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"Arent you taking this a bit too seriously?"
Osiris glances up from his plans and glares at Sagira. "This is important. It deserves to be treated with utmost seriousness."
"It's Saint. You know he'll appreciate it no matter how you tell him."
"That is not the point," Osiris replies. "I have kept him waiting long enough."
"I don't think that's how it works," Sagira says, her iris narrowing.
"And I assume that comes from your great wellspring of experience, does it?" Osiris says.
Sagira huffs. "I've probably paid more attention to people and relationships than you have. I'm the one who keeps having to smooth things over when you've offended them."
He winces at that. It is not… untrue, that she has needed to soothe ruffled feathers before. Personally, he does not think it has been necessary, and that many of the problems would be solved if people simply said what they meant and were more willing to accept his input on matters where he clearly knows best, but people are irrational.
Irrational is the only word appropriate for describing how he has ended up in this situation with Saint. This relationship. Partnership.
"He told me so easily," Osiris says, "as though it was as natural as–" Perhaps 'breathing' is less accurate when it comes to exos. "As though it was as natural as the Light." A simple confession in Saint's office, as Osiris handed over a report. As though he had said it a hundred times already. Maybe he had – in gestures, in soft touches, in the small gifts that he had a habit of bringing Osiris even before they began courting.
Courting sounds ridiculous in his opinion, but he does not know what else to call it. Seducing makes it sound as though all that is between them is physical, and much as Osiris appreciates Saint's body – his hands, his chest, his thighs, his cock – he is not so divorced from his emotions as to miss the affection that has grown inside him. The part of him that imagines scenes of domesticity that would have made him roll his eyes not too long ago.
Romancing similarly sounds trite – like those terrible Golden Age novels that had been popular at the Iron Temple, and had made their way to the City, with their covers of swooning men and women wearing diaphanous clothing despite being entirely unsuitable for the weather.
"And he also said you could say it when you're ready," Sagira says. "I don't think he meant for you to go to all this trouble. I mean, he didn't. Why don't you just tell him next time you wake up together? Oooh! Or in the middle of sex. That could work."
"I am not telling while we are fucking, Sagira!" Ridiculous idea. A time of high emotion and intimacy can prompt people to say things that they do not mean and he does not want Saint to think that he is telling him simply because it seems like an obligation in such a moment. "I need him to have no doubt that I am being sincere, that I mean it."
"Osiris, a rampaging spider tank couldn't make you say something you don't mean. Sometimes that's the problem," she adds in a muttered tone that he is absolutely intended to hear.
"He was uncertain when he confessed to me," Osiris says. "A small moment, well hidden, but I saw it. As though he believed I would rebuke him for such a sentiment, or saw our relationship as something different." He can hardly blame Saint for his concern in that regard – Osiris has never been the most open of people, and it had taken Tallulah to make him recognise the turn that his own feelings had taken towards the Titan. "I do not wish for him to think that I do not care for him."
"And do you love him?" Sagira asks. "You know he won't be happy if he thinks you're forcing this."
"I–" There are a hundred things he could say about 'love' being a term assigned to mixtures of chemicals and hormones that exist to promote human bonding and the continuation of ths species. If it was not so important he probably would say them, simply to chase down a philosophical argument. But when it is Saint… "Yes. I do."
Somehow, Saint-14 had worked his way into his life and become the beating heart of it, the person that Osiris thinks of more than any other. It is an affection which isn't diminished even at those times when Saint is infuriating.
"Then just tell him," Sagira says, giving the Ghost equivalent of a shrug.
"He deserves more than that from me," Osiris replies.
"Fine. If you're going to be stubborn about it."
"When am I not stubborn?" is his dry response.
Sagira laughs. "True. Also nice plans for this. Did you copy them from those romance novels that Skorri keeps lending you? Because I think you might need something skimpier than the robes to pull that off."
"Sagira!"
—————
"What is this?" Saint takes the offered envelope from Osiris, handling it in the same way that Osiris has seen him handle his beloved pigeons, with a care and gentleness that one would not expect from someone so large and prone to wearing full armour.
