116 with Rollond and Karl (or Tursgud) because I love angst and also the Wolves
hehe sorry angst brain wasn’t on
116: “I broke your nose, and I’m sorry for that. But what you’re doing isn’t fair.”
Rollond wasn’t sure he liked the expression on Frey’s face. It could’ve been bemused, exasperated, confuddled—or all three. “Tell me again,” he said very slowly, “how this happened.”
“Ro’ond pu’ched ‘e,” Karl said. He was sitting on a log, his nose crooked and very purple. Rollond winced.
“You asked me to!” he said. “You said you were going to practice blocking–”
The parts of Karl’s face that weren’t purple turned dark red. “Your stupi’ face.” Rollond felt himself flush as well.
“What I’m getting from this,” Frey said, “is that you’re both idiots.”
“Yeah,” they said simultaneously.
“Would it help if I told you that you still look cute with a broken nose?” Rollond asked his boyfriend, and Frey buried his head in his hands.
“I hate it here,” he muttered, the sound muffled by his palms.
“Love you, Mother Freya.” Rollond reached up and ruffled Frey’s corn silk hair.
Frey fixed him with a piercing green stare. “Sure you do.” He got to his feet, still shaking his head. “Okay—there’s not much I can do about a broken nose. Just… don’t break it again.”
“Thanksh!” Karl called after him as he left for the barracks.
“You do still look cute,” Rollond said in the ensuing silence. The log rocked as he sat down next to Karl on it. They’d chosen this clearing because it was discreet—no chance of being caught out by Tursgud. Or anyone else, he thought, remembering the time Dell had walked in on them.
“Ish tha’ your way of apo’ogizing?” Karl asked, but he was grinning.
“I already said I was sorry.” Rollond wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “But there are other ways of apologizing, if you’d prefer those,” he said softly, bringing his mouth close to Karl’s ear.
“I’ll think abou’ i’.” Karl turned his head so his lips brushed the point of Rollond’s jaw. “Potentially.”
Rollond shivered as Karl brushed his fingers across his chest, ghosting, lingering touches. His boyfriend trailed kisses along his jaw, and Rollond went to turn his head closer when Karl stopped him. “No,” he said, pressing his mouth to the corner of Rollond’s. “You punched me, so you don’ ge’ to do tha’.”
“I’m sorry for breaking your nose,” Rollond managed. Karl’s touch was agonizingly soft against his skin, feather-light, the ghost of a kiss. “But what you’re doing isn’t—isn’t fair.”
“Wha’ was tha’?” Karl asked, threading his fingers into Rollond’s hair.
“Gorlog,” he groaned. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Be’er.” Karl slid his hand to the back of Rollond’s neck. And kissed him on the mouth. “Tha’s much be’er.”
