Work Text:
Just don't let me disappear
I'll tell you everything - Secrets, One Republic
"What's that one, then?" Sasha asked, watching him.
Zolf stopped, not surprised she was near - she hadn't moved quietly enough for that - but that she'd said something. Usually Sasha left him alone in the mornings, and given how grumpy he could be, understandably.
"Hmm? Just gettin ready," he said. His hands were wrapped up in his beard, folding the plaits back and forth, keeping the tension taut and smoothing down flyaways as he went.
"You change 'em up sometimes. The, uh, braids. Sometimes they get real complicated, but that one's not too much cept that twisty bit on the side there." She wiggled her fingers in front of her chin, indicating where on her imaginary beard.
He hadn't realized she'd been keeping track of him so closely, but he should have. Sasha always made sure to know what was around her, what she was involved with, what could slip out behind her or under her. He'd seen too many times that underestimating Sasha usually ended with a dagger in the gut; he should've known better.
"Yeah, it's - hm." Zolf wove a few more strands together to buy time. How was he gonna explain that he was the worst dwarf out there? That he'd eschewed all culture except this weird small piece? That he didn't keep it up to remember his parents or Feryn or anything like that, but he still did it every morning, still concocted his own beard oil, still clung to this last thing binding him to his erstwhile family?
"Oh, it's, er, personal," Sasha said, taking his silence for reluctance.
"No, it's not - it's not that. Don't know why they do it, but dwarves use different braids to say different things? Without, you know, speakin."
Sasha nodded. "Yeah, there's something like that in - in Other London. You make little hand signals and - that one means 'easy mark.' Huh. Guess we mostly use 'em for thievin."
Zolf didn't smile; it would make his beard uneven. He finished off the ends and tied it tight, curling the end around his finger until it stayed.
"This one's for everyday, nothing special. There's ones you can't even do on your own." He carefully began to reassemble his kit, rinsing out his brushes in a small bowl of water.
"Yeah? Maybe you could do one on me, some time?"
Zolf choked, and ducked his head so Sasha couldn't see his blush. He didn't - if he couldn't explain dwarf culture before, he certainly couldn't explain the intimacy of doing someone's beard. One of his only memories of his parents together, fond and deeply rooted, was of them doing each other's beards in the twisting, knotting braids of a marriage tie, rubbing in an oil they'd blended together. How could he convey what it meant, when he could only grab the feeling, no words sufficient to define it.
"That's not - not really something we do, casually," he said, awkwardness making him fumble with his kit. He slanted a glance and saw Sasha frowning, drawing herself closed and blank in the face of his rejection. Zolf cleared his throat. "Sides, your hair's too short. Maybe when it grows a bit?"
Sasha bit her cheek to stifle a smile and shrugged. "Yeah, might like that."
Hamid carefully combed his hair, flicking the edges out so their natural curl curved around his brow fetchingly. He'd obviously done this a million times, honing his handsome features into something more distinct than when Zolf mostly saw him sweaty and tired.
With a small little flourish, Hamid wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and fussed with it until the silky fabric lay just right. He caught Zolf's eyes in the mirror and gave a large smile.
"Hello Zolf! Are you getting ready too?" he asked, tying and retying the fabric around his neck.
"Sorta," Zolf said as he opened up his kit and started to set out pieces: the ivory-handled brushes, small scissors, bottle of oil, a few adornments he rarely used, several different waxes wrapped in paper, a small wooden bowl to mix in special scents. If Hamid wanted to go fancy, then Zolf could oblige this once. Maybe he'd never ask again.
He laid down several strands of fine silver wire, so delicate it was soft and malleable to the touch, and a few lower profile bits of metal-set glass, cut to reflect light like gemstones. Every gem he'd ever really owned was used up as spell components.
Zolf opened up one of the wax packages and shaved off tiny slivers of the greyish block. Ambergris only smelled better with age, but was too potent for him to mix it into his everyday oil. He had so little of it; you could only find it at a prolific dock, and he hadn't been in the market of one in ages. He'd developed a fondness for it in his sailing days, when they first traded with a whaling ship that offered the stuff in exchange. It was awful, at first, but time made it earthier, musky. He always liked to have a bit on hand, after that. Zolf melted the tiny portion and mixed it up with his regular oil, coating the loose hair of his beard and combing it all through.
