Work Text:
He’d been sitting at the very end of the bar, blissfully unaware that its karaoke night. Up until the point the usual ambient music started to bleed away, the laughter of a smooth voice taking its place as someone says, “alright, alright, fine. You guys win, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” to his friends. Drifter glances down towards the other end of the bar to catch a glimpse of what's going on.
A pale blue Awoken strides onto the small raised platform that passes for a stage. It usually sits empty; the days it’s used for comedy night are few and far between. Karaoke is even scarcer. Even Karaoke nights go untouched unless someone gets drunk enough to actually try.
This Awoken seems to be just drunk enough to attempt it. Or at least allow his friends to convince him. He’s tall, broad too, and Drifter would pin him for a Titan if he’d ever seen him around the Tower. But he hasn’t, and it’s odd because he’s wearing greaves that sure look like they’re armour. Something right outta Moondusts’ freaky collection of Hive artifacts, if the carapace systematically bolted to the leather is any indication. The oddities, however, don’t stop there - they rarely do with anyone crazy enough to wear half their armour in the City. His long white hair is separated into three sections: two thick braids that run down the sides of his head and a massive, fluffy mohawk that ends between his shoulder blades. How it retains its shape, Drifter has a few guesses but no real answers. His pointed Awoken ears have large disks in the lobes, adding to the odd expression and almost complimenting his clothing. Almost. The crazy doesn’t stop there, as he’s wearing a robe with a high collar that bulges around his neck as if stuffed to take a round shape and large sleeves that form bell-shapes around his elbows only to be tamed down into form-fitting sleeves down to his wrists. Around his shoulders is a shawl that seems to be sewn into the garment, with colourful beads dangling from it. The bottom of the robe mimics this, beads nearly sweeping the floor. All while his midsection remains gloriously bare, showing off a mosaic of scars and a trail of white hair until the buckle of his greaves swiftly covers him again.
A melancholy rears its ugly head deep in Drifter’s chest when he realizes why he’s been staring so long at him; why he didn’t simply dismiss the man. His face is familiar, belonging to a dead man he once loved, and it cuts deep into his chest. But this isn’t the man he once knew, nor was it ever. He had a wild beard and the kindest eyes despite his vagabond wanderings and eccentric interest in the world around him. The only thing similar is his strong jawline and white freckled skin. This man is a stranger at the other end of the bar with a goatee and a jagged scar that cuts through the right side of his face, clouding his eye. Blinding him. He’s half-blind. It almost feels like it’s some cruel mockery; to present him with a half-blind mirage of his late lover as if to remind him his memories are only half the man he knew.
He’s still watching as he sets his drink down on a stool next to him and takes the microphone in his hands. Cradling it between them as he grins, tapping his foot along to the start of the song.
The song is heavy and bright at the same time. When he starts to sing, it rattles him, demanding his attention from the first, startlingly confident lyric. The man doesn’t lose his gusto through the entire piece, the table he’d been sitting at either singing along or whooping and cheering as he continues in his drunken serenade. If he’s pitchy, no one notices. Especially when he removes the microphone from the stand and starts dancing around the stage. The robe flies behind him as he moves about the platform that barely passes for a stage, the beads of his outfit shooting out like sunrays around him as they catch the light from the overly complex fixture that illuminates the bar.
Until he leans too far back and knocks his glass off the stool, spilling it across the stage. Without so much as losing his place in the song, he scrunches his nose at it. He continues on as if nothing happens, grabbing his belt and pulling it down just enough that Drifter almost catches himself leaning forwards. Almost.
He can barely tear his eyes away to flag down the bartender.
“I’ll get another one of these, and… send another of whatever he’s been drinking back to his table. Tell ‘im there’s more in it if he keeps putting on a show.”
Guilt be damned. He’d rather put this melancholy in his chest to rest than regret it when he’s sober later. If he’s offering a show, he should at least be paying for it to show a little appreciation. Even if he looks like someone he once knew. Perhaps… perhaps that’s why he decides upon it in the first place.
