Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When they entered the tavern Inigo peeled off towards the bar to order their dinner (and sweet-talk the lovely old woman who ran the place) while Gerome grabbed a table, probably in the shadowiest corner he could find to brood and look mysterious in. After the first few disastrous—in Inigo's opinion—wingman dinners, they had gotten into a bit of a routine of eating meals together once or twice a week when they had time. Inigo was still trying to figure out just why Gerome was so much more popular with the ladies, but he also sort of enjoyed Gerome's company. He figured Gerome must feel the same, since he only put up a token protest these days.

Inigo was not surprised, when he turned, to find that despite the bright and cheerful interior of the tavern Gerome was snugged into a seat in the corner furthest from the fireplace, just very slightly shadowed by the walkway of the second floor. A tiny smile crossed Inigo’s face at how predictable his friend was.

Inigo scanned the room, but it was regrettably empty of ladies at this hour; probably better anyways, he was really getting tired of watching them fawn over and paw at Gerome while ignoring his own existence. Inigo still couldn’t understand it—sure, Gerome was annoyingly handsome, but Inigo thought he was pretty good looking himself, and he was a trove of charming pickup lines where Gerome just growled and looked uncomfortable with the attention.

Inigo was pretty sure it wasn’t the growling; he would ask Severa later, because she would call him an idiot but she would also be honest.

Inigo turned to accept a tray with their dinners, and when he faced the table Gerome had claimed there was another man standing there next to Gerome. Not anyone Inigo recognized, probably a local from the look of him.

He wondered what the guy wanted for about three steps, because then the unexpected wave of white-hot jealousy rolled through him and he wasn't really thinking at all anymore.

It wasn’t just one thing, it was everything all at once: the way the stranger tilted his head to talk to Gerome, the hand he dropped onto Gerome’s arm just so, the way Gerome seemed to seize up at the touch and his suddenly red cheeks under that damn mask and he wasn’t growling at this guy who was obviously flirting and Inigo did not understand why in the hell he was so blindingly jealous.

Usually it was village girls giggling and complimenting and trying to sit in Gerome’s lap or finger-comb his hair, and of course Inigo was jealous because that was the attention he wanted, but this guy? He had no reason to be jealous that some guy—who was only moderately attractive anyways—was hitting on Gerome, who didn’t seem to be too bothered about it—

He got two more steps to the table before he stumbled because—oh cripes—he had just realized—oh damn—keep walking keep walking—oh gods—set the tray down on the table like everything is normal and you didn’t just realize you are attracted to Gerome.

When he glanced up from the tray, suddenly certain his revelation was written across his face, Gerome was looking slightly…relieved? The flirting stranger looked mildly disappointed, and when Inigo sat down he gave Gerome a rueful smile.

“I’ll leave you gents to it, then,” he said, and then left.

Inigo wordlessly placed Gerome’s plate in front of him and then dug into his own food. He was not going to ask what that had been about, he was going to eat his food and do his damnedest to forget he had a crush on Gerome, of all the people he could have suddenly discovered an attraction to. If he opened his mouth now he was going to say something stupid or embarrassing, or maybe both, because his thoughts were a hell of a mess and entirely a mess about Gerome.

Unfortunately Gerome was generally the “silent and brooding” type, which meant since Inigo wasn’t filling the silence with chatter there was nothing to distract him from reevaluating his own behavior of the last few weeks. By the time he remembered yelling in Gerome’s face about wanting to be manhandled, his whole face had gone red.

“Inigo? Are you unwell?” What was visible of Gerome’s face under that stupid, mysteriously alluring mask appeared slightly concerned.

“Ah—wh—no! Why would you think that? I’m totally fine, everything is very normal!” Inigo punctuated it with a laugh that was supposed to be flippant but came out slightly crazed; Gerome did not seem reassured.

“You’ve been sitting there with your spoon in front of your mouth for a solid minute.” Inigo looked down at the spoon, hovering in his frozen grip mere inches from his face.

“Actually,” he had to get the hell out of here, “I just remembered I promised to pick up something for Severa and she’s going to break my arms if I don’t get it tonight, so, I should go and, uh, get that.” As he spoke he dropped his spoon into his food and hopped out of his chair. Gerome was definitely concerned now.

“The market just closed—”

“Oh boy, I guess I’d better hurry then! This was nice, bye!” And then he was out the door and almost running to a bakery he knew was still open, because while he had been using Severa as an excuse to escape, it wouldn’t hurt if he had a gift when he went to cajole advice from his prickly friend.

Gods, she was going to tease him about this.

Chapter Text

Luck was on Inigo's side when he caught Severa just outside her tent, returning from some other task. She took one look at him rushing towards her and stopped, hands on her hips and feet planted firm.

“I don't have time for your stupid flirting—“

“No, Severa, I promise I'm not here to flirt, this is important.” She looked him over again, skeptical, but something in his face—most likely absolute desperation—softened her just a little.

“Well...if you swear, I guess I can make a minute in my busy schedule. But if you start—“

“I won't!” he swore, gratitude absolutely suffusing his being. “Plus, I brought some of those berry scones you liked, to thank you in advance.” He held up the bag with the stamp of the bakery she had liked so much, and she whistled.

“Wow, this must be serious.” Inigo felt that slightly crazed laugh trying to surface again and bit it back. Severa ushered him into her tent, and when she pointed he sat on her cot while she sat in the only chair at her small table, bag of scones in hand. After a moment of thick silence punctuated only by Severa's chewing, she sighed and spun a hand at him as if to say 'out with it'.

“Ok.” He paused, took a deep breath, let it out. “Ok! I need some advice.” Severa's eyes narrowed.

“You didn't get some girl in trouble—wait, what am I saying, a girl would have to actually fall for your lines first. By the way, if this is about your lines, I'm not going to help you flirt with a girl—“

“It's not a girl!” he practically yelled, and Severa's mouth hung open while Inigo's snapped shut, and oh gods, he was red to the ears now.

“Oh.” They sat there for a moment, Severa silent and Inigo so very red, and then Severa started to chuckle.

“Please don't tease me—“

“Oh, relax! I'm not gonna tease you, Inigo, I'm not a monster.” She actually looked a little bit offended.

“You're laughing at me right now!”

“Well, yeah, you're redder than a tomato! It's not every day I get to see you blushing and uncomfortable, y'know.” She offered him a scone, maybe in apology, but he was still too worked up to be hungry. “Anyways, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to help you woo a boy—“

“I don'! Want to— to woo anyone—“ he was waving his arms now, trying to shoo the very thought of purposely flirting with Gerome.

“Gawds, I didn't think you could get redder.”

“Look, I don't want to, to flirt with him,” he cringed at the idea, suddenly remembering Gerome throwing the phrase 'vapid male floozy' at him. “I just... I don't even know!” He threw his hands up in defeat and then covered his face, groaning.

“I didn't even think you liked boys what with all the skirt chasing,” she added, and Inigo threw his hands out to his sides.

“Nor did I! It's come as quite the shock, let me tell you,” and this time the laugh escaped; Severa actually looked a little worried for him, which was almost sweet. He sighed. “I'm still adjusting.” Severa was quiet for another moment, nibbling at a scone. Then she took a deep breath and let it out as a long sigh.

“So, like, what's your goal here?” He stared at her, uncomprehending. “I mean, you said you don't want to flirt with him, so what exactly is your plan?”

“I have no idea! Acting like this isn't happening and everything is still totally normal would be the favorite choice, but I'm not sure I could pull it off.” He gestured wildly at his still pink face. She tilted her head, looking at him with a curious sort of frown.

“Why don't you want to flirt with him? I mean, you flirt with anything in a skirt, it's kind of what you do. I kind of figured if you liked someone you'd just naturally flirt with them.” He just stared at her. “I guess you can't just go up and start throwing out stupid lines about how beautiful he is, though.”

“Firstly,” he said, holding up a finger, “none of my compliments are stupid lines, they are all genuine and heartfelt observations. And secondly, I'd probably catch a lance to the face if I told him how frustratingly handsome he is.”

“Are you totally sure? Maybe he's really stupid and likes you back.” This actually startled a real laugh out of him.

“Thank you for the backhanded vote of confidence, dearest Severa, but I sincerely doubt it.”

“It's not like you're the only one in the whole army who likes the same—or both, y'know,” she huffed, rolling her eyes, and he shot up straight.

