"That ain't redemption, Gale." He almost bites off his own tongue, trying to reel in his tone as his eyes flick toward the wizard. "It's being used by someone you trusted. Someone you cared for. Someone who might've never cared for you at all while she doesn't do a damn thing because of what? Spite?"
Gale isn't sure why that stirs his own anger. Maybe because some part of
him still wants to defend Mystra even now, his goddess whose symbol he
still wears. Maybe because he doesn't want to face the fact he was a pawn,
doesn't want to consider the possibility that she never cared for him —
maybe isn't even capable of that kind of care for a single mortal. He
doesn't want to admit that so much of his life was a waste. At least if he
dies to save the world, it will have meant something.
"Gods can't intervene in mortal affairs directly. She can't do anything to
stop the mind flayers herself." He hops down from the counter, too restless
to stay seated. *Even if you think her plan is cruel, you can't deny the
pragmatism of ending one life to save millions.
Pom snorts audibly, pushing the air sharply from his nose. The more he learns about these gods and goddesses that other worlds have, the less he likes them.
"Pragmatic, sure. But spiteful and not a fair trade at all."
Gale laughs humorlessly. "When has life ever been fair? When has it ever
been anything but clawing for scraps of happiness? Desperately trying to
build something from the bones of disaster, only for it to be washed out
again with the tide? Life isn't fair unless you make it fair — and even
then, there's always someone more powerful to knock you back down in the
dirt."
"Gale of Waterdeep, City of Splendor; It sounds like a lot, but he's
just a pretender. A tarnish-ed Jewel, an Archmage of Shame: Now only his
tressym is using his name. That's my story, after all." He throws his
hands up in a shrug, the gesture too harsh and jerky to be disaffected like
he wants to pretend to be.
Gale spits Pom's own words back at him, lyrics to a playful ditty he'd improvised while thinking he'd eventually get to the good part of the story: the part where Gale of Waterdeep no longer needed that fancy name, only to be himself, the man Pom adores. Pom's face falls in response, color and fire draining out of him like blood from an open wound. He's felt nothing but regret for how he hurt Gale's feelings the day he made that song up, how he was an insensitive idiot who, unable to express himself in any genuine way, did so through jest and song. People liked that - they tended to like it more than who he really was, deep down.
Gale hadn't liked it, and Pom places the remorse he feels alongside his finest mistakes. He'd die a second time before he hurt Gale like that again, but here it is: his own song still ruining the man he cares so much for.
He pushes himself to his feet, but his limbs shake beneath him, his anger moving away from some goddess in another world and toward someone he can reach; his claws curl on the table, scraping loudly against it. "It isn't true. I- I said I was sorry."
Gale forgave Pom the day he made up that little tune, but that doesn't mean
it hasn't been echoing in his mind ever since, as surely as the Katalyth
song haunts him.
"That's the thing, though — it is true and you shouldn't be sorry for
saying it. I'm no good at brevity myself, but it makes a fine summary of my
story. I buried Gale Dekarios to create the persona of Gale of Waterdeep,
only he wasn't much better. And once you realize that—" He bites back the
rest of that thought, not wanting to speak it into existence, even if he
does believe it.
Gale insists it's true, and something in Pom snaps. He slams his hands into the table; it cracks from the impact, his claws digging straight through the old wood around his plate.
"Once I realize what, Gale? You think I wouldn't want you? That no one would when they figured out you were just as fallible as them? You are worth more alive than most people I've met, Gale. Dekarios, of Waterdeep, it don't matter."
He grinds his teeth as he crosses the room toward the counter where Gale sits, advancing on him like predator on prey, dragonblight clouding at the corners of his mouth. There's that fury he's been holding back, the ire having boiled over in his veins in the span of seconds. His hand grips one of the cabinets, keeping him from getting too close, physically leashing him two steps away.
"You've got smarts, you've got cunning. You're compassionate. You care, and that's worth something. Even without your magic, you've got so much to offer. So much you can't do if you're dead." He pulls in a breath, another cloud of sparking smoke billowing from him. "And that you can't see that because someone tossed you aside like a broken tool is the only thing to be ashamed of here."
