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DMCL Week 2024 - Scars
They compare each other's scars, sometimes, late in the night when they're laying in one another's arms, in their beds.
Not all the time, of course. That'd be pretty morbid, and Khalid likes to think that he can make sexual or romantic experiences far nicer than that. More often than not, the aftermath is filled with lots of other things. All sorts of things, even. Sometimes it's just eating a little bit of snacks, slices of fruit or hard crackers, that Dimitri guiltily sweeps off of the bed and onto the floor when all things are said and done. There are nights when the aftercare is even more intense, Khalid gently tending to the crescent marks that Dimitri sometimes makes on his own palms from pleasure too great for his tender heart to take.
There's talk of politics, a lot, whether there's just petty complaining or more indepth frustrations, and celebrations on their victories. The future is wondered about, more often than it isn't, and if they can keep another war from breaking out in their lifetime.
But sometimes, they compare each other's scars.
It's almost sort of funny, really. People would think that guys like them shouldn't have too many scars, if any at all. With the culture of Faerghus being what it was, and Dimitri's combat style being what it is, well, the man just flat out needs full plate armor to make the most of it. The Blaiddyd Crest would demand nothing less. That's some pretty solid coverage right there. As for him? Well, he's the archer, isn't he? The guy with a million plans. The person always thinking, who tries to keep his own head on his neck, all of that. It's not like Dimitri, but it should mean he shouldn't have a lot of scars either. Two different ways to approaching the same problem.
Despite that, whenever they lay in bed together, bare and exposed to their wandering hands and patient eyes... It's undeniable. Both of them are covered in scars. In some places more than others, granted - Dimitri's eye, Khalid's fingers.
It's the latter which always draws Dimitri's attention, which Khalid finds to be rather amusing truth to be told. "You should wear gloves more," he scolds, even though they both know that scolding doesn't really do anything for him. It would have made Seteth's life easier if it did, once upon a time, although then would he really be himself in that case? "Some of these... They are burn marks, aren't they?"
They are, of course. All sorts of burns, from his work with various poisons. Some of them are simply from the liquids themselves. Other time, they're from a careless little mistake because he's rusty at messing about with the equipment. A rare couple are even from certain kinds of plants. Nasty work, them.
Most are pretty old at this point, really. Although he has to admit that some aren't. Some are fresh. Not as many as he would like. Being a king, as it turns out, or at least a king that wants to really do something with the state of the world.... that doesn't leave a lot of time for leisure.
Personally, he's far more fascinated with some of the scars stretched out all along Dimitri's body. Alarmingly, his limbs seem to have the most decorations of that sort. Although, maybe he should be glad about that? Dimitri certainly seems glad about it, when Khalid mentions it. "Oh, far preferable for my limbs to bear the damage rather than my arms. After all, when you are wasting away in the snow and your body begins to fail you, it is your limbs which begin to blacken into nothing first."
"Well isn't that wonderful," Khalid says, who decided long ago that the more he learned about the frigid environment of old Faerghus (now Northern Fodlan), the more he would never want to leave there. And now he visits constantly for his love, so, jokes on him. "Good to know that my body doesn't care about fingers."
Dimitri shrugs. Awkwardly, but only because there's no other way to really do it with the way they're laying in bed together. Down past their feet, on the other side of the room, the fire crackles loud and bright in its place as though to ward away their rather chilling talk. "It cares, I am sure of it," he responds. "Or else why would your fingers continue to work as they do, up until the last moment? Why would the body not try to painstakingly repair the damage done, when you are pulled into the warmth? But the body on its own is a base thing of nature, and nature's goal is only but survival. So to save the heart, the lungs, the mind, it will cut off little bits of itself as things become worse and worse."
A long sliver of distorted skin stretches out along Dimitri's forearm, and Khalid's fingers follow it. A sword or a dagger? Probably it doesn't matter. A blade is a blade. Cold is cold. "Makes sense, I suppose," he answers, trying to get a feel from where healthy skin ends and the warping of scar starts. It's harder than you'd think. "Although it's just a little funny, isn't it?"
"In what way?"