“What? Who else?!”

“Hey, I don't go around blabbing people's secrets! It's not my place to tell you who, just... you're not the only one.” Inigo suddenly realized that Severa hadn't asked him exactly who all his fussing was over, as if she didn't need to know because it didn't matter unless he offered it up. “And no one cares anyways.” Inigo laughed, but it was something defeated and unpleasant.

“Right, of course, no one will care that Inigo the Incorrigible is now unleashed upon both sexes. I'll be lucky if they don't run me out of the army.”

“Well no one would care if you would just stop flirting with every girl you meet! Look, I'm supposed to be on sentry duty soon, so I don't have any more time for this right now. If you don't want to flirt with him and you can't act like things are normal, just avoid him!”

“I don't really think that's possible in the long—“

“Inigo. I have to go. Just avoid him until you figure out what is possible!” She stood and put her hands on her hips, visibly annoyed at him wasting her time, and he deflated. She was right, anyways. Better to avoid Gerome for now while he figured out how to just... be normal about it.

“Thank you, Severa. I really mean it.” Her cheeks went a little pink, and she looked away, all of the annoyance melting off of her in a breath.

“Yeah, well, you're just lucky I like those berry scones,” she blustered, and he just smiled and let her act like there wasn't a kind person under the thorns. “I guess if you need to talk again, you could bribe me with some more.”

“I may very well take you up on that, Severa. But right now I'm going to get out of your hair,” he stood, and for a second he thought about thanking her again. But she would probably just get defensive, so instead he gave her a weak smile and a half-hearted wave before heading back to his own tent to formulate his plan.

Chapter Text

It had been almost two weeks, and Inigo was still stuck on the 'avoid' part of his plan.

The first few days had been easy enough—it wasn't like they'd been particularly joined at the hip before—but then the army had moved and Inigo had been forced to get creative. He'd had to trade duties and chores with other people to avoid partnering or running into Gerome, and once or twice he'd had to double back or duck between tents to avoid running into him. He had to be constantly vigilant while in camp, and it was really starting to wear on him.

Today he had managed to find some free time and a clearing far enough from camp to be alone, but not so far that he'd be troubled if an attack came. Practicing some dance steps would keep him too focused to worry about things, and he should tire himself out enough to get a good night's sleep.

So far, the tiring out part was working; the dance he was practicing today was largely footwork, starting with precise steps, turns, and kicks, and progressing into spins and jumps. It required a lot of stamina, but also a lot of concentration, and he wasn't doing so hot on that end.

The problem was, he hadn't just been thinking about The Gerome Situation over the last few days, but about Everything. 'Everything' being, the way he felt about women and the way he felt about men, specifically Gerome at the moment but also men in the past that he was only now realizing he had been attracted to. There were a few soldiers, here and in his own time, that he had thought he admired; looking back through the lens of knowledge, he was able to see he'd been rather infatuated. Once or twice another performer whose skill he had been jealous of, and, probably, a baker with a friendly smile who'd made so-so cakes that Inigo kept going back for anyways. It wasn't anything bad, but it was all still a bit embarrassing, wondering if he'd been obvious and the only one who didn't know it.

The truly horrifying thing was realizing he'd harbored an intense crush on Brady when they were kids—thank Naga he'd grown out of that, because Severa might actually break his arms. Besides that, he was a lot closer to Brady than he was to Gerome, so it would be a lot weirder to deal with. Their mothers would have an absolute field day with it, if Maribelle didn't stab him with her parasol...

He flubbed the timing on a kick and had to start over.

Gerome, though, presented essentially the same problem as a crush on Brady would—Gerome was important. He wasn't just anyone; they were from the same awful future, they shared the same enormous burden of preventing that future from coming to pass again. The people of this time could hear about it and imagine, but they would never completely understand what the world had become under Grima.

His spin was too fast, too many revolutions, and he sighed, starting over.

Gerome was one of the twelve, and to Inigo that made him family. In their own time they had lost everyone else, and they had formed deep bonds as survivors. It was wonderful, painfully so, to see his mother and father alive in this time, to know them and see them every day, living and breathing and knowing nothing of what Grima's world was. But someday, his other self would be born, and he would bow his most graceful bow and exit the stage. Then the only family he would have left would be his friends, and he didn't want to jeopardize that by being embarrassing and weird around Gerome. Gods knew it had been hard enough in the first place to get Gerome to spend a little time with him—Inigo didn't want to drive him off altogether.

He stopped right before the trickier jumps, knowing he wasn't focused enough. It would be a hell of a thing to pull a muscle or break something right now, and Inigo knew when he was at a limit. He needed to stop for the evening, should stretch and head back to camp.

He also should probably stop avoiding Gerome soon, too; he wasn't going to get any better at acting normal if he ducked into a bush every time he saw him.

He raised one arm over his head, the other behind his neck, and prepared to stretch; there was the sound of branches snapping in the brush behind him, incredibly loud in the quiet of the clearing, and Inigo whirled. Honestly—if that was Olivia spying again!

He huffed in exasperation, stalking over to the thick undergrowth and pulling back branches.

“Mother, please, we talked about—“ it was not his mother, but a wyvern. Inigo let out a yelp of surprise that the wyvern mirrored as a shocked snort.

“Cripes, is that you, Minerva? I almost had a heart attack!” He was, in fact, clutching his chest in shock. “What are you doing all the way out here by yourself? That’s no good; if something were to happen to you, Gerome and Cherche would be beside themselves.” Forget that he was also out here by himself and that he was scolding a wyvern big enough to eat him as though she were an errant child. “I should probably take you back to camp…”

Minerva made a soft sort of noise, almost a chirp, and someone further into the brush cleared their throat.

”That won't be necessary.” Inigo jumped like he'd just been hit with a thunder spell at the familiar voice.

“W-were you there the, the whole time?” Inigo sputtered, his voice oddly pitched, and he knew his face was absolutely crimson. Please merciful Naga, Gerome had not been watching him dance and screw up.

“No?” Gerome came over to put a hand on the side of Minerva's neck, and the wyvern practically purred; Inigo could sympathize. “You shouldn't be out here alone.” Inigo sighed, feeling the blush subside a bit—predictable, hadn't talked to Gerome in over a week and the first thing he did was scold.

“Well, I'm not alone now, am I?” he said, moving back into the clearing and continuing his stretches. He sat on the ground, legs in a diamond in front of him, and pulled his feet inward to stretch his thighs. Well, this is a hell of a way to stop avoiding Gerome, he thought.

“What are you doing?” Inigo looked up as he straightened his legs out to his sides.

“Stretching?” He bent at the waist until his torso was almost flat to the ground, arms reaching in front of him. “I don't want to be stiff and sore tomorrow, after all.” This was weird. It was very normal, and that was weird. He sat back up and leaned over his left leg. Gerome was staring at him. “What're you doing out here?”

“I took Minerva hunting; it's better for her to catch her own prey, and it doesn't strain the army's resources. Besides, it feels wrong to only take her out for battles.” Inigo leaned over his right leg, eyes on Gerome as he stroked Minerva's neck fondly. That was just like him—barely say three words about himself, but you start on Minerva and he could go for days. It was kind of sweet. Gerome seemed to notice Inigo watching him, and cleared his throat. “There's a stream a little ways away, I was washing up and Minerva wandered off. She must have heard you out here.”

“Well,” Inigo stood, done with his stretches, “I am absolutely irresistible to the ladies, so I'm not surprised fair Minerva was drawn to me.”

“She's a wyvern,” Gerome said, scowling, and Inigo rolled his eyes as he collected his sword-belt from the tree he'd leaned it against.

“Yes, Gerome, it's called a joke. Although I'm sure you are especially lovely for a wyvern, milady,” he said aside to Minerva, who seemed to be pleased as far as Inigo could tell. Gerome just seemed annoyed, which was pretty normal in Inigo's experience. This was all going so normally that Inigo was starting to feel pretty stupid.

“Are you ready to leave, yet?” Ok, that was surprising.

“You're actually waiting on me?”

“I did say you shouldn't be alone out here.” Inigo blinked at him for a moment, and then made a gesture towards the camp with both hands, palms up.