Yes, that's exactly what he thought, that as soon as he is revealed to be fallible, to be anything less than powerful and useful, that people leave. Even though Pom is saying what he wants to hear, that he is loved and wanted for more than merely what he can provide, in some ways that hurts too, being told that what he believed his whole life was a lie. Because it didn't start with Mystra, though that had been a devastating blow. He can't remember a time he didn't think he needed to be perfect to earn love.
He doesn't say any of that. He knows the logic is circular and flawed, smart enough to know cerebrally that he is wrong, but talking about it doesn't change the way he feels. Pom doesn't seem like he much feels like talking either. Gale lunges, grabbing Pom by the front of the shirt like he means to throw him. He doesn't, though. Instead, he hauls him forward to kiss him hard, that previous tenderness gone like smoke.
Though he stumbles forward as Gale pulls on him, Pom immediately reciprocates with a similar volatility. His temper runs so hot, dragonblight clouding between them as it seeps between their lips; even the hunter can feel its oppressive nature wearing on him, an electric pulse running the length of his spine, making his hair stand on end as though he were about to be struck by lightning. In the back of his mind, he thinks that they've been here before, fought back their ferocity because they needed to talk, to understand one another.
But even as he parts from Gale, he finds himself pressing against him again, one hand carving grooves into the counter around him, the other gripping the wizard's arm so tenaciously that it'll leave a mark. He can't fight it this time. He's hungry for more; he's always hungry now, but no longer in a way he recognizes.
Gale has seen that smoke before, even smelled the acrid electric scent of it up close, but he's never tasted it. It's ash and electricity and something cold that settles into him, feels almost like the sussur blooms in a way that he can't explain, because it doesn't utterly shut out his magic the way they had. He's not sure what it's doing, only that it's doing something. Any other time he would be curious. Right now? He doesn't even particularly care. Pom presses in close and Gale hops up and backwards again, onto the counter, but only so he can wrap his legs around the other man, hooking his ankles to lock him in place.
He tips himself forward to kiss Pom again, so close that their noses brush before he stops himself again, a little bit of thinky Gale peeking through the beast. "I am sorry, you know," he whispers, "That I didn't tell you."
That almost-kiss has Pom leaning in, his eyes closed, only for them to flutter open again behind his glasses as Gale's nose brushes against him. His head dips at the apology, his brow tight, heavy with a quiet guilt.
"I know." There's still too much of a growl in his voice; the hand on Gale's arm clings tighter before relenting its hold, as though he became aware he could hurt Gale just by trying to keep him close. He presses their foreheads together. "I'm not mad. Not at you."
But he is still mad, that much is certain. He tries to keep Gale from assuming the worst by finding his voice again. "I'm mad at everyone else. At anyone who ever made you feel like you weren't worth keeping around. Like you weren't worth their attention. Like you had to be some kind of way for them to even think on you. It—"
There's an audible snap from the fabric of Gale's sleeve; his grip is too tight again, his claws tearing holes in the garment. Oops.
"It makes me furious. Makes me wanna tear them apart. Just Shift and rip through them with my teeth like a monster. Cut them down before they ever get the chance to hurt you again."
And beneath that, another impulse: to tear Gale apart himself so no one else can ever hurt him. It's a sickening thought, a possessiveness he'd thought he'd never feel again - but there it is, permeating this new person he's supposed to be... and he hates that most of all.
Pom admitting to such violence probably shouldn't fill Gale with warm feelings like the summer sun, but it does. He doesn't even think it's the owlbear's desire for aggression. That reaction is all Gale, if he's being honest with himself, because, even though others have loved him, he's certain that no one else had ever wanted to fight for him. For the first time in his life, Gale has found a mirror for his own intense passion.
"They don't matter, not anymore. I wanted you to know and to understand, but all that matters to me now is being here with you. But you don't have to reign in all that fire, either. Just save it for something more important." He grabs Pom by the collar with a grin, then yanks him closer. "Like me, for example."
