[For a moment, he's silent, rolling Wolfwood's words around on his tongue. It did happen, it did mean something. It's obvious it did; if it meant nothing, would Flamebringer bother to have avoided Wolfwood this whole time? No, no he wouldn't have, because for all his "I don't care, it doesn't matter" he does care, and it did matter, and he knows what Wolfwood's skin feels like against his lips both in the past and in the present. It's just one of them was far, far more loving.
"Love", huh. Love enough to be married, to have kids and a house and chickens, to go out into the garden every morning and chase the hornworms off his plants while Wolfwood — "Nick" — stood on the balcony smoking and watching him work. To light their cigarettes off each others' and blow smoke rings into their mouths.
When he thinks of it with Wolfwood, it's too sweet. Hell, that's not even how he sees Ezell — Ezell is solar flares, morning dew on the poppies in the garden, the warmth of fresh bread in the morning and the comforting scent of cut roses. He's the taste of something sweet, someone who Flamebringer wants to protect and keep, press his nose into his cheek and breathe in his scent.
Wolfwood is... not that. Wolfwood is a stubborn vine clinging to the trellis that Flamebringer cannot clip. He's the acrid taste of smoke that fills Flamebringer's lungs either in daily life or when facing down actual, honest-to-god war. He's a thorn in Flamebringer's heel, a weed choking out the lilies, an Amanita that he shouldn't leave there but is too fond of to remove.
He pushes himself off the oak tree again, arms still crossed, and strides into Wolfwood's space again. This time, he plucks the cigarette from his lips, flips it around, and ashes it over Wolfwood's blazer.]
Asher loved Nick, [he says, quietly,] more than either of us can probably say.
[He presses the half-smoked cigarette to his lips, takes a long drag, and exhales a ring of smoke off to the side.]
I don't love you. Not like he did. Not like your current partners do, and not how I love Ezell. But if you asked me right now, I'd say I love the thought of carving my name into your back with my claws in some possessive, fucked up sort of way.
I don't think that's the sort of love you deserve.
no subject
"Love", huh. Love enough to be married, to have kids and a house and chickens, to go out into the garden every morning and chase the hornworms off his plants while Wolfwood — "Nick" — stood on the balcony smoking and watching him work. To light their cigarettes off each others' and blow smoke rings into their mouths.
When he thinks of it with Wolfwood, it's too sweet. Hell, that's not even how he sees Ezell — Ezell is solar flares, morning dew on the poppies in the garden, the warmth of fresh bread in the morning and the comforting scent of cut roses. He's the taste of something sweet, someone who Flamebringer wants to protect and keep, press his nose into his cheek and breathe in his scent.
Wolfwood is... not that. Wolfwood is a stubborn vine clinging to the trellis that Flamebringer cannot clip. He's the acrid taste of smoke that fills Flamebringer's lungs either in daily life or when facing down actual, honest-to-god war. He's a thorn in Flamebringer's heel, a weed choking out the lilies, an Amanita that he shouldn't leave there but is too fond of to remove.
He pushes himself off the oak tree again, arms still crossed, and strides into Wolfwood's space again. This time, he plucks the cigarette from his lips, flips it around, and ashes it over Wolfwood's blazer.]
Asher loved Nick, [he says, quietly,] more than either of us can probably say.
[He presses the half-smoked cigarette to his lips, takes a long drag, and exhales a ring of smoke off to the side.]
I don't love you. Not like he did. Not like your current partners do, and not how I love Ezell. But if you asked me right now, I'd say I love the thought of carving my name into your back with my claws in some possessive, fucked up sort of way.
I don't think that's the sort of love you deserve.