westwhere | [closed] Somewhere in the distance, I heard you calling

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[closed] Somewhere in the distance, I heard you calling

WHO: Anduin Wrynn & Wrathion
WHEN: Post-Baby Dragon Drama
WHERE: Wrathion & Anduin's shared abode
WHAT: "Seeing Wrathion distraught take 2, but this time it wasn't obscurely caused by magic"
WARNINGS: none more than the baby dragon incident, will edit as needed!

Anduin sits at the little table in his shared rooms with Wrathion, nursing a cup of tea and trying to pretend like he isn't fretting about his companion, waiting for the sound of that frankly ridiculous door to signal his arrival.

It has been a very long day, following an even longer night. After the news of the dragons from Eidris, he isn't certain how much Wrathion had slept, if at all. He isn't certain how much he had slept, come to that. Wrathion does not like to wear his emotions on his sleeve, as Anduin himself, but it had been clear the possibilities weighed on him. The uncertainty, of what could be.

The wait for the morning and the next crossing to be possible had been excruciating. When morning finally does dawn, Anduin recognizes that Wrathion does not need him tagging along. He has already made plans to do further investigation with Wei Wuxian, and there are tasks that he can do here in Minaras, to try and get to the bottom of this. Still... It had been difficult, to stay behind.

Glancing aside at the mechanical wolf where it has powered down for the day once more, Anduin wishes in this moment that it were a real dog. That he could at least take comfort in petting it.

That he might have heard at least something from Wrathion since he left this morning, that might ease the growing knot in his stomach. No. He would have sent word if something had happened, if he could not return. Anduin takes another sip of tea and wonders whether he should prepare a second pot.

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He can only divert so long.

"No," Wrathion admits. "Not what happened, only the consequence. Although there were no physical problems I could detect, no unusual traces of magic, Wei Wuxian is more... attuned to certain things than I am."

Wrathion pauses, eyes steady on Anduin, then flicks them down as if casually opting to consider his drink a moment.

"To his reading, they appeared dead despite the physical evidence otherwise."

He does not look up. To look up now, he knows, would to be read the emotion in Anduin's reaction. The anguish, the pity, everything he does not feel able to handle. He has to be stronger than this. There is no time here for grief, especially not grief for things that are not even properly dead.

They appeared dead.

Anduin's eyes flick quickly up to Wrathion's face, searching his expression for any hint of what the words might mean. Of any hint of what Wrathion is not saying aloud. They are only whelps, hatchlings. Infants, less than a day out of the shell at the time that Wrathion had managed to make his way over there. Anduin had done some digging for information, while Wrathion had crossed the border earlier that day. Enough to come to understand the basics of what supposedly had occurred. But why in the world...

"I don't understand," Anduin says, brow pinching tight in concern. "You said that Aiva's distress for them had... Passed? Was she caring for them as she should?"

"The same as those at the summit recovered from their passing phase," he confirms.

A period of strangeness that they then seemed to forget ever happened. It was so with Aiva. He circles his drink idly, keeping his eyes on it.

"She cared for them. Their physical state was was fine. No injury, malnutrition, no bodily malady in need of healing."

Nothing, then, they could do. Simply an awareness of -- this. Whatever it means. Some sense, some absence of something, some spiritual lacking.

Wrathion does not elaborate on the rest of it, but Anduin understands. They are the only ones who can sense anything wrong.

He feels wrong for continuing the line of thought. Especially when this is obviously affecting Wrathion -- well of course it is. These might not be dragons of the same kind that Wrathion is himself, but they are still dragons. And what Wrathion has told him of his history, of his history with the whelps of the black dragonflight...

All the same he has to wonder whether it is only spiritual. Or whether Wei Wuxian or even he himself might have some sway over the creatures. He supposes it would be one way to understand whether they are dead or alive. Whether -- any of them are...

"Did either of you sense anything else off about them?" he asks, carefully.

"There was nothing wrong with them," Wrathion growls, tensing up now. Nothing that he could sense, as he has said. No unusual magic traces, no physical problems, nothing to point to this. Yet, all the same, Wei Wuxian was assured.

He eases back slowly into his chair, trying to appear relaxed once more but not selling it. The glass is lifted from where it dangled, and his grip tightens around it as he rests it on the arm of the chair.

