my rock, my shield

squirreled away

Tartaglia finds a stash of his... stuff... in Morax's chambers.

--

Tartaglia was only looking for a place to store some spare shirts and the trunk at the foot of Morax's bed seems the obvious choice.

It is not locked. Morax has told him time and time again that whatever is his belongs to Tartaglia as well, so he thinks nothing of it as he drags his fingers over the worn, polished wood. It is beautiful. The sort of thing that his mother would love. Obviously a beloved antique carefully cared for through the centuries, or maybe even eons.

He does not expect it to be chock-full of random shit.

Morax isn't necessarily tidy—his room is full of knick-knacks and things, but each has its place even if it's a carefully stacked pile. This though—

Tartaglia's nose wrinkles. The contents smell old and musty. Sweaty. Old clothes and blankets, and—

He pauses. His head tilts. Nestled inside the trunk and cradled by a swath of fabric lays one of his military aglets, the golden braid twisted to perfection. Tartaglia frowns. This went missing months ago. He doesn't need it, no, but he still noticed when fussing about in his closet. Odd.

Tartaglia digs deeper and finds more—one of his medals, an old hairbrush he thought he'd misplaced, his favorite book that Morax had borrowed and never given back. A crusted, wrinkled handkerchief that Tartaglia knows he last used during a terrible cold.

He tugs a bundle of cloth from the trunk, shaking it out, revealing a rank, soiled shirt. Tartaglia's gaze narrows. "This is..." That early morning spar where they frotted in the training yard. Morax had tucked Tartaglia's clothing away saying he'd take care of it. "Disgusting," he murmurs, taking a sniff before gagging.

Trinkets and trash alike are tossed in the trunk as well, random things pilfered by Morax's apparently kleptic hands. Old, used wrappers from kitchen candies, napkins, and utensils, more of his clothing.

It is a shrine of Tartaglia's... used things, and whilst mildly horrifying, Tartaglia still finds himself a little amused and certainly confused. He picks up a sock and dangles it between thumb and forefinger. "There you are, you little bastard," he mutters. His nice woolen one, knitted by his mother, and perfect for the cold weather. Katya swore up and down she hadn't seen it.

And luck would have it that Morax would open the door right then. They meet gazes. A moment passes and Morax blinks. Then his cheeks pink and he slams the door shut.

"I—?" Tartaglia is baffled. He has seen Morax in a multitude of ways; angry, passionate, lost in his lust.

Never embarrassed.

He has the distinct impression that he's accidentally come across something important. He could steal his sock back but instead, he folds it up and nestles it between his soiled clothing. Later, he thinks. He'll bargain for it later after Morax explains whatever this hoard is.

#

Later comes in the form of Morax sneaking into Tartaglia's office.

They are not avoiding each other—Tartaglia genuinely got busy with paperwork after having put it off too long. Morax was the one who made himself scarce due to his embarrassment, but Tartaglia knew he wouldn't stay away. For all the strangeness between them at times they are hopelessly tied together.

The door opens quietly. Morax pads across the room on slippered feet. One hand, soft against Tartaglia's shoulder, and then the other before squeezing those tense muscles. "I apologize," he murmurs, dipping close until his chin rests against the crook of his neck.