Zerxus is not an easy man to pull, if he puts up any resistance at all; it's notable that he slides immediately into that spot, even leaning a little into Steve's side. Not much, just - enough to be felt.
"The first two won't be a problem." Devils don't truly need either, but Malsheem isn't lacking in pointed decadence. "Just let me check for poison or curses first."
Then he closes his eyes, and for a moment his hand feels even warmer.
"About an hour." It's enough time to get the Captain at least minimally situated, pull his armour back on and head back to Dis, but... "This is the safest place for you to be, right now, but that's - "
Good boy, Steve thinks, but is just smart enough to not stay when he feels the faint lean against him. He keeps his head tipped back, hand around Zerxus', breathing deep enough that every breath increases contact minutely, and slow enough to suggest complete calm. It also lets more heat sink into his skin, especially with lighter fabric.
"I was hoping the opulence would extend that far. You don't wanna know what my appetite looks like when it's compensating for any kind of healing or sleep deprivation." Both are already in play and he doesn't expect either one to go away.
Appetite's probably the wrong word given his very human response to the constant smell of blood. Close enough to 'need to eat', though and he's not going to start whining about anything, much less that minor.
"I'm not gonna go anywhere or start having conversations. My soul and I will both be here when you get back." That? Is a promise. It's pretty short term for now, but it's a promise.
It's a promise made in a realm that recognises oaths when they're spoken, and that means Zerxus can feel it too. It ought to inspire hope, but that's strangled almost immediately by fear, because if that oath was forcibly broken -
He will be here when you return.
Asmodeus lies all the time, but he doesn't break a contract and the difference is more subtle than most people realise. A mortal needs to see it plainly, and literally, to accept an offer properly.
For someone whose soul is already his - there's an echo to it, a cadence that Zerxus knows as well as his own heartbeat.
Thank you.
The devil isn't doing this for no reason - there's a catch or a cost - but right now? He's willing to just accept it.
Steve eats. He eats an astonishing amount of food (at least for a human), without a single sign that maybe his sense of smell and taste are getting cross-wired, much less indication that he'd so much as heard 'poisoned or cursed' being mentioned as possibilities.
Then he takes the time Zerxus is gone to get his suit stuck in the back of Zerxus wardrobe (just the suit; gloves and shield stay out). He browses through the wardrobe since he's apparently going to be dressing himself out of it for the foreseeable future.
He does not otherwise get nosy, but instead just settles into one of those armchairs in the room with Zerxus' armor stand. He spends the rest of the time Zerxus is gone 'asleep', in the exact way he slept in the middle of a world war two battle field. Cycling between barely dozing to brief periods of deeper sleep that he rises back out of to the light doze, over and over again.
He doesn't startle when Zerxus is back in the room with him. His eyes open, immediately clear and alert. Stretches as he stands and walks straight to Zerxus. "Gauntlets off." His voice however reflects that he was at least asleep, in being a little husky and more slowed down than it has been thus far.
Zerxus was, perhaps, both more distracted and less cautious than usual on his rounds.
His armour is soaked in blood, but he moves like this is a natural thing; if there's any stiffness to that, it's disguised by the bulk of steel.
Most people wouldn't assume from the start that their guest was newly awake, after they leapt up like that, but Zerxus gazes at him with a wistfully wry smirk and says, "You sleep like a hawk."
Steve has a lot thank world war two for - including being largely unaffected by the sight of blood, and pretty close to the same to the scent of it. It bothers him on a visceral level, but it also helps keep him from relaxing too much while remaining something he can dismiss from conscious thought.
Even when it's still wet and in that kind of quantity. As long as it's not blood that's on fire, or he's not expected to eat at the same time.
"I sleep like a guy who learned to self-hypnotize myself into sleeping in a war zone." The Hawk remark though makes him look overtly curious. It's a sensible comparison but... pretty enough to make him think there's more to it than just the animal. "And either get the gauntlets or I do them myself. I don't know how they work. I will cut myself and bleed, then you'll feel bad."