He started on the left side, keeping the braid flat and tight to provide a frame to work the rest of the braids around. He could hold the smaller ones in a single hand, and used the other to thread a stone whenever it felt right.
Hamid sat near him, chin on his hands, watching the whole process. "That's very complicated. Is that why I don't see you do this often?"
Zolf grunted, then found a place he could pause and move his mouth. "Too much to do it all the time. Also, it sorta means something, or it used to. Wouldn't want to give the wrong impression 'bout it."
With a soft noise of agreement, Hamid leaned a bit closer. Zolf leaned back. "I have asked, before, if the different dwarven braids meant anything. No one would tell me, so I always assumed they didn't."
Zolf snorted. "I'm sure they didn't say nothing to you. Dwarves aren't much prone to sharing, Hamid."
Hamid gave a little pout, which his makeup enhanced to look attractive and he was quite good with his design and art. Hamid lifted a hand to where Zolf was still braiding, this time one of those thin silver strands woven in, but Hamid didn't touch it.
"This little braid here, where it sits on top of the hair, does that one have a name?"
Trust Hamid to get particular. Zolf didn't shrug, though it was a near thing. His mother would be scolding him for talking while braiding. "Maybe? I just know how to do 'em. If they got names, it's news to me. Mostly just the whole design of it, uh, means something all together?"
"Oh! Then what's this one called?" Hamid asked, eager.
"How to impress your fancy halfling friend," Zolf said, hands still moving.
Hamid chuckled, but said nothing more as he watched the rest of the process.
Japan rained too much. They hadn't even been there that long, but the rain was incessant. Rainy season, the locals said. Made things grow. Zolf had endured rain in England, but it was nothing like the unending storm in Japan, constantly coating everything in mud, clothes never drying out, the air always thick, even when it was cool, but worse when it wasn't.
Zolf sat at the open door to the small atrium, where the rain drowned out the soft sounds of the bamboo chimes, and the rock-laden pathways were lost beneath several inches of water. Something shuffled behind him, and Zolf cast a quick glance over his shoulder.
Wilde moved as if he'd fallen from a far height, or had gone round with someone much more skilled than he, or the elderly men who shambled through the village square so slowly, they could've been as old as the island itself. The cane made a clacking sound against the lacquered floor, and Wilde still wielded it awkwardly. By the time he would get used to it, he probably wouldn't need it anymore.
Some deep worried part of Zolf catalogued Wilde's movements, and his steady breathing, and the way his hand stole up to feel at his face every few steps. From this side, Zolf couldn't see the wound. He didn't get up. He turned back to the open air, the pounding of rain, the awful quiet.
The clacking paused. Then, after a moment, it picked back up and headed in his direction. Zolf didn't turn his head to look. Wilde's shuffling footsteps stopped next. Zolf could just make out the navy edge of his yukata as he stood next to him, dark cane cutting through the sight.
"Room for one more, sir?" Wilde said, exaggerating his Oxford accent. Zolf grunted and Wilde lowered himself to the floor, wincing, and then trying not to wince when it pulled at his mouth.
They sat in silence, the rain lashing outside, the heat of their bodies keeping the cold at bay. He was used to their being an urge to speak, to fill the air with something, but sat there, next to Wilde, Zolf didn't want to say anything. He didn't feel that same need, that awkward impulse to make conversation. Even more surprising Wilde didn't start banter or a performance. He only began to hum, barely audible, and traced his fingers along a seam on his side, where Zolf had repaired it after a knife sliced through.
Wilde leaned over and gently nudged Zolf's shoulder. He smelled sharp and citrusy like the lemongrass soap their patrons favored. When Zolf looked at him, Wilde was gazing into the wet haze, expression soft and distant. Their arms pressed tight against each other. The weight of Wilde and the silence was comfortable, familiar.
After a long while, Wilde's head fell onto his shoulder, and Zolf figured he'd fallen asleep - wouldn't be the first time. But Wilde's fingers came up and ghosted over the shape of his beard, even breaths stirring the flyaways.
"You're feeling better," Wilde said, voice slightly muffled and slurred from keeping his mouth as closed as possible while speaking.