"Nothing else," he corrects, and simmers in his own discontent.

Anduin studies Wrathion's face, in response to that outburst. As he pretends to relax into his chair once more. Anduin knows him far better than to believe a single moment of the act, especially after that.

Leaning forward in his chair, Anduin sets his own drink aside. He had only poured it for himself to be sociable, and he would rather his hands be free at the moment. Especially as he pushes himself to stand and crosses the few steps between them. Slowly, he lowers himself down to kneel on the decorative rug before where Wrathion sits, resting a gentle hand on his companion's knee as he does.

"We will figure out what has happened," he reassures, softly.

Wrathion lets out a low, slow rumble of warning as Anduin approaches -- yet he makes no move to stop him. Does little more than twitch minutely at the hand that alights on his knee.

"... They are only children," he offers more softly.

Their wings cannot yet carry them. How can they be coming to harm so soon? Without even a chance? The cruelty of it is unspeakable. Something twitches in his expression, and he drops his gaze to the and on his knee.

"There must be some way to undo it."

Whatever has been done, here. There must be a way.

Anduin notes the deep grumbling that Wrathion directs at him as he moves closer but he pays it no heed. If Wrathion really did not wish for him to touch him, then he would say so. Or he would at least have a greater response than he has made so far. Anduin does not know whether he's welcome to much more than this, but it's at least a start.

"They are," Anduin agrees gently, because it is true. Only just hatched, and if they are behaving normally otherwise, who is to say that there is not something else going on? If Aiva does not sense that anything else is wrong, as their mother... Just because there is something spiritually wrong about the whelps does not mean that there is nothing that can be done to save them.

"We will figure this out," he reassures again, squeezing his hand against Wrathion's knee. Anduin finds that he has other questions -- many other questions. About what would have been expected of a dragon hatching, of when they normally bond with their human counterparts. But those questions can wait for now. He doubts that Wrathion knows most of the answers, and even still. He doubts such discussion is exactly what his companion needs in this moment.

"Have you eaten today?" he settles on asking. It is easier to focus on Wrathion himself, for now. Wrathion, he knows how to handle. To take care of, even if he may not want to be cared for at present.

Wrathion frowns at the squeeze to his knee, but lifts a hand regardless to cover Anduin's own.

"No," he admits, "I had little appetite for it."

Slowly, he lets his fingers twine through Anduin's. His skin seems so pale, compared to his own. So fragile.

"I have little now," he admits. Most likely he should eat something, and it help he supposes -- yet nothing feels appealing. The warmth of Anduin's hand, though, that does have appeal. His fingers flex, then tighten their grip.

Anduin cannot say that he is surprised. Half the reason he had asked is that he had already assumed the answer would be no. It is true that just because Wrathion does not feel like eating does not mean he shouldn't. The fact that he has not is likely only making him feel worse. And yet...

Anduin makes no move from where he sits on the floor in front of him. He does not make light of the fact that Wrathion has reached out to him in return, fingers warm as they interlace between his own.

Instead, he slowly lifts their linked hands to press the back of Wrathion's knuckles against his cheek. Quiet for the moment, but his meaning is clear enough in Anduin's gentle touch.

Whatever Wrathion should need, he is here.

The touch is so gentle -- Anduin himself is uncommonly gentle, for a man the world has been so rough with. For a man Wrathion, himself, has been so rough with.

"Grief will not help them," he says finally. "Answers will. I have the blood of too many dragons on my hands already."

It would be... preferable to save lives, if he can. Especially ones so young. He lifts the glass he's still holding onto with his other hand, takes a slow sip before setting it aside on a small table.

"Have you eaten yourself?"

Let's talk about Anduin, that seems a better topic. Better than Wrathion and all his pain that he's trying to quickly shove down into a box and fasten shut.

Anduin recognizes that Wrathion may be deflecting the attention as a means to escape the focus himself, but he leaves it for now. He does not think it is particularly healthy for Wrathion to box these feelings away forever. But is not going to force him to address them precisely this moment. Everyone processes these things in their own way, in their own time. Even Anduin himself.

If focusing on him is what Wrathion needs, then so be it.

