you never tell me what is wrong

--
1.

Viktor has never understood Gremio.

He knows Gremio was--is--a soldier, no different from them. He knows Gremio served in the house of a high-ranking general. He knows Gremio has seen the lies, the backstabbing, the corruption, because the Young Master he loves so fiercely is no less a victim of it. And Tir knows it. Cleo knows it. But Gremio is still as disgusted with their little band of rebels as he always was, bound by his loyalty to an empire that cares nothing for him.

He wants to tell him that he’s blind.

But he lets him open his eyes on his own.

--
2.

Even a hardened man like Viktor won’t deny that it hurts, and every ounce of testosterone in his body strains to make sure he doesn’t flinch. Blood trickles down the tanned skin of one arm, and he tries to focus on that, watching with a sort of morbid fascination as it moves down the ridges his muscles make, slow and sluggish. He seems almost disappointed when Gremio wipes it away with a warm cloth.

“No one remembers how to do this the old-fashioned way anymore,” the blonde explains, tying a bandage around his arm with a careful, steady hand. “The easiest way to drain one’s medicine supply is to use it too frivolously, you know. It should be at least another two days before we reach Seika. We can’t afford to be wasteful.” He ties the dressing off perfectly—not too loose, not too tight—and stands up, flashing Viktor a small smile. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Viktor flexes his arm curiously, surprised when he finds that, no, it doesn’t hurt at all.

He wants to thank him.

But instead he grins and says, “What, ain’t you gonna kiss it better?”

Gremio’s eyebrow twitches in irritation, and he smacks him roughly on the back of the head, storming off to join the rest of the group. And all Viktor can do is laugh.

--
3.

They all saw it coming the moment that fucking wolf bit Tir’s shoulder.

Viktor leans back against a tree and watches Gremio fretting over his charge, the blonde hurriedly sitting him down on a nearby rock. He undoes the clasp of his shirt, tugging it back to expose the wounded skin, looking it over carefully. “Young Master, are you alright? Does it hurt? Oh, heavens, at least it doesn’t look too deep. Do you want me to bandage it for you? I’m sure we have some medicine lying around somewhere?” and so forth. Tir is annoyed, Viktor can tell, and he can understand why. A few months ago Gremio’s spaz attacks were something the boy seemed to have accepted as just par for the course, endearing more than anything else.

Only Tir isn’t a boy anymore. Tir’s a grown man. And Gremio has yet to realize that.

He wants to tell Gremio to quit worrying, that Tir’s grown up and doesn’t need his babying anymore.

But then Tir knocks his hand away with a hiss of “I’m not a child, Gremio!”

The forest goes silent, awkwardly silent, and Gremio draws back, both startled and hurt. His gaze lowers to the ground, and he stammers out a quiet apology. Tir’s expression softens, and he gets to his feet, hand resting on Gremio’s arm as he says he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean it.

Viktor knows he’s lying.

--
4.

Viktor’s surprised to find Gremio in his room late one afternoon, leaning against the windowsill, sipping from a glass of wine as he watches the rain.

For once, he doesn’t know what to say. He could ask Gremio what he’s doing here, he could ask if something’s wrong, he could ask if that glass is all he’s had to drink tonight (he reasonably assumes that it is not), but speaking just seems inappropriate right now. So he leaves his sword and scabbard by the door, and goes to join him, leaning against the wall.

Instead of watching the rain, he watches Gremio. He knows what he’s thinking of. Any man who’s left his home before would know. His eyes are sad, distant, lonely, and Viktor knows that even if he’s here with them, his heart is in a mansion in Gregminster, with a family, with a child, that he will never know again. Viktor knows what it’s like, of course. And he wants to say something, anything, to comfort him.

But instead he gingerly takes the glass from Gremio’s pale fingers, downing what’s left of the liquid before setting it on the nearby table. “Not sure how much you’ve had,” he says, “but I’m pretty sure it’s more than enough.”

Gremio laughs, but there’s little life behind it. He nods in agreement. “You’re probably right.”

--
5.

Viktor collapses at Gremio’s side, sweat glistening on his skin, his veins humming with the satisfying warmth of the afterglow. The blonde settles down next to him, one arm draped over his stomach, and he rests his cheek against his bare shoulder, burning hot against his cooling skin. He doesn’t know if what they just did was a mistake. He doesn’t know if anything will change. He doesn’t know if they remembered to lock the door. But right now it doesn’t matter. Gremio, for the time being, is content, is at peace. Viktor supposes he can’t ask for anything more.

Gremio’s eyes are closed, and Viktor wonders if he’s sleeping. He gets his answer when he reaches out to touch that scar on his left cheek, and green eyes stare back at him, glazed over and sleepy. “That was… nice,” Gremio says, fingers absently tracing the muscles of his abdomen. Viktor says nothing, but just looks at him, skin almost alabaster white in the moonlight, golden hair fanning like a still wave over the pillow, chest rising and falling slow and steady as he catches his breath.

Viktor wants to tell him that he’s beautiful.

But instead he leans over to brush his lips against that sweaty forehead.

Maybe some other night.

--

“You shouldn’t go.”

Gremio looks at him strangely. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says with a small smile, turning away from Viktor to hurry back to his Young Master’s side.

Viktor watches him helplessly, scratching his head. Figures that the one time he’d actually get to say what he wanted, the damn fool wouldn’t listen.