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“Where the fuck is my wallet?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because I can’t find it?”
“Have you tried checking your pockets?”
“Very funny.” Lysandre sets down his laptop on the bed and follows the rustling sounds to find wherever his boyfriend is no doubt causing problems for future the both of them. Indeed: In the other part of their hotel room, Augustine has torn apart his entire bag and also their suitcase and his pockets. There are a handful of used tissues and crumpled receipts in a pile that Lysandre immediately takes to throw in the trash. Everything else has been tossed around haphazardly. It is a complete disaster. “I can’t find it anywhere!”
“Of course not; look at this mess.” Augustine, hands buried in his hair, makes a furious noise that sounds both livid and also inconsolable. Lysandre sets his hands atop his shoulders to pull him back against his chest. When he kisses the top of his boyfriend's head, it earns an even more frustrated noise. “Go shower. I’ll sort everything out and see if it’s here.”
“You need to prep for tomorrow—“ Lysandre silences him with a firm kiss to his open mouth (Augustine continues to attempt to talk, mumbling into his lips) and he only slumps after Lysandre squeezes the top of his shoulders harder. “Fine. If you’re sure.”
“I wouldn’t say otherwise if I wasn’t.” He pushes Augustine away. “Go shower.”
When Augustine comes back, Lysandre has cleaned everything up, sorted out their clothes into the dresser, gotten rid of an enormous amount of trash, and generally reorganized things so that the next time his boyfriend tears everything apart he won’t make a complete mess. Only a normal amount of mess.
Augustine looks at the mess, back at Lysandre, and groans. “Where the fuck is my wallet!”
“You had it when we picked up the rental car,” Lysandre points out. “It has to be somewhere.”
(His wallet is, in fact, in the rental car.)
Lysandre Labs (current employee: Lysandre. That’s it. He’s trying to talk one of their grad school friends into joining, but Xerosic doesn’t graduate for six more months and he’s currently undecided because a startup company your friend is financing out of his family inheritance isn’t exactly a secure source of employment) wins its first major funding source outside of Lysandre’s own pockets the September after he graduates, four months after he founds the company. It's menial work, but it's vital, and thus here they are in December, in Almia, with Lysandre assisting in the overhaul and integration of the Almian electric grid with that of Orre to the east. Augustine, as Junior Pokémon Professor of Kalos, tags along in an official capacity to work with some of the Rangers to update their diagnostic tech for taking care of Pokémon.
It’s going to be a busy three weeks, but Lysandre has been prepping for three months, and he’s ready to hit the ground running. Proving his capability here is one of the best ways to establish the credibility of Lysandre Labs. If he wants a future as a hardware engineer—if he wants to make the HoloCaster a reality—he needs people to trust him with a great deal of financial overhead.
Much of their time is spent apart. Lysandre is in the field, sleeping on the floor of people’s houses or in sleeping bags, traveling all over Almia. He lies to his mother when she calls him on the second Wednesday they’re there, telling her about how fine and safe their accommodations are, because if Marie de Lys knows her son is gallivanting about in the middle of nowhere she’ll probably try to fly him home.
She doesn’t need to know about him helping people reach power lines because he’s the tallest person on the team or about him stepping on a rusty nail that goes straight through the sole of his boot that leads to his getting an updated tetanus shot. She needs to know about the weather (mostly cool, no snow, lots of sun) and the food (delicious and definitely not mostly fast food or roadside take-out or whatever they grill together as a team because they’re on a shoestring budget) and the Pokémon (no, they aren’t kept in balls here, instead, they are more integrated into daily life, and he makes friends with a half-dozen wild Spoink that start following him around when he leaves out the remains of dinner), but not the work. Never the work.
“She acts like I’m on vacation,” Lysandre complains on one of his few nights back at the hotel, stripping his sweat-soaked undershirt over his head as he goes to shower. Augustine grunts from where he’s curled up on the couch in their hotel room. “Why would I be sightseeing? Who is going to be feeding me gourmet meals? I’m grocery shopping for thirty people and we’re cooking over Pokémon flame grills. I’ve had baked potatoes four times this week. What does she think I’m doing here?”
“Sitting in a temperature-controlled office and pointing at numbers. My friend, your mother has never done an honest day’s work in her life. Or, for that matter, a dishonest one.”