He presses his lips to the back of Wrathion's hand, then sets it back down on his knee, shaking his head in response to the question as he does so.

"I haven't," he answers, mostly truthfully. He had had a bite earlier during the day, when he had been out on patrol in the streets, but he doubts that is what Wrathion was asking. "I was waiting for you."

With so little news from the other side of the city, from Wrathion, throughout the day... He will admit that he had been worried.

Wrathion squeezes Anduin's hand, lifts it back up to rub his own cheek against it this time. The feel of Anduin's skin against his face is... soothing,

"Then let us both find something," he offers. "Together."

He isn't sure how much of it he'll be able to eat, but he can try. He can try, and he knows it will make Anduin happy if he does. The company, too, will help he is sure. The simple domesticity of sharing a meal may help settle his discomfort. May help weaken the poison he feels flowing through his body, render it ineffective. Anduin Wrynn is a healer, and Wrathion is ready to accept healing.

Anduin flexes his fingers in Wrathion's hand, shifting his thumb to stroke against whatever skin he can find. Allowing himself to linger for a few moments longer in the touch, offering his companion whatever gentle reassurances he can through that touch alone, before at last he forces himself to stand.

"Come," Anduin says. "I am certain we have something that will do."

He tugs gently on Wrathion's hand, for despite his change in position, he still has not let him go.

Wrathion allows himself to be pulled up, giving the faintest inclination of his head in agreement.

His free hand slips to rest at Anduin's waist and the dragon sighs, moving into his space and gently leaning into him.

"I... appreciate your patience."

A halting, awkward form of thanks. This is difficult, but Anduin is doing his best to help. He deserves gratitude.

Anduin reaches his own free hand up to gently card through Wrathion's hair, pushing a stray curl out of his face and tucking it behind his ear.

"You were there for me, when I needed you," Anduin points out. After the incident with the arrow and the ghosts, and then beyond that. The circumstances of Anduin's misfortunes and Wrathion's now are nowhere near the same, but the point still remains. He should not worry about Anduin, in this. This is exactly where he wants to be.

He allows himself to linger in the touch for a moment, as Wrathion leans into him. Cupping his fingers against the side of Wrathion's jaw and leaning forward to press their foreheads against one another.

"I am only sorry I could not be there with you, today," he says, after a long moment.

In truth, Wrathion wonders if it is better that he wasn't. No doubt Anduin would have preferred to be there to comfort him, to help, but Wrathion isn't sure what help he could give. All he can imagine is Anduin's gentle presence making it harder for him to hold himself together.

Better to be with him here, now, in private where such things matter less.

His eyes slip closed, and Wrathion lets out a low rumble of contentment at the contact.

"You are here now," he murmurs. "You are here, and we are together."

The hand at Anduin's waist slides around to the small of his back, coaxing him closer. The contact is... soothing. Titans, even just Anduin's scent is soothing. He wants to wrap himself up in it, breathe it in and let his mind settle.

Anduin moves easily in response to the dragon's gentle touch. Fitting his body against Wrathion's as he wraps his arm around Anduin's waist. Wrapping his own arm around Wrathion's shoulders in return. Pulling him in close as he turns his head to the side and presses his face into his companion's curls.

"We are," he agrees, softly.

It's -- troubling, to say the least. For Wrathion to be so unsettled. It fills Anduin with a sense of near-overwhelming protectiveness. For Wrathion, for the whelps. He understands that he cannot offer too much, too quickly. That it is difficult for Wrathion to accept help and assistance, even when he needs it. But he is grateful that he is accepting even this much.

"What do you say that we take our supper with us into the other room?" he asks, nuzzling the side of Wrathion's head. "Make ourselves comfortable."

Wrathion swallows as Anduin eases his arm around him, as he nuzzles at him. Offers him the gentle comfort of his touch, the warmth of his affection.

His limbs feel heavy, his chest tight. Somehow the softness Anduin offers is disarming, dismantles his defences. Pokes holes in the walls he has careful built to cage the emotion he hasn't the time to deal with.

