but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

"Hey Mauja!" ... "Hey… Mauja." ...

Can't stop, won't stop—

"STOP YOU TIT!"

And d'Artagnan assumed a defense position that reminded Mauja a bit too much of a comical caricature of the bay trying to pass something recalcitrant out of his ass—"Shit," was the Doctor's comment and somewhere in the mess of impact, friction and sand, Mauja found it incredibly humorous. The darkness in him let go, exploded into laughter even as the world did a sickening spin around its own axis, and when it stopped everything had rotated 90 degrees.

Or maybe that was just because he was lying flat on his side in the sand. It made for a new perspective.

The laughter faded into a most uncharacteristic giggle, threatening to die out but renewed every second because while the impact (and probably some half-assed, subconscious attempt to save them from dying) had flung Mauja down, it had put the Doctor on his sorry red ass.

He was sitting.

On his ass.

In the sand.

Fucking sitting.

And glaring in a way that would've made Mauja's skin crawl if he hadn't been so madly in love with the cherry bay, as if he could melt Mauja's intestines and brain and watch it dribble out through his ears—

And the way he got up, he didn't need words, and Mauja's mirth finally tapered off into a content sigh. For a moment, he was unaware of the light blazing out of his eyes as he laid there in the sand. "I thought I was the mad one." But it felt like, like, not a peace offering because it wasn't d'Artagna's fault, but more like, confirmation that it was okay—that it was cool. That it was fine. That it was fine that Mauja had shown up out of nowhere and rammed him and planted his sorry butt in the scratchy sand.

Mauja's gaze grew softer, dark lips curling into a small, fond smile. "All hail d'Artagnan, Lord of the Madlands," he said, voice oddly quiet, somehow at odds with the charge from before—but he couldn't explain it, it was just.. just.. when the exhilaration died down it left this odd, content warmth simmering through his veins, and somehow it defied all things loud and boisterous.

The smile grew into a crooked, wicked grin. "You should've seen the look on your face."

man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same

but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

“I hate you.”

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Because those words, the heat behind them, the way they were flung at him—it made his heart soar with nameless joy, blazing light and angel choruses and all. It was just so light he felt like he could've floated off the ground and zoomed off like a firefly, all because his oldest, bestest (don't question it, it's a word, dammit) friend said I hate you. In protest, Mauja let his shoulders dig into the sand, and heaved himself onto his back, displaying his wide chest to his friend and pawing playfully at the air with one large hoof. No you don't, he thought, but the words—the meaning of the words—got stuck in his throat.

So, he just laid there like an idiot on his back, precariously keeping his balance for half a second longer before toppling back onto his side. He wasn't sure why, but it felt.. it felt good to lie in the sand. It would be a bitch and a half to get out of his fur later, but right now, it was oddly pleasant, shaping itself around his body, but most of all—most of all, it was the fact that he could lie completely vulnerable in the company of another .. and yet feel safer than he ever had before.

Maybe, finally, after all these years, some of his paranoia was losing its hold.

“If we crack his head open now do you suppose there’d be a brain to procure or just thin air.” And it was followed by a laugh he had heard so many times before, a laugh that sounded like life and all things dark-light in the world, such a stark contrast to the shattered man who had lost his lover. "Thin air," he told the laughing Doctor flippantly, mostly to cover up the stumble in his heart, the dark-edged dagger that had nicked him. Popped his joy like a balloon, so to speak.

We've both lost much, haven't we?

But what I haven't lost—

—is you.

“Have you gained weight?” The Doctor's voice was a whisper in his ear, a breath tickling the sensitive skin and hairs of his lobe, sending a shiver running through him. "Are you calling me fat?" he shot back, mock darkness blazing in his eyes.

"Because if you are..." And his voice trailed off ominously, his white tail lashing against the ground once. ".. you're totally right."

But d'Artagnan was approaching more serious questions, and Mauja, halfway to rising, sank back down on his ass, forehooves still planted in the sand. What had he been up to? When had he last seen his red friend? When he'd been told of Kou's death? And what had happened since? Psyche had died. He'd met Kahlua. He capered around with the demi-god child of Spark. He accidentally claimed the Edge together with a black buffoon he'd rather kick off the edge itself. "Darling," he began, something absent-minded in his gaze as he thought of how to explain, "You insult me by insinuating I ever do anything but attempt to kill you."

He was silent for a second. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. Repeated the fish-exercise for a few seconds, before finally spitting out some words. "Psyche's dead. I, uh—I got captured by Kahlua from the Edge, because she thought I had done it, but I ended up joining the herd instead.. sort of. And then I helped Phi invade the Falls. And then, uhh.. And then they somehow decided it was a good idea to crown me King of the Edge again. So.. yeah. That's that." His gaze had fallen to the sandy floor in shame; why haven't you gone north, why haven't you tried to find d'Art sooner, why have you kept to your sodden end of the world and not brought your best friend into the fold?