With a slight cock of his head, Zerxus raises a hand and murmurs something. Steve will feel warmth cascade from his fingertips up through his entire body, and feel a sense that it's a harmless but hardening flame.
Then Zerxus presents both of his hands and says, "Now you won't."
Stoneskin is a powerful spell, for a paladin, and he sure did just use it to be a bitch.
Well, someone came home from their required murder march in a mood.
Steve doesn't really blame him - or for coming home a lot less human seeming than he was when he left. Steve more than half expected that. It was why he'd gotten up to help (or outright do himself) with the armor.
There is still a second there, where he is uncomfortable. Nothing like physical discomfort with sensation but how thorough and intensive it is. His expression never makes it all the way to the grimace, but some of his discomfort shows for a second or two.
"That's one way around a stupid ultimatum," he admits. He's not tentative in grabbing hold - in fact he intentionally tests the effect of whatever just happened. It does take him a second or two more to put together what he'd seen when he'd watched Zerxus removing them earlier (twisting) and getting them off himself.
Once he has, though, he just... sets them on the table and goes to work on the rest. There is absolutely going to be blood all over his hands. It's fine, but: "Was your brother older or younger than you?"
There was a time in his life when he wouldn't cast a spell on anyone without asking, save for longstanding permission or the direst of circumstances.
That was a very long time ago, and if that discomfort catches him between the ribs in a way that makes him feel painfully young for a second then no one has to know that.
Besides, he's focusing on being very still. It's a surprise, when Steve comes back and keeps going - he really did just expect the gauntlets, and he's about to say it - but then, well.
"...Older, but everyone assumed the opposite." Question for a question, come on, think -
No. Not just the gauntlets. Those were never the plan - not the biggest part, and certainly not all of it. His intention was never anything as simple - or complex - as literal disarming.
Not even of one blood soaked weapon-slash-armor.
He keeps going, but not in physically removing anything from Zerxus body, just undoing and unfastening clasps, staying well clear of any clear, single purpose weaponry. More about... mental shift, back to someone Steve can breathe around.
He starts to ask something. Then stops, tilts his head and waits.
He remembers this rhythm. "Your turn." He's pretty sure breaking that rhythm is likely to have some kind of consequence.
It almost sounds like he's slipping out of a reverie when he answers, "My - yes. It is."
The problem is, it's getting hard to focus. Gradually losing weight is helping, in one sense, but he's also losing the grounding balance of it, and -
Once the full chest plate comes over his head, it's clear why. More than one weapon was powerful and precise enough to puncture the leather of his gambeson, and that's soaked in blood too.
It isn't the tearing that surprises Zerxus, as he frowns down at himself; it's the fact that he's still bleeding.
That explains why the armor was so bloody, and the scent of it was so fresh. It also explains the distant tone in Zerxus' voice.
"Down," Steve says, immediately and firmly but gently, pushes the man back toward sitting in the nearest chair. "Work with me and sit down, please."
Can devils even die? Steve doesn't know, exactly, but he doesn't want to find out. He needs Zerxus to sit, he needs to get that leather out of the way and see where this is all coming from and at least try to do something about it.
There's a flicker of contrariness even now, a moment of token resistance, but he's weakened substantially in the last few minutes. In the midst of the Calamity that wouldn't have mattered, but there's nothing inside urging him far beyond his limits.
He all but collapses onto that chair, jarring the wounds and making himself even dizzier. "Sorry. This isn't...typical."
Reaching up to do - something helpful, anything - he realises that his hands are trembling.
He can respect that level of stubbornness, but that doesn't mean he's not glad he doesn't have to drag Zerxus bodily around after he's passed out - or wait until Zerxus has in order to do anything.
Not that he knows what he's going to do here.
"Yeah, doesn't sound like a thing that should even be possible." Maybe? But if he'd sold his soul, and was already in hell... Some kind of punishment, also maybe, and if that's the case... it's Steve's fault.
Steve doesn't know.