“After you, then.” Gerome turned without a word and set off towards the main camp, Minerva trundling behind. Inigo followed, watching the way Minerva's claws dug massive grooves into the forest floor, and thought how odd it was to see her walking around instead of airborne. He hurried ahead to walk beside Gerome. “I'm a bit surprised you waited on me, to be honest; I figured you and Minerva would want to fly back.” Gerome turned his head in a way that suggested a sidelong glance, but who could tell with that damn mask.

“Wyverns get a bit sluggish after a meal, it's better for her to stay grounded for a while.”

“Huh. The more you know,” he said, and they lapsed into silence. That was pretty par for the course with Gerome, and Inigo's mind wasn't in the realm of idle chatter at the moment. The silence drew out so long that he started a bit when Gerome stopped just outside camp and Minerva nearly plowed into them both. Gerome made an apologetic sort of sound, reaching back to touch her nose, and then turned to look at Inigo.

“Inigo.” He sounded very serious, and it took all of Inigo's strength not to squeak in response. As it was, he only managed a very nervous 'hmm?' sound. “Have I...” Gerome trailed away, turned to look towards camp for a moment, and then looked back at Inigo, his mouth set in a grim line. “Have I done something to offend you?”

Inigo had expected to be called out for his odd behavior, or scolded for something, or most horrifying, be informed that Gerome knew how he felt and wanted nothing to do with him ever again. He had not expected the resigned cast of Gerome's mouth, like he was waiting for Inigo to say something terrible.

“I...what?” Inigo was honestly baffled by the entire question. “How could you have offended me?” The last time he'd really seen Gerome they had hardly spoken about anything before he'd run off, and he'd been doing too good of a job of avoiding Gerome since for the other man to have done anything offensive.

“I don't know, either,” Gerome muttered. “I had one idea, but Cynthia said it was unlikely.” Inigo stared at him for a moment, but Gerome didn't seem like he was going to elaborate on that statement. Instead, he shifted from one foot to the other. “You've been avoiding me, so I thought I might have upset you somehow.”

“Oh.” Now Inigo was red again. “No. That was.” Obvious, of course he'd been totally obvious, of course Gerome had noticed Inigo avoiding him. And instead of thinking Inigo was just weird, Gerome thought he'd done something to upset him. Damn. “Look, that wasn't about you, or, anything you did, uh. I was being silly. Don't worry about it.” Gerome looked unconvinced.

“Actually,” Inigo barreled on, trying desperately to fix this the only way he knew how, “obviously not tonight because you're probably busy and I'm definitely tired, and probably not tomorrow because I think I'm on a patrol, but next time our schedules line up I was thinking we could do dinner? Er, actually, probably breakfast would be better, I haven't been to the town yet but I heard it's pretty small, no tavern but they do have a bakery...” he was rambling and Gerome was staring at him.

“I'm not going to help you pick up girls, Inigo.” He sounded bewildered, and Inigo made an exasperated noise.

“Did I ask you to? It's pointless, anyways; you hate it and so do I, you effortless attention hog. I just meant... hang out with me. Be sociable!” he amended quickly. “Camaraderie, and such.” Gerome's head tilted a bit, and Inigo wanted to snatch that mask off his face and see what kind of look he was giving him.

“Alright.” Gerome nodded at Inigo, turned and gestured for Minerva to follow, and then disappeared into the camp without waiting for Inigo.

It was so very Gerome that it was actually a relief.

Inigo let out the nervous breath he'd been holding in a long sigh, shook himself, and made his own way into camp.

Chapter Text

Things went somewhat back to normal for them; Inigo found places to eat and invited Gerome to them, and Gerome agreed easily enough. Inigo tried to find places and times when they weren’t likely to encounter too many ladies, but somehow the girls just kept showing up to titter over Gerome in ways that made Inigo jealous to an intolerable degree.

It was easier when he still thought he was jealous of Gerome and not the girls who could, and did, openly fawn over him.

So Inigo switched tactics, and started inviting Gerome to eat with him in camp, where he was less likely to have to watch a girl try to climb into Gerome’s lap every meal.

Instead, he found himself sitting on top of a crate by a fire eating a bowl of stew while Gerome sat a few feet away, Minerva curled beside him and crunching on something Inigo thought might once have been a rabbit. Gerome cooed at her in between bites of his own bowl of stew, and Inigo sighed—at least Minerva wasn't trying to bed Gerome, even if she was stealing all of his attention.

It wasn't entirely unpleasant, though. Minerva slid one enormous green eye to look at him as she finished her dinner, licking her maw, and what would have once seemed threatening was now easily read as fond. Which was weird, really, to think of a wyvern being fond of him, but it was nice—Gerome seemed to find it annoying, and Inigo never tired of joking about his own irresistibility.

“A nice dinner then, Milady?” he asked after another mouthful of stew, and Minerva clicked out some sort of affirmative and preened. Gerome made a face, as much of one as Inigo could see with that mask, anyways. “Oh dear, I have upset our chaperone.”

“Inigo,” Gerome started, and Inigo wanted to kiss the little twisting frown off his stupid mouth.

“Yes?” he asked instead, with his most innocent smile, and finished his last bite of stew. Gerome faced him in silence for a moment, and then sighed. He shook his head and rolled his shoulders before turning back to gently wipe a spot of gore from Minerva's face.

“Nevermind,” he sighed, and oh, Inigo really couldn't let it go at that.

“Come now, Gerome—whatever scathing remark you're hiding behind that mask, ol' Inigo can take it. I've heard them all, I promise,” he added with false cheer. He set his empty bowl aside and lifted a fist, uncurling a finger for each point. “Did you want to remind me she's a wyvern? Or call me insatiable? Perhaps a hopeless flirt? Or a careless airhead—“

“I was going to say,” Gerome cut him off, which was probably good as Inigo had run out of fingers and was on his thumb, “that you're very amiable with Minerva. You're not wary of her.” He seemed a bit perplexed by that, and Inigo frowned.

“Should I be?”

“She's a wyvern.”

“I am aware, Gerome—the scales and claws are a bit of a giveaway.” Gerome was staring at him again, as far as he could tell, and Inigo wondered what color his eyes were, what color they would be in the firelight.

“And you aren't worried she'll savage you?”

“Again, should I be?” Gerome didn't answer, so Inigo sighed and crossed one leg over the other, leaning an elbow on his knee and his chin in his palm. “Of course I know Minerva could savage me. You could savage me, if you had a mind to; plenty of people here could. I could attack you. But it's unlikely, considering we're comrades. And friends, I hope,” he added, and Gerome leaned back a bit, mouth opening slightly in what Inigo guessed was surprise.

“You consider Minerva a comrade? A friend?” Inigo frowned, because he had thought it was obvious—it wasn't as if he avoided the wyvern, or treated her ill. Gerome must have picked up the answer from his expression, and his mouth snapped shut as he turned back to rest a hand on Minerva's broad head. “I'm sorry, I'm just surprised. Most people view her as a beast, a simple animal I ride into battle.”

“That's ridiculous, she's your family.” Inigo straightened on his perch on the crate; Gerome was turned towards him again with his mouth open, silent. “Look. Just because I'm all smiles and, and quips, doesn't mean I'm an idiot. I remember Grima; I know what Minerva is to you.”

“I... apologize. I underestimated you.” The gruff sincerity of it had Inigo looking away, face heating as his shoulders crawled up towards his ears in embarrassment. If he was lucky, the warm light of the fire would hide the blush.

“Well, you aren't the first, and most likely won't be the last. It's fine.” Which, well, it wasn't entirely—he didn't enjoy being taken for an idiot, but what could he do about it now? Stop being himself? Stop smiling and joking with his friends when things were grim and someone had to remind them how to be cheerful? If he did that, he might forget, himself.

“No, it's not. Minerva is fond of you, and that alone should have made me realize I was wrong. Wyverns are excellent judges of character.” Inigo couldn't help the little smile and laugh at that as he turned back to look at Gerome again, and his face was completely unreadable. Inigo wondered if, some day, he would learn how to read him even with the damnable mask.

“So I have the Minerva Seal of Approval, eh?” he asked, leaning forward over his legs to wink at the wyvern, and instead of the sigh or the snort he expected, Gerome just shook his head and gently patted Minerva's neck.

"I suppose so; perhaps she's fond of your dancing." Inigo sputtered, instantly feeling his face heat. "Speaking of which," Gerome continued before Inigo could think of something to say, "you shouldn't go too far out on your own around here." 