"And you?" he asked softly.

man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same

but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

Who had he known back in the day, when he had first come to this dismal corner of the world?

d'Artagnan. Psyche. Prometheus. Lotus. Kou.

Psyche was dead. Prometheus was gone; besides, the undead child had not been very impressed with Mauja the last time they had met (the next time, I won't apologize—). Lotus—gods knew where she were, and wherever that was, good riddance. Kou was dead.

But d'Artagnan was still there, after all these years, like nothing but wind and a couple of hours sleep had passed between them. Like it had been yesterday they had gone to the Veins to see Father Earth, like it had been just last week they'd gotten high in his cave in the Basin, and—and like it had just been hours since they'd met in the frozen north, and spoken of Kou's death. Mauja swallowed. Of everything that had once been, of the greatness that once had been the Plague, d'Artagnan was the only thing he had left.

“Ugh look it’s all stuck to you,” the Red said in disgust, watching Mauja as if he were the filth of the sand itself. The same softness that scared the living shit out of him curved his lips, danced in his eyes, capered around the edge of every word as he shot back, "I'd feel better if you were stuck to me too," and he nearly swallowed his own tongue in surprise; the way he recoiled nearly visible as his heart skipped a beat and doubt—fear—flung the blinds down over his blue eyes.

Shit shit shit shit—

There had always been something between them, a playful sense of familiarity, a mocking kind of jest sprung from something warm—the way brothers (or lovers) bickered, and he—he—well fuck, it was just that, that.. It never used to be so much, and no, he didn't think d'Artagnan would suddenly stab him through the heart, but he was afraid all the same—

—afraid of losing him—

—and that was why he shied away from his own flirtatious nature. Because the last thing he wanted, the last thing he needed, was d'Artagnan leaving him after all these years.

But d'Artagnan just said he was overweight and brainless and laughed in a way that could bring down mountains. Mauja just sat there a moment longer, ass planted in the sand and bracing against his forelegs, before the sound found its way through the thick wall of his uncertainty and fear, and then he was laughing too—at himself, at the world, at the Doctor, with the Doctor... And for a moment, everything was right—and not just right, but alright. Like, the sun and the slush and the sea and his heart—it was all right. It was going to be alright.

Even if the world was a shitty, gritty, sandy place, it was going to be fine—even when their words and voices took darker turns, touched upon mortality and the brevity of life, things were going to be fine.

Because he had d'Artagnan, and d'Artagnan had him.

And if that wasn't enough... gods help them.

"Queen Mauja," he said with a short laugh, a sound that somehow conveyed the bitterness of his situation—the brittle kind of sound one makes to cover up all the flaws, the kind that tricks every stranger in the room but not a single friend. As the questions were turned back on him, he sighed, slowly.

Was he happy at the Edge? Sort of; it took his mind off things. Was he happier than he had been as an Outcast? Maybe. Was he happy, in general?

No.

"No," he finally said, something wounded crawling at the bottom of his voice—writhing at the floor of his soul. "I didn't mean to—I didn't want to, but... It's better than what I had. What I was." Vagabond and fallen. "But it's not entirely on my terms anymore. I.. I've changed, d'Artagnan—" And his ears pinned back in uncertainty, spitting out confession after confession there in the sand (because his body had already screamed, 'I love you'). "I don't believe anymore—in us—in that a horn makes us better—" The words were coming out too fast, like he had to get it out now or he would never dare, a jumbled mess spilling out. "I lead with Torleik and, well—I don't like him but we're the same in that sense, I suppose. It's... I don't know, d'Art. I don't know what I'm doing, or where I'm going, or why I wake up in the mornings. I just exist and I'm leading a herd and I don't even fucking know why." His voice had turned into a bitter, barking bite, acid and poison dripping from the words as it ended in a snarl. Then, "Sorry," he muttered, shutting up about his own life. It wasn't like he had had any kind of point to make, anyway—nothing but the need to spit his frustrations out and that hadn't done him much good either.

So he let d'Artagnan fill the silence he created, listening to a tale that seemed as forlorn and morose as his own. But d'Artagnan, not a healer anymore? How was that even possible? While he hardly was a bad fighter he'd never struck Mauja as a soldier—so what were they doing, putting him in that position? By the sound of it, d'Artagnan hadn't approved either, and who even led the Basin these days?