"If I was simply going to tell you, there would be little point in giving it to you to open," Osiris replies.
Most people that Osiris knows would find such a response frustrating he is sure, but Saint… Saint smiles at him, one of those looks that makes his heart beat faster, that makes him want to be everything that Saint believes him to be.
"A surprise! Can I open it now? I assume it is not orders for Consensus work."
"I would not have bothered with an envelope if it were," Osiris says. Though he might have personally delivered them if only for a chance to see Saint. He truly is becoming terribly sentimental. "And you may open it when you wish," he adds, waving a hand dismissively, "though perhaps in private might be wise."
Saint gives him a look and Osiris scowls. "It is nothing so lascivious as you are obviously thinking. I merely prefer to keep something out of public view."
People already feel far too entitled to him – his time, his thoughts, his everything – because of his position. He does not wish to cede more of his life to public scrutiny.
"Then I will wait," Saint says. He hands the envelope to his Ghost for safe-keeping, and then reaches out to takes Osiris' hand. He raises it to his mouth and presses a kiss against the Warlock's fingers, as courtly as the Knight that people see him as. "I have meeting soon, but I will see you later, yes?"
"I certainly hope so," Osiris replies. And he means it. He hopes to see Saint. He hopes to see him after every mission that Saint undertakes, and every expedition that takes Osiris far from the City in pursuit of knowledge.
The Titan laughs and squeezes his fingers once more, then steps away, respectful as always of Osiris' discomfort with public affection, and their desire to keep this relationship away from scrutiny. They deserve to have some part of their lives that is just for them. "I hope so as well."
It is still strange to him, knowing that when Saint says that, he is as genuine as he sounds. He is not simply being polite, or feigning enthusiasm for some political gain. For some reason that Osiris can hardly fathom, Saint enjoys spending time with him, even though he could have the rapt attention of anyone in the Last City, and probably a fair few outside as well.
Saint is still standing there, looking at him, that smitten look on his face. That would not be so bad except that Osiris suspects he may have the same expression.
He clears his throat and begins to turn away. "Your meeting. I would hate for the Consensus to complain that I am a bad influence."
He does not have Saint's easy charm or skill with people. Being thrust into the politics of the Last City is not something that he had anticipated when Felwinter had suggested that he spend time here, and there are times when he longs to return to the simplicity of the Iron Temple. Doing so would mean admitting that he had failed however, and he refuses to permit himself such a failure.
Besides, he would miss Saint.
"I love you," Saint says, voice soft and tender and it wraps around his heart and squeezes.
Saint is able to say it so easily, and at the most mundane moments. Is it some fault of Osiris that he… he cannot? That it has taken so long for him to feel like he might be able to?
When Saint leaves for his meeting, Osiris makes his way to his office and buries his face in his hands with a groan.
—————
The day drags on. Osiris has never had much patience, especially not for the tedium of meetings and reports and the many deceptions of politics. The Iron Temple had been so much simpler, although even there he had been something of an outsider. Today however seems particularly glacial. Maybe they had plunged into a black hole while he wasn't looking, and this moment will be all there is for the rest of time.
His mind drifts from patrol reports to the distant vistas of Venus, Io, Mars, the lost gardens and cities, the mysteries and knowledge that must be contained there. Further afield, to the planes of Mercury, hollowed and transformed by the Vex. Further still, the Jovians, Saturn, Neptune… and beyond that… He wonders if he will ever see beyond Sol, or if he will… be consumed by paperwork until the heat-death of the universe.
He understands the necessity of the work, he just feels like there must be something more that he can do. Surely the Traveller did not resurrect him with the Light and immortality so that he can read recommendations about what type of concrete to use for various parts of the wall.
Sagira accuses him of being dramatic. Osiris thinks that he would rather be dramatic than boring.
"You're going to be late to your 'meeting' with Saint if you don't finish soon," Sagira says from her perch on the small cushion on Osiris' desk.
