and splashed Boothill straight in the face with a wave large enough to get most of his hair wet.

Boothill spluttered and flailed, swiping drenched locks from his eyes. With the white and black hair having lost all of its volume and falling flat around him, one could not help but think of the striking resemblance between him and a wet, baffled cat.

Because he had clearly lost all sense of propriety, Argenti voiced that line of thought, too.

“The fork?” Boothill groaned, glaring at him. It was playful, but it only further intensified that particular resemblance.

Lost as he was in his amusement, Argenti somehow missed the clear intention in Boothill’s eyes, as well as the wide sweep he did underwater in preparation of what was to come. The warning signs had been right in front of him, yet there he stood, once again bested by Boothill, having accidentally swallowed a mouthful of water in the process. It was, really, his own fault for starting the game, and for laughing at Boothill for what he had suffered.

He did not look at all suffering anymore, though. In fact, he seemed to be finding great mirth in having offered Argenti a taste of his own medicine.

“Now ya? You look like a wet dog. Maybe one of those collie dogs, eh?”

Argenti shook his head as he coughed up the unsolicited water in his throat. The motion dislodged ever more drops of water from his hair. “I can hardly tell if that is a compliment or an insult.”

“Definitely a compliment,” Boothill said, the grin seeping into his voice. “But if takin’ it as an insult means you’ll attack again, be my guest.”

It was as clear an invitation as could be. Argenti matched the grin with one of his own, and subsequently followed it with another splash. This time, before Boothill could compose himself and retaliate, he swam away to safety. Boothill followed, determination in his eyes and laughter on his lips, and any past misgivings or nervousness washed away with the waves they stirred, drowned fully to the sound of their laughter.

It was playful and silly and childish and, frankly, so very liberating. There were no rules or expectations, no standards of any kind to speak of. Only pure, unadulterated joy. And freedom.

When they were sufficiently wet and tired from their activities, they settled close to the shore, towards a patch of the lake that was reigned over by the most enormous of the trees there. The spot looked much like the drawing of a fairytale setting from a book, peaceful, charming and idyllic. Yet there, with the water being shallow and only reaching up to their waists, there was nothing for Boothill to enjoy anymore. He was just sitting there, devoid of the same relaxation Argenti was experiencing. Another idea sparked in his mind, and he was too lost in the fullness of what they were experiencing to even attempt to hold it back.

“Would… would you not rather you laid your head in my lap?”

With this, Boothill broke into a full-on coughing fit. “‘Scuse me?”

“So that you may enjoy the water now as well. Feel it while we sit, as it were.”

He lowered his knees and presented his lap, thanking Idrila he had had enough sense left in him to keep his undergarments on. The more things he suggested, the more convinced he was that decorum was turning into a thing of the past, but at least presently he had managed to preserve some semblance of dignity.

Boothill looked no less horrified. One could visibly see the gears turning in his head as he tried to come up with an answer.

“It’s late?” he settled for, rather poorly.

“Is it indeed? You did not seem eager to leave, just now.”

“That- Heaven, ‘Genti.”

‘What’s gotten into you tonight?’ was the unspoken question, but answering it would have meant steering too close to unearthed, dangerous truths. Instead, Argenti clasped Boothill’s shoulder meaningfully, feeling for all the world like he was outside looking in, his actions surprising himself more than anyone else. Boothill put up one last meek attempt at refusal before going along with it and resting his head in Argenti’s lap. Argenti’s decidedly bare lap.

“There, is that not better?”

“Well,” Boothill said, the water coming up only to his chin and framing his cheeks, allowing his eyes to stay open, “Yeah. Thanks.”

Boothill’s hair spread out around him, dark and magnificent, like pure silk in the sheen of the water. Argenti first brushed the fringe from Boothill’s face, then started running his fingers through the rest of his hair, watching it sway in smooth, large waves with little effort. The movements were hypnotic, dreamlike, and for a long time it was the only thing he focused on. They seemed to have a similarly calming effect on Boothill, whose initially tense features eased, his eyes drifting aimlessly around.

Argenti recalled the tales of old, which told of bewitching creatures of otherworldly beauty, who could tempt you to join them to the depths with their entrancing voices. The faraway, content look in Boothill’s eyes was temptation enough on its own. Argenti could stay here a lifetime, just to ensure he would preserve that serenity on Boothill’s expression.

“‘Genti?” Boothill whispered, as if not to disturb the peace around them.

“Yes, dearest?”

“If… If, I, um… compare it to this, I have. Been lonely.”

Argenti’s hands paused.

Yes, they both had. And it stood that they had both filled in a void that the other had not been aware existed. Intuitively, perhaps Argenti had always known this.

“I ain’t been as isolated as ya. But I ain’t let anyone get too close either. I had my own path to follow, but mostly, it was just…”

“Frightening, after having lost your family?”

Quiet. “...Yeah. Felt guilty too, like it’d be as though I’d replaced them, or moved on. My little lamb, my fathers, my siblings. ‘N nothing could ever replace them.”

Argenti had no doubt of that. Whenever Boothill spoke of his family, happy or sad memories, there was such plain longing for the past in his voice and his eyes that surely even an outsider would be able to tell.

With a hum, Argenti tangled his fingers further into Boothill’s hair, massaging his scalp with soothing touches. “Do you still feel that way? Guilty, I mean.”

Boothill’s eyes met his from below. The slightest hesitation, before, “Not with ya I don’t.”

Was this supposed to shake Argenti’s calm? While normally it might have, now all he could do was smile.

For this one fleeting moment, he felt happy and whole and warm as he pressed his palm against Boothill’s cheek in a gesture akin to squeezing another’s hand in reassurance, and was greeted by a soft smile in return.

An hour or so later, soothed by the water and the birds and the comfortable weight of Boothill’s head in his lap, Argenti was beginning to get drowsy. And maybe he had actually dozed off for a short while there, because all he knew was that all of sudden someone was circling an arm around his waist, another under his knees, and he opened his eyes to Boothill’s face so mystifyingly close to his.

“Sorry,” this face said, appearing sheepish. “Ya looked like ya were noddin’ off there, so I thought…”

Oh, maybe it was, in fact, not that close, and Argenti’s sleep-addled mind no longer had any perception of distance.

“Do not trouble yourself. I can get up on my own,” he said, very coherently.

It, well, at least sounded very coherent in his mind. Boothill’s muted laughter seemed to point to another, more likely story.

“Sure, darlin’. Ya can show it to me another time, how ‘bout it?”

Argenti leaned his head on Boothill’s shoulder as he was carried (bridal style, quite frankly like he weighed nothing) back to the tent. For how it was a shoulder made of metal, it was surprisingly comfortable. Everything about Boothill was soft around the edges, once you got to know him. He was so easy to love.

There it was, that word again. It kept arising in his mind of its own accord.

Of course Argenti loved Boothill; he loved him as a human being should love another, how a Knight of Beauty should love all that is beautiful, loved him as a friend, as a respectable fighter, as a companion, as a source of mutual support and comfort. He loved his hotheadedness, his wild ideas, his straightforwardness. He loved his playful nature, his undying heart of a father, son and brother, his unwavering belief in what he was doing. How he would always delay in his pursuits if it meant helping others. How he could be rowdy and insurgent and disorderly, but if needed, come up with genuinely sound plans. How he had a tendency to yap, especially after a couple of drinks, yet how he tried to listen actively to others, earnestly trying to understand them.

How beneath it all, the nightmare-filled nights, the horizonless loss, the scarred remnants of his past haunting him, he could still be so gentle, so vulnerable, so considerate.

He loved every facet of who Boothill was, shadow and light alike. The lines of what kind of love this was were becoming more and more blurred the longer they spent together. Although, perhaps the kind was no longer even in question—it was just an impasse, an impossibility.

Love was not inherently off limits; feelings were integral to human nature, not something you could simply turn off. His vows were not unreasonable. All he now had to do was… rein them in, mould them into something more acceptable, ensure he would never act on them.

But could he really do such a thing?

“Thank you, dearest,” he said, once Boothill had tucked him in and patted his hair with a towel until it was more or less dry.

“No need, sleepyhead,” Boothill said. “Remind me not to go ‘swimmin’’ with ya so late at night again, though.”

“No,” Argenti mumbled.

“No?”

“I mean, that is not what I am thanking you for.” He squeezed Boothill’s hand where it rested on his chest, still holding the blanket. “Thank you for travelling with me. For being here.”

Boothill froze. Argenti was starting to drift off again, when, “Thank you for havin’ me, ‘Genti. Been, uh. Real happy.”

One last smile, just as his consciousness lost hold. And, murmured, “Me too, my love. Me too.”

Argenti awoke feeling unbelievably at home.

A heavy arm was slung over his body, holding him close, creating a sensation similar to that of wearing his armour, only so much more comfortable. His own was draped along a torso, peaceful for how it did not raise and lower to the rhythm of breathing, and his cheek was nuzzled against a hard chest, the sensation pleasant thanks to the linen covering it.

Drowsy and slow, he eventually put two and two together: he and Boothill were wrapped around each other, holding on as if the act itself was integral to their being. In having just woken up, no alarm bells rang in his head. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. It felt like belonging.

As he snuck a foot around one of Boothill’s, he also came to realise that, while Boothill was now fully clothed (in Argenti’s clothes again, he would recognise this linen anywhere), Argenti was still as naked as he had been the night before. Strangely, all that reality did for him was make him grateful for the direct feel of small parts of Boothill’s metal parts, slightly warmed by their contact with Argenti, against his foot and his waist. It was smooth and pleasant and grounding.

The simple fact that Boothill was sleeping felt like a present in and of itself. He slept rarely, generally short hours, only due to still having a brain he had to rest lest it eventually shut down. That he was sleeping now, like this, with Argenti, tickled something in his heart.

Argenti made no move to get up. He could stay like this for a whole day, simply relishing in this embrace, in this instinctual form of connection. He could, in truth, get used to waking up to this every day.

Not long after, Boothill stirred next to him. Hardly thinking, Argenti squeezed his eyes firmly shut. He could not let Boothill see he had been up this whole time, yet had continued holding him rather than got up. What would he even make of that?

To his surprise, after a momentary hesitation, Boothill seemed to decide on the same thing. With utmost tenderness, he gave Argenti a squeeze, palm pressing to the small of his back, and hid his face in Argenti’s hair at the top of his head.

“Fudge, ‘Genti. What’re you doin’ to me…” he muttered against him, a sound almost lost in the morning.

But Argenti heard, and his mind sounded the question back at Boothill.