The heat in Pom's heart blossoms across his face as Gale pulls him closer, the gesture and its accompanying command a combination Pom finds he likes; it stirs a primal need in his chest, has him leaning onto Gale on the counter, his hand sliding beneath the hem of the wizard's robe. Pom starts to lose himself in what he vaguely recognizes as desire, sweat already dotting the back of his neck, but he manages to stop himself as he feels his claws on Gale's skin, his pulse under his fingertips.
Pom is a man who desperately wants his agency, who prizes his own ability to choose more than almost anything else, who would fight tooth and nail to keep it when threatened; however, he's all too happy to give that same agency over to someone he trusts the moment he can, relieving himself of the burden because his own judgment terrifies him to his core. He lives as a conundrum, and he's never known how to handle it. He never had to learn, not with Purl around. She always made the decisions for him.
She's not here, and he has ever been a beast in need of his leash. Now, he's one with two extra Souls, and all of them hunger for Gale. He presses his forehead to Gale's chest, his breath still tinged with sparks.
"Tell me what you want." It sounds like a threat, the last syllable rattling. "What you want me to do. Tell me."
Gale feels like he's standing on a tightrope, and his balance has never been that good. He had forgotten what it felt like to physically want someone so badly that it feels like a magnetic pull. But this relationship is still something new, fragile like a new blossom, and he wants to get it right.
"I'll tell you what I want, but I won't tell you what to do, do you understand?" Because Pom is not a beast, not a pet, not a weapon, but a man.
Pom looks to Gale, his expression faltering; he isn't sure of the distinction at first, though whether it's because his brain is too addled by instincts and wants he aren't sure are his own, or if he's never known such a distinction, is uncertain. His brow furrows as he clearly takes a moment to consider his partner's words.
What Gale is offering is not a command, but information; what Pom does with it, he realizes, is his own choice. He feels the need to be leashed because it's what he knows - it's what familiar, for better and for worse. However, Gale refuses to do that, to continue the cycles that made him Pom this to begin with. The wizard is letting him keep his agency, even if Pom fears it more often than not.
Others have occasionally offered Pom the same, but it wasn't like this: they weren't like Gale, didn't mean the same as he does to the lonely hunter. Purl might've meant that way to him, but she meant a lot of things, those feelings he had for her tangled together into a jumbled ball of volatile and vulnerable emotions, all of them too knotted together to ever be separated.
It's different with Gale, as so many things are. Pom knows he can say no. Doesn't have to perform, to get it right because it's what's expected, what's wanted. It's not some act because it's what will keep him and Purl alive. He just has to be himself, and that's the most terrifying thought of all. And yet, a part of him likes that notion, sees Gale is returning what he's been given: not just a choice in the matter, but the freedom to be appreciated for more than his magic, same as Pom with his looks and mask of charm. They are both more than things to be used by others.
He smiles genuinely, albeit with more teeth than he'd like; that's who he is these days.
Gale watches Pom's face, the way his eyebrows furrow at first. He watches the way his face shifts as he chews on Gale's words, working through what they mean to him, what they mean for the both of them. Pom is an excellent actor, and Gale wonders when he got good enough at reading Pom to be able to detect such shifts in his expression. Maybe it's just that Pom has decided to let him in, to let his thoughts play out on his face.
Either way, Gale sees the moment of realization, of acceptance, dawn across Pom's face. He smiles brightly, nodding, glad to be understood.
In Gale's last relationship, his lover had such power over him that she could have snapped her fingers and erased his existence (but why bother, when she could command him to do it himself?). It feels imperitive to Gale to make sure that this time, the relationship is founded on equality. He doesn't want to command Pom. Pom had asked Gale to believe in his own inherent value as a person, aside from what he can do, and Gale intends to try, but only if they do it together.
"Good," Gale says with a smile. He kisses Pom softly, straining against his instincts that demand more, more, more. A gentle gesture before his smile becomes a wicked little grin. "Well, what I want... Is for you to tear these clothes off."
What meager control Pom had over his Souls buckles at Gale's playful grin; it breaks entirely at the wizard's request, desire blazing so hot that it feels like a furnace, melting the last vestiges of Pom's restraint. Under Gale's robe, his hand latches onto his trousers, stitches popping beneath his claws; his other arm circles Gale to pull him closer to the edge of the countertop and Pom himself.
