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The stunned silence that followed over the comms in the wake of Rasputin’s revelation of Clovis’ true intentions for him fell over everything with a leaden weight that left Osiris swaying in a daze in front of the computer console at his station aboard the HELM.
He’d already been rattled just from the task of guiding the Guardian back to Felwinter Peak, to the Temple, and Felspring.
To…
He shook himself and drew in a deep breath, looking over at the Exo Frame hung at the far end of the room, limbless and grotesque with disconnected cables and suspended from an articulated support.
Clovis had not minded the limitations of the mechanical avatar, and now Rasputin seemed even less troubled by it.
Osiris exhaled slowly, his chest rattling from the tension. He glanced down at his console. Ana had cut comms to confer in private with the Warmind, and the Guardian had gone on their way, en route back to the mobile hub at that very moment no doubt, but Osiris’ line was still open, still connected to a second line, and had been the entire time, a voyeur listening in in perfect silence. Osiris had obtained permission from the Vanguard to open the channel, but virtually no one else had known another had been present.
“Go to him.” Saint stepped in close to Osiris, curling one massive hand around his shoulder warmly in support. “It has been too long.”
Osiris hesitated, and there was a soft crackle over the line: a sharp intake of breath.
Lord Timur's voice had thinned somewhat with age, and frayed even further with shock and tension.
"I uh... I'm about to, um,” The old Warlock had always spoken too much, even filling silence with unnecessary words and sounds when he didn’t actually have anything to say, especially when he was uncomfortable. “Uh- I Put together a big pot of curry if you two... are, um, interested in dinner..."
Osiris' throat closed. Timur had been many things to him: Ally, friend, confidante, lover ... Estranged should have never made the list, but neither Warlock had handled the Site 6 disaster with much grace. Despite setting up a humble life within the heart of the Last City, Timur kept mostly to himself, and Osiris had let him, doing little more to keep in contact beyond the occasional missive, impersonal and direct, even as he'd more recently filled him in on the Vanguard's tenuous partnership with Clovis Bray.
When was the last time he'd heard the man's voice?
Osiris was loath to admit to himself that he knew the exact answer to the question, to the date. It had been a very long time ago. He could still hear exactly how Timur’s voice had cracked and rattled with the force of his cries of outrage. They had both been in terrible anguish. They had not said kind things to one another.
Saint was right.
It had been far, far too long.
"Oh yes," Saint was saying, drawing Osiris back from his darkening reverie to the conversation happening without him. "That sounds lovely, thank you. We will come soon!" Saint went on graciously. "We must make stop first. There are these tiny cakes Osiris loves. I think you will love them as well. I will get extra so Osiris cannot possibly eat them all!"
Osiris snorted, and Timur's somewhat feeble but genuinely mystified laugh crackled.
"Thank you, Saint," he breathed, and, knowing Osiris well enough to know he was still present added a more somber, "Thank you, Osiris..."
Timur had a townhouse in the near center of the City, deep under the shadow of the Traveler. It had been a nice district once, but the next block over had been bombed out in the Red War, leaving the row of condos seated above the street-level businesses beneath them with a precarious view of empty, semi-demolished cityscape, and a strangely clear shot to the Tower.
Osiris found himself wishing Timur would relocate to somewhere less grim, but he supposed the old Warlock had been living here far longer than his neighbors have been destroyed. Even Osiris sometimes wished Mercury was still around, if only for the comfort of its familiarity, so he couldn’t truly begrudge Timur his decision.
Timur greeted them at the door, and the sight of him leaves Osiris a bit winded. He is somehow different, and entirely unchanged all at once. The hue of his fair hair has shifted to a suiting arctic white, his braid far longer than when Osiris had seen him last. His eyes were just as bright and keen as ever, but the lines and creases around them were heavy, the skin under his lids nearly as dark as Osiris' own were. There seemed to be a weight at the corners of his cheeks now, and his lips were pinched, even as he smiled, huffing out a soft laugh.