A minute, two, and eventually, perhaps just as reluctant to let Argenti wake up to see him like this, he let go completely, and with more tenderness still, untangled himself from him, such that had Argenti actually been asleep, he would not have been shaken awake by the movements.

Argenti could feel him linger just a bit longer before finally getting up and leaving the tent.

A tremulous breath, held tight in his lungs, snuck past as soon as he was alone. His heart felt full to bursting with affection—for what they had shared, for how Boothill had acted, for the gentleness he had shown, both then and the night before.

The strangest thing was, while Boothill so vehemently believed he was not deserving of living, of feeling, that he had lost all worth but that of a warrior by becoming a cyborg, Argenti was beginning to wonder if he, if the world as a whole was worthy of this beautiful man.

He too lingered inside, not to give Boothill the impression his leaving had been what awoke him. He was tracing the space Boothill had been in, when the sound of the tent being opened petrified him, his eyes fluttering shut once more.

Boothill did not return to his previous spot. Instead, perplexingly, he sat down behind Argenti. His Knight instincts should have flared up at such a thing—a man, a warrior, approaching him from behind while he slept… in what world could that not be ill-intentioned? But he had been true to his word. He trusted Boothill implicitly.

The towel Boothill had tied Argenti’s hair with after their midnight swim, now mostly unwrapped, was carefully removed. Argenti’s hair was gathered, lock after lock, while making sure no more than the lightest of touches brushed against Argenti’s skin. Once finished, the reason Boothill had returned was revealed: he was there to brush Argenti’s hair.

His movements were slow, gentle and careful. No one had ever combed Argenti’s hair—it was much like what he envisioned a massage would feel like, lulling the body into a state of ease and relaxation. Argenti found he liked it so much that tears were about to well up in his eyes once more, though he could not imagine what would prompt such a thing. He let all his muscles loosen, giving in to every stroke, perfectly soothed by Boothill’s ministrations. Eventually the brushing was replaced by Boothill’s fingers, and Argenti could guess he had begun braiding it. A few soft sighs let him know the task was proving harder than he had anticipated, but Boothill showed no signs of letting that deter him.

Times had lost all significance, so Argenti had no idea how long had passed when at last Boothill tied the braid and softly laid it atop the pillow. Then, with one last caress to Argenti’s forehead with his knuckles, he was gone.

As he pulled the braid to his chest, Argenti’s eyes traced the intricate pattern in pure awe. Boothill had chosen a sophisticated style, akin to a mermaid braid. Argenti could only imagine what an elegant sight it offered from behind, seen in its entirety.

What tugged at his heartstrings, however, were the small, delicate rose-pink flowers Boothill had woven into the braid. An addition so tender, so heartfelt; one so unlike Boothill, yet simultaneously so much like him. The him Boothill guarded so closely but which Argenti knew intimately, this gentle man deserving of such love.

He left the tent in a daze, only distantly remembering to throw on some clothes. When Boothill saw him from where he was standing by the lake, he blinked at him in such blatant adoration that Argenti had to will himself not to do something impulsive—such as run up to him and kiss him.

“You braided my hair while I slept,” Argenti said, without so much as a greeting. Something about the braid seemed pivotal, somehow.

“I…” Boothill trailed off sheepishly. He heard the unspoken question in Argenti’s words. “Yeah. Saw how tangled it’d gotten after last night’s swim. Do ya… do ya mind?”

Mind? Boothill had all but turned his world upside down, but who was he to mind? “No. No, I love it. I did not know you could braid, my dear.”

Boothill smiled, the edges of it uncharacteristically timid. He hesitated. “Used to do this for my little lamb. She was wild with her hair, refused to brush it no matter what. I took care of it for her, braided it before she’d wake up so it’d stay neat for longer. ‘N if I left on a job before she saw me in the mornin’, she’d have a ‘lil somethin’ of me to carry with her that day.

“Guess…” He cleared his throat. “Guess ya do too, now.”

So he did. Argenti toyed with the braid again, offering it a longing look. ‘A little something’ of Boothill, all his own.

He supposed, even without the braid, he always did carry something of Boothill with him. A brilliant speck to nurture, welded into his soul.

“I am delighted I do,” he said earnestly. “As I am certain it meant the world to your daughter. Perhaps… Perhaps the reason she refused to deal with it herself, even unconsciously, was that you doing it for her was far more meaningful than anything else could be.”

The briefest shadow of sadness clouded Boothill’s eyes. It was a tender thing, softened by the wistful smile on his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe.”

The moment swelled between them, guided by the waves hitting the shore, hastened by the morning breeze. Only belatedly did Argenti become aware they had stopped in this position, smiling at each other in the mellow sunlight.

“Would you perhaps be opposed to me braiding yours too?” Argenti said, surprisingly hushed. He almost could not believe he was going to say the last part, but “Afterwards we would both be holding on to a small part of the other.”

Unconsciously drawn as they were to each other still, Boothill squeezed Argenti’s hand when he answered. “Sounds good to me, Rosey boy.”

They sat by the lake, under what was surely Argenti’s favourite one of the trees, warbled and magnificent and burgundy-barked as it was, the shade majestically contrasting the snow-white of its leaves. It was the same one they had rested under the night before, when it had glimmered orange and inviting and Argenti had felt more at ease than he had in years. Maybe… maybe ever.

Boothill laid down a blanket to sit on, as if they had not hassled in the sand the day before. Argenti would find sand in his clothes for a few more washes to come, surely.

He settled behind Boothill, legs on either side of him.

“Any requests before I start?” he asked, running his fingers through Boothill’s hair, soft and smooth. It had clearly been brushed already. “A style you prefer, perchance?”

Boothill shook his head. “Only that it’s somethin’ you like. I trust ya.”

“Ah,” Argenti breathed. “I shall see to it that it is as beautiful as I can make it, then.”

He decided on a half-up, half-down hairstyle, made up of multiple smaller braids, some of which would weave into the bigger, central one, a couple more which would run on either side of it. Boothill had such lush hair—he would look beautiful with braids that emphasised the beauty of it, rather than gathering all of it into a full braid.

This, however, would require time. Luckily neither were in a hurry to leave the safe haven they had found, or created, here.

“You do not speak of her all too often. Your daughter,” Argenti said, tentatively.

Boothill flinched. “Don’t I?”

“You have told me many stories of your past. Alas, many of them sad. The happier ones pertained to your planet as a whole, or your fathers, your siblings, or your life and adventures before it all came crashing down. Yet your daughter…” He paused, wondering how to phrase this, so that he might not lash at already festering wounds. “I apologise. Of course she would come up least, as it might be most painful to speak of her, I understand. It is presumptuous of me to-”

“No!” Boothill cut in hurriedly. He sighed. “If anyone’s got a right to know, ‘s you. Fudge, it’s a funny thing. Avengin’ her, doin’ right by her—‘s what I’m doin’ all this for, but sometimes I don’t think about those times at all. Feels like it might break me to do it.”

He leaned his head further back. It made keeping the braid symmetrical harder, but Argenti would not say that. Not when he could see Boothill’s eyes squeezing shut, as if to shut out the rest of the world, ground him into the earth beneath him, into the calm of Argenti’s fingers in his hair.

“‘S easier to let yourself be fuelled by anger. Gets harder when you downright think about what you’ve lost,” Boothill said.

Argenti hummed in understanding. “Anger is often a way for us to mask other, deeper feelings. It is easier to feel, more straightforward. It can propel us forward, which can, at times when all else feels lost, be a good thing. Grief, guilt… loneliness—they are more painful to process. But they are equally important. We must feel them, if we are to move on.”

He shuddered, realising he had gone off on too philosophical, perhaps even preachy a route without Boothill asking for advice.

“I must apologise once more. You did not ask for a lecture on emotions.”

The smallest pearl of laughter slipped past Boothill’s lips, seemingly without his accord. There was comfort in seeing them turned upwards again.

“‘S fine. Yer right, anyway. I don’t talk, or think, about her ‘cause it hurts like heaven.” He bit his lip. “But what’s real ironic is ‘m also afraid I might… forget, if I don’t. Or I’ll lose her, ‘lil by ‘lil. ‘N then I’ll be an empty hull of metal for real.”

‘Will be’, not ‘am’. A future possibility, not a present reality. Was there some hope there, in him unconsciously using those words?

Argenti latched onto it like a man drowning at sea. “You will not, my dear. You could begin by remembering once again, now. Even in pain, there is Beauty in honouring her memory by speaking of her, is there not? It is, dare I say, another way of ‘doing right’ by her.”

Argenti continued braiding while Boothill let this notion sink in.

“Ya’ll listen, if I tell ya about her?” he finally said, quietly, a glow of youthful nervousness in his expression.

“Not only that, but I shall strive to internalise every word,” Argenti vowed. “As such, were you ever to forget—though I have no doubt you shall not—I will be here to refresh your memory.”

Only at this did Boothill open his eyes again. He looked sideways at Argenti, and Argenti realised he could intuitively tell Boothill would have had tears in his eyes at this moment, and he mourned this loss too. He would just have to cry enough for the both of them, if it came to it.

Boothill would speak more of his daughter in the coming hours than he had in the entire time he had been without her. Her stories interlaced with yet more of Graey and Nick’s, with Boothill’s many siblings. There was joy and mischief and belonging and leaning on each other. Mistakes and lack of knowledge, which Graey and Nick were too eager to help him overcome.

A keenness to learn, so he could be the father she deserved, someone worthy of her. Taking her riding, carving her wooden toys that represented all the animals she should respect, introducing her to the cows and the sheep, though she was always more drawn to the horses, just as he was. Camping up in the mountains with her, when the weather was warm, so she could learn the beauty and value and interconnectedness of nature. Playing her the most joyful songs he knew on his guitar, rattled as they were by her pulling at the strings too—but that is when they became whole, somehow. He could no longer hear songs played on a guitar without her excited warbles and chord additions.

Fighting his siblings with pillows, just to hear her laugh. Filling her room with the trinkets his siblings would craft for her, the blankets they would sow, clothes they would embroider. Providing her with the family he himself had been gifted.

They were some of the most beautiful stories of family Argenti had ever had the privilege of listening to. He had not had a family of his own, not as far as he could remember, yet he found he could feel what it was to have one through Boothill’s words alone. He came to understand Boothill better because of it, as well as the pit that had been carved into his heart by having had it forcibly removed from him, silenced in the most inhuman way.

When he spoke of that day, when he had had to stare into a flaming abyss, nothing but ashes and smoke to grasp at, Argenti hugged Boothill by the waist, lowered his face in his shoulder, and wept. For the ones lost, for Boothill, for the tears Boothill could not shed himself.

