Hansel and Mishka: Ignition / Incineration

(The morning after Swordplay, pt 3.)

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When Hansel woke up, Mishka was gone.

He’d expected this, in some way, despite trying to not think about it at all. Just known. It wasn’t that it was too good to have been true, because he wasn’t entirely sure it had been good. It had, for a while, felt that way -- but it had been on a timer, and he’d known it, and he hadn’t fucking let himself think about that either and adjust his expectations.

It wasn’t like Mishka would just … stop being Mishka. Hansel didn’t want him to, anyway. This was just a fucking problem with no fucking solution.

He could tell the ship was moored by the way it was moving, rocking gently in port. Calimport. Morning light glinted off the water, reflecting through the porthole in the captain’s quarters and glimmering on the ceiling. He stared at it for a while. His bunk was on a lower deck -- no window, no sun. He’d miss coming up from the sleepy timeless dark down below and up onto the top deck to see the morning, but he supposed there’d be other ships, other mornings.

He’d never been in Mishka’s quarters in the morning. Never would be again.

Pushing himself up brought all the aches of last night’s battle to the surface. He rubbed at his eyes, groaning slightly to himself, and stayed there for a moment, head in hand. Felt hungover, somehow. For a second he thought he’d just stay here, in Mishka’s bed -- the motherfucker would have to come back eventually. He’d have to deal with this, with what he’d asked for and then fucking run away from. *Come*, he’d said, and, *Stay with me*, and Hansel had been stupid enough to do it. To believe him. To let his guard down.

Deep breath. No. He was leaving. This game was goddamn exhausting and he was done with it. Sometimes it was fun but -- he didn’t understand the rules. Or Mishka kept changing them. He thought he could do things right, that there was some combination of what to do and what to say that would make things work. Don’t touch him; he didn’t like that. Be gentle and soft -- but not always, because he liked it when Hansel snapped and snarled sometimes, too. And -- touch him sometimes, but only when he started it -- and know when to back off -- and know when not to, even when it seemed like Mishka did want him to, but didn’t, really. He made it so goddamn complicated. If they could just have a fucking conversation, it would make things easier, but it always had to be a game.

Hansel wished he didn’t fucking *like* it. He thought he wanted things to be simple and easy, but Mishka was never going to be simple and easy, and apparently he wanted that more. He really thought he’d cracked it. Mishka had come to him. Asked him to stay. Hansel had thought ...

And instead, he’d woken up in cold blood-tacky sheets, alone.

He collected his trident from the chair by the door and slipped it onto his back, tried to ease out. Since they were already docked, there was a good chance the crew was all ashore, and he could get away without anyone noticing where he’d spent the night and giving Mishka shit over it. He didn’t want to make things stranger or harder for Mishka once he was gone. He just wanted to fucking disappear.

Elitash sat in the common area outside the captain’s quarters, her boots propped up on a table, cleaning her fingernails with a knife. She looked up at Hansel with the most shit-eating grin he’d ever seen on her face, which was saying something.

“Hey, kid,” she said. “Have a nice night?”

Hansel didn’t feel like fucking playing with her, either. “Fuck off, Eli.”

He turned to head for the stairs leading further belowdecks, where his quarters were. Her expression changed immediately, and she dropped her feet to the floor but didn’t get up.

“Hey, fuckin’ slow down. Get back here.”

He hesitated. Goddamn Elitash and her gravelly, demanding voice. He turned back, propping his shoulder in the doorway and crossing his arms, not offering her anything else -- then feeling a bit bad about it, because she did look genuinely concerned.

She narrowed her eyes and scowled. “What’d he fuckin’ do?”

Hansel wanted to say *abandoned me* but that was so fucking dramatic. Mishka had never promised him anything. There was nothing to betray. “Doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” he grumbled instead.

She rapped her fingernails against the table. “You want me to fuckin’ stab him for ya?”

He couldn’t help snorting. Fuckin’ Elitash. He relented and came over to sit across the table from her, collapsing heavily into the chair with a sigh. “Nah. I’m gonna … head out, though. Find another ship, I think.”

“Oh.”

He was quiet. He hadn’t expected to render her nearly speechless.

She rallied. “Well, I’m not gonna try to fuckin’ talk you out of it. Don’t blame you. Don’t fuckin’ like it, either, though.”

“Yeah, I --.” He started to say *I’m sorry* but it seemed like a pointless thing to say. He didn’t like the thought of leaving her. Or Kheman, or Hunter, or even Serena in a way.

Or Mishka.

But he wasn’t thinking about that, because he might change his mind again.

Elitash was studying him, looking uncomfortable. “C’mon, kid. What’d -- look, you fuckin’ idiots have been doing this dance ever since you came aboard.” She played with her knife absently. “What’d he fuckin’ do to you?”

