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mimiorzea · 4 years

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XXII: Argy-bargy

If there was something Vhox had learned in his twenty or some odd years, it was this:

the people in his life didn't come back.

The lesson took him a while to learn -- he wasn't always a 'quick on the uptake' sorta lad. But when your own mum couldn't be arsed to come back to feed you or pay rent for the musty room she left you in a few days shy of your fifth summer, and you got kicked out by the smarmy landlord some weeks later with little more than a sympathetic pat and a lukewarm egg salad sandwich (for which Vhox could still credit his lifelong intolerance of egg salad -- it wasn't even good, and he probably woulda spewed it over the edge of the lower decks had he not been starving)... well. You'd have to be some special kind of dense to think anyone else out there was gonna put up with your shite, either.

Such an assessment might not have been exactly fair, because Vhox himself was, at times, responsible for kicking old mates to the curb. He did it with a bit less courtesy than he'd been afforded by one Sharlayan Mooncat, too; would up and vanish to another haunt somewhere on the li'l smack of land they called Vylbrand, or find himself picking drunken fights until one of 'em finally had the nerve to break things off. One fellow in the crew that raised him even went so far as to send him letters, moping about the good ol' days before Vhox put his fist through Toffwyb's chest. Bloody sap, he was. Vhox spent days reading that letter, considering what it might be like to go back, to mend a few in the sea of bridges he'd torched, and even scavenged a pen to try to write out a reply -- but when he imagined facing the rest of the crew, the things they might say and the things he might come back awares to find that he'd done, he tossed the letter out with the rubbish and didn't once look back. Didn't read another damned one, deciding they better served being rolled up and smoked with the fogweed, as if the inherent disrespect of doing so might convey his disdain for the mere idea that he would ever go back, and better loosen that awful knot of indigestion he got any time he thought about what would happen to ol' Ortolf if Vhox lost control again.

There was a comfort in moving on, he would say. Always feeling his way forward, spending his days with a lot of fresh faces who didn't know a lick about him other than he was a decent lay and could bull's eye an apple right off the top of a brave sod's head with a knife even after putting back three pints of ale. No one expected anything from him -- and when things changed and people moved on, as they always did, there was ever a new batch of faces to replace the old, pissing his life away in the comfort of warm shallows for fear of all the things that could drag him under in the deep.

And Rin -- well, Vhox would have wagered his thumb that Rin was the same way, if not for that swivin' yellow-bellied shitestain Razhe kicking him into the clearing before every godsdamn member of the tribe during the mornin' group wank over Her Majesty Azeyma.

"Here you are: Vhox's k'tashlum* lover, the proof of his sins against our Goddess."

. . .

"You bloody--"

Rin did not finish that statement, though Vhox could imagine any number of words he could have used to fill it. Under more favorable circumstances, he might have offered them. But as it was, he was too dumbstruck by the man's presence in this dingy cave somewhere out in bumfuck nowhere, Gyr Abania, and the lilt of a plummy Sharlayan accent that he should not have missed as much as he did.

"Why didn't you play along? Still saving all that wit for persuading your way into banquet receptions and warm beds, is that it?"

"Play along with--" Vhox had to mentally backtrack to their encounter in the clearing, only to find that it kicked up a whole new wash of rage. His ears still thrummed with the chorus of angry voices that came in the wake of Razhe's announcement, furious rebukes and demands of retribution, a whole-arse argy-bargy (and for what? Suckin' a cock? Vhox would be on trial for days) -- in the midst of which sat Rin, verbally flogging himself like he was the most measly and groveling son of a bitch to ever waste air.

"You expected me to agree with that hot load of bullshite? Gods, Rin -- if it had been anyone else talkin' like that about you, I'd've knocked their teeth out."

The man gave an agitated huff. "What choice did I have? Whatever is going on, it's clear they're not happy to see me -- and if you had just let me play the scapegoat, then..."

Vhox couldn't be sure what sort of expression he made at that remark, although it made Rin falter, the shadow of something meek and embarrassed crossing his expression.

"What're you even doin' here?"

"Hells if I know." Part of Vhox knew he should be paying better attention, but he found himself studying the sharp lines of Rin's collarbones instead. They were more prominent than he remembered. Probably back to eatin' once a blue moon.

