Title: S.O.S.

Author: melfice

Pairing: LegaultxHeath, HeathxLegault

Fandom: Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Not mine.

-Part 2/3: The Eye -

‘I spoke the words but never gave a thought to what they all could mean.'

The ship’s rocking and swaying movements are not indicative of a calm sea. The creak and groan of wood and steel holding up against the thrashing waves echoes through the otherwise quiet bowels of the ship.

The storm has been raging for barely a half hour and, seated tensely in the confines of the somewhat crowded storage hold, Heath curses himself for blindly hoping for calm seas throughout the entirety of the trip.

It had struck more suddenly than anticipated, caught both of them amidst a mixture of windy rain and salt water.

“You look like a drowned rat,” Legault drawls, lifting an amber bottle to his lips.

Heath brushes wet locks of green and white hair from his face, though it falls right back in his way. “Thanks.”

He grabs a thin blanket from the floor and wraps it around his bare shoulders, before settling across from his companion. Two pairs of water soaked boots sit in one corner side by side, two pairs of gloves lay flat nearby.

The bottle is offered to him and he takes it by the neck with numb fingers. “What I wouldn’t give to be off of this ship.”

The small storage hold they’ve settled into seems to be barely in use, filled with emptied crates and miscellaneous repair parts that likely won’t even be needed. It’s nearly pitch black with the wooden door shut, only the flicker of candlelight from outside filtering in through the bottom of the door.

He sees only a faint image, every so often, of Legault sitting in the dark. His eyes have never been keen in the dark, never been something he can trust; it’s one reason he often considers working with Legault as an advantage.

Even though he may not be able to see, he can feel Legault’s eyes on him.

“Are you scared of storms?”

The liquid is dark, nearly sweet, and it feels smooth going down his throat, but it does little to alleviate the cold in his limbs. Stronger than most, but not strong enough for what he wants to feel.

“What?”

“You seem very…” Legault pauses briefly, a hum in the back of his throat, “tense. Like you’re expecting these walls to come crashing down on you.”

It is against his own willpower that his body stiffens slightly at those words. It is frustrating to him in some aspects that, more often than not, he is unable to control the way he reacts to seemingly minor things the thief says.

He takes a larger drink from the bottle.

“You said it stormed the last time you were on a ship and you’ve said you’re scared of drowning… so it just seems a safe assumption.”

Heath doesn’t glance up from the glass in his hands. “A safe assumption.”

“You are scared of storms.” No longer a question.

His grip tightens, only briefly, and he takes one last swig of the dark ale before tossing it in Legault‘s direction.

“Scared of storms, scared of water, scared of ships…. Scared of me? All of the above, is it?”

He can almost hear the grin spreading lazily across Legault’s face.

He shakes his head. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Is that a fact? You seem awfully scared of me. I make you so nervous.”

“You’re strange,” Heath says dryly. “Unpredictable. It doesn’t mean I’m scared of you.”

He feels, more than sees, Legault move ever so slightly in the dark. There’s a presence hovering over him and he can feel Legault's hand pressed onto the ground near where he sits, as though holding himself up.

“What are you doing?” Heath reaches out a hand in front of him and clutches Legault’s shoulder.

There is a sudden breath on his ear and Heath stiffens. He can hear the smirk in Legault‘s low voice. “See, you seem kind of scared to me.”

“I’m annoyed! I don‘t feel like dealing with your drunken advances any more than the next person.”

A low chuckle, but no longer near his ear. “I don‘t have to be drunk to have an interest in you, Heath.”

As his eyes adjust to the darkened surroundings, he can vaguely make out the smirking thief in front of him. His fingers tighten against Legault’s shoulder, but he doesn’t make any attempt to move him. “An interest? Your only interest is pestering me.”

“Is that a fact?” there is the lightest touch of fingers against his neck. “I think you like it.”

A strong hand grabs the slender fingers at his neck, halting the feather-like motions that are sending chills down his spine. “I think you’re crazy.”

A grin in the dark. “You‘re blushing.”

With one hand on his shoulder and one on his hand, now moved to his wrist, it only takes one forceful shove to push Legault away. He hears an amused chuckle and rubs his neck, as though there are still fingers invading his privacy.

Heath stares at the vague, shadowed outline of the man sitting in front of him. “You’re impossible.”

“No need to get angry, precious.”

There is a brief bout of silence as Legault moves back and sits on the floor again, a moment as Heath's body relaxes and he refuses the urge to sigh. Legault takes another drink from the amber bottle with a calm smile, his eyes half lidded. Heath's own calm demeanor is betrayed by the tips of his ears, still a tell-tale red that he is certain the thief can see plain as day in the dark room.

