Belkar/Vaarsuvius

Belkar Bitterleaf had cried exactly twice in his life. The first had been at the age of three. Loathing vegetables in all shapes and sizes, he had been a precocious child and was already aware of the fact that stabbing was the solution to all problems. Taking his mother’s kitchen knife, he’d laid siege on the vegetable crisper, eviscerating onions, which made him cry.

The second had been the result of a crushing despair spell cast on him by the elf.

The goddamned elf. The source of all his problems. His sworn enemy. He’d have killed it many times over if he wasn’t afraid of Roy.

Vaarsuvius was trancing at the other end of the tent, a look of relative calm on hir face. Tomorrow they faced the Snarl and Xykon, and Belkar was conflicted.

He felt three things at once. He was sad, sad that V might not survive. Mad at V for making him sad, and something else, something he’d never felt before. It was as though someone had stabbed him with a burning sword, warm and sick at the same time. Every time he looked at hit tranquil, trancing face, the feelings intensified, writhing and twisting.

What was it? The feeling was almost lust, but not quite. It was more like happiness, a feeling he’d never felt out of the context of killing things. Whatever it was, it was confusing and angering him further. And when Belkar was angry, he made snap choices, and never looked back.

Haltingly, he took a single step towards the trancing elf. When they didn’t stir, he took it as a sign, and half walked, half jumped into V’s arms, awkwardly mashing their lips together. That woke V up. Startled, V stood, but Belkar’s weight caused them to fall backwards.

V choked half of “Meteor Swarm!” But to their eternal dismay, it didn’t even seem to have occurred to Belkar that there might be people who didn’t want to make out with him. One very uncomfortable minute later, Belkar broke this kiss, smiling slightly, only for V to knee him very hard between the legs.

“What in the name of the great elven gods do you think you were doing?” Vaarsuvius asked angrily, rising to their full height of 5 feet, 5 inches.

Belkar was stunned. It had never occurred to him that the elf wouldn’t return his feelings, whatever those feelings were. For the second time in his life, he struggled to form a response, and failed. Like the only other time he’d been rendered speechless, he told the truth. “I… I think I love you.” He said it so softly, he barely heard himself.

“I love you. I… I… I love you, Ears. I always have. I always will. And… And I realised tonight might be the very last chance I’ll ever have to tell you… And… I love you.”

V’s face briefly flashed something like lust and pity at the same time, and then froze in a mask of practiced disdain. “I do not return your sentiments. I cannot share a tent with someone who would take advantage of my trance to force a kiss on me. I wish you as well as you deserve. Good-bye, Belkar Bitterleaf.”

Vaarsuvius turned on their heel, and strode out of the tent, nose in the air. As they grew smaller and smaller in the still desert air, Belkar Bitterleaf cried for the third time in his life.

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