"Osiris," he gasped. "You got old." Osiris barked out a sharp, but not humorless laugh.
"You're one to talk, old man!"
Timur blinked at him, then scowled.
"Damn. I was hoping you wouldn't notice," he chuckled, his smile bouncing back with renewed brilliance. He stepped aside, holding the door for the couple. "Come in, please."
Osiris chuckled, shaking his head.
"Idiot," he said, his tone turning terribly fond despite all the years and the...distance. "I may be old, but my eyesight is just fine."
"Pity," Timur chuckled, patting Osiris' shoulder on the way by. Then he flashed Saint, flanking his lover, an enormous grin. "I notice Saint can see just fine as well, obviously," he said, gently flirty. Osiris sputtered, but Saint drew up his shoulders proudly.
"Ah, yes," Saint cooed. "My eyesight. It is immaculate. I can even sometimes see things that others, they cannot."
"That particularly appealing plumage of the Phoenix, perchance?" Timur purred.
"Yes that is it exactly," Saint said, sliding into the condo and flashing Timur a big violet grin.
"Would you two stop that," Osiris huffed.
Timur sniffed indignantly but shrugged with a smile.
"Perhaps," he said smoothly at the exact same time Saint insisted, "Absolutely not." Timur's face softened back to a much more bittersweet expression as he met Osiris' eyes.
"I've missed you, Osiris," he said softly, sobering abruptly. Osiris opened his mouth but the other Warlock wasn't done talking, leading the way into a cozy living room just inside. It was well furnished with a coffee table, a couch, a number of overstuffed loveseats, an old-fashioned wooden rocking chair in one corner by a window looking out over the city, carpets layered over a hardwood floor. Candles placed sensibly in hurricane glass were lit here and there. Osiris couldn't tell if perhaps one was scented, or if Timur had taken to using a somewhat more aromatic tobacco.
The Stormtrancer sighed heavily as he sank into a loveseat with a particularly deep dent in the seat, folding himself up into it. Saint pulled Osiris down into his arms as he sat on the couch.
"Sometimes," Timur went on, his voice low. "It feels like I lost you both that day."
"Perhaps it is too little too late," Osiris began, "But I am sorry, truly, for what I said to you..." Timur looked up, swallowing visibly. His eyes were awfully glossy. He nodded, jaw working behind tightly closed lips. "I wanted to apologize... It was rotting in my throat for so long..."
"Osiris' exile..." Saint whispered, "The timing... it was not good."
"No... It wasn't," Timur agreed with a sigh.
"Nor Xivu Arath," Osiris groaned, Timur nodding along, commiserating now.
"And then there was the terrible business with Savathun, and the hospital," Saint went on, thoughtlessly. Timur stood from his seat.
"Hospital?"
"Yes, the whole year in-"
"Saint!" Osiris hissed, which only further drew Timur's attention, his attention snapping over to his once-fellow. Saint, realizing his blunder, looked terribly sorry.
"Forgive me, my bird, I had not realized you had not-"
"Osiris." Timur moved, but only to kneel at Osiris' feet in front of the couch. "What happened?"
Osiris' story did not soothe the ache already permeating their hearts. A pall hung over the trio as Osiris and Saint trailed after Timur into the kitchen.
There was already a pot bubbling on the stove, but Timur pulled out more fresh vegetables, carrying a bowl full of washed veg over to a cutting board, his head down as he started to talk as he chopped.
"So. Bray was a complete whackadoodle after all," he murmured, scoffing. "Should have guessed..." The knife was flying in his hands, the Warlock making swift...but not remarkably accurate or controlled work of the poor bok choy he was tormenting. He gave it a brutal whack, and the stem rolled off the cutting board and onto the floor with a thud. He kicked it away rather than picking it up as he continued to slice the rest into haphazard chunks.
