Welcome to Gaia! ::

Damissan looked forward to few things more than a bed. Sunlight had been a close first, and bathing properly a very close second. All of them would be coming soon, however, and as Xilarn had warned, he hadn’t in fact been disposed to pushing their journey all the way to Yera that day (serious as Damis had been in professing his own willingness to do so).

So, they had made camp.

Xilarn continued to insist on the bare minimum of interaction with him at every turn. And Damissan felt restless. He had been anticipating a lightening in the man’s mood any day since the downturn. Yes, things had changed—or had the opportunity to change. He certainly hadn’t known that the man had any serious attraction to him beforehand. Perhaps only thanks to lack of attentiveness in the matter since, in retrospect, it wasn’t as though the pieces hadn’t been there.

But still there seemed to be no reason for this persistent and negative of a change. They were both adults and were going to be in each other’s company regardless of what they did together. It seemed a simple enough concept that regardless of what that was they could at least be amiable with one another. Xilarn apparently disagreed.

By night’s end, however, Damissan managed to have worked himself into a deeper state of disgruntlement with the situation than any time prior. Xilarn wanted to touch him; Xilarn didn’t want to touch him. He wanted to encourage him; he wanted nothing to do with him. He had hired on as his guard, but didn’t want to be here. And didn’t want anything else either, so far as Damis could tell.

It oughtn’t have mattered. Initially, he had not even wanted Xilarn’s company or thought he needed it. It had been a short-lived phase of misunderstanding and foolish misconception, but there had been a time that was the case. And he and Xilarn didn’t need to be friends, nor did they need to sleep together. They would arrive in Yera soon and if he was that anxious for sexual company he could likely find it.

Except it did matter.

Gradually as it had crept up on him, the point at which he did not care whether or not he and Xilarn eventually parted ways on good terms had passed. Though he hadn’t begun the trip as such, things were not the same as they had been and he wanted something from the man. An attitude adjustment might have been nice, but answers, if nothing else, would have to suffice.

How to go about getting them and what sort of resolution he wanted exactly was another matter.

He slept on that thought.

Outside, as the case would have it. Since he had mentioned stargazing, Xilarn suggest he take his opportunity for it—in exchange for the tent. Though it hadn’t been quite what Damis intended, he’d conceded without much objection. It was beautiful out, and he’d thought perhaps the promise a good night’s rest in the comfort of the tent would appease his company. That didn’t necessarily appear to be the case, but he could hope.

Godot didn’t seem to mind, though Damis was admittedly unaccustomed to such a large and hair-dispensing companion.

He did make it to sleep, at least, and woke far earlier than he had any need to. He knew immediately, dark as it was, and most mornings would have attempted to return to sleep or been at the very least content to lay as he was until a more reasonable hour. His second observance, however, was that his body was already very prominently ‘ready’ for a certain class of activities it wouldn’t be up to engaging at all in the near future. He shut his eyes, turning atop his bedfurs—and frowning as he came face to face with something he was not used to.

It took him only a half-second more to register the state of things and remember his situation from the night prior. Gadot was massive as ever—somehow more so, at least in his perception, when nested up against him on ground level—and smelled distinctly of…dog, Damis supposed. He could hardly blame him for it, but grunted just the same, pushing some at the furs in his face and then shifting out to put some space between them and sit up.

The stars were still visible.

His only indication that he had indeed slept for a number of hours was the faint sliver of lightening shades along the horizon. For the most part, everything still felt peaceful, suspended in tail end of night. His gaze flit to the tent. It was too early to wake Xilarn. The man clearly wanted his rest, and Damissan didn’t need anything from him immediately. Still, he stood, stretching his arms over his head and never quite looking away, his thoughts drifting back towards the prior night’s musings—and then to the events of the night Xilarn seemed insistent on refusing to revisit or even address.