His own body responds in kind, their proximity leaving the hunter aching for more and more, his appetite ever unsated. He barely manages to shuck off his outerwear, his coat and gloves tossed into an unceremonious heap on the kitchen floor. That leaves him in only his pants and the knit shirt he wears beneath his gear these days, its weave able to stretch whenever his frame struggles to maintain his human form. While it has saved him from ruining at least some of his clothing, it hits its limit quickly when he's feeling equal measures of vicious and voracious: his second set of claws tears through his knuckles above the first, carving paths in the feathery fur of Gale's torso as they seek purchase on the skin beneath.
Pom pulls in a breath, trying to smell blood, to make sure he hasn't hurt his partner - and that just floods his senses with that of pages and ink, lightning reaching from the sky, the inviting aromas he's come to identify as Gale's magic and natural musk. Color dots his periphery, vibrant hues seeping into the center of his vision, all trails leading straight to the man before him. It's unfamiliar how badly he wants Gale, and yet here Pom is so desperate that he can hardly think straight, all senses — both human and otherwise — attuned toward carnal, insatiable need.
He'd have Gale right there if it weren't such an awkward position, the counter making it more difficult than Pom would like to get his teeth on the wizard's neck. He pulls Gale closer again, hoisting him off the counter with all the strength his Souls allow. Gale's bulk from his own Soul has him weighing considerably more these days, but Pom is used to hauling around a horn bigger than himself across some of the most uninhabitable environments imaginable, and without all the ardor to fuel the fire in him. A countertop can only slow him down so much.
Those claws press into skin without rending it, and Gale feels like he's on fire. He sucks in a breath. Not from fear, though, no. He and his other soul are in agreement, electrified with want. When he was with Mystra, their relationship had taken place entirely on the Astral Plane, and though he had loved the cerebral experience of making love divorced from physical limitations, it had meant he had all forgotten what it could be like to touch someone else in the material realm. The sounds, the scents, the thrill of claws — the way some part of him wants Pom to draw blood. He'd always enjoyed the thrill of a little danger.
Pom lifts him off the counter, and Gale lets out a startled pop of laughter. No one has ever carried him anywhere before, not like this, and he tightens his arms and legs around Pom so he doesn't fall. That doesn't mean he'll make it easy, though, stealing another deep kiss.
"I love you, you know," he says when he pulls back. "If things were different, normal, then I'd say that with flowers and poetry, but... I need you to hear it, that's all."
That countertop might not have stopped Pom, but Gale manages it with a handful of words, catching Pom off-guard despite all his bravado; he comes to a halt halfway to the den, his gaze rising to meet Gale's eyes. It's not the first time someone has said they loved him: Purl used to say it to him, brushed it into his hair at night and wove it into the stories she read to him. Northly has done so a dozen times or more, exclaimed it loudly for everyone to hear. Pom can barely manage to murmur it to her in return; he's not sure he ever did with Purl, as she always knew.
But for Gale, it's different; it means something else, something more, something Pom doesn't really know how to handle for all its earnestness and the vulnerability it exposes within him. He can't even pretend as he's done in the past for people he both used and was used by just to make ends meet; he'd say whatever he had to say to them, knowing good and well it was as much a lie as his facade.
He can't do that to Gale. He promised to be honest, to be better; he wants to be. His eyes lock on the wizard in his arms, and though his pupils may be hidden behind his glasses, his brow knits with something akin to trepidation. He tries to conjure words, but they don't come, sticking in his throat like tar. Knowing he should say something to keep Gale from getting the wrong impression, the rest of his body speaks for him: his grip tightens around Gale, his shirt tearing as the fabric is pulled taut, his claws finally dipping their way into the flesh beneath. He presses himself to Gale's chest, holds him so tenaciously that he won't leave - can't leave.
"I don't—" He wets his lips, swallowing both the knot and the dragonblight welled in his throat. "Don't know how."
He doesn't have flowers or poetry, barely having a voice for himself. Gale needed Pom to hear what he wanted to say, and he needs Gale to do the same. A sober laugh escapes him, one buried between them; it's easier to speak once he's admitted it, the shame enough to wash away some of his fear.