"Being an arrogant asshole is one thing... Almost adds appeal in my book," he huffed, and Osiris snorted, "but the Traveler ..." He shook his head, tearing into a basket of fresh mushrooms. "I- Ah. Well. Neat that Rasputin caught up in time to throw a wrench in that scheme I guess..." He rambled as he dropped a slice of mushroom for every three or four that made it into the pot, tossed overhand from a distance one or two at a time, making Saint wince and cringe every time something didn't quite make it in. He got through that, then turned away, crouching down to a low cabinet to haul out an electronic rice maker. There was a bit of crash-banging as he set up the rare appliance, and Osiris could see now how his hands shook as he tried to measure first the grain, then the water.
"Lord Timur-" Saint began, his voice low with concern. Timur made a strained noise in the back of his throat.
"Please, Saint. What am I Lord of?" Timur began quietly, his voice carefully soft- carefully gentle as the Warlock fought back the bitterness he felt but didn't want to share. "A bygone age? Bad memories? Empty homes?" He heaved a sigh, realizing he wasn't doing a good job of remaining pleasant. He paced as he spoke, circling the kitchen, throwing a few last touches into the pot with all the care of a man seemingly deeply offended by a pot of delicious curry. "Just... Just Timur. Please. I like my name. It's plenty..." Saint looked sad, but nodded.
"It is plenty," he agreed gently. "Timur, my friend," Saint started over. "Are you alright?"
Timur had just scooped up the handful of washables in one handful, knife and all, and dumped it all loudly into the sink for attention later. He turned back to Saint with a particularly pained, too-bright smile.
"No," he breathed, wavering. "I am not..." He dragged his eyes over to Osiris, standing back at the threshold, watching in his own agonized silence. "I'm..." his voice cracked. "They... he..." he swallowed a huge, visible lump, a wet sound coming out of his throat. "Fel... they..." He swayed where he stood. "How can you stand there so calmly!?" He demanded suddenly, accusingly , glaring over at Osiris. "How can you take that, letting the Warmind just... just... chew him up like kibble!? After everything it did!?"
"What would you have me do, exactly?!" Osiris snapped, his own voice cracking. "Do you think Rasputin would care any more about Felwinter now than he did a hundred years, five hundred years ago, just because he learned his mistreatment of him has upset his lovers?!"
"You didn't have to lead it right to him..." Timur moaned, wavering. He wept silently, eyes slowly reddening as wet streaks of salt escaped, running freely. "To poor Felspring..."
"If I hadn't have done, Saladin would have," Osiris spat, bristling. "Would you have rather it had been him?!" His voice wavered and crackled with his own faltering composure. While Timur had always gladly worn his emotions on his sleeve, Osiris had grown far more guarded with himself over time. He had to, but as his emotional barriers began to crumble, the familiar cloak of rage fell over his shoulders in the place of pain. "Because he would have been oh so much more sensitive!" Timur's face darkened angrily, but though he opened his mouth to fire back, he was interrupted by the commanding boom of a Titan's voice.
"Osiris!" Saint scolded, growling his love's name sternly. "Timur is your friend, no? I remember the days when you still resided at the Iron Temple. I remember how you spoke of him along with Lord Felwinter. Have you forgotten? This man cared very much for you and he made every day the effort to show it to you."
Timur's glassy and red-rimmed eyes widened in shock, and though he still looked rebellious, even Osiris was stunned into silence.
"Why do you fight and bicker like Hive Thrall? You rage about the mistreatment of your lover but you do Lord Felwinter a dire disservice to fight over his grave like this!" Saint puffed up.
"He-" he thrust a finger toward Timur, " needs you. You need each other. You have for long time. Too long!" Osiris sniffed, nodding faintly in agreement, though he didn't move. "Now comfort the poor man, you blessed, stubborn goat, or I will do it for you!"