There was nothing to say to encapsulate what he felt. For once, words were virtually meaningless. Instead, all that he said, once his tears had dried and Boothill had wiped their residue away from his cheeks with the sleeves of his tunic, watching him in a grateful, warm sort of way, was “Thank you for sharing this part of you with me, my love.”

‘My love’. The words were novel on his tongue, blossoming without his say so. And yet, they were not, as before, followed by the shame he had grown so familiar with, the one which clouded his sight and clogged his throat, bitter on his tongue and piercing in his chest. They just were, surfaced by the breeze, embraced by the moment.

Boothill brushed a stray lock of hair, one he had missed while braiding, behind Argenti’s ear. “Hah, I dunno, but me personally? I think ‘m the one who should be thankin’ ya, darlin’.”

“I merely listened.”

“Nah. Ya listened. Trash the ‘merely’.”

Argenti found himself quietly laughing. A delayed reaction to the flood of emotions, perhaps.

“You have learned to put me in my place, it would seem,” he joked. “Such the preacher becomes the preached.”

“Only ‘cause yer undersellin’ yerself. If I ain’t allowed to do it, neither are ya.”

He clapped Argenti on the shoulder and stood up. “I needed that. Didn’ know I needed that, but I did. So thanks. Thanks for everything.” He seemed to choke on air. “And the braids. Imagine she’d have liked to do this too, once she’d gotten older.”

“Oh!” Argenti said, startled. He sprung to his feet. “This reminds me, I forgot about the flowers! She would have certainly wanted to echo your design precisely.”

His eyes were already darting around, trying to decide on what flower best suited Boothill (red, to match his outfit and his stalwart soul, perhaps), when a chuckle halted his search.

“No, no. Relax. The flowers, I didn’ do those for her. Suppose I should’ve, but she was a wild girl. Dunno how long they’d’ve lasted.”

Argenti looked at him in what felt like revelation. “Then, why…?”

“They made me think of ya. Lovely, all pretty ‘n soft. Couldn’t help myself.”

It was one blow too many. The memory of the past day, the braid, the weight of what he had just shared, the spark in his eyes as he spoke these words with such carefree affection. Argenti could not express it if he tried, but something fractured in his soul at that moment. Like splinters falling to the ground, so did everything he thought he knew dissolve around him.

For what could be evil about loving, regardless of what it entails?

“Oh, my love,” he breathed, and, overwhelmed by feeling but unsure how to transpose it into action, he rushed towards Boothill and caught him in a spirited embrace.

What safe haven, here, in the valleys? Boothill was his safe haven. There was no more denying that than claiming the sun was not shining overhead.

He held on tight to him, wondering how he had gotten to this point. If there had been one wrong move, more fatal than the others, or if he had continuously added to his undoing by being unable to shut off his swelling feelings.

Either way, there was no more taking it back. He was genuinely in love with this man. Not only that, but he was beginning to look upon what they were sharing as a given, to envision their life as one, an ‘always’ they had never been supposed to have gradually transforming into a distant possibility, an elusive dream.

Oh, Aeons.

If, overcome as he was by this unexpected escalation, he brushed his lips in the ghost of a kiss against Boothill’s shoulder, that was only for him to know.

Although the chance that one other being besides himself, one he had sworn his life to long before Boothill had even entered it, held knowledge of what he had done, of everything that had unfolded throughout their time here, chilled him right down to the marrow.

Another day spent by the lake, until the food and drink running out and the sparring growing tiring forced them to return to the ship.

This would have normally felt like arriving home, but things were different now.

Different in that Argenti was avoiding a particular chamber on the ship.

Argenti had built what may be called a makeshift shrine in a part of his ship, dedicated to Idrila. On his travels, he had found a sculptor, someone who claimed to be knowledgeable in Gothic architecture, now almost a forgotten relic of the past. Argenti had explained Idrila’s likeness as well as one could, given words could hardly ever do justice to so otherworldly a countenance, and the sculptor had done a most exquisite job bringing it to life.

He had kept candles perpetually lit around it ever since and brought in new flowers to lay before it whenever he could. Roses were ideal, but as they were not readily available on every planet he visited, he would often make do with the most beautiful ones he could find in their stead. In time, he had even amassed an admirable collection of beautiful trinkets to surround the shrine with, a testament to his relentless search of Them amongst the stars.

He knew this could only be a passing attention. Dedicating his entire life to Them and his Path was all that held any real weight. All the same, he had always found a certain sense of comfort, of being seen, of partaking in something greater than when he knelt before Their likeness and imagined he was once again facing Them, dedicating a few moments of silence in Their name.

Guilt, fear, and a feeling of loss of self kept him from paying Them the same respects for a few days after their return. He held his head low when he passed by the room, tried to put the thought of it away from his mind until he… until he what? Processed what he was feeling, how to overcome it? Shook off the memory of the days by the lake, of the intimacy they had shared, of how all he could think about was how much more of it he wanted? Or until he sent Boothill on his merry way, and with prolonged atonement returned once more to being the perfect disciple?

He lingered by the door, for the first time outright facing the shrine. His heart clenched seeing the extinguished candles, how desolate They looked without their incandescent light. Looking away had allowed the comfort of ignorance, but having seen what his absence had begot, he could not stay away any longer.

He bit his lip, sparing one last look towards the living quarters. Boothill had been busy trying to get information on the IPC’s whereabouts when he had left him. Surely his absence would not be felt.

He polished the stone, dusted the area, changed the candles, lit the new ones one by one, his mind blank and focused on each task alone. A ceremony that had long become second nature. He still had some of the flowers Boothill had braided in his hair in his room—they seemed obstinate in not wanting to wilt. But those were his, theirs. For once, the flower offering would have to be put on the back burner.

Then, unable to put it off anymore, he knelt before Them.

The discomfort, so foreign in these circumstances, was pronounced. He was in the wrong, he knew. Nothing about what he had been partaking of was right, not per his vows. More terrifying yet was that his heart would not concede it, no matter what his mind said. Was this the work of the Omen of Evil? Was he all but lost?

He wished he could receive Their guidance now, although it would mean admitting his doubts to Them. But if Idrila were to listen to him, surely They would know what words of wisdom to offer. It was not Their responsibility, but he had served Them piously the better half of his life. Surely They could grant him some leniency, say the right thing to set him back on his path.

He thought this as he knelt in stifling silence, head down, before Their statue. Perhaps he truly hoped They would appear before him. That They were there, listening. Were They not granting him Their attention simply because They believed him capable of overcoming this on his own, or because They were displeased with him? Or, perhaps worse yet, because… They were no longer there, as everyone else claimed, as he had adamantly refused to believe to this day?

A shaky sigh.

In these seconds of hesitation, he became aware of the presence behind him. He turned halfway. Boothill was there, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, eyes lowered. They raised to meet Argenti’s almost immediately—maybe he, too, had felt Argenti’s gaze, as Argenti had felt his presence.

“I didn’t wanna interrupt,” he said, self-consciously.

He had never followed Argenti here. There was a tacit understanding between them that this time belonged to Argenti alone. He did not give any actual explanation as to his being there, but from what Argenti was able to glean from his expression, he seemed… curious. Intrigued, perhaps.

He beckoned him closer. Boothill acquiesced—faltered in front of the statue for a few moments, before he knelt by Argenti’s side, mirroring his position.

“‘S this what I’m supposed to do?”

Argenti suppressed a chuckle. He nodded to the sound of a relieved sigh from Boothill.

They enjoyed a couple of minutes of tranquillity, side by side. Argenti was not sure if his mind had stilled further, aided by the soothing presence next to him, or if his fluttering heart had stolen away even more of his concentration than before.

“It occurs to me I never truly asked, but… You would not consider yourself pious, would you, my dear?” he asked, unexpectedly the first to break the silence.

Boothill chuckled. “Nah, wouldn’t say so. Not like you. I follow the Path of the Hunt, but only ‘cause our principles align. It ain’t your kinda faith. You’re…”

“A zealot?” Argenti said, thinking of the words outsiders had often used to describe the Knights of Beauty. Few of them pretty; it seemed others could not understand their code and pursuits any more than they could believe in the continued existence of their Aeon.

Boothill raised an eyebrow, as though he begrudged anyone putting such words in his mouth. Or like he could not reconcile the idea of the word and Argenti being connected in any way.

“Was gonna say devoted. You embody your Aeon’s teachings in everythin’ ya do. Ain’t easy, and it definitely ain’t somethin’ a lotta folks could do. Sometimes I envy that.” Argenti blinked in surprise as Boothill stared at Idrila’s statue, lost in thought. “Can’t exactly explain why. Your connection to your Aeon seems…. cushy. Special. Uncomplicated, maybe. Must be nice, havin’ someone like that to follow, no hesitation, somethin’ to fall back on. Guess it’s kinda the same with me, with our set of principles as Galaxy Rangers. But it feels like more for you. A true creed. Unwavering faith ‘n all that.”

Argenti could not help the shiver running down his spine. Boothill had described how Argenti himself once had viewed his relationship with his Goddess. Now, however, he had found him on the precipice of collapse.

“It is not… uncomplicated,” he said, voice low. His gaze landed in his lap, avoiding the sight of his Goddess before him. “I wonder if it ever was. Perhaps it truly used to be, or perhaps I dedicated myself so fully to my faith that I never perceived the burden of it until it became too much. Until…” Until I met you. A cough, as the words got stuck in his throat, acrid. “Lately I find myself… bemused. Is it that Idrila asks too much of me, or simply that I do not give enough? That I once did, but can no longer? Is there room for allowances, or is one indulgence one step too many towards an inescapable spiral of sin?” His fist clenched at his side. “Is contemplating these things not already proof of wavering? How can I embody Beauty if I so readily fall prey to the Omen of Evil?”

He felt another hand clasp around his clenched one in a delicate touch. Boothill looked sheepish when Argenti’s eyes returned to him.

“Oh. I apologise. My thoughts snowballed of their own accord. It was not my intention to trouble you with my own melancholy, love,” Argenti said.

“The fork? You didn’, Genti. Makes me happy. That you’re sharin’ it with me, ‘course, not that you’re troubled. This, and whatcha said the other day, ‘bout loneliness—you’ve sure got a lot on your mind, huh?”

Argenti sighed. This barely covered a fraction of his thoughts nowadays. “It seems I do.”