His tone was serious again, the tease entirely gone, and Inigo frowned. "Valm? Or Risen?" He asked, and Gerome's mouth pursed for a second.

"Nothing confirmed, but it's been harder to find game for Minerva; I've had to set traps. It's a good sign of something in the area, though I would say Risen over bandits or Valmese forces."

Inigo frowned, thumb tapping his lips as he looked out towards the trees at the edge of camp. He would prefer Risen, honestly—at least then he wasn't fighting living people. "I'll keep that in mind, thank you." He made a note to bring it up to Olivia as well before sighing and pushing himself up from the crate. Inigo turned and bowed theatrically to Minerva, “I bid you goodnight, Lady Minerva.” He straightened, turned to Gerome, and gave him an overly proper nod. “Gerome.”

Something magical happened, then—a lopsided little smile formed on Gerome’s mouth, the kind that might accompany an eyeroll. Inigo’s hand rose almost on its own and he twiddled his fingers in a stupid little wave without even thinking about it. “Night,” he said, airy, and Gerome’s head tilted just a bit.

“Goodnight, Inigo.” 

Inigo made his way back to his tent in a daze and fell asleep thinking about that smile.

+

Gerome hadn’t been wrong in his warning; the army ran into Risen a few days later, and Inigo found himself cut off from the others. One moment he was near Noire, the next he was facing three Risen and being driven away from the main force.

Three Risen turned into five turned into almost a dozen, and Inigo could only focus on dipping and dodging with the occasional attack thrown in when opportunity allowed. There were simply too many Risen to focus on offense, and if he couldn’t break out of the crowd soon he was going to be in extreme trouble. 

Inigo fell into a battle dance, full focus on merging footwork and spins to weave through the Risen as they lunged at him with clumsy claws, his mouth formed into a serene performer’s smile from pure habit. Sweat rolled down his forehead and neck, his chest heaved with labored breath, but he couldn’t afford even the smallest dip in effort— 

He heard the scream of a furious wyvern before the throwing axe embedded in the chest of the Risen closest to him, followed by the snap of wings as Minerva pulled out of a dive. She landed atop another Risen, crushing it into the ground even as Gerome speared through a third with his lance.

Inigo slashed at a pair of Risen who had recovered quickly from the chaos of Minerva's landing, and then Gerome yelled, "Get on!" 

In a normal situation, Inigo would have to think very hard about whether he wanted to climb on a wyvern's back and take flight, but this wasn't a normal situation. Inigo bounded over the still form of one dead Risen, grabbed hold of the arm Gerome offered, and hauled himself up behind Gerome.

Wyverns weren't really built to carry two, and a younger or less trained wyvern might have balked at the added weight; Minerva simply bent her legs and leapt skyward with a great thrust of her wings and a fiery scream for the Risen. Inigo made the mistake of looking down to check on their foes, and he groaned as he watched the ground zipping away from the charred remnants.

Gerome protested as Inigo scrabbled at him, grabbing fistfuls of his cape. "What—" 

"We—oh, cripes, that's far—" Inigo babbled, eyes still on the trees growing small below them, his voice high and thin.

"Inigo." The tone of Gerome's voice broke the spell of their height, and Inigo finally tore his eyes from the ground to look at Gerome. He was turned enough to look back at Inigo over his shoulder. "Just put your arms around me and close your eyes; if you flail around or pass out you're liable to fall."

Gerome really could have left out the falling part, couldn't he? Inigo didn't argue, was already snaking arms around Gerome's waist and pressing his face into the middle of his back, eyes scrunched shut. He tried to focus on his breathing, but all that did was make him notice how nice Gerome smelled—oddly like flowers, almost. Though, lifting his head up just a bit, Inigo thought it might be less Gerome and more Gerome's cape; did he use a scent in his laundry? That was kind of cute…

Gods, probably not the best time to be thinking about Gerome being cute. Something else to distract him, what—ah!

Inigo lifted his head further, leaned up to speak closer to Gerome's ear to be heard over the wind. "Have you seen Noire? I was separated from her by those Risen." 

"Noire is with Cynthia; she found us and sent me after you." Inigo sighed and smiled.

"Well, that's a relief. I'm glad she's not all alone somewhere."

"Yes. We're going to land, now," Gerome said, turning his face the smallest bit towards Inigo, and for what felt like the billionth time Inigo thought how handsome he was. He always seemed handsome, the jerk, but up here in the sky, the wind whipping his hair and putting a little color in his cheeks? Gerome was in his element. Inigo sighed ruefully to himself and then jammed his face back into Gerome's cape.

Landing was not as terrible as he thought it would be, just a little bump and then Gerome tapping on his arm. He glanced down through a single squinting eye and saw the ground once more beneath them. Gerome coughed, and Inigo pulled away immediately, before he could embarrass himself even further. “Ah, well, thank you for the gallant rescue,” he said, sliding off of Minerva’s back and stumbling a little as his wobbling legs met solid earth again. Gerome, only a step behind, caught him around the upper arm to steady him, and if Inigo hadn’t been red with embarrassment already he might’ve blushed; Gerome was being very nice.

Gerome let him go and watched him brush hands down the front of his shirt, before treating Inigo to another one of those lopsided little smiles. “What?” Inigo asked, and Gerome ducked his head the littlest bit.

“From your reaction to flying, I suppose you won’t be offering any women ‘rides on your wyvern’ any time soon, hm?” The smile grew the tiniest bit, and Inigo gaped at him.

Good Gods. Gerome was teasing him.

It was too much; Inigo covered his hot face with his hands, imagining steam coming from his own ears. “Gerome—ugh, can you just forget I ever said that? Let’s just—aren’t there Risen we ought to be fighting right now?” He peeked through his fingers to see Gerome leaning against Minerva’s side, patting her neck as he huffed a chuckle at Inigo.

“I believe yours were the last in our area, so now we wait for the others to regroup.” He tilted his head in a way that made Inigo think Gerome was glancing at him. “You fight very well; I hadn’t seen you in action.” Not since they were much younger, anyways. Inigo’s hands left his face to prop on his hips, though his face was no less red.

“Yes, you must’ve been quite surprised to see this vapid male floozy holding his own.” Gerome's mouth popped open in surprise, and Inigo laughed, waving a hand as Gerome started to protest. "I'm just teasing; you're fine to dish it, but can't take it back, huh?"

"I'm not usually teased," Gerome practically grumbled, and Inigo snickered as he made his way over to run a hand along Minerva's snout.

"Poor thing,” he said to Minerva, “it's because he looks so grim.” Gerome sighed.

"I didn't say it was a bad thing." Inigo looked over at Gerome, his arms crossed as he continued to lean on Minerva's side. He looked almost sullen, almost pouting, and Inigo ducked his head with another little blush—who gave Gerome the right to be so damned attractive when half of his face wasn't even visible?

Any further thoughts of Gerome's annoying allure were shelved by a chipper voice hailing them from above. Looking up, Inigo saw Cynthia and Noire coming in for a landing on Cynthia's pegasus. Noire looked decidedly green, and as the pegasus wheeled and then touched down in the clearing, he went over to rescue Noire from the clutches of vertigo and Cynthia's bright enthusiasm.

+

The next day Inigo was treated to his own dose of Cynthia’s enthusiasm when they worked together to inventory weapons after the battle.

Inigo was tired and sore from the battle the day before, but the work had to be done. This was better than working with Owain, who would spend more time naming weapons than helping to count and move them, but no less exhausting. Inigo set aside another spear that would need its tip refitted with a sigh, and Cynthia looked up from counting arrows. The grin on her face was all the warning he needed.

“What’s up, Inigo? Did Gerome steal another cutie from you?” Inigo managed to set down the spear he was holding calmly, and absolutely totally did not slam it down with more force than necessary. Cynthia was a sympathetic ear for his flirtatious woes, but Inigo really didn’t need to be thinking about Gerome, or girls, or Gerome and girls right now.

“No,” he said, “I’ve removed Gerome and girls from each other when it comes to spending my time.” Cynthia giggled.

“Yeah, I guess that’s smart! Ladies do love mysterious heroes,” she said, examining an arrow. “But I’m glad to see you’re getting along again! He was pretty worried before.”

Inigo looked up in surprise—worried? That was such a strong word, Inigo couldn’t imagine it. He had figured Gerome must’ve been relieved not to have Inigo pestering him for those two weeks when Inigo had avoided him.