"What?"
"Your beard - you did it up again. It's…"
"Fancy?" Zolf supplied, the sharp ache of remembering Hamid twisting in his gut.
"Intricate. Deceptively simple." Wilde laid his hand on Zolf's collarbone, thumb moving back and forth. "I've heard the braids mean something."
Zolf glanced down and Wilde's eyes were closed, the vicious red ruin of his cheek glaring, even in the dim light. "Don't have to."
A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth and Wilde hissed a bit, pressing his fingers against his lips to help keep them closed. "Does this one?"
With a sigh, Zolf gathered Wilde's hand up in his own and began to trace their way over the different structures he'd put into his beard. The internal knotted twist, the five-strand braids framing the outside, the small fishtail right down the center and mirrored underneath. Wilde's smile dropped, eyes fluttering open to watch their progression.
"It's a lot of effort for meaningless ornamentation," Wilde said at last. He kept the tips of his fingers tucked into the bottom braid, gentle, feathery in the caress.
"It's got meaning," Zolf conceded. Even if he didn't know how to broach it, how to tell Wilde that he hadn't ever used it before, not even when his parents died, when Feryn died, that he'd only break it out if something truly terrible had happened. He'd learned the tedious pattern with a fervent belief that he would never need it. Zolf knew he'd experience loss, but nothing like that he had - nothing like it being plucked out of the air and dashed to the ground.
"Hmm," Wilde hummed, but didn't say anything else. After a moment, he sat up and stretched out his leg, massaging his swollen knee, where it'd been kicked so hard Zolf had almost been afraid it was permanently dislocated. Wilde started to get his cane underneath him.
"Seat's, uh, still open," Zolf said. He felt Wilde's gaze slide over him, and the tips of his ears went red. But Wilde set down his cane and leaned back instead, folding his hands over his chest. Zolf slid down to join him, staring up into the wooden overhang, the rain misting down to blanket them.
"Smells nice." Wilde had his face turned toward Zolf, though he'd closed his eyes again, his hair disheveled and concealing a good deal of his expression. Zolf did not move it out of the way, tuck it behind his ear.
Zolf also didn't explain that he'd changed the oil, modified it, added three drops of mournful vetiver for every loss: Hamid, Sasha, and the fragile sense of security they'd nearly built in this terrible world.
He'd been trained to keep a tidy bunk, to put away his belongings, keep his things orderly and clean, always ready at any moment to leave, to head out, to abandon whatever he wasn't prepared to take in an instant. Zolf finished tucking away his things and surveyed the room to make sure it was perfect, as sterile as the day the ship had been rebuilt by Cel and the kobolds' dexterous hands. After one final look, he opened the door and stepped into the corridor, nearly running right into Azu.
"Er, sorry," he said. He sidled out of her way and continued aft, where he'd begin his routine check of the ship. He'd always done it, habit, but he'd grown even more particular after the body switching, anxious for some unseen threat lurking in a place they wouldn't look. Azu turned from wherever she'd been going and started to follow him; Zolf struggled to keep the surprise off his face.
Azu said nothing at first, merely content to follow behind him, giving a friendly greeting whenever someone lobbed on her way. The clank of her armor faded to background and he soon forgot it, talking with one of the kobolds - Sassraa, he believed - about some of the peculiar noises coming from the engine room. They assured him nothing was wrong, but he didn't like the look of something and they argued a bit, and Azu stood back, quiet.
When they left the engine room, Azu spoke up. "You know, my first mentor in my fellowship was a dwarf."
He had not known that, and he told her so. She nodded.
"Yes. He was very… talkative, in a way I haven't seen much in other dwarves." She smiled at him.
"I, uh, wouldn't know. Not much experience with other dwarves." He peered into the galley, where Carter was apt to take up residence and snack on things Zolf was rehydrating for their evening meal. Empty, and the covered bowls looked untouched. Azu hummed thoughtfully.
"Really?" Azu folded her hands together and raised her eyebrows at him. "From what I heard, those braids of yours are passed down amongst dwarves. I'd thought you learned them from others."
Zolf cleared his throat, avoiding Azu's patient gaze. "My, ah, my family taught 'em to me. Before they - passed."