He hadn’t entered the tent with a plan. Gadot had stirred, curious to see if there was any room in Damis’ excursion for him to take part, but had (fortunately) seemed to understand with several shushed ‘no’s and a gentle redirecting push that he ought to at least wait outside. When the tent flap fell shut behind him, however, heat moved for Damissan’s cheeks and—that was perhaps the moment he ought to have left. It was certainly the first moment he felt, if only for an instant, distinctly as though that was the advisable course of action. Xilarn was very much asleep, in a private space, and even if he had given some indication prior that he entertained some interest…

Damissan’s gaze skimmed down what of him was visible, and truly, he was in impressive shape for his age.

It gave him no open invitation to instigate anything further between them without more explicit consent or encouragement. Of which it was difficult to argue that he had received any, post-event. But Xilarn was exceptionally stubborn. Damissan realized — regardless of what the preference meant — that he was far more personally interested in resolving the inquiry into Xilarn’s interest than he was with bedding anyone in Yera. He didn’t want that at the moment; he wanted this man to give him answers.

And if he wasn’t going to volunteer them through subtler means, Damissan reasoned the task was on him to be more direct.

Damissan hadn’t known what to expect in some portions of his endeavor—but others, at least, were more predictable. He was not so naive to the process he’d undertaken here as he was once to tent-setting, fire starting, and jungle expeditioning in general, and he felt confident enough, knowing what he was doing, that it would be well received—and was—at first.

Until Xilarn woke up.

It was somewhat evident, after he’d been drawn back by the older man’s fingers and forced into a mutual sit with him, Xilarn wanting to know what exactly he thought he was doing, that Xilarn was not quite as enthused by the course of action as he might have hoped. Still, he explained himself.

Damis had anticipated the possibility of rejection. Xilarn was certainly very practiced at it, as he had demonstrated in a number of different ways over the course of their trip, and though he generally hoped for the best and had of course wanted as much, he still felt fairly well prepared for the worst going in, even with the little to no planning it had all had. Unfortunately, what exactly ‘the worst’ was, Damis hadn’t fully thought through either.

A sock to the face, perhaps. Anger. Accusations? Never being spoken to again.

None of them were pleasant alternatives, but truth be told, they were each guesswork as much as the next. All of them seemed preferable in that moment as compared to what he got. There was little to describe the cool knot that dropped into his gut then and he wasn’t sure he had ever regretted something quite so much more in a single instant than he had a moment before. He opened his mouth, because it felt as though he ought to say—something.

Apology. Explanation. Rationalization?

Apologies were most prevalent, because as much as he’d like to feel anything else, guilt prevaded over all other emotional reactions, and nothing else felt appropriate. But even apologies died on his tongue, because however much he wanted to resolve the moment instantly, there was little room for rebuttal Xilarn’s tone, and he managed — even though he had moments before had himself in an undeniably adult position — to feel distinctly like a strictly chastised child who had made a mistake especially poor, even for their general character. He diverted his gaze, and found it difficult to think about much besides the drum of his pulse in his throat as he rose and exited to tent, and the taste of the other man still in his mouth as he folded his arms behind himself, and waited.

Damis supposed he could have, or perhaps even ought to have done something else—gone somewhere else, made himself useful somehow, somewhere, anywhere other than precisely where he was standing. Except that Xilarn had said to wait and, frankly, Damissan had expected the man to follow him out. Get dressed, perhaps, and then…

But that clearly wasn’t what Xilarn intended.

Even if he was incredibly efficient about it, there was no way to have done what he had, left Xilarn in the state he was, stood outside a thin strip of tent canvas and not know exactly what the other man was doing when he did. If he had felt as though he ought to have put more distance between Xilarn and his ‘waiting’ location when the pause had simply been unnervingly quiet, the feeling cemented itself immediately with this. And yet, his feet felt similarly cemented, and if he he had thought he could not feel any more torn between something he wanted but was clearly out of reach and mortification with himself for allowing it to get this far and still somehow feel as though he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was doing—well, he would have been wrong.

He was evidently making a habit of being so.

When Xilarn emerged, Damissan had yet to move, but could not quite manage to look up. If Xilarn’s initial dismissal had felt chilling, however, it paled by comparison to what followed. The first sentence felt like enough, far louder to his ear than he knew it had actually been, and sharper.