“Y’know,” Boothill began, casually unclenching Argenti’s fist and entwining their hands, unwaveringly tender in his movements. “Faith like yours ain’t my area of expertise, but imma go out on a limb here ‘n say that you’re doin’ the best you know how, followin’ whatcha believe in. Ultimately Paths are somethin’ people created. How to follow them, too. You ain’t yer Aeon. Ya can’t be this perfect being every moment of your life. I ain’t got much authority on what a human’s supposed to be like, given I ain’t been one for a while… But I reckon being human means havin’ doubts, questionin’ things, strengthenin’ your beliefs as you do it. Havin’ human feelings. Don’t see how that’s somethin’ that should ruffle ya so.”

“I cannot fully fault your rationality here, but… I am a Knight of Beauty, not quite any follower. My duties run deeper, such my shortcomings would similarly be more brazen, more disgraceful.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re a Knight of Beauty that I think you’ve more’n proven your faith already.” A few taps against Argenti’s knuckles with the soles of his fingers. “You hold yourself to some mighty scary standards, Rosey. If yer not worthy of your title, I dunno who is.”

He had proven himself, yes. He knew the purity of his devotion to Idrila, the depths that it ran. But that did not mean he was exempt from falling down a wrong path. He had to keep proving himself, had to commit himself to this path day in and day out, and maintain his oath with utmost ardour. There was no room for error. He had seen what sin taking over one of their own looked like.

He knew all of this in theory, and his oath of asceticism clearly spelled out sin from all else. Yet he could not reasonably come to terms with some of his feelings (the seemingly magnetic draw to the man at his side, the comfort of his presence, his grey eyes watching Argenti with understanding he showed no one but him) being counted among them. And companionship, as opposed to isolation? Being isolated naturally helped one rid oneself of much of the potential for temptation and provided clarity of mind, but he had never felt more at home than he had at Boothill’s side these past couple of months. What could be wrong about that? Why should he be forced to forsake it? What gave anyone the right to rid him of such a fundamentally human need, no matter what it was in pursuit of?

“Worthiness has little to do with it. No one is safe from falling prey to sin. Not even a Knight of Beauty.”

He pondered his next words. They were dangerously close to baring his heart. Boothill might easily read between the lines. He ultimately found it was a chance he was willing to take.

“And what is more, lately I have gone as far as to even begin questioning the very concept of sin. Of… wanting more than one is allowed. Which might as well be a sin in itself, but restraining these thoughts and feelings similarly feels like a sin against myself. So which is it?”

Boothill watched him closely. “The way I see it, yer Aeon, any good Aeon, should be happy you’re not just blindly following them, but rather thinkin’ these things through for yerself, comin’ to yer own conclusions.”

“But when these conclusions contradict all that I have been taught? What then? What gives me the authority to decide? Is that not precisely what sin is?”

“That’s a heavy one. And I dunno if there’s only one right answer. More like it’s up to everyone’s own morals to decide.”

That was easy to say. Equivocal words, unable to incriminate him one way or the other. The brunt of it all was Argenti’s to bear.

As always.

“Abstractions are simple. I would rather know what your thoughts are,” Argenti insisted, his voice crackling with each word.

He had been alone for so long, in being and mind both. He had always had his Goddess’ teachings to follow on what to feel, and do, and believe; the rest he had had to figure out on his own, because he had had no one else but himself to rely on. Could he not request one opinion which was not his own or somehow tied to his code? Not to renounce accountability—merely to feel less insular, like the whole weight of the world was his alone to carry.

Frankly, he craved for someone to tell him he was not lost, or immoral, or vile for having allowed these feelings to take hold. Or for not wanting to give them up.

Boothill furrowed his brow. His gaze would not leave Argenti’s, reading him from the outside in.

“Me, I think sin’s somethin’ that takes you away from your Goddess,” he said after some deliberation, as though weighing his words. “Just havin’ human thoughts ‘n feelings ‘n needs ain’t that. You can give yerself room to be human, and still be devoted to your faith. Like you were sayin’ that time, the two don’t needa be mutually exclusive.”

Argenti looked away.

“When I said that, in regards to you, you told me they had to be so,” he said bitterly.

“‘N you told me I was wrong,” Boothill countered. “At length.”

He laid his other hand on Argenti’s knee, giving it an encouraging squeeze. That he might live a life without his touch was a thought Argenti could not bear to consider.

“I’ve got no right to tell ya how to live yer life. But it seems to me you just want me to say what you want to hear, ‘cause you’ve already decided. In that case-” He paused, searched Argenti’s face as if to make sure his leap of faith was founded on reasonable signals. “They can coexist, y’know?”

‘Coexist’, was it…

Boothill’s hold was grounding, anchoring him in spite of the restless tides of his heart. Focusing solely on him for a moment, a quiet settled over them. Even the flicker of the candles seemed frozen in time. Idrila’s statue was before him, but the only thing Argenti could see were Boothill’s eyes, an oasis he kept returning to. And something lower, something that had uttered those words, something he had avoided for so long.

“‘They can coexist’...” Argenti repeated in a voice that did not seem to belong to himself.

He tightened his hand around Boothill’s, the grip bordering on painful. The beating in his chest resounded in his ears like something physical. He felt driven by a force he held no control over, a buzz in his soul that he had run from yet whose sincerity he had never questioned.

Choosing one over the other had seemed insurmountable, but those simple words… could it really be that easy?

He turned his body towards Boothill. Reining in this sudden urgency and tension felt like a battle cruller than he had ever withstood. “My love. Allow me… allow me to try something?”

Whatever was written on his face quickly registered. A bewildered nod, and something shattered inside Argenti as he saw his own desire glittering in Boothill’s eyes, hopeful and incandescent and anticipating. He surged forward, cupped Boothill’s face in his hands, and before any part of his brain could process the magnitude of what he was doing, pressed his lips to Boothill’s.

He had never kissed anyone before, and now he could immediately see how it could count as a sin. How easy it would be to get lost in Boothill like this, forget about himself and his faith and the world as a whole entirely, seek this sensation out with the very resolve he pursued Beauty.

Oh, maybe this was Beauty, too. Could it not be? A breathless cowboy beneath him, holding onto his waist like a lifeline, the hard lines of his body pressing into Argenti’s in the sweetest, most tempting way. Yes, a dangerous, beautiful thing indeed.

“‘Genti. Fudge,” Boothill murmured against his lips, as Argenti pushed him back and climbed halfway into his lap, forcing Boothill to hold himself up on only one elbow, his other hand urging Argenti even closer. Argenti could drown on the sound of his name on his cowboy’s lips alone, one of a hundred sensations that were quickly overtaking all of his senses.

Driven entirely by instinct and feelings too strong to name, he could not tell if what he was doing was even right, but Boothill seemed better experienced and guided his movements to something less desperate, smoother, to where the slot of their lips together felt heavenly crafted to be rejoined.

Argenti’s fingers tangled themselves in Boothill’s hair, pulling on it without even realising, the adrenaline running too high to get a hold of. Boothill groaned and deepened the kiss, hand pressing on Argenti’s lower back to bring him flush against him. It seemed Argenti’s gesture had been more than welcome.

Before long he was practically on top of Boothill, seeking to be close to him through any point of contact he could find. His mind was hazy, both eager and stilled from all thought besides this. Had there ever been any doubt this was what he wanted? Any qualms had been plucked at the roots with the first feel of Boothill’s mouth against his.

That is until he was halfway through a moan drawn by Boothill’s teeth expertly grazing his lower lip, when his body froze head to toe in an instant. An iciness that seemed to sink to his bones took over and, barely thinking, propelled only by a sense of panic like none he had ever experienced before, he pushed Boothill away and flung himself backwards, nearly landing on his back.

Boothill startled. He seemed much too astonished to do anything but stare at Argenti from the same position he had left him in. “‘Genti? Are you…”

Cold sweat ran down Argenti’s back. “I…”

Frantic, he squeezed his thighs together, trying to hide the proof of his sin. He doubted Boothill had felt it, not even when Argenti had unconsciously grinded against his thigh, but he could not let him see it. To think he would… react this way, because of a mere first kiss, and… And…

His eyes shifted to the shrine and shame rose before him like a demon personified. And here, of all places. He had been so transfixed by the sensations awakened by being with Boothill he had even forgotten where they were. To call it shameful was being lenient. Whatever his doubts may have been, to do such a thing in a holy space was defying all limits of propriety and respect.

‘Don’t need to be mutually exclusive’... How could he ever think it would be that simple? That he might reconcile two things which were worlds apart?

Reality loomed above him in all its unpleasant miasma.

“My—My apologies,” he rasped, getting to his feet, his eyes not meeting Boothill’s. His words were coming from somewhere far away, obligation rather than lucidity. “I… The fault is wholly mine. Please, do not hold yourself accountable for my sake. I will… I will take my leave for now. Goodnight.”

Such coherence, even now.

What a farce.

“What? ‘Genti, no, wait–”

He was out the door before he could hear anything else.

Argenti faced his reflection in the puddle of cold water he had gathered in the sink to wash his face with. It looked distorted, flickering, displaced in time and space. It mirrored his internal landscape rather well.

“Genti? Ya… ya alright in there? It’s been awful long.”

Argenti hesitated. His vocal chords did not seem to be entirely functional. The sounds Boothill had elicited from them earlier were imprinted on them like ink-stains.

“...Genti? Ya can hear me, can’t ya?”

He was so taken in by his reflection, caught on the gentle ripples of the water, that he had no will to break the immersion. This Argenti was still the Argenti he knew, unblemished, a timeless apparition.

“This ain’t funny, Rosey. I’m comin’ in, yeah? Don’t be surprised.”

The chilly grip of Boothill’s fingers on his arms drew him back to reality once more. An insistent tug and he was turned around, coming face to face with his companion. His face looked perfectly whole, present, real. He had not changed, following what they had done. Why did it feel like Argenti had, then?

As if by way of a sudden revelation, Boothill withdrew his hands, leaving them hanging at his side. His eyes flickered away, the embarrassment clear as daylight on his countenance. Though Argenti could not quite look at him except with the same empty gaze he had blankly gaped at his own reflection with for so long, he found he could anticipate the emotions on Boothill’s face.

“Whatcha doing there? Yer face so pretty ya couldn’ take yer eyes off yourself? Awful conceited of ya, darlin’.”

Light-heartedness. A common choice in the face of strength of feeling; a safe conversation starter in such an odd, difficult situation.

Argenti did not outright shoot it down, but he made no attempt at joining the pretend joviality. A polite, distant, entirely unfeeling chuckle escaped his lips, and that was it—silence reigned between them again, foreign for the uneasiness it came paired with. The silence which normally weaved itself between them like honey, allowing them to bask in its simplicity, was now laden, nebulous.

