theindigoflirt:
Motivated by Scars (Laslow & Xander) [AU]
One eye closed in gratitude at the invitation. Sitting down, even on hard ground, felt like an extreme luxury at this point. Laslow focused on keeping his shallow breathing even. Too much of anything hurt. A scoff rose in the back of his throat. Frightening, really, how often Xander brushed away friendly concern. Early graves are not something to take lightly. Oft-repeated chastisements circled through his thoughts. Laslow fought the urge to revisit that particular line of conversation.
Not much merit coming from them when he’s the one currently suffering from a life-threatening wound regardless. Still, he made a mental note to properly inform his king just how reckless he was being. Untreated battle wounds tended to sneak up when you least expected, silent assassins slipping between rusted armor.
“Please. I respect—respect them enough to not ruin their tent.” Brow twitched as pain flickered along his chest. Ah, there’s the king voice. Something Laslow is incredibly well acquainted with; usually Xander reserved it for scolding him or sentencing him to weeks of house arrest. In fact, this entire situation felt like some twisted version of the days he’d sit cross-legged in the corner of the king’s chambers. The seeds of a smile sprout across his face for a brief moment. How awful those days seemed at the time. What he wouldn’t give to endure another mind-numbing afternoon watching Xander read reports right now.
Finally, Laslow opened his other eye at the sharp exhalation. Oh. Guilt flooded through him at the unspoken words. All of this probably brought up buried memories of Xander’s fallen retainers, and here Laslow sat, cracking jokes and trying to hit on the nurses. With a barely concealed grunt, he pushed himself off the ground, one hand braced on the cot for support. “Forgive me, milord. Some assistance would be most appreciated.” Laslow removed his hand from the thin mattress and instead threw his arm around Xander’s shoulders. An involuntary sigh escaped from the release of pressure on his chest.
Laslow thanked the nurses before they left the tent. Nerves added to his already dry throat. How could he hide the scars lining the right side of his torso? Naga, Lady Fate, whomever, how could he explain them? “Milord—Xander—I, erm.” Laslow shook his head. “Seriously, I can handle myself from here.” Last chance to convince the king to turn back, and that’s what he came up with? A shaky smile accompanied his latest plea.
He gave a hum of mild disappointment at Laslow’s dismissal once again— life-threatening injuries are not things to be worried about ruining someone else’s day over, especially when those people made it their life’s work to help people in the medical sense. They both know this full well, but he would be remiss to say he too had not used similar excuses before when he felt as if others’ injuries were more pressing than his own, and recently...
Xander had never been shy about his appearance, though he did prefer to dress modestly, but after he battled beside his family and allies against a dragon-god gone mad, he found himself avoiding situations where people outside the direct group of survivors of that battle. The way his scars had formed was... unnatural, but so too was fighting and killing a mad god, he supposed. His back and left arm bore the markings, notable in comparison to any number of other scars by virtue of being inlaid with... gems. Aquamarine and sapphire emerging from his flesh as if they had always been there. And yet he was human, not a dragon like his sister and nephew, not kitsune or wolfskin, and thus he had nothing to explain the crystals away with. What was he to say when outsiders questioned him about them? That he had fought and killed a dragon-god with an army lead by his younger adopted sister and the places where claws tore through armor and flesh were changed? Not only would he be seen as insane, but... there were those in this world who by nature of things Xander could not even begin to explain, came from worlds where Anankos did not perish. Where the curse likely still held strong, ready to destroy all those who would speak of it.
He could not allow those outside Corrin’s army to see such things, and even they barely knew of such things— Xander much preferred to keep things of that nature as private as possible.
...Perhaps that would be considered shy in terms of his appearance.
But that was besides the point- he simply got lost in his own thoughts again as he helped his retainer to the man’s tent. When they arrived, Laslow stumbled his words- whether it be from blood loss or nervousness Xander could not tell, but still, the man attempted to brush him aside- what in the world was he so afraid of?
Xander’s frown deepened further, and he glanced at the man from the corners of his eyes. “Laslow,” he began, concern evident in his tone, as always, “I know not what has you nervous, nor why you seem convinced to deny my assistance, but you- Laslow, you are a friend and comrade. You know I trust you implicitly, without question on most occasions, save those pertaining to romance.” He offered up a weak, fond smile before it dropped again. “Please, allow me to assist you, my friend. As King, I have few opportunities to assist you or even begin to give in turn what you have given me in the many years we have known one another, but this? This is an occasion where I may attempt to do such. I swear to you that I shall do my best to ease your nerves, whether that involve my silence on a matter or—” He looked at Laslow, his closest friend, looking to be on the edge of desperation. “Please, dear friend, allow me to help you.”