“You’re exaggerating, surely.”

Cynthia looked up at him, eyes wide. “No way! He was super worried about you avoiding him. He had some pretty wild ideas about why,” she added, a finger on her chin, “but I told him you weren’t that kind of villain and it was probably something silly. And see, I was right! You’re friends again, no problem!”

“Wait—villain?” Inigo’s stomach dropped. “What, uh, what did he think the reason was?”

Cynthia actually winced and let out a nervous little laugh. “Ummm, you should ask Gerome about that,” she said, suddenly very interested in the arrows again and carefully avoiding his eye. She wasn’t usually one to be cagey, which mean she probably wasn’t going to give him an answer no matter what.

Inigo bit his lip and went back to inspecting spears, deciding he would just have to find Gerome and ask him directly.

Even if the idea was already making him sweat nervously.

Chapter Text

Asking Gerome why he might think Inigo was a villain was about as easy as avoiding him had been—not very. 

Yes, Inigo was no longer avoiding Gerome, and yes, they actually spent quite a bit of free time together now, but that didn't make it easier to ask. Inigo wasn't sure how to bring it up, was too stuck on worrying about the answer…

"You're distracted."

Gerome was sighing and leaning against his lance, while Inigo winced and tried to brush the grass and dirt off the seat of his trousers after getting knocked onto his ass for the third time.

"Ah…" Inigo gave up on his poor trousers and glanced up, wiping his brow with the back of his arm, sword dangling rather uselessly from his hand. If he thought about it, this was the perfect opportunity to confront Gerome for thinking him a villain. "Well, I can't deny that." Gerome frowned, but before he could say anything Inigo held up a finger. "Actually, it's a bit your fault!"

“My fault?” Even with the mask, Inigo could clearly read ‘disgruntled confusion’ in every visible line of Gerome’s face. Inigo nodded, turning to put away his practice sword and get a drink of water. Gerome had no choice but to follow, unless he wanted their conversation to be yelled across the improvised training grounds.

“Yes, your fault.” Inigo offered him some water and then dropped to rest on one of the rough log benches by the weapon racks, lifting an arm to stretch behind his head. “The other day Cynthia said something I just can’t stop worrying about.” He sighed and switched arms, tilting his head to watch Gerome carefully sipping water, trying not to stare at Gerome's mouth. Inigo shook his head. “You thought I was avoiding you for some nefarious reason?”

Gerome actually choked on the water—which was telling, considering his usual stoicism—before he managed to cough out, “Nefarious?”

“Well, the word Cynthia used was ‘villain’, but,” he relaxed his stretch, hand falling into his lap, “it does imply a certain nefariousness.”  

"That was Cynthia's choice of word, not mine," Gerome said after a moment of composing himself, but Inigo only lifted a brow—Gerome wasn't getting off that easily. Gerome frowned, leaning on his lance and tilting his head in a way that suggested he was looking off thoughtfully, and then sighed. “I had thought you might have been avoiding me because I am attracted to men.”

What. What? What?

“Wh— huh?” Inigo shot to his feet, gaping. “No, why would—you are? Why would that make me—you are?” Gerome was watching him and Inigo hated that mask more than anything right this moment, when he couldn't see Gerome's eyes to tell what the other man was thinking.

“Yes? I thought you knew.”

“How could I possibly know that!?” Gerome shifted a bit and Inigo realized that this was not going well, he was reacting all wrong and he was probably confirming Gerome's suspicions. He took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh, raising his hands to shoulder height as if to say 'just a moment'.

“Ok. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout, you just. Caught me completely off guard with that one!" He put a hand to his forehead. "I honestly had no idea— you never seemed to like anyone— but that’s not the point.” He shook his head and looked back up at Gerome, trying not to feel too offended that Gerome thought him the type to judge anyone over preferences; then again, Gerome was an incredibly private person, so who knew what kind of anxieties he might have in that beautiful, secretive skull of his. Inigo sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “It would’ve been a pretty hypocritical reason, anyways, considering I like men as well.” 

Gerome snorted derisively, but Inigo only stood there, watching him. “You're actually serious.” Inigo nodded, a hand going to the back of his neck as Gerome's jaw practically dropped. “But...all those women!”

“I like both, thank you,” and now it was Inigo's turn to feel defensive, his body stiff and curling slightly inwards.

"Oh." Gerome shifted awkwardly. "I didn't know." Inigo actually snorted, the tension melting out of his frame as he watched Gerome tap nervous fingertips along the shaft of his lance. 

"I mean, nobody really knows. Well, except Severa," Inigo added, shrugging in a way that implied of course. Gerome nodded solemnly, as if he agreed with the implication. Then he adjusted his grip on his lance to something less nervous and more solid, and Inigo felt the weight of his attention. 

"So… why were you avoiding me, then?"

"Ah, it's nothing, it's stupid." Inigo waved a hand, but Gerome just kept looking at him, unbudging, and Inigo groaned. "Alright, fine, but it is stupid! I was…" Inigo crossed his own arms and found a very interesting spot on the ground. "Well, I guess I was jealous."

"Je- jealous?" Inigo looked back up at the shock in Gerome's voice, and there was definitely some pink creeping its way from under Gerome's mask.

"Well, yeah! You already have every girl we meet climbing all over you, I guess I just realized there were men, too. It's like…" he brought a hand to his forehead and sighed. "Isn't there anyone who isn't enamored with you? It's unfair."

"Ridiculous; not everyone is enamored with me." Inigo laughed, and Gerome graced him with another rare smile.

"Well, I'm glad my character is no longer in doubt," Inigo said. "You did have me quite worried, though; you ought to repay me with dinner."

Gerome sighed, but Inigo had gotten familiar enough with the sound to read it as almost fond. "I suppose so. Minerva will enjoy your company, at least."

Inigo laughed, and they left the makeshift training grounds bickering amicably.

+

It was odd, but things became more relaxed between them—not that things were awkward or stiff before, but Gerome seemed to lighten up a bit. Compared to what Inigo was used to, one could almost call Gerome chatty. He supposed having that fear of judgment laid to rest, that shared awkward confession, allowed Gerome to open up a bit more towards him.

They trained and ate together more often, and Inigo found himself paired with Gerome more often than not on duty rosters. He figured someone must have realized Gerome could tolerate him, and pairing him up with Gerome spared every woman in the army from Inigo’s charms. Inigo wasn’t exactly going to complain about it.

They spoke more often and more easily, and Inigo found Gerome actually starting conversations and asking questions. Usually it was simple, harmless things—"Are you really that scared of heights?" and "What exactly is that meant to stretch?"—but sometimes the questions had weight, like, "Wouldn't practicing with Olivia be more practical?"

Or, like today:

"Is there a reason you never pursue men the way you do women?"

That wasn't anything Inigo expected to talk about while peeling potatoes, and he slipped and almost cut his thumb. Gerome frowned, worried, but Inigo held up his uninjured thumb before he could overreact and start fussing; the frown transformed into something regretful.

"I apologize, that was too personal of a question."

"No, no, just—" Inigo waved away the apology, then bit his lip. "Do you remember anything about me, from Before? I mean…" when our parents were all still alive.

"If by 'Before' you mean… well, very little, honestly." Which didn't bother Inigo, they had all been very young when Grima had started slaughtering their parents. But then Gerome just had to add, "I don't see what that could possibly have to do with flirting, though."

“Gerome, I'm shy.” Gerome looked disbelieving, and Inigo sighed, exasperated. “When I was really young it was so bad I could barely stand to be around people. I was worse than Olivia is now." Inigo dropped his peeled potato into the bucket and started another, shrugging. "My mother told me the best way to build bravery would be talking to girls—now that I'm here I'm pretty sure Lon'qu told her that, actually,” he added with a thoughtful frown.

“And that's why you flirt with every woman you meet.” Gerome still sounded skeptical, and Inigo sighed again.

“Pretty much. I mean, I don’t think it was what my mother meant, but it's what it wound up being. And I'm good at it!” Gerome snorted. “Hey, I didn't say successful, alright, but I can talk to any lady I meet with confidence and a genuine compliment.”

“And you don't flirt with men the same way because...?” This was less skeptical and more quietly curious, and Inigo was grateful.