“I’m sorry—”

The initial apology drowned in Xilarn’s first spike to something significantly more forceful than he’d opened with, and the chill in Damissan’s gut lurched, shoulders flinching unintentionally back and lower, and he winced. They weren’t physical, but still somehow it managed to hurt, far more than he’d prepared for, and in ways his chest wasn’t accustomed.

“It wasn’t—” The wave of explanations, however, a thousand ‘but’s to present why Xilarn simply didn’t understand, all dried in his throat, and he swallowed instead, looking down from where his gaze had ventured briefly up. “You did. You did say…that we couldn’t. And I am sorry. I should have listened to you. I didn’t think, but…” The ‘but’, though, still felt frail. “I didn’t think.”

He breathed out, but couldn’t leave it there because even if it were so—

“I do care about you want. I just—I don’t understand what you want, and you told me-” Damis bit his tongue. “You told me no. I still thought…” His gaze flicked sidelong, fleetingly to Xilarn, and then away again. “I still thought, very sincerely, that this would have a better reception, and I was wrong. But I didn’t do it because I didn’t care what you wanted, I did it because I do care what you want, I wanted to give you something you wanted, even if you wouldn’t ask for it…and…” It didn’t seem proper to even begin pretending it was entirely selfless, “…because I did…want, too, and if I thought that if I just…”

It was becoming far too many words again.

“It was selfish of me to assume. I will never touch you again. If you wish to…” The concept bunched in Damissan’s throat, tighter and far more objectionable than it had any need to be, “…retire…from servicing me…I will understand your discomfort and am sure I could find a suitable escort in or near Yera. I owed you…better, and I would prefer not to part ways on terms so unfavorable, but…it is entirely your choice.”

Damissan listened.

In that moment at least, Xilarn needed to do nothing other than speak to have his undivided attention, and it was difficult to track all of the emotions spurned in turn by the other man’s words. He ought to have remained simply guilty, and quiet. And he did still feel guilty, but also lost as to how they had gotten to this when so many other alternatives ought to have been reachable under the circumstances, and a peculiar sort of anger. Because there was no reason for this, if everything Xilarn said was true. And he certainly assumed that it was.

When Xilarn’s knuckles brushed his skin, he pulled his hand back — not far or fast, but away — and he shook his head. “You don’t know what I want,” he said. “And you never bothered to ask. You are right,” he conceded. “I am impulsive, and I have never maintained a romantic relationship before because I was not interested in committing to any of the persons I’ve bedded.” He pursed his lips. “But I have not been interested in anyone I pursued prior much beyond how much they physically attracted me.”

He considered Xilarn for a long moment, and then looked away. “When we met, I was interested in you immediately. But not sexually. You were the only man in the entire crowd who came up through a mob pelting stones at me to try to do anything about it…” His eyes wandered back. “Evidently, not every man would do that. And in short conversation I thought you opinionated and intelligent…reserved, but someone that I thought would be enjoyable to get to know if we’d been given anything more than half a chance.” He shook his head. “As I said, I had not entertained any illicit thoughts of you then or for much of the beginning of our journey, but if I had considered it, I think I would have laughed at myself. Because I assumed, as an older man and as serious as you are on top of that, that you wouldn’t want anything to do with me because you would want something more serious, and what could I possibly have to offer you when you found everything I did to be naive or irritating?”

He frowned. “But things have changed. I am not…” He made a vague, open-handed gesture, “…in love with you, and we will never be a pair of virgins promising to spend our lives together. But my interest in bedding you is not derived from blinding physical attraction. I find you attractive, but…” His eyes rested on Xil, “…more than that, I want to get to know you. This is one way I know how, and I tried conversation and camaraderie, but as nice as it was when you would engage and we did get on, you frequently pushed me away in that, too. So, when I became aware you were attracted to my arse at the very least I thought I could use that to…”

Keep you interested? But that didn’t feel accurate, because though Xilarn’s interest had been there some, reluctantly, it hadn’t seemed even there reliably enough to ‘keep’ yet.