"You need your limbs in order to survive. Your feet are what carry to places, like a warm home to take shelter in, or food that you can eat, all of that. I mean sure, without hands, I guess you could just shove your face down into a bowl of soup and do your best... but hands make it a little bit easier. At least when it comes to people."
"Nature, unfortunately, is not one for nuance." Dimitri shifts his arm, takes Khalid's own hand in his. "Or, it is for nuance in a thousand different ways which do not matter to the average person."
Khalid laughs. A little filler laugh. "Reminds me of some people I know."
Or maybe to be more accurate, it reminds him of just people, flat out, in more ways than one. The many nuances in the average life that vary from person to person, that they hold up over anything else. In their world, their body, they are saving those core and vital organs.
How many times has he severed his own fingers?
Little personal things for his own happiness - secreting away books from his father's library because to linger in one place meant that one of his siblings or worse might find him. Learning the taste of poison no matter how much it eventually made his stomach churn, figured out how to pick it up out of even a burning hot curry. Hating the sight of blood as a child and yet picking up a bow, gaining the strength to notch an arrow and spill more of it if it truly came down to it all.
Fingers to limb to arms. Breaking the bridges between his siblings, getting information in ways that perhaps weren't the cleanest or kindest but what was he supposed to do when it was only him against an entire family? A family it almost felt that he could not call his own?
Changing his name. Lying about his life. Torn between two different countries and not even able to say if one could truly be his home. All to protect the core beating part of him.
Heart and lungs and mind.
Even without hands to grasp, or feet to travel, or arms to hold. Would a life be worth living after enough limbs had been sacrificed to the cold? After they had become numb, and blackened, and rotted away while still attached to the healthy body where at least the heart still beat and the brain thought and the lungs dragged in desperate breath?
Funny, what single little comment can do to a guy. It lingers on him even after the two of them get up and hide away the crackers so that there's no crumbs found in the blankets and Dimitri makes sure that his empty eye socket is clean and empty.
"There's no cure for that kind of thing, is there?" he asks, leaning against the doorway of the royal bathroom while Dimitri carefully inspects his own reflection. "The frostbite thing, I mean. Once it's taken hold, that's it." The cold has sunken in past flesh and into bone and that's it. They're so far gone that the fingers or hand or arm just can't work anymore.
Dimitri doesn't look away from the mirror. "Ah, I see I have traumatized you with tales of the north once more," he says idly.
"Well, you see, my beautiful moon, the north is inherently traumatizing," Khalid drawls right back.
And that earns a laugh, which is something, and Dimitri smiles a little more than he was before, which was not at all. Not while he was looking into the mirror and his own reflection. "Well, as you say, perhaps. But I would not say there is a cure."
Of course not.
"Only treatment. Keeping the body warm, not rubbing your hands over bare skin, removing the cold and wet clothes which have burdened you so... Sometimes, one must take slightly more vicious measures," Dimitri concedes, "and the healer must remove dead skin. But to be back in warmth, to remove what harms, and take medicine to help the body recover... If you are pulled back from the brink, then it is not too late. And even amputation is hardly the end in many cases." Carefully, delicately, he slides in a small metal orb into his socket - something to help keep the shape and ensure nothing strange slips into the space while he is asleep. And he smiles at him. "It is a rarer thing, I am pleased to say, for people to suffer from such things now. Even here."
Khalid takes a second before smiling back, pleased to see that soft expression on Dimitri's lips. "Things have gotten better since you guys have been able to stop stressing out about the war, and have leadership in place that cares for the people, huh?" he asks, poking just a little bit at Dimitri's role in it all.
"Leaders across many different positions, of many different backgrounds," Dimitri says, sincere in a way that's hard to deny. "But now, we can focus on coming together. On providing warm homes for all, and knowledge of healing spread." Stepping away from the mirror, he takes his hand, and Khalid lets himself be pulled along. "People help ensure that frostbite no longer claims as many as it once did."
What can a man say to that? Nothing, really. Khalid just lets himself bask in the fire, letting Dimitri patiently pull away any clothing still left on his person, and he leaves aside the many daggers he normally keeps hidden all on his person. Not even one to slide under the pillow, just in case.