"That's a sad song, ain't it?" He exhales sharply as his long ears dip behind his head. "One man who ruined himself for love, and another who never learned how to love at all."
Pom very nearly freezes, and Gale can't particularly do anything about it, not when he's the one being carried. "You aren't required to say it back," he says, resting his hand on Pom's cheek. "I just needed you to know." Being the one who loves fiercely without having it returned is practically tradition for Gale at this point. He's not sure anyone ever returned his feelings with the same intensity he showed. Mystra looms largest in his memory, not merely because she was the most recent and not only because she was a goddess, but because his feelings for her were a, well, a gale, a storm, sweeping him out to sea to drown.
Pom is different, though. He suspects Pom has more trouble with the words than with the sentiment itself. After all, they're here, aren't they? It would have been easy for the other man to maintain an easy friendship, maintained just enough distance between them that Gale didn't notice it, keep the truth of himself and his life a secret behind fascinating lies. Pom had practice enough in that, and Gale has never been good at spotting that kind of deception in other people. He hadn't, though, and how there is no space between them at all, metaphorically or literally. Pom looks distressed at his own inability to answer in kind, but Gale thinks his feelings are clear throught his actions. Claws dig into his back, but the pain is less than what it would have been as a human, or perhaps just different, and he finds that some part of him likes it, skewing it into pleasure, his body reacting in unexpected ways.
Gale laughs, a little pop of surprised, sad sound. "It is a sad song," Gale agrees, "But it isn't over yet, is it? I think, together, we could change it, make something really beautiful."
Worried as he is about his own cowardice regarding his feelings, Pom finds himself relieved as Gale sees right through him. For all Pom's masks and lies and avoidances, Gale recognizes that he's utterly distressed at his inability to speak his mind, so accustomed to burying it all that he's left himself trapped in the hole he's made, the grave he's dug time and time again for the man he truly is - a man Pom isn't sure he ever knew to begin with.
But Gale knows him. Gale sees him, and that gives Pom hope he's never been able to hold for himself, not for very long. He never learned how to love properly, using it only for survival - both his and Purl's. It was a tool to get by, same as his other skills. He's always been a tool, allowing himself to be used long after he left his old life behind. Whatever he did, he did for Purl. He's largely done the same in the city - it was for someone else, one of his Imprints, or it was for himself with the sole purpose of surviving until he could get back home.
But he wants to do more than survive for a change. He wants more, more than anyone but Gale can give him. He pulls in a deep breath, smelling the sweat on the wizard's skin against him. Maybe he could learn for himself this time, Pom insists inwardly. It's still for his own survival, sure... but maybe it's for Gale's, too. They both need this - need each other.
So no, it's not like in the songs he usually sings at the Hub, romantic tales about easy love and happy endings for people who found each other right away. This isn't how it's supposed to be, two people finding solace in one another as they succumb to the monsters they're becoming and have, in some way, always been. However, Gale might be right, as he so often is: they can make a song of their own, something more beautiful than the dirges they've been dancing to their entire lives.
Pom arches his head upward, rubbing the side of his face against Gale's neck as he continues his way to the couch.
"I'd like that," he whispers into his skin. "I just hope you're a good teacher."
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Gale isn't sure why that stirs his own anger. Maybe because some part of him still wants to defend Mystra even now, his goddess whose symbol he still wears. Maybe because he doesn't want to face the fact he was a pawn, doesn't want to consider the possibility that she never cared for him — maybe isn't even capable of that kind of care for a single mortal. He doesn't want to admit that so much of his life was a waste. At least if he dies to save the world, it will have meant something.
"Gods can't intervene in mortal affairs directly. She can't do anything to stop the mind flayers herself." He hops down from the counter, too restless to stay seated. *Even if you think her plan is cruel, you can't deny the pragmatism of ending one life to save millions.
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"Pragmatic, sure. But spiteful and not a fair trade at all."
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Gale laughs humorlessly. "When has life ever been fair? When has it ever been anything but clawing for scraps of happiness? Desperately trying to build something from the bones of disaster, only for it to be washed out again with the tide? Life isn't fair unless you make it fair — and even then, there's always someone more powerful to knock you back down in the dirt."