“Nothing, Eli.” He rubbed at his face. Maybe that was the problem. Mishka did nothing, or everything, too much, all at once. “Don’t fucking stab the captain.”

“Never said I was gonna stab him.”

“You *just* offered to.”

“Yeah, I *offered*, I didn’t say I was *gonna*.”

He laughed quietly. “I’m gonna fuckin’ miss you, you know.”

“Eh.” She leaned back in her chair, grunting as she heaved her boots back up onto the table. “Whatever. Don’t get all sentimental about it.”

Hansel just watched her for a moment, going back to cleaning her nails, not looking at him, acting like she didn’t care. At least he knew that she did -- her nonchalance was all bark, no bite. He hadn’t always known it, and he wasn’t sure exactly when he’d figured it out, but she’d been simpler than Mishka, at least. Everyone was. No one was like Mishka.

Goddammit.

He stood abruptly. “I’m gonna head abovedecks, see what the weather’s like. I’ll see you before I go, though, all right?”

She waved him off without looking up. He dropped a hand on her shoulder briefly as he went past her. That’d do. She’d understand. Anything more and she’d probably throw her knife into his back once it was turned, anyway.

The air in Calisham was always drier than Skyport, even on the ocean. He breathed it in deep as he came up above, squinting in the harsh light for a moment before his eyes adjusted. He had it in his head that he wanted to climb up to the crow’s nest, get a last good look down at the ship that had been his home for -- how many years now? Quite a few. Longer than any other ship. Second only to where he’d grown up, now.

Huh. He did some quick math in his head. His mother’s blood gave him longer to live than a full-orc would have, but the fact that he was a pirate probably took that time away. Chances were good that by the end of it he’d’ve given more of his life to Mishka than anyone or anything else, and this was what he had to fucking show for it. Fucking nothing. Just a sense of misplaced betrayal and vague emptiness.

When he was about halfway up the ladder to the crow’s nest, he glanced out over the port, getting an eye on the other ships. Options. None of them appealed, but he didn’t suppose they would. Might still just decide to stay on land, become a mercenary -- he didn’t know. Then he reached the top and hoisted himself up into the nest, and turned to see Mishka on the half-deck -- standing by the wheel, talking to Serena.

He hadn’t changed his clothes. Just pulled a jacket on over the bloodstained tunic from yesterday, around his shoulders, not quite enough to cover it up. He looked pale and exhausted, and Serena was typically deadpan, her arms crossed loosely, nodding. Mishka looked away as she stepped closer, slipping a hand under his jacket to where Hansel’s had been all night -- and Hansel felt himself prickling, knowing that Serena could heal him with a word, that she didn’t *have* to touch him, that she had to know he didn’t like it.

Mishka looked straight at him. Probably by accident. Just coincidence. From this far up Hansel couldn’t read his expression at all, but he wanted to duck away. He hadn’t even wanted to see Mishka. Should’ve just packed his shit and gotten of the ship -- no need to be sentimental, like Elitash said. He hopped back out of the crow’s nest without a second thought, descending the ladder as fast as he could, trying to convince himself that this didn’t count as running away. And if it did -- fuck it. Fine. Then he was running away.

Wasn’t fast enough, though. Mishka met him at the door leading belowdecks. “Hansel,” he said.

He still looked pale. Hansel wanted to touch him, wanted to make him feel better, wanted to help him sleep this off. He didn’t seem so much like he needed it, now, though -- he was back in place. Back to normal. In Hansel’s gut he felt that it was an act, but he could never be sure.

“Your hands are filthy,” Mishka said. Unreadable. “Don’t track blood all over my ship.”

Fucker. “Yeah. Not gonna be a problem.”

Hansel brushed past him, heading down below. He wished he could cut it off. Mishka was fucking cruel. He wished he could be cruel back. He wished he didn’t fucking care -- like Mishka didn’t fucking care.

The captain trailed after him, saying his name again after a moment, and he didn’t stop -- went past where Elitash still sat, and watched them go by with a glower, and down the second set of stairs. Mishka was quiet until they were alone again, the door shut behind them.

“Hansel,” he said. “What? Are you upset, now?”

He had the nerve to sound so goddamn incredulous about it that Hansel finally stopped. His jaw was clenched; he made himself turn slowly, calmly, but his voice didn’t come out like that. “Yeah. Mishka. I’m *fucking upset*.”

A pause. Then Mishka said, “Hansel. I wasn’t being -- serious. About the blood.”

He didn’t even fucking know. He didn’t understand. Hansel should turn away, and pack his bag, and not fucking look at his fucking beautiful face again, because that only made it worse -- it only made it worse that he had no goddamn idea what he’d done, because Hansel wanted to *talk* to him. He wanted to spend goddamn days just talking to Mishka, and learning about him, why he was this way. He was entrancing. Hansel was fucking infatuated. He hated it.