“I’m tempted to tell her about the tetanus just so she’ll stop asking me questions.” Augustine groans something extremely rude, his footsteps approaching from the couch as Lysandre turns the shower on. He closes the bathroom door behind him. “Every time I try to mention you she pretends that she’s losing signal and puts the phone down.” Lysandre glares balefully at Augustine over the shower curtain rod, which he clears by a good few centimeters. “Augustine, I was a teenager at boarding school. I know how to fake a phone call dropping. Her refusal to commit to the bit is, in fact, more insulting than her not saying outright that she hates you.”
“I’m honored that your mother hating me ranks lower than her failing to successfully fake losing phone signal.”
Lysandre groans. “You know what I mean!”
“No,” Augustine replies, carefully even. Lysandre bends over far enough to fit under the shower head, soaking his hair and closing his eyes as he leans into the tile. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m going to tell her about the rusty nail and the tetanus and that I was so overcome by fright at the sight of my own blood, which I have obviously never seen before, that I fainted. I fainted, and I would have fallen off of a cliff and into moving traffic on a nine-lane highway except that you caught me and instantly healed the wound, preventing me from getting tetanus, and now I owe you my life.”
“Do not tell your mother that.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, it isn’t true. For another, if you fainted on me, you’d crush me.” Augustine sighs, hopping onto the bathroom counter and kicking his heels. “Why are you suddenly so upset about this?”
“I’m always upset about this.” Lysandre has been upset about this for over two years. Augustine Sycamore is the most brilliant mind of their generation: He’s already a multi award-winning researcher, he’s almost certainly going to be the next Pokémon Professor of Kalos, and his work with Mega Evolution is so cutting-edge most people don’t even realize he’s doing it yet. “I’m in love with you, and she pretends you don’t exist.”
“Better she decide I don’t exist than try to get you to break up with me. What are you really upset about, my love?”
“I’m upset,” he replies, without further quantification or clarification.
“Because your mother is a homophobic pain in the ass who I would gladly push in a ditch, or because she doesn’t take your passions and desire to genuinely better the world seriously?”
Lysandre gets out, towels himself dry, and sinks down to his knees on the bath mat, leaning into Augustine’s thigh. The other man makes a soft, fond noise and starts drying his hair for him. “I’m tired of having to explain every single thing I do or say to her as if I’m a child. I’m tired of her constant, incessant nagging that the trajectory of my life is either entirely thanks to her or an attempt to replace my father. Can I not simply want to do things as, by, for myself?” He closes his eyes, turns his nose into Augustine’s leg, and takes a few deep breaths, letting the tension out of his shoulders. “Someday, I will be brave enough to cut things off and tell her where to stick it.”
“I’ll be right by your side every step of the way.” Augustine bends over and kisses the top of Lysandre’s head. “You won’t be rid of me nearly so easily.” It’s immeasurably reassuring to hear Augustine promise that they’ll deal with that future disaster just as they’ve dealt with everything else so far: together.
“I love you,” Lysandre says, tilting his head back to look up at his boyfriend, tired and still a little out of sorts, but who smiles back at him anyway.
“I know you do. And I love you, for some reason.”
Lysandre smiles at him in turn, leaning into his thigh. “Name one thing I’ve ever done that would be a good reason not to love me.”
Augustine pretends to think about this. “Well, there was that one time you refused to fuck me properly for eight months, but I’ll forgive you. Honestly, aside from that? Can’t think of anything. A paragon of virtue is you, Doctor de Lys. Blameless. Virginal.”
“Not virginal.”
Augustine’s smile gets narrow-eyed and indulgent. “No,” he agrees, running his tongue over the sharp tips of his canines. “Definitely not virginal. Actually!” All at once he loses his Dom expression, his face lighting up as he leans over and sets his hands on Lysandre’s shoulders. “I can’t believe I forgot. I found out where there’s a club in Pueltown. I filled out all the paperwork online last night, so we can go as trial members this weekend. If you want to.”
Lysandre stares at him, taking a few minutes for that thought to fully percolate his brain.
