Well, here's Touch. Last one--hope you like it!

Warmth

by sagewolf

Damn, but this island was cold. Matthew wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, casting a dark glance at the pegasus knights. How the hell did they walk around in those skirts without freezing? Stupid Ilians and their stupid frozen homeland. He rubbed his hands together and breathed on them to warm them up. His breath was hot and moist on his skin, and sent tiny wisps of vapour to mix with the mist all around them, but it didn't do much to improve the painful sensation in his fingers. Aah, he had to come up with something to get his mind off the cold!

Leila came quickly to mind. She was never cold. Not her voice, not her body, not her heart-- everything about her was warmth and heat. A part of him protested at daydreaming--he was on a job--but it was swiftly shoved to the back of his mind and told to shut up. He wasn't rearguard just now, nor was he scouting. He could spare a few minutes.

Glancing around to make sure no-one was looking, he slipped a hand into his pocket. His fingers met cold, hard metal, smooth and weighty. He pulled it out, the silver ring he'd bought; one of the few things he'd actually paid for in his lifetime. It was simple, just a plain, unadorned band of bright metal. A smile spread across his face and he flipped the ring in the air, feeling it hit his palm with a thrill of expectation. He'd made his decision-- with any luck, this would be his last mission for House Ostia, and Leila's too. He was going to ask her to leave spying behind and marry him. Ah, yes-- there was the warm feeling, spreading through his body. The thought of spending any time with her was usually all it took. Now he was thinking of spending his life by her side. The Nabata desert couldn't match the heat in his soul, and even this gloomy, misty isle couldn't cool it.

From the first time he'd met her, she'd been extraordinary. She was the best Ostia had. The best spy, the best thief, the best at everything she did. Of course, back then, a rookie like him, full of dreams of grandeur and glory, he couldn't have that. No-one was going to be better than him. So he'd begun to follow her, learning from her, copying her every move. After a few years, he'd been nearly as good as her. By that time, of course, she'd noticed him too. She wasn't the best because the rest of Ostia was incompetent, after all.

Their rivalry had begun with a few quick robberies-- he took her glove, she took his shoe, he returned the glove only to steal its mate the next moment. After that lost its spice, they stole secrets from each other, or one would attempt to trail the other down a corridor or a street without being noticed or shaken. They had bickered and taunted each other constantly back then, but never once had there been any venom in their jibes. Not so strange, really, that their rivalry had changed and deepened, becoming friendship, although they never stopped competing. It kept their skills sharp and their wits ready, after all, when they weren't on duty. That made up for whatever ulterior motives they had, in Matthew's opinion.

They'd sparred as well, with knives or swords. She was surprisingly strong: a blow from her blade managed, on occasion, to knock his weapon from his hand, jarring his entire arm. More than once their duels ended with the point or the edge of her blade against his neck, so sharp it could barely be felt, but still cold, still deadly. Far preferable was the pressure of her other hand, the feel of her firm grasp against his skin. Of course, he won sometimes too, and he'd knock off some cheap joke to make her laugh. The vibrations from her throat would travel up his blade and into his arm, making him shudder and grin without meaning to. Had she ever noticed it? Probably. She noticed everything.

She'd certainly noticed as their relationship began to deepen. The hand that had once withdrawn before the knife did began, instead, to linger; passing her in the corridors of Ostia, he would feel her touch, warm and gentle, on his shoulder or side for an instant. He had been slower. He only began to notice littler things about her, like the smoothness of her fingers or the deliberate, unbreakable lightness of her grip on a knife hilt. If he brushed her arm or grabbed her during a duel, he was always impressed by the resilience and strength of her lean frame, every muscle firm under his grasp. Her hair was wiry but still soft, the end of each strand his hand brushed as he tapped her shoulder sharp and distinct. He'd noticed the little things about her; she'd noticed what he noticed and had known what it meant. When he'd eventually figured it out too, she'd flicked his ear gently, a contact as sudden and unexpected as his realization.

They'd never spoken about it, nor had they gone out of their ways to see each other. A distraction--and that was what such feelings were, in their profession--could mean death to either of them. Yet somewhere along the line, he'd gotten serious. Begun letting his mind wander to her. Started thinking about what it would be like to start a family with her, settle down and abandon his life of danger and trickery. When had it happened? When had he stopped being thrilled by danger and secrecy? Thinking about his job now made him... tired. It was nothing compared to her. This miserable mist definitely wasn't worth being away from his love.

He ran his finger over the ring again; it was covered in tiny beads of water now, and still cold and hard and heavy in his palm. Grinning, he pocketed it again. He'd give her the ring and say it for the first time out loud: he loved her. He wanted to spend his life with her. She-- she would say yes. He'd already seen the answer in her eyes, felt it in her touch, heard it in her voice as she bid him farewell. He shuddered with excitement, the movement dislodging several droplets of water from his hair and sending them trickling down his face.

Hector called him for some reason and he headed off in the direction of the young master's voice, filled with warmth from head to toe despite the cold, surrounding mist.

He couldn't imagine anything which could dispel that warmth.

Um. I meant to be happy. I really did. But this was the best idea I had, and I didn't want to end on a dud note. So more sadness. Two out of five happy endings aren't bad, right? Well... nearly two. Okay, fine. Taste was happy. I'm not a romantic. So sue me. xP (Actually, the enneagram says I AM wing-Romantic. But then I read the description and it really meant 'emo'. Does 'romantic' mean 'emo' somehow?)

This really was hard to come up with good ideas for. It started off as Heath/tact, but then I put NILS with Cass, so it was almost Priscilla but I couldn't see him pushing her off Hyperion (that's what it was) so it turned into Hector/Farina then Rath/Lyn and so finally you see before you: tragic Matthew/Leila. Nothing else was this annoyingly hard to come up with ideas for. I'm not actually convinced it's up to standard... but it was the best I could come up with. In hopes of making it less sucky, I put in some symbolism. This makes it 'deeper'. (I'm not convinced of that, either, actually... I'm lying anyway. I didn't put it in. It just appeared, and it was blatant enough for me to notice and strengthen it. Normally I couldn't notice a subtext if it hit me in the face with a dead herring. Spot the Irony.)

Well, anyway, thanks to anyone who stuck around to read this far. Extra thanks to the reviewers, and to Xirysa for making me write this. Interesting little exercise, wasn't it? I actually think it turned out well, too. (Overall.) Well, onward! To the next fic! Or rather... to my Irish homework and English essay (containing yet MORE death and misery)! ...Agh.

sagewolf out.