He watches the server take the drink over to the table, relaying the message to its occupants. Or at least he hopes she does, as he can’t see inside the booth they’re sitting in. Not from this angle, and he doesn’t fancy getting up now that he’s made himself known. He does, however, recognize the Guardian, who pokes their head out to glance at him from Gambit. A spunky go-getter who’s a little too happy to invade the opposing team. Interesting. So the man on the stage may very well be a titan after all… just one he doesn’t know of. The question then remains; how does he not know him? If his friends play Gambit, surely, they’ve tried to offer it to him once or twice… right? Then again, he doesn’t recall seeing him in the Tower before. Perhaps he’s a new-light. Some kinderguardian that got scooped up out of the Cosmodrome recently. There’s always one or two of those kicking around.
It almost makes him feel bad about the drink. Almost. Up until the man finishes the song and moves towards his table. He’s stopped at the edge; the drink offered to him. He regards it curiously, then grins, turning back towards Drifter, lifting it up. The drink is promptly downed, and he’s heading back to the stage, his hips swinging. Someone puts on a new song, and it’s at that point that Drifter’s decided he is a Guardian at the very least because he’s got to be using a Ghost to change it so quickly.
This song is raunchy (to say the least). The kind you’d expect only to hear late at night played as background music for a performer.
It doesn’t help his dancing. In fact, it makes it all the worse. Swaying his hips, accenting his hourglass figure until Drifter's eyes are solely focused on them while the man dances around the stage. Listening to the lyrics is barely an afterthought as he finds himself transfixed.
That’s how it remains until the other man’s finished several songs (so many Drifter’s lost count) and finally makes his way back to his table for good. He’s sent a few more drinks, each that has been downed in a similar fashion as the first. This time, the glass is picked up and considered. Then he turns and starts towards him. Drifter swallows the lump in his throat and turns back to the bar as if he hadn’t watched his saunter back to the table and is blissfully unaware of his lazy approach.
He knows the exact moment the other man sits down on the stool to his left. It’s as if the whole world shifts, and he’s caught in his orbit. Big, broad shoulders shift as one arm leans against the bar, his body angled towards him. The glass is still in his hand. Drifter can see scared knuckles from where he’s staring down at his own drink.
Neither says anything. Who speaks first? He hadn’t expected him to come over.
Chancing a glance, he sees the other man grinning down at him as he raises his glass to his lips. Drifter regrets keeping his head down as he’d made his way over to him because now he’s confronted with something he can’t figure out if he’s hallucinating somehow or truly seeing. How he hasn’t noticed it before completely baffles him, and suddenly, he’s confronted by it with very little warning. On the right side of his face, below his blinded eye, there’s a hole in his cheek. A large hole that flashes gold teeth at him while the other man takes a practiced drink from his glass, acknowledging the hole’s existence and adjusting to avoid anything spilling out. Even his goatee is disfigured by the scar that’s caused this hole. A large, ugly scar that blossoms across his cheek in a mess of twisted, burnt flesh.
That same horrible melancholy returns in a quick wave to him. He knows what caused that scar. He knows who this man is. He knows too much and too little. He does not know how he came to be half-blind. He does not know how he’s sitting next to him in the bar. Unless…
“Am I finally dead?” he asks suddenly, clutching his glass tightly like a lifeline.
“Okay, not what I expected you to say,” the other man laughs, cracking a smile that only further solidifies the scar’s existence.
“Well, you’re supposed to be,” Drifter points out as if this is a fact the… whatever he is, should know.
“I’m pretty sure I’m alive - unless you mean the whole being a guardian thing,” he counters, far too quick on his feet after so many drinks. Fuck. Right. Titans are almost impossible to get drunk.
“Ignore me. You look familiar, but I’m probably just imagining things,” Drifter grunts, raising his own glass to his lips. He swallows the last of the bitter liquid and stares disdainfully at the empty glass.
“You know, maybe I am. I can’t say for certain. Kinda got a whole memory issue where I’ve got major gaps,” he admits. It’s probably to put him at ease, but it has the exact opposite effect.
“I ain’t familiar to ya?” he manages to squeak out, grimacing at how quiet his own voice sounds. He’s dead. This isn’t him. There isn’t a chance in the dark expanse.
He shrugs, and Drifter lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. He’s about to say something when someone else familiar to Drifter makes his way over. Young Wolf leans against the other man’s side, grinning as he faces the Drifter.