Khalid comes home to Dimitri's arms, and closes his eyes.
Not all the time, of course. That'd be pretty morbid, and Khalid likes to think that he can make sexual or romantic experiences far nicer than that. More often than not, the aftermath is filled with lots of other things. All sorts of things, even. Sometimes it's just eating a little bit of snacks, slices of fruit or hard crackers, that Dimitri guiltily sweeps off of the bed and onto the floor when all things are said and done. There are nights when the aftercare is even more intense, Khalid gently tending to the crescent marks that Dimitri sometimes makes on his own palms from pleasure too great for his tender heart to take.
There's talk of politics, a lot, whether there's just petty complaining or more indepth frustrations, and celebrations on their victories. The future is wondered about, more often than it isn't, and if they can keep another war from breaking out in their lifetime.
But sometimes, they compare each other's scars.
It's almost sort of funny, really. People would think that guys like them shouldn't have too many scars, if any at all. With the culture of Faerghus being what it was, and Dimitri's combat style being what it is, well, the man just flat out needs full plate armor to make the most of it. The Blaiddyd Crest would demand nothing less. That's some pretty solid coverage right there. As for him? Well, he's the archer, isn't he? The guy with a million plans. The person always thinking, who tries to keep his own head on his neck, all of that. It's not like Dimitri, but it should mean he shouldn't have a lot of scars either. Two different ways to approaching the same problem.
Despite that, whenever they lay in bed together, bare and exposed to their wandering hands and patient eyes... It's undeniable. Both of them are covered in scars. In some places more than others, granted - Dimitri's eye, Khalid's fingers.
It's the latter which always draws Dimitri's attention, which Khalid finds to be rather amusing truth to be told. "You should wear gloves more," he scolds, even though they both know that scolding doesn't really do anything for him. It would have made Seteth's life easier if it did, once upon a time, although then would he really be himself in that case? "Some of these... They are burn marks, aren't they?"
They are, of course. All sorts of burns, from his work with various poisons. Some of them are simply from the liquids themselves. Other time, they're from a careless little mistake because he's rusty at messing about with the equipment. A rare couple are even from certain kinds of plants. Nasty work, them.
Most are pretty old at this point, really. Although he has to admit that some aren't. Some are fresh. Not as many as he would like. Being a king, as it turns out, or at least a king that wants to really do something with the state of the world.... that doesn't leave a lot of time for leisure.
Personally, he's far more fascinated with some of the scars stretched out all along Dimitri's body. Alarmingly, his limbs seem to have the most decorations of that sort. Although, maybe he should be glad about that? Dimitri certainly seems glad about it, when Khalid mentions it. "Oh, far preferable for my limbs to bear the damage rather than my arms. After all, when you are wasting away in the snow and your body begins to fail you, it is your limbs which begin to blacken into nothing first."
"Well isn't that wonderful," Khalid says, who decided long ago that the more he learned about the frigid environment of old Faerghus (now Northern Fodlan), the more he would never want to leave there. And now he visits constantly for his love, so, jokes on him. "Good to know that my body doesn't care about fingers."
Dimitri shrugs. Awkwardly, but only because there's no other way to really do it with the way they're laying in bed together. Down past their feet, on the other side of the room, the fire crackles loud and bright in its place as though to ward away their rather chilling talk. "It cares, I am sure of it," he responds. "Or else why would your fingers continue to work as they do, up until the last moment? Why would the body not try to painstakingly repair the damage done, when you are pulled into the warmth? But the body on its own is a base thing of nature, and nature's goal is only but survival. So to save the heart, the lungs, the mind, it will cut off little bits of itself as things become worse and worse."
A long sliver of distorted skin stretches out along Dimitri's forearm, and Khalid's fingers follow it. A sword or a dagger? Probably it doesn't matter. A blade is a blade. Cold is cold. "Makes sense, I suppose," he answers, trying to get a feel from where healthy skin ends and the warping of scar starts. It's harder than you'd think. "Although it's just a little funny, isn't it?"
"In what way?"