He looks up from the report he's reading about a fireteam who been investigating an island in the far north and had found the ruins of a museum containing… Do they truly expect him to believe this nonsense? That there would be a museum dedicated to 'the dangly bits between someone's legs, if you get my drift ;)'?
Light save him there are photographs.
And yet people disapprove when he suggests investigation expeditions to Mercury.
"Osiris?"
Finally his attention shifts to Sagira. "Hm?"
She rolls her iris. "I said, you're going to be late to meet Saint if you don't finish soon."
"It can't be that time yet," he says, frowning. The day has been going so slowly.
"It is. Unless you've lost your nerve."
It is a dig at him, and he gives her a sour look. "I have not."
He has made his decision. He has planned this out. He loves Saint, and Saint deserves to know that.
"Transmat me home, Sagira. I need to prepare myself."
"Fine, fine. But if I can give a bit of advice?"
"No."
She barrels on anyway. "Perhaps you could try looking a bit less like you're attending your own execution."
She transmats them out before he has a chance to respond.
At some point it had been decided that those Guardians leading their factions, those high up in leadership of the City, required clothing more fitting for formal occasions than armour. Osiris had voted against it of course, seeing it as a waste of time and resources. He changes into the parade outfit now – the robes which fit more like a jacket over his chest, with the wide, stiff collar instead of his usual cowl, soft leather gauntlets instead of bracers. The whole thing is embellished with embroidery and piping, with the glow of chroma picking out details.
He still thinks they were a waste of resources, but Saint has complimented them before, and Osiris cannot deny that he does look very good wearing them. That is all that matters.
Sagira mocks him with a whistle followed by kissy noises when he goes to fetch the last things he needs, and he studiously ignores her. The Ghosts in the city have been a bad influence on her, he thinks. She had not behaved like this on Felwinter Peak.
She stops him before he leaves his home to meet Saint, and looks him over. After a moment she bumps affectionately against his cheek. "He will be delighted," she promises. "Besides, if you haven't scared him away by now, I think you're safe. You know how Titans are."
Somehow she manages to wink at him despite having only one eye, and she laughs when he bats her away.
He hardly needs reassurance about this. He knows Saint's feelings and he knows his own. This is simply ensuring that they understand each other.
The evening is warm when he ventures out, the last hints of daylight at the horizon giving way to a clear, dark sky. Lamps are being lit across the city, glowing like fireflies through windows and outside doors. It is a gentle light, comforting, and so very different to the harsh white security lights of the perimeter in the early days, or the great fires and torches of the Iron Temple.
He heads away from the main areas of the city, and out towards the wall where there are fewer buildings, at least for now. He can see the skeletons of the new sections of wall beyond the old, pushing out into the valley that lies beyond the city. It seems such a short time ago that they were relying on fences, salvaged shipping containers, and bulwarks while the walls were raised.
Saint is already waiting for him in the spot that Osiris had chosen for this meeting – a public garden, set aside for the people of the Last City to play and relax, and to plant fruit and vegetables that are not grown in the city's limited agricultural and hydroponic space.
The Titan stands beneath a wooden arbour which drips with purple wisteria the same colour as the ribbons attached to his armour. For a moment, Osiris can only stare – in his armour, Saint looks like a knight from old legends, a paragon of virtue and valour. Much of the Last City sees him that way, places him on a lonely pedestal. Does Osiris really have the right to lay claim to even a part of that?
Saint turns then, his posture straighteneing when he sees Osiris. He raises his arms in welcome. "Osiris!" His gaze runs over Osiris, and his head tilts. "I did not know that I should be dressed up."
"I did not mention it," Osiris says. "There was no expectation that you should be anything other than yourself."
"Ah but if you have made effort…"
"If you leave to change now I will be displeased," Osiris replies, a little exasperated because sometimes Saint can become very caught up in the minutiae of ettiquette, such as how long one must exchange pleasantries for before moving onto the actual business of the conversation.
"I would not leave while handsome Warlock stands before me," Saint replies with a laugh. "As long as you know that it is not out of lack of care for you."