"Oh," Azu said, compassion and sympathy creasing her brow, making her abortively reach for him. "So, you don't know what they mean -"
"I know what they mean," Zolf said, struggling to shed the defensiveness in his voice. "I wouldn't wear them if I didn't know."
"Of course not."
They passed through the passenger quarters, where Zolf only checked that they were either occupied or, when open, not full of some secret project Cel or one of the kobolds had undertaken, or another terrible still. Ships always had terrible stills. As they approached the lounge area, Azu took a deep breath and Zolf steeled himself against whatever she had to say.
"I just… noticed you changed how you wear it."
He stroked his hand over the beard to remember exactly what he'd put it into and - yes. He'd been wearing it for weeks now; he never expected anyone to know what it was. With a sigh, Zolf put his hand on Azu's arm and stopped her, turning so they faced each other. Well, as much as they could face one another. He addressed her waist very stoically.
"It's not anything special. Just wanted - myself to know. And you, apparently."
Azu smiled softly at him, touching his shoulder briefly. "I just wanted to say, I think it's nice, is all. That the two of you -"
"It's not like that," he said gruffly. Azu's light touch strengthened, and gripped his shoulder firmly beneath her fingers.
"You haven't told him -"
"I'm hoping he'll get the hint."
"The hint of a… dwarven custom most don't speak about?" The faint amusement in her voice was more than enough to make Zolf rub at his eyes.
He stuck his face into his palms. "Yeah, that."
She gave his shoulder a good shake. Then, Azu delicately laid both of her hands over the sides of his head, just below his ears. She leaned in and pressed an air kiss over his forehead, her armor creaking with the movement. His eyes weren't open, but he could almost feel the warm rush of her magic over him, the staticky essence of a god laced through it. "Blessings from Aphrodite on you, Zolf Smith."
His cheeks went hot and Zolf averted his eyes, staring down at the dull metal of Azu's boots. This was part of the reason why he wasn't going to say anything about it, to tell anyone, just something he could keep to himself, knowing what it meant, knowing that he had an intent for something, and it was enough. He gave her a jerk of his chin and his voice came out rough, gravelly. "Uh, thanks, Azu. Always appreciate a, uh, blessing."
"From a goddess?" she asked, soft and chuckling.
"From a friend."
"Oh. Yes." With a last squeeze, Azu clanked away.
Zolf traced the texture of his beard, the braids and the twists, the unfinished knots up the side. He'd used a traditional blend, far more sharp and floral that his usual, and every time he caught a whiff of it, the scent reminded him of some of Feryn's younger days, when he'd had time away from the mine to chase after lovers, to seduce and cajole and bring them around the flat so Zolf rolled his eyes every time. Zolf did just fine on his own, thanks, and never bothered with it.
But Wilde liked fancy things, decadent textures and exotic tastes, and intricate smells. He'd mutter something under his breath in a different language - usually French - if he really liked something, hum a tune if he loved it. Zolf collected all the scraps of Wilde's preferences, how many he played because he knew people expected it, how few he trapped in a small box he only opened when it was safe, when he was not a performer, but himself. Zolf saw it more often than most, he believed, the way that Wilde's smile would sink onto his mouth like a feather drifting down, slight, ephemeral, gone with too harsh a breath.
Once they landed. Once they landed, Zolf would say something. He'd explain what it all meant, and Wilde would've noticed, he always did, always took stock of the details others missed. Zolf would roll his eyes and they'd understand each other.
Just as soon as they landed.
Zolf carried his kit with him, not really paying attention to where he was going. He knew parts of the bunker better than others, and the washroom at the far end was almost always unoccupied. He stepped in without knocking, the door unlocked. He'd only taken a few steps in when he realized the room wasn't empty.
Skraak sat on the countertop in front of the mirror, a box of something in front of him, his claws covered in a dark goopy substance. Skraak only paused long enough to get a good look at Zolf, then he turned back to the mirror and continued what he was doing: smearing black goop over his red skin in patterned lines. Zolf chuckled; it was not unlike what he'd come in there to do.
"Sorry," Zolf said. He started to back out.
"You can stay," Skraak said in that practical blunt way he had. Zolf nodded and began to break out his kit next to Skraak.