“So that you would not ignore me. I respect you…” He hesitated, because under the circumstances it likely couldn’t have felt much less true—but it was, just the same, so he persisted. “More than anyone I know. And my feelings for you are different than anyone I have pursued or considered pursuing. I don’t know what exactly you mean to ask of me that you don’t consider ‘appropriate,’ but you may ask anything of me you like. I am grown enough to accept or deny you on my own terms, and since we are both thinking men, I don’t understand why you feel we couldn’t possibly come to an agreement as to what we both want. I tried, and you wouldn’t talk to me.”

For the first time, despite his best efforts, his gaze skirted down Xilarn, thoughts flitting back to what lack of communication had lead to. He diverted his gaze.

“So, I…improperly resorted to other means of getting your attention. But. All of that said…” It felt as though he had been talking for an eternity, and needed to give Xilarn his space, but he couldn’t leave the thoughts hanging—a build up of everything that had occurred thus far and not been aired between them. What did he want? “I would not be opposed, if you were interested, in reserving my sexual pursuits to you. I think there is more between us that I would like to explore than could be done in a single night, and if you wanted more…” He waved a hand vaguely, “…courting beforehand, we could pursue that. I…”

Damissan frowned. Because, for all that he’d said, really, there was a short point to it.

“I would like to build a relationship with you,” he said. “Whether that be a friendship, if you do not think us compatible otherwise, or something more personal. Of course I cannot guarantee eternal permanence of my feelings or how they might develop, but neither can you, and even if nothing worked as we hoped, we would be no worse off parting ways later than now. I want to take that chance with you. To see where it leads us. I still do not know what you want from me…but when you decide, please let me know.”

Damissan hesitated, but concluded then that if Xilarn wanted anything more from him, he would surely be informed quickly enough. So he turned, and made to begin re-starting their fire for breakfast. It was still stupidly early, but the edge of the sky had begun to lighten more in earnest, and he couldn’t begin to convince himself he’d manage to get more sleep going forward until the day had run its course.

Damissan thought he’d said everything he had to say on the matter for the moment until Xilarn gave him anything clearer to work with. But then the other man started talking, and he wanted to be calm and reasonable, now of all times when it might be best to present himself as maturely as possible. But frustrated knots of anger welled up in spite of himself.

“Because it would be easier to travel with me…” The words were quieter, and Damissan felt a distinct sense that he ought to have stopped himself there, proceeded to make breakfast, gone to wash—because it did sound like a good idea and he felt filthy and he wanted—but this moment was immediate and refused to let itself be quieted by the easier promise of more pleasant things. He thought instead of all the time they had spent, of all the positive moments from his perspective — everything that had gone well and right — and then every time Xilarn had forcibly slammed a door in his face metaphorically and probably at least once literally before they even knew each other at all, and his breath left him in a skirt of an exhale, fingers itching to bunch, though he left them loose at his sides.

“You thought it would be easier to travel with me, day and night for weeks on end, if you did your best to make no connection with me? If you engaged when you felt like it and periodically let me feel as though we could get along incredibly well only to turn about and be a complete arse when you thought you might—God forbid—give a damn and enjoy my company if you let yourself? You’re right again, Xilarn. You failed in that. Miserably. And you were wrong. It didn’t make it easier. It took all this trip—all this time we might have been at the very least relaxed around one another—and added ridiculous frustrations that I don’t even understand the point of. You act as though the only options are to completely extricate yourself from my company, be a pervasive a*****e, or have your hands all over me. Could you act as though you’re fifteen years older than me for a moment?”

“And it wasn’t going to be a month,” Damissan said. “My parents may have told you a month, but I never said as much and you know I intended to continue longer. I told you as much. You underestimated me, as they did. Don’t blame me for that. And don’t kid yourself and leave it unsaid. When it started to feel like you might want more than ‘random passerby’ from me you didn’t decide anything. You became frustrated and confusingly unpredictable. And it is exactly what matters, it’s the entire reason this happened—because you haven’t decided anything.”