They’ve learned their lesson about playing hard in hotel rooms. Someone is going to hear, or they’re going to make a mess, or they’re going to get blood on the sheets: in short, it creates more questions than it does answers. That’s not to say they haven’t had sex since they’ve been in Almia (no, they’ve had plenty of that) but that they’ve not really…
“I want to paddle you so badly,” Augustine admits. “Your balls are practically pristine. They’re insulting me.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Lysandre replies, adding, “Please, Professor.” He knows better than to not make his interest explicitly and loudly known. “Tomorrow night? I’m not leaving the city, so there should plenty of time.”
“Tomorrow night,” Augustine agrees, bending over to kiss the top of his head. “I’m going to make your balls as red as your hair, my friend.”
Lysandre knows for a fact that is not an exaggeration, and, frankly, he cannot wait.
The following night when they get to the club, Augustine stops Lysandre in the coatroom, taking his shoulders and gently cupping his cheeks before reiterating—for the third time in the last fifteen minutes—that nobody has any idea who either of them are. They’re both from Kalos, speaking Kalosian, and yes, Lysandre may be distinct, but who is he except a large red-headed man from Kalos? He is, effectively, just an odd-looking foreigner. An odd-looking foreigner who still feels out of place no matter how many times they do this, because he is used to being the most recognizable man in any room he ever walks into.
He needs to feel owned. He needs to be owned.
“This is why we brought your collar,” Augustine reminds him, pulling it out of their bag and putting it on as soon as he’s stripped to the waist, checking the give to be sure it’s the right fit. The feel of it around his neck, the leather already warming to the temperature of his skin, makes Lysandre sigh in relief, and he folds over his boyfriend, nuzzling into his hair. “You are heavy,” the other man complains, but doesn’t throw him off, clipping his leash to the D-ring.
“What are the rules tonight?” Lysandre asks, presenting his wrists when Augustine tugs on them, putting on his wrist cuffs. Surprised by the fact that he apparently put those in his carry-on (because they were certainly nowhere in sight when Augustine tore their suitcase apart), Lysandre asks, “How much did you bring?”
“Only a few things. I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, and you’d never be willing to do it at home. Too many people know you.” That is the opposite of reassuring, and Lysandre says as much as Augustine pulls two more things out of their bag. Staring at a wooden humbler and the paddle, Lysandre moans because he can already imagine how much it’s going to hurt and he wants it, he wants it now. “Professor,” he whines, getting nothing but a laugh in return.
Augustine sticks the humbler under his arm and pulls Lysandre down by his leash until they can kiss. “Look at you, all dressed up for me.” He drops back to his heels, considering, grey eyes sharp. “I really should get a tag for your collar. If found, please return to Augustine Sycamore.” That should not get Lysandre as hard as it does, but he can feel his cock jump at the thought. “How brave are you feeling tonight?”
As Augustine himself said, nobody here knows who they are. They’ll never be playing here again. If Lysandre makes a complete mess of himself, nobody will have anything to say about it.
There’s something about the collar tonight that’s making him drop faster than he usually does, especially in situations like these. He has a much harder time dropping in public than in private. Normally, he has to ease down into subspace before falling all at once, but right now he can barely keep his head on straight. His nipples are aching. His balls feel sore already.
“Brave,” Lysandre finally croaks, hoarse. “So brave, Professor.” He knows what the next question is and he doesn't bother to wait for the order, stripping out of his slacks and briefs. Naked in the coatroom, almost shaking with how much he wants and how hard he is, he’s— “May I crawl?” He asks, suddenly lightheaded with how much he needs to be on his knees.
Augustine laughs, pleased and hot, and loops his leash tighter. “Down you go then, Lys. Down you go.”
Lysandre sinks to the floor, profoundly grateful for being so, so good to use.
He follows where he’s taken, letting Augustine lead him on his hands and knees, and the collar feels more than ownership tonight. He’s not just being shown off. He’s being paraded.
There are even comments on it that his brain parses at half-speed: what a good Pokémon, so well trained, so loyal to be willing to be on a leash. In Almia, they don’t keep their Pokémon in balls—for an out of towner, Augustine clearly understood the instructions. What kind of Pokémon is he walking tonight?
“Pyroar!” Augustine laughs, and Lysandre feels faint. “Lys.” It takes him three tries to look up without either his elbows giving out or his neck aching with how badly he wants to bow. When he finally raises his head, the Professor is smiling at him like a hurricane contained in a man, and Lysandre moans, rubbing against his ankle like he’s scenting. “Do you want to show everyone what a well trained Pyroar you are?”