"Gale of Waterdeep, City of Splendor; It sounds like a lot, but he's just a pretender. A tarnish-ed Jewel, an Archmage of Shame: Now only his tressym is using his name. That's my story, after all." He throws his hands up in a shrug, the gesture too harsh and jerky to be disaffected like he wants to pretend to be.
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Gale hadn't liked it, and Pom places the remorse he feels alongside his finest mistakes. He'd die a second time before he hurt Gale like that again, but here it is: his own song still ruining the man he cares so much for.
He pushes himself to his feet, but his limbs shake beneath him, his anger moving away from some goddess in another world and toward someone he can reach; his claws curl on the table, scraping loudly against it. "It isn't true. I- I said I was sorry."
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Gale forgave Pom the day he made up that little tune, but that doesn't mean it hasn't been echoing in his mind ever since, as surely as the Katalyth song haunts him.
"That's the thing, though — it is true and you shouldn't be sorry for saying it. I'm no good at brevity myself, but it makes a fine summary of my story. I buried Gale Dekarios to create the persona of Gale of Waterdeep, only he wasn't much better. And once you realize that—" He bites back the rest of that thought, not wanting to speak it into existence, even if he does believe it.
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"Once I realize what, Gale? You think I wouldn't want you? That no one would when they figured out you were just as fallible as them? You are worth more alive than most people I've met, Gale. Dekarios, of Waterdeep, it don't matter."
He grinds his teeth as he crosses the room toward the counter where Gale sits, advancing on him like predator on prey, dragonblight clouding at the corners of his mouth. There's that fury he's been holding back, the ire having boiled over in his veins in the span of seconds. His hand grips one of the cabinets, keeping him from getting too close, physically leashing him two steps away.
"You've got smarts, you've got cunning. You're compassionate. You care, and that's worth something. Even without your magic, you've got so much to offer. So much you can't do if you're dead." He pulls in a breath, another cloud of sparking smoke billowing from him. "And that you can't see that because someone tossed you aside like a broken tool is the only thing to be ashamed of here."
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He doesn't say any of that. He knows the logic is circular and flawed, smart enough to know cerebrally that he is wrong, but talking about it doesn't change the way he feels. Pom doesn't seem like he much feels like talking either. Gale lunges, grabbing Pom by the front of the shirt like he means to throw him. He doesn't, though. Instead, he hauls him forward to kiss him hard, that previous tenderness gone like smoke.
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But even as he parts from Gale, he finds himself pressing against him again, one hand carving grooves into the counter around him, the other gripping the wizard's arm so tenaciously that it'll leave a mark. He can't fight it this time. He's hungry for more; he's always hungry now, but no longer in a way he recognizes.
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He tips himself forward to kiss Pom again, so close that their noses brush before he stops himself again, a little bit of thinky Gale peeking through the beast. "I am sorry, you know," he whispers, "That I didn't tell you."
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"I know." There's still too much of a growl in his voice; the hand on Gale's arm clings tighter before relenting its hold, as though he became aware he could hurt Gale just by trying to keep him close. He presses their foreheads together. "I'm not mad. Not at you."
But he is still mad, that much is certain. He tries to keep Gale from assuming the worst by finding his voice again. "I'm mad at everyone else. At anyone who ever made you feel like you weren't worth keeping around. Like you weren't worth their attention. Like you had to be some kind of way for them to even think on you. It—"
There's an audible snap from the fabric of Gale's sleeve; his grip is too tight again, his claws tearing holes in the garment. Oops.
"It makes me furious. Makes me wanna tear them apart. Just Shift and rip through them with my teeth like a monster. Cut them down before they ever get the chance to hurt you again."
And beneath that, another impulse: to tear Gale apart himself so no one else can ever hurt him. It's a sickening thought, a possessiveness he'd thought he'd never feel again - but there it is, permeating this new person he's supposed to be... and he hates that most of all.
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"They don't matter, not anymore. I wanted you to know and to understand, but all that matters to me now is being here with you. But you don't have to reign in all that fire, either. Just save it for something more important." He grabs Pom by the collar with a grin, then yanks him closer. "Like me, for example."