He does know that he's tearing that thing open so he can see what he's working with and then just - "We better both be hoping you can't die and stay dead." This is bad. He's not being flippant, even with that remark. He's being grim, and also pulling his borrowed shirt off to try to do... anything here. Mop up, get a decent look and just pressure.
"I can't stay dead." It's...not the highest of reassurances. He can die, and he can't control how long that lasts, and usually that's just a fact of his existence - but it would mean leaving the Captain alone.
The pressure does what it's meant to, at least, and after a few deep breaths Zerxus can manage, "I've got - sewing. Things. In that drawer."
Nothing meant to mend people, but he doesn't have to worry about infection.
He moves for the drawer, without hesitation or stupid questions about infection. Not able to stay dead means if nothing else, worst case scenario, infection's going to at least be a slower death.
It also means he's going to be causing more pain either in the sewing up or slower death, but- So be it, he guesses.
"Let me know if you'd just rather... die." He doesn't know. He is firmly over his head in trying to put together how to approach this. Given that he is, actually, defaulting to trusting the authority on the subject here. "Or otherwise need to tap out."
Once he's got that sewing kit, though, he - Well, stands across Zerxus' legs and ultimately sits in his lap, facing him. It's the only practical way he has to reach.
He's not shaking. He's not pale. He's just grim, determined, and with some (hidden) anger underlining it. "I'll do my best, but best case it's still gonna hurt like a bitch."
That level of consideration floors him more than the sudden, debilitating onset of mortality. The huff of laughter is choked, and it stains his lips red.
"I barely noticed the lance going in." That was the deepest hit, he's pretty sure, just beneath his ribs. "Pain isn't a problem."
It's not that he doesn't feel it; it's just one of those constant companions, like grief and self-loathing. Usually it isn't part of someone trying to help him, and the first pierce of the needle doesn't shift the shell-shocked wonder in those burning red eyes.
Steve looks up from what he's doing, briefly. "Well, let me know if that comes back along with your ability to die." There's eye-contact with that, and he... probably shouldn't see burning red eyes as reassuring, but he... does.
Then he bends his head back to the task, starting with the lance wound. It's... just adding more blood to all this, making everything slippery and the whole thing harder. This man better still be able to heal in some capacity though, because there's more damage here than just on the surface.
"You still owe me a question." He doesn't look up, and his weight on Zerxus' legs doesn't shift. Just focused, but also: talk to him.
He's a steady canvas, at least; no flinching, and only the occasional tremble.
"So I do." His voice is rough, strained, but he does sound more present; maybe the pain is anchoring him. Maybe it's the solid weight on top of him. "Did you have siblings?"
He's grateful Zerxus isn't fighting him. He doesn't know if he's just shocky from blood loss, or feeling more pain than he's consciously aware of - that tremble could be either - but holding Zerxus down to do this, after he's pretty convinced he caused it wouldn't be a good time for either one of them.
"Not exactly. Dad died when I was a couple of months old, and mom was a nurse. The lady who stepped in to help had a kid who was about my age I grew up with. Stuck together all the way through enlisting together. He died in action not long before I took a really long nap." That's more than was needed, delivered with an air of distraction since he's focused on sewing this shit up. And being as gentle about it as he can, given the circumstance (including equipment and severity and lack of experience).
While not at all convinced there is any point. At least, he hopes, it's keeping Zerxus distracted and thinking. "Was the assumption that you were older personality or something else?"
They keep having more in common than he expects, and if he was in a sharper state of mind he might think to question that kind of coincidence. As it is, it's just another note of wistfulness.
"At first. I was - quiet. Intense. Responsible. He was already a pirate when we met."
He was a cabin boy with aspirations, but at the time it was very impressive.
"Also I was taller." There's a trace of youthful smugness to that, shining like something ancient that could only be unearthed when he was drifting like this.
The angle of that slash is a bear, and leaves Steve needing to brace himself against Zerxus' chest with his forearm to get to it.
Still getting it done, needle biting in, thread pulling through (which Steve can almost hear, and can certainly feel the friction of), knotting it off and then breaking the thread and repeating the process.