Something was out of step between them.

“...Ya ran off so quick. Locked yourself up in ‘ere for an hour. Got me all worried, flower boy. Really didn’t know what to do.”

An hour? He had not realised it had been that long. He certainly had not intended to hide away like a callow youth, not beyond getting his body under control. It is true what they say: trip up once, and the subsequent falls will readily follow.

“A crass act, devoid of any gentlemanly spirit. I take full responsibility, Boothill.”

The cowboy’s eyes widened, lips parted, before his expression hardened and he looked away. If Argenti was not mistaken, there was actual pain on his face. It took everything in him not to grab his face, smooth its lines back towards his playfully cocky usual self.

“‘Boothill’, huh…” he muttered, though the actual words were too muffled to be heard clearly.

“Pardon?”

Boothill shook his head. He ran his fingers over his forehand, looking for all the world like a man disillusioned.

“Nothin’. Just, ‘suppose I’m sorry. Getting so into it. Scared you away, didn’ I? Maybe I even hurt ya without realisin’. Either way, can’t have been mighty pleasant.”

The fog of mortification clouding Argenti’s brain was almost immediately washed away by a torrent of foreboding. The words were jarring leaving Boothill’s mouth. Argenti could understand how hurtful his actions had been, but this was not the voice of a man whose pride had been wounded.

No, there was more to it. Boothill sounded genuinely crestfallen, defeated, and the tinge of repulsion in his tone was aimed at himself, not Argenti.

“I’m sorry? What exactly is it you are saying?” Argenti asked, feeling like there was a key aspect he was missing out on.

“Don’t needa be kind about it. ‘S all the same to me. Might do me good, really, to face the truth, straight from the shoulder ‘n all. I just wanna say, I know I didn’t… I’m not exactly deservin’ of any of this, but, uh.” He cleared his throat, flicked some non-existent dust from his temple, anything to avoid looking at Argenti straight on. “It was nice. That. Even if I shoulda had the sense not to indulge it and fork things up between us.”

He might have expected it, should have expected it, but Argenti had been so overcome by the dread of his actions he had completely disregarded this course of events.

Aeons, he was going to get whiplash from how quickly he was experiencing one avalanche of emotions after the other today.

He gripped Boothill by the shoulders, his thoughts in disarray.

“Boothill, dear, surely you do not believe I acted the way I did because of you? That is, because, Idrila forbid, I was in any way revolted by you or your body?”

Boothill cringed. This truly was a subject that hit close to home, every time. To think Argenti had still not managed to silence these insecurities, uproot them at the source, and had now even rekindled them into being.

“I know what I am, pretty boy. Daresay ya did too, but ‘s different facin’ it outright. No surprise ya’d take a powder soon as ya did,” Boothill said.

Argenti could not stand the resignation in his words.

He cupped Boothill’s face in his hands, just as he had earlier, but the previous palpitations had eased—all he wanted was to get Boothill to understand.

“My love, stop. That is not what happened. Your body is a work of art, a masterclass in Beauty. Indeed, that it was moulded by mortal hands, when only the Aeons should possess the power to create Beauty so unblemished is nothing short of a miracle.” Boothill blinked at him, looking more stunned than when Argenti had run away. “I have told you this, time after time, have I not? I would never, and I wholeheartedly mean never, dare lie to you about such a thing.”

“But, then–”

“The crux of it might be that we are both equally as stuck in our heads, shackled to our individual woes. Both raged by inner conundrums that what lies beyond them remains obscured.”

It seemed ridiculous, now. That he had even pulled away, as though there was any chance of not being drawn back to Boothill’s side the moment he saw him again.

“The last thing I could have ever wanted is to break from you. I ran not for a lack of feeling, but for an onslaught of it,” Argenti confessed. Wrong, right, faith, oaths—none of it mattered, when Boothill’s feelings hung in the balance. “I was overwhelmed. By what I was feeling, by how eager my body was to be close to you, by how little all else mattered in the face of… you. Of us. Loath to accept what this all means.”

Hope was fluttering unhindered on Boothill’s expression, tethered still to disbelief. These were the same emotions Argenti was faced with as he realised how readily all of his thoughts had let slip.

“‘N?” Boothill asked, quietly. “What does it mean?”

Was there any doubt? Even though he had run away, had the way he had kissed him not been telling enough?

“Need you ask? Are my feelings for you naught but obvious by now?”

Boothill measured him with a careful look. The feelings might have become clear, but Argenti had been oscillating between two halves of his soul for the longest time. Whether he took the leap was his choice alone.

“Might need ya to do some spellin’ out for me, just to be sure. Feel we’d do best without any more assumptions between us. All things laid out.”

Argenti sucked in a breath. Perhaps it was high time he faced the reality of his feelings head-on, even though there would likely be no coming back from this. Wherever this would lead to, it would come paired with some manner of consequences for at least one of them, one way or another. All he could now do was follow the tide.

“‘Tis the one thing spelling out could do virtually no justice to. I could wax poetic and say that my heart sings for you, or that my soul feels whole alongside yours. All I truly know is, I swore an oath, but you…”

He dropped his head on Boothill’s shoulder, sighing as he went. A pause, before his hands moved of their own accord, sliding down the zipper on Boothill’s cropped jacket.

He closed his eyes, but even unseeing his senses were in overdrive: Boothill’s ragged breath, his own stammering movements, his heartbeat drowning out the murmur of the world around them, the feverishness surging through his body, and the feeling of Boothill’s body under his fingers as they revealed more of his ‘skin’. A symphony in which all the parts further worked to undo him, one thread at a time.

“I would say you make me want to break it, but… In truth, you make me question the very meaning of its existence, my beloved,” he whispered, forehead now lowered to his cowboy’s bared chest.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter—heat against cool metal, the only pillar keeping him rooted to the here and now. Oh, how he craved this—to hell with it all. If loving Boothill was wrong, then he might as well happily be wrong for all the world to see.

“Permit me a second attempt, so that I may show you proof of my feelings instead?”

Boothill blinked at him. If he still doubted him, Argenti’s single-minded expression must have been appeasement enough.

A choked ‘Mhm’, and anything that could have still held Argenti back crumbled for good.

With peerless reverence, he laid a kiss to the spot where Boothill’s heart might have been.

The sound which escaped Boothill was suspiciously close to a whimper, even though he could not possibly feel much, if any, of Argenti’s touches. His hand tightened in Argenti’s hair as the string of kisses continued upwards, slow, slow, agonisingly so, past metal and blissfully towards skin, towards feeling. They stopped just short of brushing his neck, and that, oh, that was definitely a whimper.

Argenti was not sure where the brazenness of his actions was arising from. He made a show of brushing Boothill’s hair aside, breath fawning over his neck yet never touching.

Boothill groaned, urging Argenti’s head down but being met with unwavering resistance.

“‘Genti, blast it, please–”

“Ask nicely?”

Boothill froze, throwing him a dirty glare from above him.

“I physically can’t forkin’ say it any other way, you-”

“Now, now. You are using your synesthesia beacon as an excuse, my love. That is not what I am asking of you.”

Another kiss, back to his metal collarbone. It was uncertain whether Boothill was coming undone or was otherwise utterly done with this game, but his gaze softened when it met Argenti’s, annoyance seemingly seeping out of him at the sight.

“My darlin’ flower knight,” he finally relented, drawing out every word in such a way as to make Argenti’s heart beat twice as fast as its already dangerous rate. “I beg of ya. Please?”

If anyone was coming undone at the very seams, at the very fabric of his being, no doubt it was Argenti.

His lips were on Boothill’s neck in a moment. His skin was so soft, so smooth, as beautiful as his best crafted metal components. The sounds which Argenti’s mouth atop it could awaken rivalled the most exquisite choruses and orchestras Argenti had ever heard. It was they that drowned out any potential doubts, that urged Argenti on despite his lack of experience, until every part of Boothill’s neck had been carefully explored and shown the adoration it was owed.

Boothill’s reactions were particularly fervent when Argenti experimentally nibbled on his ear, whimpers turning into a full-blown moan. He seemed surprised by his own response to such a simple thing, and for a second they broke apart to blink at each other in wonder.

The embarrassment on Boothill’s face morphed back to delight once Argenti pushed him against the sink and nipped the skin around the ear, gently pulled on his earring, and tried anything else he could think of that might elicit the same response. Whatever he noticed Boothill liked, he would repeat with increased eagerness, until Boothill was clutching to his waist with such strength as to almost hurt.

However the logistics of it worked with this body, Boothill was shivering by the time Argenti halted his touches to leave a lingering peck to Boothill’s lips.

“Rosey, what the heaven,” Boothill croaked breathlessly, cheeks flushed purple. “Ya can’t not have done that before. Ain’t no way.”

Argenti felt his own face heat up. “I have not. It was never allowed, nor was it something I ever found myself wanting before now.”

“I was right, then. Yer talents never end. Fudge.”

Argenti could not help feeling sheepish. Giving in and focusing on the act itself had been one thing, but it was mildly nerve-wracking making conversation after the fact. More surprising still was that while everything about this should have been earth-shattering, like the first kiss had felt, the only thing his mind was capable of doing was replay Boothill’s feverish sounds on repeat.

“All I wished was for you to feel good. If that was achieved…”

The way Boothill looked at him at that moment, Argenti would not have been surprised to discover his entire systems had shut down. He made a low sound in his throat, and looked as much offended as he did enthralled.

“Holly Wubbaboo ‘Genti, you’re actually gonna be the end of me, what the fudge. Sayin’ sugar like that.”

Laughter bubbled on Argenti’s lips as Boothill reversed their positions and bended Argenti back against the sink, pressing a kiss to his chin and nosing at his jaw. He had to latch onto Boothill’s back to keep upright.

Hugging Boothill had been a happy thing, before. But kissing him, being so close to him, allowed to soak in and give in to their mutual longing for touch, be it playful or tender or passionate, was addictive, indeed.

“‘S this actually somethin’ you want?” Boothill muttered as he stole another kiss from Argenti’s lips. “We’re doin’ this?”

Argenti hummed. “I should hope so.”

“Ya won’t run away again?”

Argenti looked deep into Boothill’s eyes, praying he was conveying his adoration in all its breadth. His heart was quivering under the immensity of what he had chosen against all odds, but he was certain nothing could convince him to give this man up anymore.

“If it were up to me, my sole wish would be to never again be parted from you,” he said, and found that he meant it.