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Pom is a man who desperately wants his agency, who prizes his own ability to choose more than almost anything else, who would fight tooth and nail to keep it when threatened; however, he's all too happy to give that same agency over to someone he trusts the moment he can, relieving himself of the burden because his own judgment terrifies him to his core. He lives as a conundrum, and he's never known how to handle it. He never had to learn, not with Purl around. She always made the decisions for him.
She's not here, and he has ever been a beast in need of his leash. Now, he's one with two extra Souls, and all of them hunger for Gale. He presses his forehead to Gale's chest, his breath still tinged with sparks.
"Tell me what you want." It sounds like a threat, the last syllable rattling. "What you want me to do. Tell me."
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"I'll tell you what I want, but I won't tell you what to do, do you understand?" Because Pom is not a beast, not a pet, not a weapon, but a man.
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What Gale is offering is not a command, but information; what Pom does with it, he realizes, is his own choice. He feels the need to be leashed because it's what he knows - it's what familiar, for better and for worse. However, Gale refuses to do that, to continue the cycles that made him Pom this to begin with. The wizard is letting him keep his agency, even if Pom fears it more often than not.
Others have occasionally offered Pom the same, but it wasn't like this: they weren't like Gale, didn't mean the same as he does to the lonely hunter. Purl might've meant that way to him, but she meant a lot of things, those feelings he had for her tangled together into a jumbled ball of volatile and vulnerable emotions, all of them too knotted together to ever be separated.
It's different with Gale, as so many things are. Pom knows he can say no. Doesn't have to perform, to get it right because it's what's expected, what's wanted. It's not some act because it's what will keep him and Purl alive. He just has to be himself, and that's the most terrifying thought of all. And yet, a part of him likes that notion, sees Gale is returning what he's been given: not just a choice in the matter, but the freedom to be appreciated for more than his magic, same as Pom with his looks and mask of charm. They are both more than things to be used by others.
He smiles genuinely, albeit with more teeth than he'd like; that's who he is these days.
"Yeah. I understand."
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Either way, Gale sees the moment of realization, of acceptance, dawn across Pom's face. He smiles brightly, nodding, glad to be understood.
In Gale's last relationship, his lover had such power over him that she could have snapped her fingers and erased his existence (but why bother, when she could command him to do it himself?). It feels imperitive to Gale to make sure that this time, the relationship is founded on equality. He doesn't want to command Pom. Pom had asked Gale to believe in his own inherent value as a person, aside from what he can do, and Gale intends to try, but only if they do it together.
"Good," Gale says with a smile. He kisses Pom softly, straining against his instincts that demand more, more, more. A gentle gesture before his smile becomes a wicked little grin. "Well, what I want... Is for you to tear these clothes off."
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His own body responds in kind, their proximity leaving the hunter aching for more and more, his appetite ever unsated. He barely manages to shuck off his outerwear, his coat and gloves tossed into an unceremonious heap on the kitchen floor. That leaves him in only his pants and the knit shirt he wears beneath his gear these days, its weave able to stretch whenever his frame struggles to maintain his human form. While it has saved him from ruining at least some of his clothing, it hits its limit quickly when he's feeling equal measures of vicious and voracious: his second set of claws tears through his knuckles above the first, carving paths in the feathery fur of Gale's torso as they seek purchase on the skin beneath.
Pom pulls in a breath, trying to smell blood, to make sure he hasn't hurt his partner - and that just floods his senses with that of pages and ink, lightning reaching from the sky, the inviting aromas he's come to identify as Gale's magic and natural musk. Color dots his periphery, vibrant hues seeping into the center of his vision, all trails leading straight to the man before him. It's unfamiliar how badly he wants Gale, and yet here Pom is so desperate that he can hardly think straight, all senses — both human and otherwise — attuned toward carnal, insatiable need.
He'd have Gale right there if it weren't such an awkward position, the counter making it more difficult than Pom would like to get his teeth on the wizard's neck. He pulls Gale closer again, hoisting him off the counter with all the strength his Souls allow. Gale's bulk from his own Soul has him weighing considerably more these days, but Pom is used to hauling around a horn bigger than himself across some of the most uninhabitable environments imaginable, and without all the ardor to fuel the fire in him. A countertop can only slow him down so much.