"Bucky was older than me - and until that project I mentioned taller. He was pulling my ass out of the fire most of the time until then. He was kind of a devil may care type, but I was in some kind of fight every time he turned around. After... things flipped around on size and who the responsible party supposedly was." Then, since Zerxus is drifting: "Why'd it take you that long to meet?"
Edited (DRIFTING NOT DRAWING WTF) 2024-10-30 01:19 (UTC)
He doesn't have much strength to lend, which is a truly surreal feeling, but he does brace his hands against Steve - one at his back, one on his hip - to steady him as much as he can.
"Sounds familiar." It was very fortunate that both of them eventually learned healing magic. (It would be nice for that to come in handy right now, but Zerxus knows better.) "He wasn't my brother, yet."
Does that make sense? He's starting to lose track.
And Steve would feel a lot better if that grip was a lot harder, but he'll take the help he can get - and point of contact. It's useful for monitoring Zerxus.
Right?
Right.
"I can't tell if it was a magic thing, a 'close as brothers' situation, he married your sister, or one of your parents married one of his."
Potentially makes sense. Definitely does not actually make sense. "Maybe tell me which one if you feel like it. And ask me a question." Steve is not losing track. Of anything.
He can't quite manage another laugh; it's more a rueful exhale.
"Fair. We were - very close, for a long time. And then..."
They're into territory that would be quite firmly locked off, most of the time. Zerxus doesn't even notice.
"Eaedalus. Nydas's older brother - more sense than both of us." They didn't have the same instant rapport, didn't spend hours diving into caves or chatting beneath the stars, but he'd always been a sort of...solid, steady extension of that dynamic.
"He took in my son." Nydas had felt like family for a long time, but that was when the Okiros were indelibly linked.
His hands are sturdier against Steve, now. It probably won't last.
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"The first two won't be a problem." Devils don't truly need either, but Malsheem isn't lacking in pointed decadence. "Just let me check for poison or curses first."
Then he closes his eyes, and for a moment his hand feels even warmer.
"About an hour." It's enough time to get the Captain at least minimally situated, pull his armour back on and head back to Dis, but... "This is the safest place for you to be, right now, but that's - "
Judging on a curve, let's say.
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"I was hoping the opulence would extend that far. You don't wanna know what my appetite looks like when it's compensating for any kind of healing or sleep deprivation." Both are already in play and he doesn't expect either one to go away.
Appetite's probably the wrong word given his very human response to the constant smell of blood. Close enough to 'need to eat', though and he's not going to start whining about anything, much less that minor.
"I'm not gonna go anywhere or start having conversations. My soul and I will both be here when you get back." That? Is a promise. It's pretty short term for now, but it's a promise.
Steve... doesn't break those.
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He will be here when you return.
Asmodeus lies all the time, but he doesn't break a contract and the difference is more subtle than most people realise. A mortal needs to see it plainly, and literally, to accept an offer properly.
For someone whose soul is already his - there's an echo to it, a cadence that Zerxus knows as well as his own heartbeat.
Thank you.
The devil isn't doing this for no reason - there's a catch or a cost - but right now? He's willing to just accept it.
"Let's get you that food."
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Then he takes the time Zerxus is gone to get his suit stuck in the back of Zerxus wardrobe (just the suit; gloves and shield stay out). He browses through the wardrobe since he's apparently going to be dressing himself out of it for the foreseeable future.
He does not otherwise get nosy, but instead just settles into one of those armchairs in the room with Zerxus' armor stand. He spends the rest of the time Zerxus is gone 'asleep', in the exact way he slept in the middle of a world war two battle field. Cycling between barely dozing to brief periods of deeper sleep that he rises back out of to the light doze, over and over again.
He doesn't startle when Zerxus is back in the room with him. His eyes open, immediately clear and alert. Stretches as he stands and walks straight to Zerxus. "Gauntlets off." His voice however reflects that he was at least asleep, in being a little husky and more slowed down than it has been thus far.
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His armour is soaked in blood, but he moves like this is a natural thing; if there's any stiffness to that, it's disguised by the bulk of steel.