And he wasn’t able to keep his mouth shut. “I woke up alone. In a bed fucking soaked in blood.”

“I went to find Serena.”

“You could’ve fucking woken me up. I was worried.”

He didn’t seem to know how to react to that. Seemed Hansel was on a roll with shutting people up this morning. In the back of his head there was a familiar voice telling him that *he* should shut up, but for once he blocked it out.

“All night,” he spat. “I was awake all fucking night with you. So you could sleep. So you could feel fucking safe. And you just fucking left as soon as --.” He didn’t know where he was going with that. “What the fuck do you want from me, Mishka?”

Mishka’s face froze over. Icy. Nothing came through. Just silence, for a moment, then almost carefully -- “I don’t need anything from you.”

*That’s not what I asked.* He started to say it. Grit his teeth instead. Huffed out a breath. “Fine. Fuck you. I’m leaving.”

He turned his back and started for his quarters. Mishka was silent behind him and he told himself that was good -- that was what he wanted -- but fuck, no, he didn’t. He wanted Mishka to call him back. Chase him. Give a shit. He slammed into the tiny room he’d spent his tenure as master at arms on the Red Blade living in and suddenly couldn’t remember where he kept any of his fucking things -- he knew he had a bag, somewhere, still. He wouldn’t have gotten rid of it. He hadn’t planned on living here the rest of his life. Had he?

“What do you mean, leaving?” Mishka said from the doorway.

“Fucking leaving.”

“I didn’t tell you that you could leave.”

Hansel snorted.

“Granger,” Mishka said. “I am your captain.”

Something was happening to Mishka’s voice. It wasn’t the injury, the blood loss, exhaustion -- he was losing control. He didn’t fucking like that, did he? That Hansel would disobey him?

“Not any fucking more.”

“Hansel --.”

Hansel rounded on him again. “What the fuck do you want? Do you want me to stay? You want me to keep fucking -- throwing myself in front of arrows for you and holding you when you’re fucking hurt? That doesn’t fucking work for me. I’m fucking done.”

“I never told you to do those things.”

“You fucking did last night,” Hansel snarled, taking a step towards him. Mishka took one back, looking up at him with wide and angry eyes. “*Neyë*,” he mocked -- tried to -- his voice broke on it. “*Stay with me*. Fuck you. How fucking dare you. If you're just trying to torture me, it's fucking working.”

Mishka’s expression shifted, but he didn’t move. Hansel remembered the way he’d looked for a moment, the previous night, just before he’d closed his eyes for a beat. Thinking. The tug in his chest as he considered what Mishka might be thinking about. Fuck. Nope. He wasn’t thinking about it now -- he was leaving. Fucking leaving. Done.

His bag. He’d shoved it under his bunk at some point. That was right. He turned away from Mishka -- again -- he kept fucking *trying* -- to dig it out. Seemed smaller than it used to be. He’d been on this ship too damn long. Never should’ve stayed anywhere this long. Should have just kept fucking moving, kept not caring about his shipmates. He hadn’t realized in time. Hadn’t noticed he was staying here for a reason other than convenience. Someone could have fucking told him he’d gotten *feelings*.

Mishka touched his shoulder, lightly. “Hansel --.”

He flinched away from the contact. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Hang on.”

“I’m tired of fucking listening to you.”

But he was lying, and he turned again, throwing the bag onto his bed. Mishka had come closer. He registered that -- he’d tried to drive Mishka away and it had worked, for one step, and then Mishka had come back and touched him. Willingly. Didn’t fucking matter. Didn’t make a difference.

“What do you want from me?” he demanded, and Mishka opened his mouth and didn’t answer. Nothing to say, suddenly, it turned out. “I can’t fucking figure it out. You whistle at me from the top deck and then fucking run away when I actually touch you. You act like it’s some fucking game we’re playing and I don’t --” he should -- “I don’t hate it but you’re never gonna fucking let me win, are you? I don’t even fucking know how to. I don’t even know what winning would fucking *be* -- for either of us -- I don’t know if we’re --.”

He stopped and closed his eyes. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have just fucking left. He wasn’t -- making any sense, and in a moment Mishka would laugh at him for spilling his guts like this. Deep breath. He didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care. Mishka didn’t fucking care. Why should he?

He turned away again, snatching his bag off the bed and jerking open the tiny drawer his clothes were crammed into. “Fuck you,” he said lowly, grabbing them by the fistful to toss them into the bag. “Suck my dick, captain.”

“Fine,” Mishka said.

Hansel stopped. “What.”

“If that's what it takes to make you stay. Fine.”

Mishka was making fun of him. Of course. Of fucking course. “Not fucking interested.”