Boothill smiled wistfully. One of his hands slipped just barely under Argenti’s waistband to rest on his hip. “Fudge, you’re perfect.”

“As are you,” Argenti whispered, already missing Boothill’s lips. A potent drug, such were his silver cowboy’s lips, so soon after first getting a taste of them.

Boothill’s eyes held the same captivation they always reserved for Argenti. It was difficult not to feel special in the face of it. “See, that’s just it. ‘M clueless how I got you to even think that ‘bout me.”

“Because it is true,” Argenti said. “You are radiant to me, my love—an ever-changing kaleidoscope of colours. Yours is a brilliant soul which fills in every crack in mine. It is a rare thing, indeed. One I, and it would seem even my faith, are powerless to oppose.”

He caressed Boothill’s cheek once more. The contours of an idea were forming in his mind, but whether he was brave enough to speak it, let alone put it into practice, was another story altogether.

“I… I would wish to prove it to you, how deep my affection for you runs, how my very being longs for you, but I must admit that—Alas. What I made up for earlier in enthusiasm, I may not be successful in replicating should things… advance, so to speak.”

Boothill pulled a face. Argenti rephrased, “That is to say, I know very little in the way of intimacy. My talents quite rapidly end here.”

Certainly, he had considered the prospect of it more than a handful of times recently, when Boothill’s touch had unearthed untapped desires. But he was not fully certain what he yearned for, for it was a subject he was wholly ignorant of, what with having taken up his oath so early in life. He just knew, instinctually, that he wanted to be close to Boothill, that he would happily bare himself to him, body and soul.

But the logistics of it were harder to get a grasp on, beyond how his body had responded, or how he had sought out Boothill’s sounds of pleasure like a moth drawn to a flame.

Boothill swallowed thickly. “Oh. That’s whatcha mean.”

Before Argenti could retract his words, for fear he had overstepped (how did one go on about this?), Boothill dug his fingers deeper into Argenti’s hip, seemingly unconsciously, their lower bodies now fully pressed against each other. Argenti hissed silently, only because this was dangerous territory. His body had been all too eager earlier, in a similar situation.

“That ain’t a problem,” Boothill said. “Reckon I still know enough to make it work.”

Of course, he would have had partners before Argenti. The confirmation of what Argenti had always assumed did not sting. Knowing Boothill had had a full life was a thing to cherish, not renounce.

“Let’s just say I don’t have the parts for it at present, though. It can be arranged, but it wasn’t somethin’ I had much interest in after I got this body. Not until ya.”

Now this was surprising information.

“But.” He grinned, wolfish. “Even like this, I reckon I can still make ya feel good. If you’ll let me.”

Argenti envisioned what he had earlier done to Boothill, but the image was abruptly torn from his mind when Boothill carefully rolled his hips against his and he realised the things he was referring to were of a somewhat more advanced nature.

The breathless moan that escaped his lips bordered on sinful. His head lolled forward with the rush of feeling in his groin, as foreign as it was intense.

“Boothill?” he croaked in surprise.

“Mm?” Boothill murmured by his ear, teasing his earlobe with his sharp teeth just enough so that the scrape was tantalisingly pleasant. “What’d’ya say? Let me take care of you?”

It was kind of him to ask. But with the maddening way he was now teasing Argenti by holding his hips in place, all while maintaining the slightest distance between them, it rang as an empty question. Even with how fast things were moving between them, with how hard his heart hammered in his chest thinking about the possibilities, Argenti could not find it in himself to say no.

“Please,” he sighed, even as he was not wholly sure what he was pleading for, and disbelieving that he was pleading to begin with.

This was clearly the right answer. Boothill’s face immediately lit up with an impish smirk.

“Not here. Ya deserve better than a motherfudging bathroom.”

And with that, he hoisted Argenti up in his arms, holding him by the back of his thighs while Argenti regained some balance by looping his arms around Boothill’s shoulders. Argenti was too honest for his own good, but even he would be hard pressed to admit the kind of feelings Boothill carrying him with such ease ignited inside of him.

They made for Argenti’s room, the nearest one, but even it felt like a galaxy away. The fact that they were kissing, deeper and messier than before, was helping him keep his nerves in check. Boothill tasted like whiskey and metal and, oddly enough, smoke. His sharp teeth would occasionally drag against Argenti’s lips, his stubble would brush Argenti’s chin—little prickles that only worked to rile Argenti up even more. Everything about him was intoxicating.

There could be no doubt as to why this was forbidden. Companionship was one thing, but this was treacherous indeed. Yet who was Argenti to deny it any longer?

Boothill deposited him on the bed with overwhelming gentleness. Somewhere on their walk to his room, Argenti had lost his shirt, and now Boothill was staring down at him with such unabashed adoration that goosebumps settled on his skin in the wake of Boothill’s gaze. Boothill traced his fingers over Argenti’s upper body, as if mapping out the area, soaking in its beauty, committing it to memory. He eventually splayed out his palm over Argenti’s pecs, meeting his eyes with enamoured emotion flickering in his.

“You’re an actual angel, ‘Genti, I swear,” he said. His voice was shaking, reverence ladening each word.

One could argue that he had been acting like anything but an angel, but Argenti chuckled. His face felt hot; his whole body did. He pulled Boothill down by the wrist, met his lips halfway in a continuation of their dazed kiss.

Boothill settled between his legs, and soon enough raised one of Argenti’s own and locked it around his knee. If simply allowing this whole string of events had felt like giving away some of his control, this position was exposing in a whole new way. Yet it was also surprisingly gratifying, and Argenti could not help the whine sneaking past.

Boothill pulled back once more to search his face.

“‘S this all right?” he asked. He was maintaining some distance between them, and had not brought their hips together again despite the fact that the position facilitated it. He was offering Argenti space and patience even in such a situation.

“Mhm,” Argenti said. His thoughts felt clouded. His body longed for further closeness, even against the canvas of restless complaints in his mind. “Very all right.”

Boothill’s eyes softened. He briefly lowered his forehead to Argenti’s.

“Much as I like you bein’ all wordy, lost-for-words looks good on ya.”

“You…” Argenti trailed off. “For once, now might not be the ideal time for excessive words.”

Mischievousness bloomed on Boothill’s face. He pecked Argenti’s nose. “Yeah? Ya got somethin’ more pressin’ at hand?”

There was certainly something half-hard pressing against his trousers, as much as he was trying not to think about it.

“Boothill,” he whined. “You are being unfair.”

A silvery pearl of laughter. Being this carefree was a good look on Boothill too, but perhaps Argenti would tell him so another time.

“Ya don’t say? I’ll make sure to be very fair from now on,” Boothill said, and did right on his promise by laying a kiss to Argenti’s jaw, following it with longer kisses to his throat and collarbone, these ones aided by his tongue and the occasional scrape of teeth.

When he continued by pursuing the trail of moles from his shoulder to his chest and adorning each one with featherlight pecks, breath ghosting over them in a way that quickened Argenti’s pulse, Argenti was forced to face the very limits of his patience.

He finished the trail with a kiss to his heart, just as Argenti had done earlier. Only by comparison, Argenti’s heart was beating so wildly against his ribcage he almost wondered if Boothill, close to it as he was, could hear it too.

It was all too much and too little. Both frightening and exciting. There was a hand firmly holding his waist, a tug to one of his nipples and the swirl of a tongue around it, a rumble of amused laughter against his skin as Boothill playfully drifted his fingers across Argenti’s stomach, making him squirm with the ticklish sensation—yet still too little friction where Argenti needed it most.

Argenti’s head had fallen back on the pillow, eyes squeezed shut to better allow the experience of the myriad of sensations fogging his senses. Had Boothill really not done this in such a long time? There was a certain caution to his movements, definitely, either because he was not used to manoeuvring this new body in such a context, or because he was overthinking it, eager to make it as good as he could for Argenti, hoping not to hurt him by accident. Yet he knew just how to unravel him, playful and affectionate yet earnest and receptive to Argenti’s needs as he was. Every move had Argenti’s pleasure and enjoyment in mind, and he evidently took great delight in tending to him.

Argenti knew where this was heading. His body was taunt with unspent energy, and he had lost all track of time and space. His initially suppressed moans had slowly built up to a crescendo, his mind too hazy with need to care.

By all means, he should have rejoiced when Boothill’s hand hovered so close to the proof of his desire. And there was no doubt his body was responsive to it, especially when Boothill repeatedly palmed him through his trousers, and he did want it, he was sure he did, but…

But his mind felt fraught, agitated. He had given in to his heart, to Boothill. He could not envision any other course of action, not when the alternative was giving Boothill up, losing him, succumbing to a loneliness more painful than any before. And certainly not when the alternative was not knowing the taste of his lips, or the way his hands felt against his bare skin.

He did not regret anything, and yet…

When Boothill shuffled lower, his hands working to undo Argenti’s belt while he planted a kiss to his inner thigh, the fog muddling Argenti’s senses rapidly began wearing off. When he made quick work of his zipper and was about to get started on lowering his trousers, it was entirely replaced by a thrumming panic.

“Stop,” Argenti said in a rush, voice quiet and distant even to him.

Boothill ceased all movement. He did not pull away, only froze entirely. The stillness offered Argenti the slightest chance for respite.

“‘Genti?” Boothill whispered. He sounded so delicate, so considerate. It made Argenti feel even worse.

“Please stop,” he rasped.

Everything around him appeared gargantuan, every touch out of place on his skin, his breath going in all wrong—if it was even truly going in at all. He could still feel his persisting hardness, still craving friction even now, and this discrepancy between his bodily reactions and the nauseating feelings pushing against his oesophagus was overwhelming, humiliating.

“I’ve stopped,” Boothill soothed. He slowly retracted his hands, put some distance between them.

He was allowed to like this. Boothill was safe and caring and patient. He had made him feel so comfortable. He loved this man, and this was a natural part of any relationship, an inherently primitive need yet a beautiful way of connection all the same.

“I’m sorry,” Argenti said on a tremulous breath. He had not felt pathetic for many, many years.

He wanted to close his legs, but with Boothill between them that was proving difficult to do. Boothill must have noticed, because he swiftly moved away, coming to sit beside him instead. Squeezing them together and shrinking into himself felt like the only way to regain some control over himself. And while that worked, he still felt so unbearably ashamed.

To the shame etched into him by the creeds of his oath was added the shame of disappointing Boothill, of having given him his permission only to retreat from it the moment things had progressed beyond mere kissing.

“Darlin’? Talk to me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He was avoiding Boothill’s eyes, still trying to regain control of his lungs. “I really am.”