"You need your limbs in order to survive. Your feet are what carry to places, like a warm home to take shelter in, or food that you can eat, all of that. I mean sure, without hands, I guess you could just shove your face down into a bowl of soup and do your best... but hands make it a little bit easier. At least when it comes to people."
"Nature, unfortunately, is not one for nuance." Dimitri shifts his arm, takes Khalid's own hand in his. "Or, it is for nuance in a thousand different ways which do not matter to the average person."
Khalid laughs. A little filler laugh. "Reminds me of some people I know."
Or maybe to be more accurate, it reminds him of just people, flat out, in more ways than one. The many nuances in the average life that vary from person to person, that they hold up over anything else. In their world, their body, they are saving those core and vital organs.
How many times has he severed his own fingers?
Little personal things for his own happiness - secreting away books from his father's library because to linger in one place meant that one of his siblings or worse might find him. Learning the taste of poison no matter how much it eventually made his stomach churn, figured out how to pick it up out of even a burning hot curry. Hating the sight of blood as a child and yet picking up a bow, gaining the strength to notch an arrow and spill more of it if it truly came down to it all.
Fingers to limb to arms. Breaking the bridges between his siblings, getting information in ways that perhaps weren't the cleanest or kindest but what was he supposed to do when it was only him against an entire family? A family it almost felt that he could not call his own?
Changing his name. Lying about his life. Torn between two different countries and not even able to say if one could truly be his home. All to protect the core beating part of him.
Heart and lungs and mind.
Even without hands to grasp, or feet to travel, or arms to hold. Would a life be worth living after enough limbs had been sacrificed to the cold? After they had become numb, and blackened, and rotted away while still attached to the healthy body where at least the heart still beat and the brain thought and the lungs dragged in desperate breath?
Funny, what single little comment can do to a guy. It lingers on him even after the two of them get up and hide away the crackers so that there's no crumbs found in the blankets and Dimitri makes sure that his empty eye socket is clean and empty.
"There's no cure for that kind of thing, is there?" he asks, leaning against the doorway of the royal bathroom while Dimitri carefully inspects his own reflection. "The frostbite thing, I mean. Once it's taken hold, that's it." The cold has sunken in past flesh and into bone and that's it. They're so far gone that the fingers or hand or arm just can't work anymore.
Dimitri doesn't look away from the mirror. "Ah, I see I have traumatized you with tales of the north once more," he says idly.
"Well, you see, my beautiful moon, the north is inherently traumatizing," Khalid drawls right back.
And that earns a laugh, which is something, and Dimitri smiles a little more than he was before, which was not at all. Not while he was looking into the mirror and his own reflection. "Well, as you say, perhaps. But I would not say there is a cure."
Of course not.
"Only treatment. Keeping the body warm, not rubbing your hands over bare skin, removing the cold and wet clothes which have burdened you so... Sometimes, one must take slightly more vicious measures," Dimitri concedes, "and the healer must remove dead skin. But to be back in warmth, to remove what harms, and take medicine to help the body recover... If you are pulled back from the brink, then it is not too late. And even amputation is hardly the end in many cases." Carefully, delicately, he slides in a small metal orb into his socket - something to help keep the shape and ensure nothing strange slips into the space while he is asleep. And he smiles at him. "It is a rarer thing, I am pleased to say, for people to suffer from such things now. Even here."
Khalid takes a second before smiling back, pleased to see that soft expression on Dimitri's lips. "Things have gotten better since you guys have been able to stop stressing out about the war, and have leadership in place that cares for the people, huh?" he asks, poking just a little bit at Dimitri's role in it all.
"Leaders across many different positions, of many different backgrounds," Dimitri says, sincere in a way that's hard to deny. "But now, we can focus on coming together. On providing warm homes for all, and knowledge of healing spread." Stepping away from the mirror, he takes his hand, and Khalid lets himself be pulled along. "People help ensure that frostbite no longer claims as many as it once did."
What can a man say to that? Nothing, really. Khalid just lets himself bask in the fire, letting Dimitri patiently pull away any clothing still left on his person, and he leaves aside the many daggers he normally keeps hidden all on his person. Not even one to slide under the pillow, just in case.
Khalid comes home to Dimitri's arms, and closes his eyes.