“Honestly, I wouldn't know where to start. I've been talking to girls for ages, it just. Comes naturally? It's only been—“ a few weeks he almost said, but caught himself just in time, gaze suddenly very fixed upon his potato. This was awkward enough without having to explain 'I realized I like men because I realized I like you'. “It hasn't been that long for me, since I knew I liked both. And I don't think men appreciate the sort of compliments you give a woman.”

“Such as?” Inigo looked up at him sharply, and he got the distinct impression that Gerome was teasing him.

“Oh? You want a taste of the ol' Inigo Special, eh?" Inigo grinned, interpreting a skeptical eyebrow lift in Gerome's silence. "Alright then, Handsome, buckle up for these heartfelt truths.” He dropped his finished potato and rested an elbow in one hand, the fingers of his free hand curled against his lip in thought. “So, if you were a girl, I'd start with your physical charms and progress to the merits of your character. It's a real shame I can't wax poetic on the quality of your eyes, you know.”

“Already making excuses?” Gods, that was practically flirtatious, and Inigo felt his face go hot. Still, he couldn't back down. Absolutely not; Gerome was smirking.

“Merely a complaint about never seeing the entirety of your handsome face, Gerome. Your incredible jawline nearly makes up for it, though.” Gerome had stopped with the tiny smirk, his nose slightly pink. Inigo felt a rush of confidence as he realized he might have the upper hand here.

"Too much?" he asked, teasing, and Gerome snorted. Inigo grinned and shrugged. "Your funeral.” 

He put his chin in his palm, slowly looking Gerome up and down, and couldn't help how his grin widened as Gerome shifted and blushed a bit more under the scrutiny. Returning his gaze to what he assumed were Gerome's eyes under his mask, Inigo continued, “I can only assume from what I see of it that your face is pretty, but you’re more than that—and I don’t just mean your charming figure,” he added with a wink. This resulted in an embarrassed scoff. Inigo hummed thoughtfully.

“You’re hardworking and dedicated, have a sound tactical mind, and while you can be standoffish and brooding I think you secretly care quite a bit about your comrades.” Another scoff, but Inigo rolled his eyes and gave his own huff, hands moving to his hips. “Oh, come on, you’re a total softie deep-down—I’ve heard you sweet-talking Minervykins. And it’s not a bad thing; it’s kind of cute, so quit glaring at me.” He couldn’t see Gerome’s eyes, but he felt (and Gerome's little flinch at the admonishment all but confirmed) that it would be a very Gerome response to someone peeling back his broody facade and calling him cute.

“Anyways,” he continued, flapping a hand to wave away the perceived glare and putting on an admiring smile, “you’re murder with an axe, even better with a lance, and I’ve never seen another rider cut a finer figure, especially in flight. You've even got a nice smile, when you deign to use it. Simply put, you’re an incredible catch, Gerome.”

For a moment, Gerome only stared at him, speechless and red, until Inigo leaned in towards him with his eyebrows raised expectantly. “Well?”

"You were right," Gerome muttered, face and even neck positively aflame, dropping his chin into his palm and turning away. "You shouldn't flirt with other men like that."

Inigo was too focused on his victory to notice anything odd in the statement.

+

Once again, Inigo found himself in an increasingly sour pickle of a situation, alone and outnumbered on the battlefield and this close to being completely cut off. Worse still, they were fighting Valmese forces, which meant opponents using tactics rather than terrible brute instinct, and he knew he didn't have long to turn this around before the enemy capitalized on his dire straits and took him out.

He was wracking his brain as he crossed blades with one soldier when there was the downdraft, the leathery beat of wings, and Inigo didn't have to look up to know it was Gerome coming to his rescue, again. But this wasn't like a pack of mindless Risen, who would focus on Inigo to the last—these were men with brains, and the infantrymen he'd been carefully keeping between himself and three archers wouldn't be any kind of shield for Gerome.

“Inigo!” The concern in his tone was palpable, so much so that Inigo almost turned to look at him reflexively—he'd never heard Gerome sound like that before.

"Go back!" He called back instead, grunting as he caught the downswing of an axe on his blade and then kicked his opponent in the gut. "There're archers, and I can—" he dipped to the side of a different soldier’s lance thrust, "I can handle this!"

Stubborn to a fault, Inigo's opponent dropped with a red spray as a throwing axe embedded itself perfectly in the join of neck and shoulder, and Inigo grit his teeth because no one ever listened to him. Well, it wasn't as if he could climb into the sky and force Gerome to leave, so he would just have to do his damnedest to finish this fight. 

Which was easier said than done, every direction he turned and each step he took bringing him up against a different foe. He would have wondered where the hell they were all coming from, if he had the thought to spare.

He kicked an enemy off of his sword and let the momentum carry him into a turn—

There was a cavalier barreling out of the ruined fortress right for him, and he tensed, ready to leap to the side and roll. He would have to time it right, not too slow to get out of the way, and not so soon that the cavalier could turn and follow.

He was about to make his move when, again, a spear sprouted from the cavalier's chest, and he wound up dodging a riderless horse.

The spear launched out of the sky could only have come from Gerome, and as Inigo whirled to order Gerome to leave again, he heard the snap of bowstrings and watched the arrows arc to their target. Gerome didn't carry a shield, and with a flash of dread Inigo realized Gerome was wide open.

Time seemed to turn to syrup as his eyes tracked the arc of the arrows through the sky to their destination, his heart seeming to stop when their progress ended.

He thought he couldn't feel more horrified than that frozen, crystalline moment in which he watched the arrows find a home in Gerome's chest; then Gerome went slack and slid sideways from Minerva's saddle, and Inigo's breath punched out of him in a yell that was punctuated by the sick thud of Gerome's limp body hitting the earth meters below.

Later, helping Brady shift an unconscious and bleeding Gerome from Minerva’s back into the infirmary tent, Inigo could not have explained just how he had managed to get him there. Events had somehow fractured, time no longer a fluid progression but a set of solid, encapsulated moments.

Killing the archer nearest to him; Minerva landing defensive and shrieking draconic rage over Gerome’s still body; slash and thrust and parry, weaving through enemies like exchanging dance partners; Minerva’s wings flapping like sails, savaging a soldier with her teeth; slipping in mud churned from blood by Minerva’s talons to Gerome’s side; the relief and terror in finding Gerome wasn’t dead, the thud of him hitting the ground finally ceasing to reverberate through Inigo’s entire being—

Somehow, he had gotten Gerome onto Minerva’s back without the three of them getting killed or further injured. Somehow, he had managed to command the enraged wyvern to disengage and flown back to their camp. Somehow, he had delivered Gerome to Brady before it was too late.

Time regained liquidity. He found himself standing outside the infirmary tent, Minerva beside him, both of them filthy and reeking of blood; looking down, he realized they were both drenched in it, some ferocity in those lost moments painting them with gore. Looking up wearily, he scanned the camp around them with tired eyes, then nodded to himself.

“Gerome will fuss if he wakes up and sees you in such a mess, Minerva. Let’s get you cleaned up, hm?”

Chapter Text

Inigo was sitting outside the infirmary tent with a freshly bathed Minerva, his own clothing now stiffening as the blood dried, when Brady finally came out.

“You been waitin' out here the whole time?” Brady asked, hands on his hips, and Inigo sighed as he pushed himself to his feet.

“Not the whole time; anyways, how is he?”

“He's fine, or he will be if he listens and gets some rest so he doesn't bust his stitches. Magic only goes so far, y'know, even mine.” Inigo nodded; Brady looked tired, and Inigo knew he still had to conserve energy in case another serious injury came in because healing staves only worked as well as the mage wielding them.

“I do know, and thanks; I'll make sure he listens.” Brady's eyebrows went up.

“If ya say so. He's awake, if ya wanna make sure he listens right now. Where I can see ya do it, so I can learn this magic trick you're gonna pull.” Inigo's heart sped up—Gerome was awake, and with the burden of worry lifted Inigo felt a surge of energy sweep through his whole stupid, tired body.

The energy was powered entirely by a dangerously calm fury.

Inigo patted Minerva's neck. “You wait out here, Beautiful; I'll send him out when I'm done verbally eviscerating him.” The wyvern snuffed and shifted around a bit where she sat, but didn't put up a protest. Brady looked between them, eyebrows seeming to crawl higher, before holding open the flap of the tent so Inigo could enter first.