Most people wouldn't assume from the start that their guest was newly awake, after they leapt up like that, but Zerxus gazes at him with a wistfully wry smirk and says, "You sleep like a hawk."
Oh, what? Did you give him an order?
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Even when it's still wet and in that kind of quantity. As long as it's not blood that's on fire, or he's not expected to eat at the same time.
"I sleep like a guy who learned to self-hypnotize myself into sleeping in a war zone." The Hawk remark though makes him look overtly curious. It's a sensible comparison but... pretty enough to make him think there's more to it than just the animal. "And either get the gauntlets or I do them myself. I don't know how they work. I will cut myself and bleed, then you'll feel bad."
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Then Zerxus presents both of his hands and says, "Now you won't."
Stoneskin is a powerful spell, for a paladin, and he sure did just use it to be a bitch.
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Steve doesn't really blame him - or for coming home a lot less human seeming than he was when he left. Steve more than half expected that. It was why he'd gotten up to help (or outright do himself) with the armor.
There is still a second there, where he is uncomfortable. Nothing like physical discomfort with sensation but how thorough and intensive it is. His expression never makes it all the way to the grimace, but some of his discomfort shows for a second or two.
"That's one way around a stupid ultimatum," he admits. He's not tentative in grabbing hold - in fact he intentionally tests the effect of whatever just happened. It does take him a second or two more to put together what he'd seen when he'd watched Zerxus removing them earlier (twisting) and getting them off himself.
Once he has, though, he just... sets them on the table and goes to work on the rest. There is absolutely going to be blood all over his hands. It's fine, but: "Was your brother older or younger than you?"
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That was a very long time ago, and if that discomfort catches him between the ribs in a way that makes him feel painfully young for a second then no one has to know that.
Besides, he's focusing on being very still. It's a surprise, when Steve comes back and keeps going - he really did just expect the gauntlets, and he's about to say it - but then, well.
"...Older, but everyone assumed the opposite." Question for a question, come on, think -
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Not even of one blood soaked weapon-slash-armor.
He keeps going, but not in physically removing anything from Zerxus body, just undoing and unfastening clasps, staying well clear of any clear, single purpose weaponry. More about... mental shift, back to someone Steve can breathe around.
He starts to ask something. Then stops, tilts his head and waits.
He remembers this rhythm. "Your turn." He's pretty sure breaking that rhythm is likely to have some kind of consequence.
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The problem is, it's getting hard to focus. Gradually losing weight is helping, in one sense, but he's also losing the grounding balance of it, and -
Once the full chest plate comes over his head, it's clear why. More than one weapon was powerful and precise enough to puncture the leather of his gambeson, and that's soaked in blood too.
It isn't the tearing that surprises Zerxus, as he frowns down at himself; it's the fact that he's still bleeding.
Well. The cost was simple enough, at least.
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"Down," Steve says, immediately and firmly but gently, pushes the man back toward sitting in the nearest chair. "Work with me and sit down, please."
Can devils even die? Steve doesn't know, exactly, but he doesn't want to find out. He needs Zerxus to sit, he needs to get that leather out of the way and see where this is all coming from and at least try to do something about it.
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He all but collapses onto that chair, jarring the wounds and making himself even dizzier. "Sorry. This isn't...typical."
Reaching up to do - something helpful, anything - he realises that his hands are trembling.
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Not that he knows what he's going to do here.
"Yeah, doesn't sound like a thing that should even be possible." Maybe? But if he'd sold his soul, and was already in hell... Some kind of punishment, also maybe, and if that's the case... it's Steve's fault.
Steve doesn't know.
He does know that he's tearing that thing open so he can see what he's working with and then just - "We better both be hoping you can't die and stay dead." This is bad. He's not being flippant, even with that remark. He's being grim, and also pulling his borrowed shirt off to try to do... anything here. Mop up, get a decent look and just pressure.
He still knows this is bad.
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The pressure does what it's meant to, at least, and after a few deep breaths Zerxus can manage, "I've got - sewing. Things. In that drawer."