Dead whelps. Dead children, that somehow yet live. He thinks about Aiva's forgotten grief, about his own mother's grief, and his fingertips begin to tingle. His legs feel weak. His ears are ringing, and the world feels distantly foggy. Wrathion's fingers latch harder into the back of Anduin's clothing, and the ones still tangled with Anduin's grip down hard. As if he can brace himself with Anduin's touch, ride out the wave of emotion with his support until it fades.

Anduin does not think anything of Wrathion's silence at first. His question had not been particularly important, and with the way that Wrathion was leaning into his touch, he simply assumes that he would rather linger in this moment for a little bit longer. Which is fine with Anduin himself. He is happy to hold Wrathion here for as long as he wishes.

Its when Wrathion begins to tense in his arms, the way that his grip tightens almost painfully on Anduin's fingers, that starts to raise alarms.

Anduin does not dare let him go, to pull back and get a better look at exactly what might be going on. But he does shift his hand to more firmly brace around Wrathion's shoulders, rubbing softly through the fabric of his shirt as he questions softly, "Wrathion?"

Edited (clarification) 2022-09-16 23:51 (UTC)

Wrathion can feel his heart pounding as Anduin rubs at his shoulders. Powerful emotions are difficult for him to process, still. He is... unpractised at handling much beyond anger. The urge to bottle it all up is powerful.

"Yes," he manages finally. "It would have to be something easy to eat, but we can bring it with us."

His voice is low, a little quiet, but steady enough through powerful self control. Enough for him to respond. He needs to answer the question, after all. Wrathion understands that. Ignoring it will give rise to concern on Anduin's part, but really. He is fine. He just needs a moment.

His grip does not loosen.

Anduin frowns as Wrathion speaks. At the sound of his voice, steady though it may be, and the hold he has on him. Fingers curled tightly into the back of his vest. Gripping his hand so tightly, as if... As if Anduin himself is all that is keeping him grounded.

He squeezes his fingers on Wrathion's in return, tightens his arm around his companion and simply holds him for a long moment. Tipping his head aside, resting it against the side of Wrathion's own, rubbing slow circles in Wrathion's shoulders as they stand together.

"We could just go to bed, if you would rather," he says, softly. Food is a nice idea, but it will take time to prepare, and there is a fragility in Wrathion, just now, that worries Anduin. Dead whelps. Wrathion has told him something of his own past, but Anduin knows he does not know the whole truth of it. Of the suffering he has endured, and the memories of it that linger even now. And perhaps he never will. But he can be there for him, supporting him. Holding him.

He has been on his own for so long in this. But Anduin hopes he understands he is not anymore.

"Tell me what you need."

Such a thing would be easier to answer if Wrathion knew what, in truth, he needed.

He does not.

Instead, he lets out a grumble of discomfort, slowly attempts to loosen his grip.

"Something to drink, at least," he says finally. He did have a glass Anduin poured him, but he's left it aside with little more than a sip. Drawing back, Wrathion looks a toucher paler than is natural. He picks up his glass and takes a bigger drink this time, trying to steady himself. Both hands fix around it, as if to keep his grip firm -- and perhaps to hide any quake they might develop.

Anduin's frown deepens as Wrathion steps away from him. He takes the opportunity to study his companion as he does, and he does not like what he sees there. The cracks in his facade are starting to visibly deepen, for all that Wrathion may want to try and pretend otherwise. And Anduin knows that he does. That he'd like nothing better than to patch it all over and pretend he was untouchable. Invulnerable.

Anduin knows from experience that such things never work. That you can bottle your problems up as much as you like, but there comes a point when they'll come spilling out over the edge.

The alcohol in the drink that Wrathion is clinging to might take the edge off of his nerves, but it will not be a comfort to him. Anduin hopes he is not being too presumptuous, as he closes the distance between them once more, placing a hand on the small of Wrathion's back as he does.

"Come," he says again, making to direct him again towards the little kitchen once more. "I will make you something warm."

Wrathion sways into the touch easily, turning to press his face against Anduin's hair for a moment before allowing himself to be guided along. He's not sure exactly what the man plans, but whatever it is he's sure is likely better than continually drinking just alcohol.

"Something for yourself too?" he prompts softly. He did say he hadn't eaten, after all. He doesn't want Anduin to neglect himself in favour of Wrathion, however much he is in a way enjoying the comfort and attention.

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