Cursed man for having such an effect on him! His easy affection, the way that he is so concerned about Osiris' feelings, his comfort. That he treats Osiris as something precious, special not for his knowledge or prowess in battle, not for his utility, but because he is himself.
"You know that your manner of dress has never been of concern to me." He has more often been concerned with Saint's state of undress during their trysts. "You– you do more than enough to let me know that you care," he adds more gently.
"It is my delight to do such things," Saint says, a pleased rumble to his voice. "But come, your message was very intrguing. Very intent that we should meet here in this garden."
"There is a seat nearby," Osiris says, gesturing to a bench a little way beyond the arbour. "We can speak there."
Saint nods and offers his hand to Osiris. Osiris hesitates for a moment, still uncomfortable with the idea of public scrutiny, but there is no-one else around and this… this is important, so he takes Saint's hand, lets the exo curl fingers around his, and draw him towards the bench.
"I brought these," Osiris says once they are settled, and Sagira transmats the box of cakes that he had brought. It is tied with a purple ribbon.
Saint takes it with large hands that are capable of so much delicacy and so much destruction. "This is…"
"Open it," Osiris prompts.
Geppetto appears briefly to remove his helmet, and then Saint unfastens the ribbon and opens the box. Saint stares down at the contents for a long moment, and Osiris has to bite his tongue to keep from saying anything, his stomach churning. Saint finally looks up, his smile warm, optical lights warmer. "These are from bakery that I like."
"They are." They are not what Osiris would choose for himself – heavy with butter and dark chocolate – but he knows that Saint enjoys them.
"Is there occasion that I have forgotten?" Saint asks.
"Does it need to be an occasion for me to give you a gift?" Osiris replies, more sharply than he intends, and immediately cursing himself for it. Cursing himself that Saint apparently does not believe he would give him something without it being some sort of obligatory gesture.
"Of course not," Saint says. "My bird, I am… thank you, Osiris. I am grateful, I simply feel that I have missed something and do not want to allow such an important occasion to go unnoted."
"It is not a day of any note," Osiris says. "I merely wished to give you something."
Saint tilts his head, regarding Osiris curiously before he nods. "Then I am blessed. And it is lovely night to spend with you. Will you share cake with me?"
He would share everything with Saint. His life, his home, his heart!
"If you wish to share," he agrees.
Saint laughs, and the sound warms Osiris even as it makes his chest tighten. Saint takes a bite of one of the cakes and then, instead of giving Osiris one of the other cakes, offers a bite from his own.
Osiris gives him a look, and then acquiesces. The cake settles heavily on his tongue, rich and sweet, the chocolate bursting to flavours of cherry and dark wood. And Saint is watching him with that intent focus that he seems to use only for Osiris.
"Ridiculous man," Osiris says when he finishes the bite of cake, the words laced with fondness as rich as the cake had been.
"I will gladly be ridiculous if it means I share such a moment with you," Saint replies, utterly unselfconscious. He means the words, Osiris knows, he always does. Osiris had thought it an act at first, had taken some of his words and actions as mockery, only to find out that no, Saint is truly this genuine. This good.
"I did not ask you here simply to share sweets," Osiris says when the first cake has been eaten.
"I did assume that there would be more reason, especially with fancy robes. And invitation."
If he focuses too hard on the purr in Saint's voice, then he will never get around to saying what he means to say, but it is difficult when his body longs for Saint's.
"Do you know why I chose this place specifically?" Osiris asks, gesturing towards the garden, though most of it is in darkness now.
Saint looks around, his brow down into a frown. "I– it is very pretty garden but…"
"We met here," Osiris says, and then inclines his head, "more or less." He believes the exact coordinates are somewhere in the middle of the lake, and for obvious reasons he wasn't going to suggest that they meet there, much as it niggles at him to not be able to do this precisely. "When I first arrived in the Last City."
"Ah! I… the City has grown so much, changed so much!" Saint says, and he looks around once more. "It was building site when we met and now it is… peaceful."
"It is. Your dream flourishes."
"It is the dream of many people," Saint replies. "And many people work to make it a reality. Incluing you," he adds, giving Osiris an intent look.