Nothing meant to mend people, but he doesn't have to worry about infection.
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It also means he's going to be causing more pain either in the sewing up or slower death, but- So be it, he guesses.
"Let me know if you'd just rather... die." He doesn't know. He is firmly over his head in trying to put together how to approach this. Given that he is, actually, defaulting to trusting the authority on the subject here. "Or otherwise need to tap out."
Once he's got that sewing kit, though, he - Well, stands across Zerxus' legs and ultimately sits in his lap, facing him. It's the only practical way he has to reach.
He's not shaking. He's not pale. He's just grim, determined, and with some (hidden) anger underlining it. "I'll do my best, but best case it's still gonna hurt like a bitch."
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"I barely noticed the lance going in." That was the deepest hit, he's pretty sure, just beneath his ribs. "Pain isn't a problem."
It's not that he doesn't feel it; it's just one of those constant companions, like grief and self-loathing. Usually it isn't part of someone trying to help him, and the first pierce of the needle doesn't shift the shell-shocked wonder in those burning red eyes.
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Then he bends his head back to the task, starting with the lance wound. It's... just adding more blood to all this, making everything slippery and the whole thing harder. This man better still be able to heal in some capacity though, because there's more damage here than just on the surface.
"You still owe me a question." He doesn't look up, and his weight on Zerxus' legs doesn't shift. Just focused, but also: talk to him.
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"So I do." His voice is rough, strained, but he does sound more present; maybe the pain is anchoring him. Maybe it's the solid weight on top of him. "Did you have siblings?"
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"Not exactly. Dad died when I was a couple of months old, and mom was a nurse. The lady who stepped in to help had a kid who was about my age I grew up with. Stuck together all the way through enlisting together. He died in action not long before I took a really long nap." That's more than was needed, delivered with an air of distraction since he's focused on sewing this shit up. And being as gentle about it as he can, given the circumstance (including equipment and severity and lack of experience).
While not at all convinced there is any point. At least, he hopes, it's keeping Zerxus distracted and thinking. "Was the assumption that you were older personality or something else?"
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"At first. I was - quiet. Intense. Responsible. He was already a pirate when we met."
He was a cabin boy with aspirations, but at the time it was very impressive.
"Also I was taller." There's a trace of youthful smugness to that, shining like something ancient that could only be unearthed when he was drifting like this.
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Still getting it done, needle biting in, thread pulling through (which Steve can almost hear, and can certainly feel the friction of), knotting it off and then breaking the thread and repeating the process.
"Bucky was older than me - and until that project I mentioned taller. He was pulling my ass out of the fire most of the time until then. He was kind of a devil may care type, but I was in some kind of fight every time he turned around. After... things flipped around on size and who the responsible party supposedly was." Then, since Zerxus is drifting: "Why'd it take you that long to meet?"
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"Sounds familiar." It was very fortunate that both of them eventually learned healing magic. (It would be nice for that to come in handy right now, but Zerxus knows better.) "He wasn't my brother, yet."
Does that make sense? He's starting to lose track.
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And Steve would feel a lot better if that grip was a lot harder, but he'll take the help he can get - and point of contact. It's useful for monitoring Zerxus.
Right?
Right.
"I can't tell if it was a magic thing, a 'close as brothers' situation, he married your sister, or one of your parents married one of his."
Potentially makes sense. Definitely does not actually make sense. "Maybe tell me which one if you feel like it. And ask me a question." Steve is not losing track. Of anything.
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"Fair. We were - very close, for a long time. And then..."
They're into territory that would be quite firmly locked off, most of the time. Zerxus doesn't even notice.
"Eaedalus. Nydas's older brother - more sense than both of us." They didn't have the same instant rapport, didn't spend hours diving into caves or chatting beneath the stars, but he'd always been a sort of...solid, steady extension of that dynamic.
"He took in my son." Nydas had felt like family for a long time, but that was when the Okiros were indelibly linked.
His hands are sturdier against Steve, now. It probably won't last.
"Did you ever - ?"
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