Even though he had made the move to pull away first, he had stalled when Xilarn made it clear he had more to say, and when Xilarn turned to move towards Gadot, Damissan felt a distinct urge to scream. About something. About anything. It ought to have been a moment they could have resolved something; it felt as though it were there and it had to be possible. But instead came the offer to bathe, and Damissan’s fists bunched, and released. He rolled his shoulders, and breathed out.

“Bathe.” He stepped up to the remains of the fire and crouched, but didn’t reach for kindling or firestone. “If you want no connection with me in any regard and think for some absurd reason that that is ‘best’ for both of us because I am the child here and simply do not understand your complicated adult feelings and are convinced any positive interaction would lead to insurmountable turmoil, then fine. I will accept that as your decision until you inform me otherwise. Get out. And clean. I’ll begin the fire for breakfast and wash when you return. I see no reason for us to share activities any more than the bare minimum necessary if interaction with me beyond that is so trying for you.”

Nothing got better.

Every moment Damis thought surely that just at the next turn, if he just made the right choices in his words, if he explained clearly enough, if he was earnest — if they were both honest — they could have fixed whatever it was that had gotten knocked awry. But it didn’t. With every word Xilarn said it seemed clearer that the entire point had been missed. Nothing he said had been listened to. He’d failed. Xilarn didn’t understand anything he’d tried to communicate that actually mattered.

Perhaps there was truth in some of Xilarn’s general world pessimism, but that had nothing to do with this moment or anything that Damissan cared about in the given instant, and he couldn’t have cared less whether the man initially underestimated him, except that Xilarn had brought it up himself as a point of argument. It didn’t matter. Everything he’d said at the outset with regards to the gods did feel relatively silly in retrospect, but it had nothing to do with what they had been discussing and felt painfully like avoidance.

“But I stayed with you anyway, didn’t I?”

The knot in Damissan’s throat, already tight, bunched to the point of pain, and his teeth hurt from how tightly they’d pressed together. Did he want credit for staying? He’d been paid to stay. At the bare minimum to keep Damissan alive. And for all that Xilarn made it out to be such a horrible burden, Damissan still didn’t understand why this was being presented to him as such a trying thing. Something so awful that Damissan ought to be impressed with his resolve in enduring his company. He hadn’t pursued Xilarn initially. He hadn’t done anything to the man initially except attempt to have some form of friendly interaction with the person he’d be spending the rest of his trip with.

But Xilarn had invited otherwise.

Damissan could not discern when or where exactly he had decided that appealed to him, but it hadn’t been his idea—he had simply responded favorably. And that, apparently, had been a gross mistake. Every action he had taken with the man was wrong, and as Xilarn climbed onto Gadot, all Damis could think was that he personally had said everything.

He had told the man how he felt. He had put the words in the air. Xilarn had said his ‘reason’ for reluctance was that he assumed Damis would not want for more than a night, and he had explained that that was mistaken. That he felt differently about Xilarn than he had about anyone to come before him. That he wanted something, anything between them so long as they could agree on some general course of action that would please them both. Told him of the high regard he held him to.

And the man had not addressed it.

Never before had Damissan laid out a similar invitation. He had never felt inspired to offer anyone that open-ended of a ticket into his life, and certainly no interest in exposing himself emotionally to persons with only the shallowest and most fleeting of interests. He hadn’t wanted more from any of them. But Xilarn ought to have been different. He wasn’t a flighty noble boy or girl. He ought to have understood there was significance in that. Yet, it felt distinctly now as though even though Xilarn purported to be concerned about Damissan’s lack of commitment, Damissan had been the one to lay all his own cards on the table, and Xilarn had knocked them off without consideration.

He hadn’t even had the decency to reject him definitively. Only messy, sloppy, convoluted and half-baked answers.

Damissan shut his eyes, trying desperately to rein in everything roiling within him, and in particular the sharp sting there. But Xilarn was gone. He’d left. No one was around to care or notice.

So he cried.