The kobold had obviously done the paint only a few times, his lines wobbly, the goop thicker in some places. Zolf hadn't ever seen a kobold with paint on like that, but in his experience, he hadn't much seen a kobold that wasn't being controlled by someone else. Maybe this was their actual culture. Maybe Skraak had found a remnant of something he remembered, and now he tried to gain hold of a thing he'd never been able to have.
Zolf set three vials down next to his standard beard oil mix. He poured some into the bowl, then started right to left.
"What's that?" Skraak asked, leaning over so far they were going to knock over their dish.
Zolf pointed at each of the vials. "Black moss, spurge blood, iron filings. What's that?"
Skraak tipped forward the bowl to show Zolf what was inside: a sticky black mess. "Ashes, some of that black dust from those monsters, some of Cel's machine lubricant."
"Huh." Zolf mixed up his ingredients, then he hesitated before storing them away. "You, uh, want -?"
Scrambling over the counter, Skraak peered at Zolf's concoction. "What's it all for?"
"Different smells. Sometimes the ingredient has another meaning. Like your ashes, your black dust - the remains of your enemies."
"This one?" Skraak asked, holding up the vial with bright red pigment inside.
"Spurge blood. It's just - it's just resin, but they used to call it dragon's blood before - well everyone stopped callin it that." Skraak's claws tightened around the vial and Zolf gestured with his chin. "Go ahead, just a few shakes is good."
Skraak did so, and the black of his goop changed to a slightly reddish black, still thick and clumpy, but the kobold seemed satisfied and started to paint over his lines again. Zolf went back to his own preparations. He finally finished mixing it and started to apply it to his loose beard, combing through the strands carefully. He'd used a lot this time, so much the teeth of his comb left furrows behind, but the intent was to prevent it from coming apart during inconvenient times. The intent was to make him stronger.
Zolf started the tight braid close to his skin in the hair at the edge of his left jaw, working just a few bits together in a tiny plait, gradually growing larger as he continued, adding only a fraction at a time. It was necessary to go slow, to consider every move, to ensure that you weren't overburdening yourself before you could contribute everything you had.
He'd finished one side before he noticed Skraak had completed his own designs and held out his bowl of goop. It wouldn't work with the blend, the smoky ashes would be overwhelming. But - Zolf reached in and gathered a coin-sized bit and worked it into the main braid of his beard. The ashes were indeed strong, but that weird black dust smelled more like anise than anything else, and it worked with the other components.
When Zolf finished up, he turned to Skraak for approval. The kobold stepped closer, across the counter, not even needing to bend to examine Zolf's work. The lines on Skraak's red skin were wobbly, but straighter when he'd gone over them again, and the whole thing reminded Zolf of the jagged markings he'd seen on pictures of old dragons. Had Skraak seen them? Or was he following something else?
"It's not as showy, but it's not bad," Skraak declared, hopping off the counter.
Seemed as much of an endorsement as any. "Be careful out there."
"You too." Skraak dipped his head in acknowledgement.
Zolf cleared away his things, making sure to carefully clean his brushes, to wipe down everything so it was dry, to tuck it away neatly so it wouldn't jar when he moved around. He'd need it later, after all this. When they were done, he'd still have a beard that needed tending to, unless he was very unlucky.
He wasn't planning on it.
Zolf had been surprised to learn that Wilde very much liked having his hair played with. He'd figured the man was too vain to let anyone mess around with it, the perfect style, the amount of product and time it took to make it look good. Wilde got in the habit of doing it mundanely when he'd been without his magic, and so he spent indulgent lengths of time tousling it in such a way as to appear casual, effortless, and perfect.
So when he flopped beside wherever Zolf happened to find himself and put himself in a convenient, hair-stroking position, Zolf rolled his eyes and accommodated him. He hadn't meant to start braiding it, to weaving in the little things he knew, the designs and techniques, the puffy braids that made his hair look fuller, the flat braids Wilde liked beneath his larger floppy hats, the tight ones that kept his hair out of the way when he bent over his desk writing nonstop.