Fuck—here he was, diplomatic lead of the Edge, and he didn't even know who ruled which herd. Fantastic.

But then, everything grew dark. Cold. Still. Afraid, almost, and hurt; his heart's beat was uneven, jagged, a stampede—his breath almost nonexistent.

“Without Kou, there’s nothing here for me.”

He couldn't remember the last time he had felt like it—cold and clammy, heart racing, fired up with adrenaline but frigid like death itself within.

No—

It felt like everything he had been afraid of—of this last, whole piece of his heart slipping away. Like dropping glass onto rocks.

I can't lose you—

The beach seemed to buck beneath his ass, threatening to throw him off; darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. I can't—

And it hurt, too, like having his heart scraped against gravel, or rolled on broken glass, or, or, anything, and when he spoke again, his voice was small, so tentative, barely a sound at all there by the ocean but somehow carrying the entire weight of his fragile, falling psyche: "Me?"

man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same

but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

"Are you trying to seduce me?"

Yes.

"Should I start paying you nightly visits?"

Yes.

"I’m not sticking to you with all that shit also stuck there."

Then we should take a bath together.

But he didn't say it. d'Artagnan played along, and Mauja smirked—his heart thundering in near-terror and elation, a powerful, intoxicating mixture. It threatened to shred his nerves, to crack open his mind and spill his thoughts like blood on the sand—

In the end, he didn't say it, because he had already said enough. If they had the time, they could sit on the beach a whole night and trade insults and innuendos, and gods how part of him wanted that—just him and d'Artagnan, and their barbed words and their warm breaths, and whatever weird thing the Doctor could find for them to eat, and.. just, the beauty of the world, the proximity to another (to him—), with nothing but the whisper of the ocean and .. icy, sleety spring night winds?

Maybe it was better saved for the long, mild nights of summer, when the sky wasn't quite so dark and the breeze just a cool and silent thing. Part of him could see it—him and d'Artagnan, the owls and the hound, the dark sky studded with stars, maybe a bird of fire in the smallest hours for lazy warmth and light...

Mauja was a hopeless romantic; he loved and loved and loved until he'd bled himself dry, and still he kept on loving, as whimsical as the wind, as deep as the oceans. He loved more than a single being. He loved much, but he lost—as much as he made himself lose, he also lost. And in that sense, he feared the day in which a single being would realize what he gave and return it.

"Queen? Did you misplace your crown jewels by any chance your majesty?" He snorted. But what else had he expected? Magical and immediate understanding of the complex inner workings that drove him towards identifying with the female title? It had started as a joke of sorts, after all, between him and Torleik (so odd to think, a joke of sorts between them, as much vying for power as mocking the other). Torleik had said Mauja would be Queen—and Mauja had simply.. gone with it. Tried to take it from Torleik and own it.

And to his surprise, it had felt good.

"They were still there last time I looked," he responded tartly. What was wrong with him tonight? He had had a thousand other words upon his tongue, ranging from serious to .. well, things that were terribly inappropriate. It was nearly frightening, a tingle going through his gut, a shiver across his skin, a fervent light in his eyes—what are you doing to me?

And just as easily as Mauja wanted to be able to sum his life up with I just exist d'Artagnan rejected it. At least the Doctor hadn't upped and left him on the spot for daring to not hate hornless anymore, but.. after all that he had felt—all that he had been through—how could he? After all he had felt for Ophelia? After the kindness Kahlua had shown him? After having, so easily, melded against her side, and stood so close to her?

But where is she now? It hurt a little, his heart gasping for a breath that wouldn't be found, but what she now did to him.. he had probably done a thousand times to her—and others.

(See now what I mean, with how he loves, and loves, and loves?)

"Of course it's the latter," he said teasingly, as much for believing it as for wishing it to be true. If d'Artagnan could not live with hornless .. he could not live with Mauja .. and if Kahlua ever returned, could not see him stand next to Kahlua. His 'brows drew together and his face fell momentarily, until the Red scooped up all of his fear, all of his vulnerability, his insecurities and his glass soul, and dumped it back into the ocean of playfulness. Because how else could they ever interact? How could d'Artagnan somehow face all the darkness in Mauja, if he was broken too? Neither of them were strong enough—maybe not even together, and part of him wanted to look aside, mumble that it wasn't a joke, wasn't something to jest about, but.. in the end, he just kept looking at the cherry bay, eyes gentle as they leaned closer. Conspiracies. The corner of his mouth tugged into a half-smile as he sat there in the sand.

"Everything," he whispered dramatically, knowing it to be an exaggeration of the truth—and yet, it still was the truth.

For those he had left to love, Mauja would set the world on fire if he had to.

man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same