It wasn’t according to plan. It hurt far more than it seemed it even possibly could have at its worst from the outset. And he had no idea how to fix any of it. He didn’t understand how they had gotten to where they were, or why it was the way it was. He had made no progress. He was crouched in front of a dead fire in Tale crying over a man that would have preferred not to know him, and he ought to have stood. Moved. Done anything of use.

But he couldn’t remember the last time he cried over anything. So, he let the feeling shake through him until he felt ready to stand. Then, he crawled into the tent, dropped to its bedding, and screamed into the furs. After, he allowed himself to lay useless, shaking with his competing frustrations until all of it ebbed enough that he thought at least he could be presentable by the time Xilarn returned. Then he set to breakfast.

Perhaps once they reached Yera, he mused sordidly while teasing their fire to life and setting it to heat what remained of the prior night’s meal, he could send a letter to his mother informing her that he was ready to begin courting, and that if she wanted to draw up a list of eligible noblewomen who wouldn’t be staunchly opposed to a coupling despite his ‘rumored’ bastardhood, he would be appreciative. It felt like a hollow thought, since he didn’t yet want to return home, and for all of its upset, current events didn’t feel rationally like reason enough to throw everything to the wind (even if part of him seemed convinced that everything already had been thrown to the wind and he never ought to have left to begin with).

But regardless of either, he knew he didn’t want to be where he was. And he wasn’t certain he knew at all how to get where he wanted from where he was—with Xilarn, or anyone or anything else. There was a moment, while he prodded the fire and watched the food to see that it didn’t scorch, where he considered packing everything and leaving nothing but the fire. Xilarn was a capable man, and there was enough peevish, genuinely childish anger woven in with the rest of it that it almost felt ‘fair’, as little as he wanted to deal with the man at the moment. And it would provide the man with that grand opportunity that he so clearly desperately wanted — to be finally and wholly rid of him.

He didn’t, however, and instead set to dismantling the tent after the food had been set off of the direct heat.

Xilarn took far longer than expected. He had said ‘close’ and Damissan expected him back with reasonable quickness. Damissan would have thought the wait was only in his imagination, if not for the evident rising of the sun and fact that he had ample time to finish all packing before Xilarn returned. Only when he saw the blot of Gadot in the sky approaching did he realize that he hadn’t spent any of the time thinking on what he might say or do when the man returned—other than not be there at all. But he was, so that was unavailable.

By the time Xilarn landed, though, Damis had decided it could wait. He had some to say still; he had no intention of allowing them to part ways indefinitely without being convinced Xilarn had at least some basic understanding of why it was all so frustrating to him as the cards had fallen. But he did not need to explain immediately, he had already failed once (or many times, depending on how one chose to count) that day, and despite the gratuitous amount of time in between, he was still disappointingly uncertain as to whether he could say anything he felt without his voice falling embarrassingly apart in the process.

It was the single most detrimental aspect to allowing emotions to get the better of him even in privacy. Once they had been let out once it was significantly harder to avoid a trigger-pull back directly to where they’d put him before, even under less convenient circumstances.

So he wouldn’t need to say anything immediately. He would just carry on as he had since Xilarn wanted no more out of his mouth anyway, Xilarn would continue in his silent grousing and avoidance of the world, and everyone would be happier.

Gadot landed closer than he expected. And Xilarn spoke.

Damis blinked, glancing to him and frowning. It was a peculiar choice of words, undoubtedly, and a dozen alternatives occurred to him in conjunction. There was of course the emotional twitch reaction, no. You can’t. You had endless opportunities prior. You’ve never wanted to speak to me before. Why force yourself? I am not your keeper. But it didn’t come near to his lips. Though it still frustrated him and though he still couldn’t discern precisely why, hurt still dominated over anger to a crippling enough degree that he didn’t feel the energy to fight—or do anything other than shrug for that matter, eyes diverted for fear that at the least excuse they would betray him again.

“Of course,” he said, pleased that even if they didn’t have their usual volume — or life or positivity or anything else usually associated with Damissan’s tone — his words at least sounded relatively even and fully formed. “Say anything you like…”

When his throat pinched on the last word, he opted to leave it at that, and quit while he was ahead.