Pet play isn’t usually their thing. He has to think about it, sitting there on his hands and knees, feeling where Augustine is pulling on his collar, reassuring pressure against his throat. “Professor?” It’s not the answer he wants. Augustine kneels beside him, takes his chin in hand and forces him to look up. Lysandre whines, leaning into that touch, staring up at him. “Am I...a good Pokémon?” The Unovan is stilted on his tongue.
Augustine’s smile grows and Lysandre wants to worship this man. “I don’t know. Are you?”
“Yes?” He hates how pathetic that that comes out. “Please, Professor.”
“How about I put your humbler on and you crawl for everyone like a good contest Pyroar?”
“Please,” he sobs because, Arceus, he’s going to faint. His elbows are going to give out and the Professor is going to have to drag him across the floor like that. He spreads his thighs, whining because everyone is looking and here he is, in the middle of a club, on the floor, naked on his hands and knees and begging to be hurt and used.
“There you go,” Augustine murmurs, shifting over to kneel between his legs, tugging his balls back into the cool wooden grasp of the humbler. Lysandre grits his teeth, whimpering, as it hooks behind his thighs and the pain tangles up with his humiliation. “Now you look even better. My Pyroar, so handsome in his contest gear.”
“Professor,” Lysandre wheezes. Someone whistles. Several someones whistle, because Augustine takes his leash again and pulls him forward by it, still crouched down on his level. All Lysandre has to do is lift his head and he’ll see that wicked grin and those bright, bright eyes waiting. Waiting for him.
“Flame Charge your way over here, my handsome Pyroar.”
It’s not a Flame Charge. It’s a hitching, awkward crawl. Lysandre doesn’t know where they’re going until they get there and he finds himself in front of a spanking bench. Augustine coaxes him up and onto the step, locking his wrists to the ends of the humbler before pushing him flat onto the leather of the bench.
“Look at you,” the Professor murmurs, back in Kalosian. “You’re crying already, Lys.”
“Hurts,” he whines, shifting his hips to feel the way it forces the humbler to drag back on his scrotum. “Hurts, Professor.”
“You think this hurts, my love? This is nothing.” He knows it’s nothing. Augustine loves to beat his balls until they’re purple and so sensitive Lysandre can’t breathe. He reaches down to grab them, tugging back to make Lysandre present, trying and failing to alleviate the sharp shock of agony. “I remember promising to leave your balls as red as your hair. Is that what you want?” Lysandre whines, nodding, and Augustine lays one strike out hard over the crack of his ass, just above his hole. “Words. I wouldn’t have a Pyroar so poorly trained, would I?”
“Oh fuck,” Lysandre breathes, and Augustine strains beside him. “Yes,” he adds, gasping, and then, horrified, “No. I’m trained—“
It’s too late.
“When will you learn?” The Professor sighs, shoving Lysandre’s face down into the bench. “Answer questions in the right fucking order. I’ll give you one more chance, since you’re being such a good boy tonight.” He reinforces his words by bringing the paddle down once and hard on Lysandre’s upper thigh. “I promised to leave your balls as red as your hair.”
“Yes!” Lysandre’s voice breaks. “Yes, Professor!”
“So what is it you need, my friend?”
Lysandre de Lys loves Augustine Sycamore so much. Loves him like the sky falling. “Paddle my balls, Professor!”
“Good boy, lovely boy, I don’t want you to count.” The next strike lands where his briefs usually rest and Lysandre bites his lip to keep from yelping. “No counting. And no—“ he accompanies every word with strokes right on the same spot, brings the paddle down again and again, layering in bruise over bruise, “Holding back! Say what you’re thinking, Lys, tell everyone how you love having your balls tortured, how much you love having me hurt your fat cock. I want to hear all about it, or I’ll make it worse.”
On the first strike on his scrotum, Lysandre shouts something inarticulate and helpless, and by the third he’s euphoric, pleading for the Professor to hurt him, to bruise his sac, to make his balls swell huge.
“They’re already fucking huge,” Augustine snaps back, bringing the paddle down on his ass instead, and Lysandre tries to blink tears out of his eyes as he spurts pre. “Look at them. Feel this.” He grabs Lysandre’s sac as he says it and squeezes hard enough that he twists and shouts, the chain between the humbler and his wrists pulling tight, pressure that makes everything worse-better. “They don’t even fit in my hand and you want me to make them bigger. Why? What have you got in there that needs to be so big?”