He finished his packing, not caring about the few items left behind, and turned toward the door. Mishka dodged in front of him to block his path, glaring up at him, and he stopped short automatically before scoffing and shoving him aside and moving on.

“You're good at your job,” Mishka said, slipping after him. “Is that what you want to hear?” That same fucking tone, like they were still playing the goddamn game. Hansel didn’t feel like he was in on the fucking joke anymore.

He raised a middle finger without looking back.

There was a crack and Mishka was in front of him again. Forcing him to stop -- or forcing Hansel to physically push him away -- staring up at him like he was daring him to do it. Or like he knew he wouldn’t.

Mishka wet his lips like his mouth was dry. “I … don’t want you to go.”

“Too fucking bad.”

He made to brush him aside, but Mishka planted his feet this time and caught his wrist. His voice had turned low and ragged suddenly. “Fuck you. Fine. I want you to stay. How do I have to say it? What do you want? You want me to suck your cock? Fine. If that’s what *you* want --.”

Hansel ground his teeth. He wanted to jerk his hand away and leave for good. He wanted to shove Mishka against the wall and crush him and make him whimper. He wanted Mishka to say that that was what he wanted, too, goddammit.

“Fuck you.”

He stepped around him and made it to the base of the staircase before there was another crack, and Mishka was in front of him, eye level with him from standing on the first step. Furious. Almost too beautiful. Hansel wanted to fucking punch him.

And Mishka was touching him, taking his arm, as if he had any fucking right -- then his hand was wrapped in Hansel’s shirt, like he was trying to keep him here by force -- fucking injured and goddamn tiny compared to Hansel, like he --

Mishka kissed him.

The air went out of Hansel for what felt like a long, long time.

Mishka held him there, somehow. Fucking injured, and tiny, and so goddamn infuriating. When he let go, and let out a breath, he whispered, “Is that what you fucking want?” He was clearly breathless too, and trying to act like he wasn’t -- like he was still calm and collected and in control. Like always.

Not now.

“Is it what *you* want?” Hansel asked, low. Calm. Collected.

Mishka’s jaw clenched visibly. He said nothing for a moment. “Look, it's not about -- I'm trying to --.”

Hansel realized that -- at least for right now -- he was the one in control. “Then get out of my goddamn way.”

“*Yes*,” he said raggedly. “Yes. It’s -- what I fucking … want.” Like it had to ripped out of him. “For *fuck's sake*, Hans.” His hand still gripped Hansel’s arm tight, and his face was unavoidably pink. “I *want* you to stay. I want you to --.” The words turned into a small, frustrated sound.

Huh. No one had ever called him Hans before. He liked it.

“I want,” Mishka tried. “You to.”

He stopped there, his voice harsh and broken. Hansel didn’t say anything.

“Please,” Mishka said.

Fuck.

He took Mishka’s wrist -- not the one he wore the cuff on -- he hated having that one touched more than anything, and at some point Hansel might ask him about it, but for now he just wanted to pull Mishka closer, and Mishka let him, at first, boots scraping forwards on the bottom step. Hansel dropped his bag and his other arm went around Mishka’s waist to lift him up, and Mishka was gone in a crack. Hansel’s fingers twitched. He wouldn’t. He fucking -- wouldn’t. After all this.

Behind him, Mishka said, “All right, I -- look, just don’t startle me like that.”

Hansel turned. Mishka was only a few feet away. Not gone. But Hansel was hesitant, now -- he didn’t know the boundaries. This was only going to get more complicated if he kept going. Maybe he should still leave, maybe --

“Next time I’ll just have to incinerate you,” Mishka joked, a little weakly. It was a peace offering. Maybe an apology.

God, he didn’t want to leave. He closed the distance between them and pulled Mishka to him again -- gently, not picking him up this time -- dropping his head, lips parted. Offering. “Sure. Okay,” he murmured. “You do that.”

“I will.”

“Mmhm.” Hansel kissed him. Softly. Felt Mishka push against him in return and the tingle that went down his spine at the small broken noise his captain made. Mishka wanted this. Mishka wanted him. It seemed so fucking impossible that it physically hurt. He tried to keep his voice stable and wasn’t sure he managed it. “Don’t fucking disappear on me.”

Mishka didn’t quite respond. “You can pick me up again. I won’t.”

“Yeah?”

It was easy. This could be easy. He lifted Mishka up by the hips, settling his slighter weight against his chest, looking up at him now. Stopping for a moment. Thinking. This was a bad fucking idea and he had no intention of stopping himself, and when Mishka looked back down to him, hungry-eyed, he knew there was going to be no stopping at all. No, things were definitely going to get more complicated from here on out.

He waited for a second longer. Maybe one of them would come to their damn senses.

They didn’t.

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(Mishka POV NSFW continuation: Incinerate.)