"That Razhe fellow showed up at the Gate looking for me by name, saying that you were in trouble -- wrong side of the local militia, or some such. Given your track record, it seemed believable--"

It took a moment to recall how in the seven hells Razhe would have known the first thing about Rin. Then: oh. The conversation they'd had shortly after Vhox's initial arrival, before he discovered what a miserable prat Razhe was, during which he had been prodded to confess details about the man whose absence had reawakened the depth of a loss that Vhox could not articulate -- something yawning and empty and desperate, a void he could not fill with fresh faces and drunken trysts no matter how hard he tried.

At the time, Vhox was sure as anything that he'd never see the man again. Yet now, Rin was here, in the flesh, looking especially small in the low light, more like he had when they first met than when things were good -- when Rin stopped straightening the life out of the beautiful mess of slate-blue curls that framed his violet eyes, and when he could sometimes, if Vhox was possessed to say something particularly stupid, be coaxed to smile.

"Who are these people?" Rin's voice broke the thought, with a bite in his tone that made another part of Vhox recoil. These people. These poor backwater desert dwellers who slept out in the elements and could rarely afford to eat more than the sinewy animals they caught out in the wilds, the antithesis of everything a dignified and well-learned individual like Rin could possibly respect. Just like him. "Why are you here?"

"They're -- my family, Rin."

An uncomfortable silence rose, both of them seeking words they couldn't find.

"After we went our separate ways, I... went lookin', I suppose. Turns out I had some family left after all." People like him, after Vhox had grown up thinking there were none. "There's a lot I never told you. A lot I did to you that I shouldn't've done," and if Vhox were a more tactful man, he might've thought to word himself in a way that didn't make Rin shrink back, in a way that didn't ring with the fresh memory of a crowd who had declared their coupling a sin. "I'm sorry you were brought here. I know it all seems strange, but... ever since I got here, I've been thinkin'... this is for the best. These people, Rin, they..."

He choked on the words. Even now, confessing what he was...

"Look--" when Rin spoke now, it seemed restrained, as though he were speaking against a hand at his throat. "Vhox, look at me."

Vhox did not abide him. In that moment, it was Rin who reached out, brushing messy bangs away from the other's eyes -- and then his hand lingered for too long, uncertain.

"Is this what you want?" A pause, as if to consider. "Are you happy here?"

Try as Vhox might to find it, he could not find the judgement in those eyes. He saw only a muted confusion, a sadness: an unspoken query that seemed to read, but what about the sandy beaches of Bloodshore? The look of the summer sunsets over Costa del Sol? The satisfaction of pulling a good haul in the nets off the fishing boats? The freedom to come and go -- to jump on the next boat due out of the harbor and end up anywhere, any time?

Rin always had been sharp, even if a bit scatter-brained and way too easy to misdirect. But maybe it was obvious: it was not what Vhox wanted. It was what he deserved. Quarantined from the rest of the world, people who couldn't understand what it meant to be born something dangerous and unwanted. People he would hurt. People who would hurt him, not realizing what he was and what that meant. The world was like that, full of change and fresh faces and people who never knew more about you than you wanted them to know. Vhox lived his whole life riding in those waves, and for once... for once, he wanted some of those faces to stay the same -- to have something in his life to hold him steady, something he didn't have to run from. Something he had in that time with Rin, and Luma, and...

Vhox tilted his head gently into that hand, a quiet and wordless moment of vulnerability, savoring the warmth of another touch that he wasn't sure he would feel again. Then, when he held Rin's wrist to move it away, he was struck again by how delicate it was in his grip, renewing an overwhelming and protective desire that reassured: this is for the best.

"... I should be. And if I don't get to say anythin' more to you, let it be this: I'm glad you cut things off. You deserve better than what we had -- better than someone like me."

Rin opened his mouth at once, flashing teeth in the start of a reply that Vhox expected would sting. But whatever he meant to say, he didn't get to. A shadow cast from the cave entrance, and Vhox recognized Razhe in the silhouette.

"Good. If that is how you feel -- then may Azeyma grant what you both deserve."

. . .

No. Godsdamn it, no--

His recollection of it all was dark, murky, churning waters over an abyss he could not peer into. There was Razhe, spouting some shite about Azeyma like the sort of overzealous madman you only hear about from the poor sods who bounced out of Ishgard; grabbing hands amidst a shuffle of movement (Vhox saw a form dive toward Rin and landed a solid kick in the whoreson's stomach), raised and desperate voices, panic like the tide rising up over his head when the realization of what Razhe meant to do hit him full force.

All of it was distant, almost intangible, disjointed sights and sounds that lacked the necessary cohesion for Vhox to clutch them in his hands. But there was one thing he did remember clearly: the terror and confusion writ in Rin's face.