“Ya don’t have a thing to be sorry for,” Boothill said. “I’m sorry, if I crossed any boundaries.”

“You did not,” Argenti said quickly. “You did not do anything. I enjoyed it all.”

Boothill felt so far away all of a sudden. He could not have him close, not that close, but neither did he want him to leave. What kind of foolish notion was that?

Perhaps this too was obvious in his eyes. The jitteriness, the need for some sort of physical anchor. Boothill reached for his hand and Argenti latched onto it, barely even thinking.

“It merely became overwhelming,” Argenti confessed. “It felt good at first, but…”

But somewhere in his subconscious, fragments of shame still hung on to the concept of sexual intimacy. If he had been able to move past some of the limitations on isolation, on being with someone, this was perhaps one step too far, or too many steps at a time. Sexual intimacy was something he had willingly surrendered a long time ago, something he had shut himself off from, comfortable in the prospect of it never being a part of his life.

He knew about it in theory, had never rebuffed it when it came to others, never viewed it as something unworthy, but it was similarly a subject he had never truly pondered on. To be faced with it so suddenly, so many sensations and thoughts, the prospect of a him who had partaken of this, who had let go of everything he had known for so long, betrayed his oath so readily… Any hope for pleasure had turned into anxiety.

“But then it didn’t,” Boothill finished for him.

Simple and straight to the point. There was merit in that, in so succinctly summarising Argenti’s experience.

Argenti nodded weakly. “I might have gotten a bit ahead of myself. I do not think I am ready. Just yet.”

“‘M happy you told me to stop,” Boothill said, much to his surprise. Finally daring to look at him, Argenti discovered a boundless sea of care and affection in his eyes. Not even the slightest hint of disapproval. “I shouldn’t ‘ave rushed this. I don’t ever want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Tears welled up in Argenti’s eyes. “My love,” he murmured.

Boothill gently touched his cheek, once he was certain the touch would not increase his distress.

“I’d worship at your shrine if you let me, but if this ain’t somethin’ you want to do, ever, I’ve got ya,” he said, no doubt of the conviction behind his words. “I ain’t done this in ages either, and if it ain’t a hill ya want to climb, we don’t have to. Nothin’ to apologise over.”

“I want to,” Argenti assured. “I believe I am not opposed to the idea. Though I may need more time to adjust to… all of this, first.”

“I hear ya.” He lifted Argenti’s hand to press a tender kiss to it. “All in yer own time.”

“Thank you,” Argenti whispered. “Truly.”

He was speechless in the face of his gratitude for this man. He could not fathom where this relationship was headed, how he could navigate it within the constraints of his Path, if it would not only lead to his foretold demise, but for now, the only thing he truly cared about was holding Boothill in his arms and being held in return.

Boothill welcomed him when Argenti rested his head on his chest. The way he embraced him felt so safe, like being enveloped in a cocoon. Finding his centre of gravity and falling back into step with his breathing came easy here, though his erection still strained uncomfortably in his trousers. As long as he ignored it well enough and focused on the comfort of Boothill’s presence, it would wear off on its own, the same way it had done so many times before.

It was a similar scene to the one Argenti had woken up to in the tent, hardly a week past, but now it harboured a sense of security, of candour. There was nothing hidden anymore, no more emotions held at bay. They could face this head on, wherever it was to lead them.

Argenti wanted to whisper his love, speak of his appreciation, honour his hope for their connection and recount his joy for Boothill’s part in his life. But Boothill’s arms were so relaxing that all he could allow himself to do was tighten his hold on his torso, close his eyes, and sigh.

“I’m just happy you’d… that you’d even want to. Be with me. If, ‘n I’m just assumin’ here, you do,” Boothill said into his hair.

Argenti bit his lip. He awarded Boothill the respect he was owed by meeting the question with truth rather than flimsy daydreams.

“Wanting to be with you is the easiest part of it, my love. What it means long term, for us both, might be the more difficult question to answer.”

Boothill stilled. His voice sounded sad, suddenly. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. Ain’t ever been one simple thing in my life.”

This time, Argenti did not get the chance to soothe his worries. He could feel, intrinsically, that something shifted inside Boothill at that moment, too. A fragment of his soul rearranging itself, so that it might operate on the same frequency as Argenti’s.

“But being with ya ‘s been the closest thing to simple I’ve had in a helluva long time. We’ll figure it out. Heaven if I’m lettin’ ya go without a fight, darlin’.”

Argenti welcomed the resolve in such a promise. He lifted his head just enough to demand another kiss, which Boothill gladly provided. The neediness was no longer, just a gentle affection they both craved.

“Nor will I, my love,” he promised in turn, and snuggled closer, still wondering how something forbidden could be so pure, or how someone as outwardly boisterous, reckless and devil-may-care as Boothill could foster such comfort and care even in the circumstances which were least comforting for Argenti.

He was right, anyway. Any source of struggle surrounding the two of them had been secondary, yet actually being with one another? There was, in absolute truth, nothing more effortless.

But the fight Boothill had spoken of could wait a while longer. For now, there was one singular thing Argenti wanted: to fall asleep in Boothill’s arms. His lover’s arms, perhaps.

What did it mean, that over the next couple of days of… this, his world did not crumble apart before his eyes, that Idrila did not appear before him to reproach him or to take away his title, that the Omen of Evil did not steal his reason and render him a madman?

The matter of his faith remained unresolved, and his days continued in a disparate blend of both joy and apprehension.

Had his oath been too radical, or was his yet-unsuspecting perception of the ramifications holding him back from seeing the gravity of what he had given in to? Had his decision to take up this oath come from mere youthful, naive convictions, or was it only now wavering in the face of temptation? There was no doubt there was merit in restraint, but for it to be so far-reaching and to allow so little room for error? Was this truly what Idrila wanted, when They glimpsed Beauty in every and all things, or was this enforced by people such as he, who discovered the Beauty in this restraint, in dedicating the very web of their being to Them?

There were far too many questions to count. In the mornings, Argenti would kneel before his Goddess’ shrine and beg Them for Their understanding, if not for Their blessing, promising that he could love someone and venerate Them just the same. He was not lost, he still believed in Them, he would still search for Them until his dying breath—even were the journey to take detours, so that he might also help Boothill reach his objectives.

There was no response, positive or otherwise. There was only silence, and dread, and doubt, and overwhelming penitence.

Yet, by staggering contrast, the moment he returned to Boothill’s side those feelings faded into moments past, replaced instead by light and warmth and belonging.

They kissed or held each other more than they did not, enough that Argenti was certain his kissing skills were becoming properly polished, although he was a long way from making anyone’s knees buck the way Boothill so easily did to him. Or from melting him from within, same as Boothill’s tongue was capable of.

They had not gone much further than that first night, keeping to innocent kisses and touches mostly waist-up, but there was wonder and excitement in discovering the many facets intimacy could bear. There was no pressure to push himself past his comfort levels, and Boothill would check in regularly and stop without as much as a second thought if he noticed him growing uneasy, or if his body betrayed any tension. He would switch to resting his forehead against Argenti’s, or pressing his cheek to his chest, or embracing him with no other intention behind it, talking of sweet little nothings that distracted Argenti until he calmed down.

Argenti was becoming increasingly comfortable, and increasingly certain he might eventually find his footing and be able to take that step. Boothill had the chance to acquire the necessary upgrades in the meantime, too. And though he was curious, and eager in his own way, and hopeful for what expanding upon his and Boothill’s intimacy might look like (and feel like), they had time. They would make time.

Despite the novelty of their relationship, it was, just as before, absurdly easy to be with him. External factors notwithstanding, there was little possibility to ever feel ill at ease around Boothill.

Boothill listened when Argenti spoke of his Goddess, of his fears and trepidation. For though his fears arose from the fact that he had chosen Boothill, they both knew the fault lay not with Boothill himself, rather the murky circumstances around the introduction of such a thing in Argenti’s life without destabilising everything he stood for. So Boothill listened, and to his credit he did not fold into himself, nor did he offer simplistic, half-hearted solutions to break off what they had for his sake. Any such faux remedies would have been met with little tolerance on Argenti’s part, anyway.

“Your company is the greatest treasure of all,” Argenti would remind him, now and again, to curb any potential doubts, whenever they spent time curled around each other on the sofa. With a loving kiss pressed against the back of Boothill’s hand, he would say “How very lucky I am, to have welcomed you in my life.”

Boothill would clear his throat, each time as flustered as the first, and hide his face in Argenti’s hair with some murmured variations of “Fudge” or “Fork it” or “Seriously, sweetheart” or “Again?”. But he looked happy, so Argenti could only consider his objective met.

Even beyond the complications brought forth by his Path and his rank within it, Argenti had to acknowledge there was a chance this happiness might only last until reality decided to play its hand.

Unless they met their demise in some other fashion, Boothill was physically designed to outlive him. Ironically contrasting with that fact, there was also the matter of Boothill’s clear neglect for his well-being or survival, the rickety set of aspirations regarding anything beyond fulfilling his vengeance. And though Argenti had always had little fear of death, seeing it as another means to get closer to the highest degree of Beauty, he found himself wavering in his stance now that Boothil had come into the picture. Though there was Beauty in it, there was also loss, and he was powerless but to wish to hold on, to keep Boothill from harm’s way. A goal they shared.

As things stood, it was either Boothill lost him and was forced by his anatomy to live on, or Argenti lost him on account of Boothill’s self-destructive mindset. Little to rejoice about such bleak prospects.

But Argenti was beginning to reimagine his life to make Boothill fit in it, complications and unpleasant consequences included. Companionship was beautiful both for what it tangibly offered in the present as well as for its inherent unpredictability and ephemerality. In putting one’s heart on the table, though aware it was liable to sustain a myriad of wounds and bruises. Argenti wanted them to last, and he believed them capable of weathering any of life’s motley ploys, one at a time.

Yet to have gotten a taste of a life shared between the two of them? To even have plights to share and deal with, together? That, in itself, was something to cherish.

The request came suddenly, weeks later, when much of the fear surrounding their relationship had been mellowed out (if certainly not erased) by the passage of time, as all things are. Boothill was softly tracing patterns across Argenti’s bare chest and navel, when his movements stopped as if halted by a striking thought. Eyes flickering down his own body, he cleared his throat, looking unexpectedly earnest.

“Hey, ‘Genti.”

“Yes, my love?”

Even now, the term of endearment’s effect showed clearly on Boothill’s expression. However, it seemed to add a particularly dark stain to his cheeks this time around, mulberry-purple.

“Them etchings in the One and Only’s fuselage… ya said you’re the one who made them, right?”