"I do what is necessary," Osiris says. "And sometimes many things that seem very unnecessary," he adds, a frown twisting into his words.
Saint laughs and pats his hand. "We build communities as much as buildings and walls," he says. "We are not Warlords. We cannot dictate what happens, we must discuss."
"Some of those discussions are–" He breaks off, biting down frustrated words that he has spoken many times before. He has not some here to speak about meetings and politics with Saint. He takes a breath to focus once more. He has a plan, a set of steps that he was going to take to make sure that this is perfect. He will not allow himself to be derailed.
"I thought that it was appropriate to choose this place," he continues with dogged determination. "You welcomed me with kindness which you have continued to demonstrated, far beyond that which I deserve."
"You deserve every kindness, Osiris," Saint says, though there is concern in his voice now. "What is this? You wish to tell me something."
"I–" He had the words prepared, has run through them in his mind a thousand times to attempt to find the perfect combination of words and emphasis to ensure that he is not misunderstood, and now when he needs them, they all feel… trite. Worn to meaninglessness by overuse across the centuries of humanity's existence. "I thought that it was appropriate to come back here now, with you to tell you that…"
In every other matter he is told that his confidence is overwhelming, and not-unearned. Every matter except this most important one. Saint had told him so easily, and Osiris had made him wait for this, and now that he is here he– It is a vulnerability to confess to such an emotion, even when it is earnestly felt. Vulnerability does not come easily to him.
"Osiris?" Saint asks, and now he sounds truly concerned, and this is not what Osiris had intended.
He takes Saint's hand and holds it between both of his own, feeling the soft and supple synthskin, the perfect joints, the delicate engineering that allows him to hold his birds, or touch Osiris' body with the same hands that he wields his weapons. He brings Saint's knuckles to his mouth to press a kiss to them, reverent and aching.
"I love you."
The world fades to silent static as he waits for… for what? Rejection? Humiliation? To find out that this was all some joke that he had not picked up on?
"You…" Saint begins.
Osiris looks up sharply, ready to tear back the words, but Saint's expression is soft, full of that adoration that he wears when he is watching Osiris and thinks that he does not notice. It is enough to take his breath away.
"You mean this?" Saint asks finally, and even now that concern has not left. "I do not wish for you to feel pressure to say because I did."
"The pressure has certainly not been your fault," Osiris replies, "or because I do not mean it," he adds because that is the important thing. "I love you."
"I love you too," Saint says, as though every word is a pristine thing of wonder. Perhaps it is. Hearing it from Saint fills him with warmth and longing every time. "You went to so much trouble for this."
"You are worth that trouble," Osiris replies. He can see Saint planning to say something, and continues before he can voice the thought. "And I would rather have one quiet confession from you in a mundane moment, than a thousand fireworks displays that proclaim your undying affection to all of Sol."
A quiet moment between them, where they do not have to be anything other than themselves.
"It would need to be big firework display to outshine you in any case," Saint says. "I love you."
In lieu of words, Osiris takes Saint's face between his hands and kisses him. Saint, his beloved. Saint makes a sweet noise and kisses back, his arms raising to wrap around Osiris. He tries to burn this moment into his memory – the feeling of Saint's kiss, the strength of his body, the sweet musk scent of wisteria in the air and the lingering taste of chocolate on his tongue.
"If you wish, my home is not too far away," Osiris says when they part.
"I know where you live Osiris. I have been there many times now," Saint teases, and Osiris is certain he is remembering what many of those visits have led to in the past few months. "I would like this very much."
"Good," Osiris says. "It would have been a shame to waste my… backup plan."
"Backup plan?" Saint asks, the plates of his brow raising.
Osiris smirks at him. "You will see. There are certain novels that I have heard are… compelling when it comes to this sort of situation. At least, Lady Skorri has told me so."
"Lady Skorri must have very fine taste. I would be delighted to see more."
Saint takes his hand as they walk through the park, and Osiris leans in towards the warmth of his body.
"I love you, Saint."