Gerome was on a cot, half-propped on a pillow, his torso a mass of bandages. As soon as he saw Inigo, still blood-drenched, his mouth opened in shock and he began pushing upright. “Stop that, I'm fine,” Inigo said before Brady could start telling Gerome to quit moving around. “It's not my blood.” Something in how he said it, maybe the utterly calm tone, made Gerome flinch and lie back on the pillow. Brady let out a low whistle as Inigo turned to him. “He's alright, then? Not about to drop dead?”

Brady put his hands on his hips. “I already said he's good—did ya think I'd half-ass it?” Inigo shook his head, crossing his own arms.

“Of course not, Brady. But if he's not about to expire, I really need to talk to Gerome right now. Perhaps you could go wait out with Minerva for just a teensy second?” Again, there must have been something in his tone or his expression that signaled the tent was about to host a shouting match, because Brady just nodded, snorting.

“Yeah, sure, just don't go makin' more work for me,” he said over his shoulder as he turned and left.

Inigo watched Brady go in silence, waited a moment to give him some time to get some distance, and then rounded on Gerome.

“What the hell was that?!” He could see the muscles in Gerome's neck tighten.

“That cavalier had you—”

“I don't want to hear it, I thought you were dead, you idiot!” Gerome's mouth snapped shut. “I know enough to retreat from a battle I can't handle, did you think I was going to stand there and let him spit me like a pig?!” He had his hands on his hips now, glaring down at Gerome, and for a moment Gerome just lay there in chastised silence.

Then, he began to push himself upright, and Inigo reflexively reached out and helped him up—sure, he was furious with him, but he had promised Brady not to let Gerome make his injuries worse.

Upright and with their eyes at roughly the same level again, Gerome's mouth settled into a stubborn line. “What I thought was that you were in trouble and I wasn't going to just abandon you.” And then, in a little mutter verging on uncharacteristically petulant, “You didn't complain the last time I pulled you out of an uneven battle.”

“The last—” Inigo had to put his hands over his face and breathe in a long breath to stop himself from grabbing Gerome by the shoulders and shaking him like a rag doll. When he felt like he could continue without throttling Gerome, he crossed his arms and said, “The last time you didn’t almost die after I said I could handle it. Don’t you ever pull such a stupid stunt like that again!” Gerome’s frown, if possible, deepened.

“I’ll be sure to leave you to it then the next time I find you in dire straits—”

“I had it handled!” Inigo threw up his arms. “I’m not saying don’t ever help me, you ass, I’m saying don’t go killing yourself over something unnecessary! I know you go on about being stalked by fate and not wanting to form ties to this timeline, but at the very least I thought you came back to stop the future from being ruined, not to mess it all up dying over something stupid.”

“My death alone would hardly tip the balance towards our ruined future—”

“It’s automatically ruined if you aren’t there—”

Inigo's tirade was cut off abruptly by the fact that Gerome had grabbed him by the collar and kissed him.

Inigo had been kissed before, of course—your average peck from a pretty girl after you walk her home from tea, and a few girls from his own timeline who'd indulged in some post-battle makeouts while the adrenaline was still high. But he had never, never, been kissed like this:

Gerome kissed him like he wanted to kiss Inigo, like the most important thing wasn't physical pleasure or blowing off steam, but Inigo himself. It was half hunger and half tenderness and wholly made of wanting, and Inigo realized he had never felt desired before.

He was still processing the sensation when Gerome pulled away with an unhappy twist to his mouth.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—are you alright?”

“I am fantastic, and you absolutely should have,” he answered, slightly dazed and clinging to Gerome's arms like lifelines, but Gerome still looked worried.

“Why are you crying?” Inigo wiped at his cheek with one hand, surprised to feel wetness there.

“Oh. I didn't—huh. I'm not sure. I think I just realized no one ever wanted me before.”

“Inigo—“

“So, do you kiss everyone like that, or can I pretend I'm special?” he cut in, voice artificially bright as he swiped at his eyes, and Gerome's fingers at his collar twitched, hands sliding to Inigo's shoulders.

“You are special.” He sounded exasperated, and something tight around Inigo's heart relaxed. “I feel as you said—the future would be ruined without you.” Gerome started to look less worried and more embarrassed. “I shouldn't have grabbed you and, and kissed you like that, though.” There was a creep of pink around the edges of his mask and he seemed to struggle with the word 'kissed', and it began to dawn on Inigo that Gerome might actually be shy. Well, he wasn’t going to risk Gerome backing out of more kisses that good over a little shyness or some silly misunderstanding.

“Gods, Gerome, really—I've been wanting to kiss you for months , but I thought you'd sic Minerva on me.”

“Mon— months?” Gerome's nose was pink now, and Inigo desperately wanted to kiss him again right then; he held back through sheer force of will.

“You remember when I started avoiding you?” Gerome nodded, his mouth tightening, and Inigo hurried on. “That was really stupid, by the way, but I was trying to keep you from finding out I had a huge crush on you.”

“You started acting strange around me so that I wouldn't be suspicious?” Inigo huffed.

“Look, I wasn't exactly thinking at one hundred percent, I was a little shocked to realize I was attracted to men—specifically, at the moment, you—“

“You didn't know—“ Gerome cut off, mouth open in surprise, and even with the mask Inigo could tell he was thinking back over their conversations of the last few weeks, all the way back to that dinner when Inigo had bolted because a man had flirted with Gerome. His “Oh” of comprehension was a soft exhalation.

There was a very loud coughing from outside the flap of the tent, and they both jumped away from each other; Inigo saw Gerome wince as the sudden movement pulled at his injuries, and grabbed his arm to steady him as he wobbled a bit.

“Are you done makin' him listen in there, because I'd rea—“ before Brady could finish being incredibly polite (Naga bless him for the warning) Severa shoved her way into the tent, dragging Brady behind.

“Just show me where you keep the stupid bandages and I'll do it myself,” she snapped, before stopping to stare at Inigo. “What the hell happened to you— Brady, why are you fussing over a little scratch when Inigo is covered in blood!?”

“It's not mine— ah, I'll explain later. Long-ish story,” Inigo managed weakly. He glanced at Gerome, who was watching him, and then back at Severa. “Really long, honestly.” He turned back to Gerome and gestured to the tent flap. “Minerva's waiting outside; better go out before she decides to come in.” Severa was watching them, looking back and forth between them as they practically scuttled out of the tent, and a look began to dawn on her face. They were rescued by Brady brandishing a roll of bandage and a jar of ointment.

“Ya gonna let me treat that sword slash, Doll, or ya gonna promise not to complain 'bout it when it scars?” They were out of the tent before the typical bickering that passed as lovey-dovey for the couple started.

Minerva stirred and stood, gusting the air with one great flap of her powerful wings as she saw Gerome. Inigo stayed back, giving the pair space as Gerome went to the wyvern, stroking her great head and neck and promising he was fine as she chittered and screeched at him like a scolding  mother. Gerome turned to look at him, hand resting on Minerva’s neck.

“You bathed her?” Inigo shrugged, pretended he didn't notice Gerome looking his bloody clothes up-and-down, and decidedly did not squirm under the scrutiny.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” he said, and Gerome sighed. Before Gerome could scold him, he said, “I’ll help you back to your tent; I did promise Brady to make sure you didn’t reopen your wounds.” For a moment, he expected Gerome to protest, to tell him he’d be fine on his own, but instead he leaned against Minerva’s neck for a second before nodding.

“Very well.” They headed out in a silence that was companionable but tense, heavy with the weight of the inevitable shift in their relationship. Inigo walked at Gerome's side, purposely not looking at him so as not to stare like a fool, so he was surprised when Gerome said, “Thank you.” He glanced at Gerome, one reassuring hand on Minerva's neck, torso still bare but for the thick bandages wound across his chest and up his shoulder. It made a mess of Inigo's feelings all over again, and he turned back to look ahead of them, fist clenching at his side.

“I'm still upset with you, honestly,” he said. “I really did think you were dead. I haven't been that frightened in… a long time.” The image of Gerome lying there, crumpled and bloody and so horribly still, came back to him again, and he shuddered; he didn't want to think about it anymore.

“I'm sorry,” Gerome said, and then ducked his head. “Not for staying, but for worrying you.” He was so damned stubborn, but Inigo had known that, and he kind of liked that about Gerome, so he couldn't even get as mad as he wanted to.