Argenti hummed. He could tell Boothill was stalling, but he had no intention of rushing him. “Mhm, as we have already discussed.”

“Yeah, right, right.”

He trailed his fingers upwards at a leisurely pace, gathering confidence from the silence, before resting his hand atop Argenti’s cheek in a touch so affectionate Argenti had to wonder if he would ever lose the awe and gratitude such intimacy evoked in him. With a drowsy turn of his head, he laid a kiss to Boothill’s palm.

“Say… Wouldya be able to do somethin’ similar on, say, somethin’ smaller than a ship?”

Was he saying what Argenti thought he was saying? The unexpected question surprised Argenti so much that the only response he managed was the least eloquent, least intelligent word he had likely ever uttered.

“Huh?”

Boothill had the grace to restrain his laughter, only he did so a moment too late. An echo of it still reached Argenti, rekindling the fondness in his heart, taming his astonishment.

“Ain’t often seen you lost for words, sweetheart.” He licked his lips, the nervousness flickering back to life in his eyes. “Your work on the ship is a right jaw-dropper, ‘n still I ain’t get how you’re so laid-back about doin’ all of that by yerself. But it’s a proper handy trick you’ve got up your sleeve there. Considering the circumstances of my body ‘n all. Good playground for ya to put it to good use.”

He was getting ever-closer to outright voicing his request. For once, Argenti misliked the slow approach. Most likely, the only way for his breathing to resume its course was to hear the words he was anticipating spoken aloud.

“Thing is, I’ve been thinkin’ for a while now that, well, it’d be nice to have somethin’ of yours with me. Permanent, like. Which, don’t ya dare tell me is cheesy as fudge–”

“It is not,” Argenti cut in. He raised himself to a sitting position to better look at this man he had, at no distinguishable moment in time, fallen so irreversibly in love with.

Boothill cackled gruffly. “‘Course you’d think not. Y’know, this is exactly the kinda thing you’d be into–”

“Which is precisely why I feel the weight of what you are asking of me even more profoundly.”

Argenti squeezed one of Boothill’s hands between both of his and stared down at him with what he was sure, outwardly, were stars in his eyes. It certainly felt like Boothill had just offered him a whole galaxy as a gift. To be offered the opportunity of leaving an actual, visual mark in his already perfect body was in itself an honour Argenti could scarcely fathom, but it hinted at even more.

That he would desire it implied that he could perceive worth in his body beyond its tactical advantages in a fight. That he wanted to honour it, as readily as he was simultaneously prepared to honour their relationship.

“What is it you would like me to etch into your skin, exactly?”

“You’re the artistic type. I ain’t fussy. Long as it’s, I guess, related to ya somehow.”

That did it. Heart floating on a cloud of brilliant feeling, he leaned down and caught Boothill’s lips with his own in a heated yet tender kiss. Even having done it so many times already, he could still not get over how close it made him feel to his lover, and, perhaps, to himself. He could allow himself this. He could do nothing but allow it, especially when it drew such an immediate smile from Boothill.

“This is a most special occasion; mere metal etching will not do,” he said, breaking the kiss but keeping his palm pressed to Boothill’s chest. “I shall have to look for my gravers—it has been awfully long since I have used them. And I will ensure the design is one that would befit you and do justice to your Beauty. I cannot think how I can add to perfection, but I can only hope the love I will pour into it will reflect in the final result. As luck would have it, I have only recently come to discover that love inherently bears a unique form of Beauty, quite unlike anything else.”

Boothill averted his eyes for a brief moment, looking flustered. Then he unexpectedly reached out and ruffled Argenti’s hair.

“Figures I’d ramble about this like a peabrain after thinkin’ ‘bout it for so long, while you’d find a way to go on and say the most stupidly romantic thing I’ve ever heard on the spot,” he said, putting on a comically indignant frown.

Argenti could clearly see the cheerful love in his eyes, so he only met the words with a smile.

“I would argue you are looking at it the wrong way,” he said, leaning down to peck the moles under his eye, as Boothill’s eyes fluttered shut. “For it is you who has given me the material with which to work, that I may extract such romance from it.”

Even with his eyes closed, Argenti could swear Boothill had rolled his eyes.

“Oh, you cutie,” Boothill said, as credible of a warning in his voice as one might employ when reprimanding a rebellious pet. Argenti knew Boothill thought himself sly, using this particular nickname with the excuse that it was his synesthesia beacon’s doing, but Argenti knew better. Not that he would ever reveal that, naturally. Not even under duress. “C’mere.”

Boothill pulled him down into a headlock, continuing to ruffle his hair as Argenti laughed, eventually managing to shake himself free by scoring a kiss on Boothill’s ear. Feigning shock, Boothill got his revenge by shuffling lower, catching Argenti’s nipple between his teeth, and what followed was only to be expected.

Argenti did create one of his most beautiful designs yet. Which was saying something, since the One and Only’s engravings were nothing if not exquisite. Conceit was one thing, but objectivity was another—and Argenti believed himself quite objective in this matter.

Boothill asked not to see the design ahead of time.

“Surprise me,” he said instead, grinning. A heavy responsibility, and Argenti could tell they had both noticed his hands shaking once he started carving.

He certainly looked surprised once he was faced with the finished result in the mirror: a resplendent flower, moulded after the ones Boothill had braided into Argenti’s hair that one morning by the lake, viewed from above, its petals beautifully spread out in waves around it, a design almost identical to the rose one on Argenti’s armour. Underneath it, seemingly propping it up, the model of Boothill’s favourite gun, joined by a spear much like Argenti’s.

It was a simple concept, really, nothing to write home about, but Argenti had to admit he had managed to structure everything in such a way as to let every part of it shine without it feeling crowded or overdone. Easier said than done, considering the medium and the limited size, which only required ever more precision. He had also had to pay particular care not to carve too deep, so as to not damage Boothill’s parts, while not sacrificing the intricacy of the design. Thankfully, and perhaps it was indeed the talent Boothill so often spoke of (though Argenti attributed the success more to the love and passion that had given life to the design), he had managed just fine.

Boothill’s fingers traced the new additions to his chest with palpable awe, mouth slightly agape. The flower was positioned directly above the echo of Boothill’s heart, like a visual representation of it. It was difficult to explain, but seeing him this way, he looked… whole, like the carving was less accessory and more an actual extension of himself.

He continued to say nothing for a long time. A younger self roused in his eyes, bittersweetly innocent and keen on life, yet to be jostled by the world and hammered into a life he chose out of nothing more than pain and desperation. A life he had only recently begun allowing himself to live in all its abundance rather than trail behind it, a self-proclaimed spectre in his own story.

“And so the heart blooms anew,” Argenti whispered. He planted a loving kiss on Boothill's shoulder as he hovered behind him, searching for his eyes in the mirror. “Do you like it?”

Boothill visibly gulped. “A lil’ too much, I think.”

He fell quiet again, staring at the flower and, Argenti noticed, his body, in actual awe—like he was truly seeing himself for the first time. Argenti gave him the time he needed, leaning his head against Boothill’s shoulder as he waited.

Eventually, Boothill drew in a breath he did not physically need, grabbed one of Argenti’s hands from where it was hugging his waist and pressed their intertwined hands to his chest.

“I dunno what I was expectin’, really, when I asked for this,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Wasn’ this, I don’t think.”

He turned his head to meet Argenti’s eyes in earnest, not through a reflection. His eyes were so irresistibly sincere, the red flickering within them like an effulgent flame, looking so reminiscent of actual tears that Argenti felt his own breath come out in a trembling exhale.

“This is a true gift, y’know that?” Boothill said.

He pressed his lips to Argenti’s in a kiss slower, more ardent and similarly more fragile than any before. He looked fragile, all of a sudden. This hundreds of pounds, metal-forged man, feared across the cosmos, fearless to anything life could contrive, looking so very fragile—and Argenti adored him for it. He took his time savouring the moment, exploring Argenti’s lips as though each opportunity he was given to do so was invaluable.

Argenti squeezed the hand he was holding, pressing it further against Boothill’s chest in a half-hug, and allowed the small smile creeping forth.

When they broke apart, Boothill sighed. He looked so wildly at peace.

“Everything you have brought to my life is a gift. You’re a gift,” he reiterated.

Argenti felt the exact same way. The longer they shared this, the surer Argenti he was that it was Beauty epitomised, no matter what anyone said.

Boothill turned around in his arms to face him, caressed Argenti’s hair, his cheek, his chin and lastly his lips, his finger stopping to brush against them in the faintest touch. Argenti sucked in a breath, then clasped Boothill’s hand so that he might hold it in place as he graced the soles of his fingers with a delicate kiss, looking straight into his eyes as he did so. There was not the surprise of old, only the same love Argenti knew his own to be conveying.

“Can’t figure out what possessed ya to choose me, but I’ll be grateful for it every day you decide to choose me again. ‘N between the two of us, y’know what? I don’ think any Omen of Evil stands a half-chance.”

Argenti chuckled, a tiny sound. There was still heaviness that pressed against his chest, every time the thought of the Omen of Evil re-emerged, each time he mused whether he had genuinely let down his Goddess, ran astray. But he was managing it as best he could, aware he might never fully escape it. He simply had to make sure what he had put in the balance was worth it.

“Nor do those unworthy of calling themselves part of an association that holds the word ‘Peace’ in its title,” Argenti vowed. He had given them the benefit of the doubt for far too long. There was good within them, but also evil running amok—it could not be allowed to stand. “I shall help you purge their ranks, so that what has happened to you and to so many others may never happen again. Though it is safe to say, what with searching for Idrila and ridding the cosmos of the evil of those who should be protecting it, we have a long way ahead of us.”

“Won’t ever get bored at least, huh?” Boothill said, some mirth returning to his face. Argenti was determined to keep it there for as long as he still breathed.

Knowing all the obstacles in their way, all the contradictions between their relationship and what was expected of Argenti, of what he was still trying to decide he expected of himself, of teachings whose truth he was still trying to navigate, it might have all been purely wishful thinking. A vow made between fresh lovers, too keen on the novelty to acknowledge its shortcomings. But Argenti trusted their bond, how much it meant to the both of them. Sacrifices were not off the table, and such a prospect had to be given ample consideration. There was little hope of making everything work, satisfying all parts, and some hurt was likely to follow in the wake of their blossoming relationship, yet…

Hurt, challenges, adversity, too, were a part of life. And was the Beauty of life not the culmination of all its parts, light and dark alike?

And, with love there to seam everything together, was there truly anything they could not take on?