But that day was different. Zolf settled Wilde down on a cushion, back straight, Zolf behind him. Wilde's eyes darted around, assessing, trying to figure it out. Zolf brought out his kit, laid it on the floor. Wilde immediately touched it, stroking over the leather and glancing up at Zolf from underneath his lashes. With a put-upon sigh, Zolf nodded. Wilde didn't ever ask to braid Zolf's beard, or to fix it in any way, but he would comb it, would lay out all the tools of Zolf's care and arrange them to some configuration that made sense to him. Wilde picked up one of the wider-toothed combs and held it toward Zolf.
"No, ah. Not today. Stay - stay still." It had the opposite effect. Wilde fidgeted, squirming as he laid his hands in his lap as though he were going to behave himself, somehow.
Zolf stood behind Wilde and ran his fingers through the man's hair, the texture much softer than his own, fine and slightly wavy, thicker now that he was eating properly and not stressing so much. The white was the same as Zolf's, pure and clean, but it felt so different, felt like something more tender, more sacred, sprung from one of Zolf's many times saving Wilde. He'd earned a bit of it, touching Wilde's hair, seeing him let go, just a bit.
Taking the wide-tooth comb from Wilde, Zolf began to comb through the silky strands, carefully working out each knot, until he could run it through clear. He hesitated a moment, looking down at Wilde's upturned face, eyes closed, soft smile lingering around the corners of his mouth. Then, Zolf slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a small vial, rolling it along his palm to warm it up. He didn't tell Wilde about it, didn't explain how many months he'd been working on it, how he'd had to source shit from all over the world, how he mixed and mixed and came to hate the smells so much he almost scrapped the whole thing. But he didn't. He found the right concentration, the right proportions. Zolf unscrewed the cap and smeared his finger through the oil, just enough to throw the scent. He rubbed it between his hands and finger-combed Wilde's hair again.
Then, he began to braid. He started near the crown, tracing along Wilde's hairline for a bit, then gathering larger chunks as he went to begin the swooping knots. Hair was so much different to work with than the coarser hair of his beard, but it held.
"What is that?" Wilde said, jerking his head as he tried to look behind him.
"Quit movin," Zolf said, pulling hard enough that Wilde grunted.
"I'm not!" He was. Zolf held the hair in his hands until Wilde stilled, then began again.
Wilde moved and squirmed and wriggled the whole time, but Zolf managed to set the braids right, the layered knots, the way he twisted them onto themselves so they could form the complex weaving necessary to keep the whole thing intact. Eventually, Wilde settled, though his hand stole behind him to touch Zolf's hip, up to touch Zolf's wrist.
When he finished, Zolf leaned back, admiring his work. Then, he learned forward, inhaling the mixture of the blend, of his skin in Wilde's hair, and Wilde himself. Wilde's strong fingers caught his arm, held him in place.
"Can I see it?"
Zolf fumbled for the mirror in his pack, held it out so Wilde could see. The man's eyes were soft, but exacting, cataloguing a thousand things Zolf hadn't intended. That sort of trick kept them alive many times, but Zolf wasn't sure he appreciated it being applied to his work then.
"What is it?" Wilde asked, low voice barely audible in the quiet.
"Somethin - somethin my parents used to do for each other," Zolf said. He straightened out his beard, but the oil on his fingers transferred, and all Zolf could smell was what they'd made together.
"Ah. It's beautiful." Wilde slowly turned on his knees, setting his chin into his hands, smiling with a rueful air.
"Oh, what's it now?" Zolf asked, folding his arms. Wilde shook his head, stretched out his legs a bit, absently picking at the tools of the kit.
"You know, I was a near diplomat for a long time." A thread, not quite dread but a close cousin, began to unspool in Zolf's gut. "I worked with many different peoples, cultures, whatever I needed to accomplish my goals."
"Yeah, so?"
A smile, large and awkward and messy in the way Wilde rarely allowed himself, broke over his face, and he laughed. "A ring would've been easier, more permanent."
"Why's everyone know about the secret dwarven braid language when it's supposed t' be secret, I'll never know," Zolf grumbled. He accepted the kiss Wilde placed on his cheek, then his lips. Zolf tucked a strand of Wilde's fine hair that had already slipped out of the braid. "Ring's just once. Get to do this for you everyday."
"Yes, but we could still do the once, right?"
"You and your -" Zolf kissed him to shut up any more arguing.