“I can’t even make you swear to listen to me next time, since no one ever does,” he complained instead, and Gerome stopped walking and turned to him, still supporting himself against Minerva.

“Would you have listened if it were me? Left me alone, imperiled, outnumbered?” Inigo stared at him, hands opening and closing.

“That’s not—” the same, he wanted to say, but. Gerome’s point was solid. Damn. He huffed in frustration and put his hands on his hips. “Fine. Fine. But next time something like this happens, you’d better not leave yourself wide open taking down enemies I can handle on my own. I’m not completely helpless, you know,” he said, turning away and beginning to walk again, “and it feels awful to see you injured because you were needlessly defending me.”

“I’m—”

“Sorry, I know,” he threw over his shoulder with a smile as Gerome and Minerva moved to catch up with him. “But if you do it like this again, I’ll dump you.” He was proud that his voice sounded much more confident and assured than he felt, without even a hint of shy or nervous tremor. His face, however, felt hot, which was fine considering the way Gerome’s mouth had dropped open and his nose had gone pink.

“Then I certainly won’t make the same mistake,” Gerome said, recovering quickly, equally firm and unwavering despite his obvious blush, and Inigo found himself grinning.

They made the rest of the distance to Gerome’s tent in silence, but it was somehow comfortable despite the excited flutter in Inigo’s stomach and the glances they kept throwing each other. 

When they arrived, Inigo helped Gerome settle Minerva in her makeshift nest, and was treated to his own bout of chittering concern as she butted him with her head. “Yes, yes, Milady,” he said, laughing and petting her snout, “as soon as I’ve seen your dashing rider settled I’m going right for a bath of my own and a long rest.” When he turned to Gerome, he found him watching with that little lopsided smile that made his knees weak, and Inigo shrugged. “What can I say, I have a way with the ladies.”

Gerome just smirked and went into his tent, and Inigo followed, just to make sure Gerome didn’t need help with anything. He walked in right as Gerome was reaching up to take off his mask, and he loudly clapped his hands over his eyes in shock. Gerome actually snorted at him, and Inigo frowned in indignation, hands still firmly over his eyes. “Excuse me, don’t laugh at me,” he huffed, “I’m trying to respect your privacy, you jerk.” Even though he very badly wanted to peek. The chuckle that earned him threatened to turn him to jelly.

“Do you think I’m so precious of my privacy that I would kiss you and still hide my face when we’re alone, in private?” His tone was terribly teasing, and Inigo slowly lowered his hands, peeking over them, to find Gerome bare-faced and watching him.

His first thought was you look like your mother, but he managed not to say it. His second thought was, “You’re pretty,” which he did not manage to keep to himself, and somehow they both turned red at that. “I mean. Your eyes. Your eyelashes are all. And.” He was sputtering like an idiot, and he put his hands back over his eyes in utter embarrassment. “I mean,” he said, taking a deep breath to try and calm himself, “that you’re very attractive. As I suspected.”

He heard Gerome moving, but it still surprised him when Gerome’s fingers encircled his wrists and gently pulled his hands down from over his eyes. Looking at him was like a blow from a hammer—his eyes weren’t just pretty and long-lashed, they were expressive and too easy to read. All that time Inigo had been agonizing, had Gerome been looking at him like this under that mask? With such blatant, open, unmistakable fondness?

“I’m sure you’re aware,” Gerome said, “but just in case, you’re also very attractive, Inigo.” Inigo was aware, somewhat, but hearing it from Gerome while he was looking at Inigo with such affection…

He moved without even thinking, hands rising to cup Gerome’s face and pull him into a kiss, and Gerome met him eagerly. It was not like the first quick, devouring kiss in the infirmary, yet still somehow impossibly even better—slow, unhurried kisses that seemed to set his brain on fire, deepening until he got lightheaded from forgetting to breathe through his nose and wound up panting against Gerome openmouthed between kisses. 

They might have stood there kissing all night, or moved on to other intimacies, if Gerome hadn’t flinched; Inigo, so tuned in to Gerome’s mouth and taste and breath and everything couldn’t help but notice the flinch, and he pulled back with an apology ready.

“I’m fine,” Gerome said, before he could start, and Inigo shivered at how his voice had deepened, roughened. Gerome’s eyes roamed his face with a scalding interest, the full knowledge of his gaze like stepping out of a dim room into bright sunlight, and Gerome hummed with a shake of his head before leaning to press a terrible, crushingly gentle kiss to Inigo’s cheek. It made Inigo feel like his insides were boiling with too many emotions, affection chief among them. “You should go take a bath and get some sleep. We’ll finish this when I don’t have wounds to reopen.”

Not we can or we might or we should, but we will, and Inigo had to press one more kiss to Gerome’s mouth through a massive grin.

“Sleep well,” he said, and then headed off to do as he’d been told, so buoyed up by joy he could have been floating.

+

A few days later, Severa managed to corner him while he was shifting supply boxes in preparation for another march. “So, what’s the long-ish story of why you were drenched in blood, huh?” she asked, hands on her hips, and Inigo’s fingers flexed around the box he was holding; Severa was way too good at picking the perfect moment to pounce.

“Mm. Well.” What to say? How to word it? Inigo glanced around for a moment, and then sighed. To the hells with it. “Gerome is an overprotective worrywart and no one ever listens to me.” When Severa only leaned in towards him with an eyebrow raised in a way that said elaborate or I’ll make you, he shrugged, adjusting his grip on the box. “We’re dating.” He tried to say it with confidence and nonchalance, but his voice went a little high and his face, predictably, felt hotter than usual.

Severa’s whole stance changed as she leaned back from him, hands dropping from her hips as her arms went limp in surprise, much like her hanging jaw. She recovered quickly with a stunned, “Gerome was the guy you were freaking out about? I thought it was Owain.”

“O- Owain?!” He almost dropped the box. Where the hell had Severa gotten that idea?

“I mean, you guys used to hang out all the time and now I never see you two together, so I thought you were avoiding him.”

“Gods, no, Severa, I wasn’t—” he needed to put the damn box down so he could put his head in his hands. He set the box down at his feet and put his head in his hands. This was. “I was avoiding. Gerome.” 

“You’re always together!”

“Well now we are!” he said, pulling his hands from his face to gesture wildly. “How does it even make sense for me to be into Owain if I’m always with Gerome, anyways?!”

Severa stared at him for a moment, and then threw up her hands. “I dunno, I guess I just figured Gerome had better taste! No offense!”

Somehow, miraculously, instead of taking offense Inigo laughed. It was the matter-of-factness of her delivery, or maybe the memory of ‘maybe they’re really stupid and like you back’ that hit him and turned the absurdity of the whole confrontation into a chuckle that became contagious, until they were both laughing wildly.

“Gods,” she eventually coughed out, wiping at her eyes, “no wonder Brady was so jumpy about letting me into the infirmary. He probably thought you guys were making out.”

“We were,” he said, somehow indignant, and she mock gagged, nose wrinkling.

“Gross.” He stared at her for a second, wondering if he should be offended (or pretend to be), but then she snorted and they were set off again. When they calmed down at last, she put a hand on her hip and looked to the side, and Inigo stilled, recognizing she was probably about to say something mushy that she would otherwise take to the grave and deny to the high heavens if he ever mentioned it. “You’re both my friends, so normally I’d say something about how if you hurt each other I’ll kill you both, buuut.” She held up the hand that wasn’t on her hip, the tips of her thumb and forefinger pressed so close together they were basically touching. “I like you just the tiniest bit more, so I guess I’d kill him and beat you within an inch of your life.” 

Severa glanced at him from the corner of her narrowed eye, took in the absolutely dopey, affectionate grin on his face and the way he’d brought his hand to his heart, touched, and she pretended to barf again. “Don’t make a big deal out of it,” she growled, and he tried to reign in his grin.

“I wouldn’t dream of it in a million years.”

+

For a time Inigo, Gerome, and, of course, Minerva, traveled the world, taking in the sights of a peaceful future and helping out where things weren't as peaceful as they should be. When Minerva got a bit too seasoned to be traveling, the trio settled down together in Wyvern Valley; Gerome became a pioneer of wyvern conservation whose methods saw the wyvern population grow and spread across the continents, while Inigo developed a surprisingly popular new style of dance based on the wyverns he observed and interacted with daily.