“Hurts more,” Lysandre replies, and it’s true. “It hurts, I need—“
“Maybe I should just neuter you. You would be the sort to spray on my furniture. We can solve that problem, can’t we?”
Lysandre is going to come. He’s going to come while Augustine is paddling his balls until they are as red as his hair.
“Professor, please—“
“Please what? Please neuter you?”
Arceus help him. His cock jerks, hard enough that there’s no way Augustine can’t see it—can’t feel it. “Please may I—” he chokes off in a garbled shout when another strike lands on his balls and the Professor flattens them up against the wood until Lysandre's eyes are rolled halfway back in his head. “Please, Sir, may I come? Please, I want to, I need to—“
“Untouched?” Lysandre sobs, shaking his head because no, he can’t do that. “You want me to touch your useless cock and get you off while I paddle your balls?” Lysandre nods. “Use your words, my love.” The Professor reinforces that one by paddling the bare sole of Lysandre’s foot, and he shouts putain without even meaning to, jerking away. “Hold fucking still,” Augustine spits, and paddles his other foot too.
This time, Lysandre doesn’t move because he is a good boy. He does, however, sob, barely keeping his whole body from twitching instinctively.
“Touch my—“ Augustine paddles his foot again and Lysandre chokes out a half-formed scream into an agonized groan. “Touch your cock, Professor.”
“So polite.” Augustine at last touches his cock: he reaches down under Lysandre, brushes two fingers along the underside of his shaft, and then pulls his hand away and goes back to paddling his balls.
Lysandre is crying so hard he can’t see. If it weren’t for the bench keeping him upright, he’d be facedown on the floor. “Try again!” The Professor sing-songs, and he is in heaven. This is what heaven is like, and when Lysandre dies if he’s deemed worthy his afterlife is going to be eternal blissful torture where Augustine Sycamore laughs at him.
“Professor, will you, please—fuck!—“ Augustine pulls his cheeks wide and lays the next strike over his hole. “Professor, please touch your filthy, your—wet, huge cock, please, Professor, please may I come!” His balls are drawn up so tight he can almost taste his orgasm.
“I think…” the Professor trails off, and instead of grabbing his cock, grabs the back of his neck tight enough that Lysandre sobs at the feeling of his fingers pinching down right below his collar where he always aches to be touched. He’s drooled down his chin, and he doesn’t even want to try to close his mouth because he can’t breathe through his nose, too clogged from crying. “I think that you’re a very well-trained Pyroar. You’re so brave for me, Lysandre—so self controlled. You’re so good, so much larger than I am, even your sore achey balls. You can take my little Skitty Double Slap.”
“Arceus, please—“ Lysandre wants to say please slap my balls but it never makes it out of his mouth because Augustine bites down at the nape of his neck, right under his collar. Words are no longer happening. Mostly whimpering is happening.
“Last I checked, I wasn’t Arceus, Lys. How about you say who I am?” And with that, Augustine starts slapping his balls.
He doesn’t pull his punches. If anything, now he’s bare-handed, he goes harder.
Lysandre comes screaming his Professor’s name, voice breaking in his throat on the second syllable of Augustine, wound up so far down into subspace that he’s not even totally conscious of where he is or what's going on except that he’s a naughty boy, soaking wet and disgusting at both ends, coming without permission, coming just on ecstatic starburst-bright pain, coming just on being used.
When Augustine takes the humbler off to fuck his thighs afterward, sharp pubic bone slamming into his balls with every slap of skin on swollen skin, that is the last of his self control: Lysandre cries himself hoarse while the Professor calls him dirty and messy and wet and perfect over and over again until he comes hard between his thighs, all over the base of his stomach. Only then does Augustine at last go still, doubled over his back and gasping for breath. All that skin to skin contact, the lull after the endorphin high, is too much—Lysandre gives in to the desire to lay there and sob and let Augustine take care of him.
While he’s trying to figure out where his legs are, the other man cleans up the spanking bench, takes his cuffs off, and eases him down onto the stool to disinfect the rest. Lysandre leans into his hip while he does, searching for contact, floating nebulously somewhere deep in endorphin high.