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Pom lifts him off the counter, and Gale lets out a startled pop of laughter. No one has ever carried him anywhere before, not like this, and he tightens his arms and legs around Pom so he doesn't fall. That doesn't mean he'll make it easy, though, stealing another deep kiss.
"I love you, you know," he says when he pulls back. "If things were different, normal, then I'd say that with flowers and poetry, but... I need you to hear it, that's all."
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But for Gale, it's different; it means something else, something more, something Pom doesn't really know how to handle for all its earnestness and the vulnerability it exposes within him. He can't even pretend as he's done in the past for people he both used and was used by just to make ends meet; he'd say whatever he had to say to them, knowing good and well it was as much a lie as his facade.
He can't do that to Gale. He promised to be honest, to be better; he wants to be. His eyes lock on the wizard in his arms, and though his pupils may be hidden behind his glasses, his brow knits with something akin to trepidation. He tries to conjure words, but they don't come, sticking in his throat like tar. Knowing he should say something to keep Gale from getting the wrong impression, the rest of his body speaks for him: his grip tightens around Gale, his shirt tearing as the fabric is pulled taut, his claws finally dipping their way into the flesh beneath. He presses himself to Gale's chest, holds him so tenaciously that he won't leave - can't leave.
"I don't—" He wets his lips, swallowing both the knot and the dragonblight welled in his throat. "Don't know how."
He doesn't have flowers or poetry, barely having a voice for himself. Gale needed Pom to hear what he wanted to say, and he needs Gale to do the same. A sober laugh escapes him, one buried between them; it's easier to speak once he's admitted it, the shame enough to wash away some of his fear.
"That's a sad song, ain't it?" He exhales sharply as his long ears dip behind his head. "One man who ruined himself for love, and another who never learned how to love at all."
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Pom is different, though. He suspects Pom has more trouble with the words than with the sentiment itself. After all, they're here, aren't they? It would have been easy for the other man to maintain an easy friendship, maintained just enough distance between them that Gale didn't notice it, keep the truth of himself and his life a secret behind fascinating lies. Pom had practice enough in that, and Gale has never been good at spotting that kind of deception in other people. He hadn't, though, and how there is no space between them at all, metaphorically or literally. Pom looks distressed at his own inability to answer in kind, but Gale thinks his feelings are clear throught his actions. Claws dig into his back, but the pain is less than what it would have been as a human, or perhaps just different, and he finds that some part of him likes it, skewing it into pleasure, his body reacting in unexpected ways.
Gale laughs, a little pop of surprised, sad sound. "It is a sad song," Gale agrees, "But it isn't over yet, is it? I think, together, we could change it, make something really beautiful."
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But Gale knows him. Gale sees him, and that gives Pom hope he's never been able to hold for himself, not for very long. He never learned how to love properly, using it only for survival - both his and Purl's. It was a tool to get by, same as his other skills. He's always been a tool, allowing himself to be used long after he left his old life behind. Whatever he did, he did for Purl. He's largely done the same in the city - it was for someone else, one of his Imprints, or it was for himself with the sole purpose of surviving until he could get back home.
But he wants to do more than survive for a change. He wants more, more than anyone but Gale can give him. He pulls in a deep breath, smelling the sweat on the wizard's skin against him. Maybe he could learn for himself this time, Pom insists inwardly. It's still for his own survival, sure... but maybe it's for Gale's, too. They both need this - need each other.
So no, it's not like in the songs he usually sings at the Hub, romantic tales about easy love and happy endings for people who found each other right away. This isn't how it's supposed to be, two people finding solace in one another as they succumb to the monsters they're becoming and have, in some way, always been. However, Gale might be right, as he so often is: they can make a song of their own, something more beautiful than the dirges they've been dancing to their entire lives.
Pom arches his head upward, rubbing the side of his face against Gale's neck as he continues his way to the couch.
"I'd like that," he whispers into his skin. "I just hope you're a good teacher."