"Fuck!" Even now, his arms wouldn't hold the weight of his swaying body. He was crawling on hands and knees, the deep rusty hue of dried and flaking blood stained up to his elbow, fingers smearing almost-black in the puddled ichor that gathered and settled in the crevices of the floor. Just like before. Just like the last time. As he struggled to discern other shapes in the space, he spotted one in the corner of the cavern, mouth agape and eyes glassy, a gaping wound painted crimson where a throat should have been.

If panic was the tide, then that was the moment in which Vhox snapped open his mouth, watching the distant glimmer of the ocean surface as he abided a futile impulse to breathe, drawing nothing for his lungs but seawater. It filled his throat, stung in his eyes, and his stomach churned, chanting no, no, not this, not him, until he was spared the oncoming breakdown by the reveal that the body was not Rin's -- but Razhe's.

He still felt like he was swallowing seawater.

"Rin, gods -- Rin, where are you?" Everything was so dark, masked in a stench so thick it was no wonder he couldn't breathe. "Rin, if you're there -- if you can hear me--"

"He's gone."

Another shape at the entrance of the cavern. Imzha.

"What the bloody fuck does that mean?" Whatever elaboration Imzha intended was lost beneath the force of Vhox's own voice, sharp with a wild anger. He rose onto unsteady feet, fists clenched, the stick of lingering blood an ever-present reminder of the monster that yet stalked at the edge of his consciousness. "How could you let that godsdamned nutter in here with a fistful of poison, knowing what he could do with it--"

"Vhox -- please, calm down--"

"Don't you fucking tell me to calm down! Where is Rin?"

He had trusted them. He had trusted the tribe. And then this--

"Your -- Rin, is fine."

He exhaled a bated breath.

"He is gone. He left, safely, of his own accord. I made sure that the tribe let him be."

Vhox staggered back down onto his knees. All of the fight ran out of his legs.

"Razhe acted of his own volition. He was not told to attack you." Imzha moved ever nearer, taking cautious and measured steps, as if she thought that to approach him too quickly might trigger the instinct to strike. It reminded him too much of the crew, after it happened. Too much of Ortolf. "For what little it may be worth, I'm glad you're safe. And your... 'friend' -- well. I suspect he won't be back."

Vhox might have expected that. It was what he expected to begin with. That was how it should've been. And yet it didn't... somewhere, in Vhox's chest...

"We didn't get to..." he didn't even say goodbye.

"It is just as I told you," she spoke softly, gently, as though she could read the despair in his features. "Outsiders don't understand. Who we are, what we can become -- it frightens them. Much like prey knows to fear its predator, even if they do not consciously know of the power that lives in our blood, they can sense it." She came to crouch onto her knees beside him. "Whatever you and Rin had... he never could have been with you."

"How do you know--"

"He said so."

The corners of his eyes stung. Everything smelled of salt and tasted of bitter.

'Course he would.

"He said you were a monster." Imzha's voice was a resonant murmur in the still of the cavern. "A dangerous creature he was afraid to imagine he might have ever loved."

He was a fool if he ever thought Vhox a man worth loving. And what a fool Vhox had been -- both of them. Better that Rin live long enough to find someone proper and refined, with whom he could have educated conversations (without the distraction of Vhox's carnal appetites) and who could make good money without subsequently spending moons looking over his shoulder, who would never gut him in a fit of terror or look at that precious nephew he so loved and think, what if something goes wrong and I--

"Do not think of him, Vhox. He is gone, and your place is here, with your family."

A hand touched to his face, with fingertips so much less delicate and nails that scraped just so. Nothing like Rin's, whose touch had been full of a fondness that Vhox missed so much that he hated it, so much that he wanted to trace over the lines with his own nails until they bled -- a fondness he was not sure he would ever feel again.

"Come. Let us see to those wounds."

Rin Weise is owned by @idealistsinc

*k’tashlum is a fanon Huntspeak word used as a slur for Keeper of the Moon subgroup Miqo’te by some Seeker of the Sun tribes. Although this particular word makes no appearance on the page, general ideas and grammar structure for the fanon Huntspeak I follow can be found [here]. (Note that I am not the author of the article in question, and do not claim ownership of its ideas!)

#wow what this bitch is actually still writing fills?#although i finished this maybe a week ago or something lmao i forgot to post it #ffxivwrite2020 (late)#ffxiv vhox tia #ffxiv rin weise

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