“There’s a bit of a line,” Augustine murmurs when he’s done cleaning up. Lysandre makes a questioning noise, face still pressed into the curve of his hip, and looks out at the club. There are, in fact, a surprising number of people waiting to play—had there been that many people there when they got started? “Come on, there’s an aftercare space.”
“Leash,” Lysandre pushes it into his hand. The Professor laughs, taking it and pulling him along that way. He manages to walk. Mostly. With rather a lot of stops. Eventually, they reach the aftercare space and Lysandre collapses onto the floor, eschewing the couch in favor of curling his arms around Augustine’s legs and burying his face in his knees.
“There you go.” Lysandre tilts his head up into the hand in his hair, sighing with relief and pleasure. “Is that better?” He hums his agreement, kissing Augustine’s knee. “No hurry now.” When he doesn’t reply, the other man bends over him, gently tugging on his collar. “Lysandre?” He hums a noise that he thinks is agreement. “Are you all right?”
“Was I good?” He sounds very groggy. Which makes sense. He feels very groggy.
“You were phenomenal. You came untouched for me.” Lysandre grunts because he’s still astonished that happened, and it did just happen. To him. “I can’t even remember the last time that happened.” Has it happened before? Not on impact alone. At least, Lysandre can’t remember a time that he’s ever come on impact alone. That wasn’t on his dick.
“Boots,” he replies, after a long moment.
“I don’t think that counts as untouched.”
“Testicles count as touch.” Augustine chokes on his laugh. “They do,” Lysandre reiterates, more firmly this time.
“In that case, tonight doesn’t count either. On very little touch, then.” Lysandre nods, closing his eyes. “Come up here. I want to hold you.”
“No.” Lysandre gets up anyway, grumbling, and curls into Augustine’s arms with a heavy sigh, leaning half on him and half on the couch, legs slung over his lap. Eyes closed, listening to their breathing and the distant sounds of people playing in the club, it’s easy to get drowsy. Here, he is safe and comfortable. Here, he doesn't have to be anything or anyone but his most base and essential self.
He has no idea how much time passes, except that Augustine starts to get restless, shifting and fidgeting, picking at Lysandre’s skin and then tugging at threads on the couch until Lysandre takes his hands and folds them between his own, breathing into the side of his neck. “You’re heavy.” Lysandre grunts. Yes, he is. “So, pet play. What do you think?” He grunts again. “Not normally our thing.” A third grunt. “You got really into it tonight.”
“Like being yours.”
“Well, yes.”
“My brain is oatmeal.” Augustine laughs in his ear. “How do words work. I am monumentally stupid.”
“Monumentally is a pretty big word.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
Lysandre kisses him until he stops talking. Because he wants to. By the time they stop kissing, Augustine is a little glassy-eyed himself and Lysandre has remembered how to use his mouth, so he leans his elbow on his boyfriend’s shoulder and scratches his beard as he thinks of how to approach this explanation. “At home, everyone knows I’m yours. There’s no question of ownership. The collar is an affectation, not a necessity.”
“How come you turned your brain back on by turning my brain off,” Augustine groans, bumping their foreheads together. “Yes, I follow.”
“Here in Almia, nobody knows us. Ergo, our relationship is not a given. By putting my collar on, you own me. Even without a tag, everyone knows—this,” he gestures to himself, “is property of the twink.”
“For Arceus’s sake, must you call me that.”
“Nobody makes mistakes.” Lysandre curls around him more. “None of that twink belongs to him. How can I not want to be good for you?”
“A sometimes thing, then.” Augustine squeezes the top of his ass and then smacks the outside of his hip, which is one of the few spots that isn’t tender. “How are your balls?”
“Sore.” Finally taking this as the cue that they ought to disentangle, Lysandre rolls away and sits up, grimacing as he bends over to check his testicles—they are, in fact, at least as red as his hair. Terrifically tender. “I’d better ice them. Did you remember to bring the arnica?” When Augustine doesn’t reply, Lysandre sighs and turns to look at his boyfriend, whose expression is midway between chagrined and ashamed, flushed up onto his ears and looking resolutely away. He clears his throat. Lysandre glares. “You forgot the arnica.”
“Guilty as charged.”
It’s going to be a long few days until the bruising starts to go down, and he’s going to complain about it the whole time.