Osiris shot Saint a stricken look, matched only by the somewhat horrified expression Timur now wore. Saint waited a beat, giving Osiris a severe, expectant stare, but Osiris' knees had locked. Saint blinked, then huffed, shaking his head and turned on his heel, striding the short distance over to Timur, muttering a soft string of surprisingly fond complaints to himself in Russian. "Oh! To suffer so gloriously for love...!"
Whatever Timur had been expecting as the big Exo approached him, he clearly hadn't anticipated to be actually scooped up nearly off his feet into an enormous full-bodied hug. He squeaked, flailed briefly, then melted in Saint's unyielding embrace. Then he sagged.
Then he sputtered.
Saint gave Timur's shoulder the gentlest pat, and with only that, the Warlock finally broke, shattering into heartbroken, gut-wrenching howls only half-muffled into Saint's broad chest.
Finally, Osiris' legs unlocked, and he rushed over, stumbling to the pair, throwing his arms around Timur's back as he pressed in, hugging him from behind with all of his might.
He felt small again, pressing silent tears into Timur's shoulder blade.
He felt like a neophyte, back on The Mountain, too emotional, too new to the horrors of the world to be good for anything.
He felt like a monster for letting this precious man mourn alone.
Saint cooed and shushed Timur softly, soothing him in a steady dialogue of comforting words and sounds, rocking them both subtly as he adjusted his embrace to include Osiris. Timur turned within the safety of Saint's arms to pull Osiris in close to his own chest, cradling him.
"I'm sorry," Osiris croaked again.
"Me too, bud," Timur countered brokenly. He sniffed loudly, trying to get enough air to be able to breathe and talk at the same time. "This sucks..." He coughed softly, his voice rough.
"This... sucks," Osiris agreed with a sigh, his voice heavy. Saint said nothing, simply squeezing a little tighter on the pair of Warlocks.
For a time, no one said or did anything else. Osiris wished he'd been able to cry the way Timur had. Heaven knew he needed it, but he hadn't quite found the cathartic break his old friend had. Perhaps it was for the better. He could hear how Timur's breathing rattled wetly, the Stormtrancer sniffling loudly from time to time. Osiris couldn't imagine actually feeling any better that way.
The rice maker popped loudly, startling all three of them, and Timur gasped, pulling away reluctantly.
"That was fast..." he murmured. He shut the machine down, content to let it sit for the moment while the curry continued to bubble. He swayed his way back to Saint and Osiris, nearly falling against them. "We can sit a little longer..." He sighed. Saint had been looking around, taking in the state of Timur's home, even as he ushered he and Osiris back to the couch.
Saint was of course well-accustomed to the barely controlled chaos of a Warlock mind left to his own devices. The clutter of books, oddities, knickknacks and unfinished projects that filled nearly every available space was far from unfamiliar to the Titan, but Timur seemed to have it worse than most. Piles were a little too deep, a little too disheveled. He remembered that Timur liked to tinker, but a glimpse into a spare room proved to look more like an Eliksni scrapheap than a workshop. Saint thought it must have been quite a long time since the Warlock had been at ease.
He sat, Timur under one arm, Osiris curled under the other. It felt... natural to hold them both this way, and he couldn't help but think of the late Lord Felwinter and wonder if he'd sat this way as well. He could have asked, Saint knew, but he decided perhaps some questions were left for wondering.
After a minute or two, Osiris shifted, reaching one hand out across Saint's broad lap toward Timur. His fingertips shook faintly as he brushed his once-lover's knuckles, and then Timur's hand twisted to capture them, threading their hands together in a gentle but warm grip.
Saint sucked in a breath.
"Timur," he began slowly. Timur had been leaning heavily against Saint, his head on his shoulder, but now he sat up swiftly, releasing Osiris' hand. Saint regretted disturbing him. "Come home with us. Stay a while." He reached down, grabbing the hands of each Osiris and Timur, and gently reconnecting them over his knees. "Rest your heart and become strong again." He paused, watching as Osiris and Timur slowly threaded their fingers back together. "And- bring the curry. It smells delicious."