It always happens this way.

“I‘m not angry…” Heath says after a moment. “I just feel… I never know what you’re thinking, what you’re going to do. I feel lost.”

“Yet for all you worry, I‘ve done nothing.”

“You‘ve done plenty,” he replies dryly. “It still makes me feel vulnerable. I can’t swim and it’s a weakness. I don’t understand you and it’s a weakness, but being unable to swim doesn’t affect me every day. I see you every day, I share a tent with you at night, I fight alongside you all day.”

Legault glances at him. “You act like I‘m going to slit your throat in the middle of the night.”

“I already told you… I‘m not scared. I trust you. I just…” he pauses for a moment, eyes on what little he can see. “I don’t understand you. I don’t know what you want from me.”

Legault leans close again and Heath instinctively leans away, back connecting with the crate again. His smile has faded, his face expressionless.

“I want the same thing you want,” he says slowly, pointedly, “If you feel so vulnerable then perhaps it’s time to learn. I offered to help.”

A hesitant pause. “You did.”

“Right now?” Legault asks, voice low.

“Are we still talking about swimming?” Heath breathes, before Legault’s mouth covers his own.

The first time had been the most difficult and he had even thought it might be the last.

Yet the night had come and gone and by morning Legault was there again, same confident smirk on his pale lips.

It was as though he hadn’t been gripping tightly onto Heath’s hips the day before, terrified but unwilling to admit it.

“Are you all right?” he had asked, holding out a hand to the other man to pull him onto Hyperion’s back.

There had never been even a hint of shame in the thief’s eyes as he took the offered hand and smirked. “Of course.”

The second time had been better, more expected, but Heath still had mixed feelings about having a partner that was afraid to fly.

It proved to be unwarranted. Legault was always at his side regardless of his fear, never hesitant to grab hold of his extended hand and be carried off when necessary.

Yet even months later his fingers still gripped Heath tightly when they ascended into the clouds, his breath would still catch when they dropped from the sky.

“You learn to live with fear,” Legault had told him one night, as they lay side by side near the warm fire. “There is nothing to be ashamed of; fear is only human.”

He isn’t sure what he was expecting.

Legault tastes of dark ale and darker intentions. His movements are not devoid of his usual grace and subtlety, yet they lack a certain typical calm and it’s heightening to know it might be because of him.

His skin may be cold, but it feels warm under Heath’s freezing fingers.

Heath has had very little to drink and, although the ale has made him feel warmer and more relaxed as time passes, he can't attribute his current lack of inhibitions to it. For all he has doubted and questioned both the motives of the thief and his own turmoil-filled emotions it is suddenly as though they have all passed from his mind.

The journey has been long and tiresome to bring them here but, even after all of his battling with himself, it is he that presses Legault against the floor of the ship.

Thin fingers dig into his shoulders, the body they belong to almost writhing underneath him. His own hands stay on Legault’s pale skin, his mouth following suit. Legault’s breathing catches for a moment, grip on Heath’s shoulders tightening.

His skin is smooth, pale, and mostly unmarred. Aside from the jagged scar decorating his face, Legault's body betrays the dangerous life he leads. Heath's own is a violent contrast, both darker in color and rougher to the touch.

Lips press against Heath's collarbone, those same lithe fingers tracing a path down his ribcage and finding his hips. Legault's fingers are not callused like his own, not as weathered as his so plainly show, and they send chills across his skin wherever they touch.

The ship’s rocking slows as the wind dies down, but the storm isn’t over; Heath can still hear it, can still feel it. He doesn’t want to call it fear, but it terrifies him all the same. There are memories in him of the last time he was caught at sea, thrown overboard in a violent storm. There are memories of nothing but a harsh pressure, of deadly hands that seemed to pull him underneath.

Hips press against hips and Legault moans against his mouth. His fingers are gripping hard enough to bruise, but it only makes Heath’s heart beat faster. The slender body underneath him is unusually familiar and it is as though every kiss and every bite are in exactly the right spot.

Heath pulls away sharply as a loud, sickening crack echoes through the entire ship. The vessel lurches suddenly and, though the movements and sounds send a thousand frantic signals to his brain, his entire body freezes.

Slender fingers grab the back of his neck and his eyes snap to Legault’s, almost unprepared to find the concern in them.

“Focus on me,” Legault tells him, voice low. “Only on me.”

He pulls Heath back to him and finds his mouth again.