“Ellis! I see you’ve met the Drifter. I go to the washroom for all of two minutes, and you finally get the courage to talk to the man who's been paying you in drinks all night,” Young Wolf snickers (or rather, his ghost interprets for him, putting sound to his sign language), and Drifter wants to punch him for suggesting he’s treated him as someone from the red light district.
Or, he would, if he was even remotely paying attention to anything he said after the other man’s name. Ellis. He’s dead, he’s decided. They both are - because he certainly is. He hasn’t heard that name in so long it feels like eons. He’s deliberately avoided hearing the name. Maybe he’s drunk and passed out at the bar, and this is all some weirdly vivid dream brought on by his lonely heart.
“Wolf, I am not above sending you through a Hive portal to the middle of butt-fuck nowhere,” Ellis grunts, grinning as he bats the hunter away.
“Alright, alright, I’ll leave you old fucks be,” Young Wolf laughs, wandering off back towards his table.
Drifter remains silent even as he’s walked off, staring down at his glass. It’s empty now, glumly reflecting his own internal melancholy that’s spitefully persisted in his chest. He can’t even bring himself to look at the other man. What is he doing? He should get up; he should go and pretend this never happened. Yet his legs won’t move, and all he can do is stare down at the drink.
“Want another drink?” Ellis asks, breaking the silence. He startles him just enough for him to glance up at him and take another strike to the chest from his smile.
“Don’t waste your glimmer on me. I’ve got my own,” Drifter dismisses him, moving to flag down the bartender because he does need another drink.
“Relax. What good are my Iron Banner winnings if I can’t spend them on stuff that’ll make Lord Saladin disappointed?” Ellis laughs, breaking the conversation for a moment to order two drinks.
“Participate in it that often?” Drifter inquires, at a loss for what else he’s meant to say.
“Eh, I really only come down to the Tower for it. I’m looking for someone, figured that if I put myself in the spotlight, I’ll be easier to spot - get it? Eh, dumb joke. The rest of my time is spent searching. He was never the type to hang around the tower, so it figures I haven’t found ‘im yet. Not quite sure where he went and kinda hoping he didn’t go after me and get himself lost as well,” Ellis explains, taking breaks to sip his drink.
Drifter swallows the lump in his throat. All of this is just some coincidence, he tells himself. Surely he’s jumping to conclusions.
“Well, I happen to know the underground side of guardians better than anyone. Perhaps I’ve seen ‘im, or at least heard something? Ya got a name for me?”
“Knew him ages ago, so I don’t expect him to be easy to find. He was smart enough not to get himself killed, but I said that ‘bout myself and wound up stranded from my own stupidity. So -” he shrugs his shoulders - “ya know, could be dead. I’m hoping he’s not, but eh -” he lifts his drink to his lips, downing the rest of it before setting it on the bar again - “His name’s Eli. When I knew him, at least. Might’ve gone back to using Wu Ming. Might be using something else now.”
And there goes all the colour left in his face. For the briefest moment, he remembers the dingy leather jacket frozen solid and left in the ice on a planet lightyears away. The one he always wore. The one he’d stolen one day and never gave back. He feels like crying, the melancholy twisting to sorrow into his chest. Not that he’d let it show.
“I might know something if your friends won’t miss you. Not exactly something I want to discuss where we can be overheard. Not everyone can be trusted,” Drifter proposes, finishing off his drink.
“I’m sure they’ll manage without me,” Ellis agrees, the slightest flicker of anticipation behind his eyes at the implication that he knows something.
Drifter nods, giving him the transmat coordinates to his ship as discreetly as possible. He pays both of their tabs before leaving - and before Ellis can stop him.
The familiar stale air of the Derelict sobers him up enough for the incoming conversation. He stands on the walkway, waiting for the other man to follow and almost hoping he doesn’t. He’s not even sure where he’s going to start with this - he just didn’t want to face humiliation down at the bar. He doesn’t know why he wants to find him, or what he intends to say or do, but he doesn’t want it public. It’d ruin the reputation of Gambit if he was cursed out in the middle of a public bar. He expects the worst. He deserves the worst.
When Ellis appears on the transmat platform, glancing around the Derelict, he looks as if he’s right where he’s meant to be, and Drifter hates it. Loathes how his heart flips after everything. He doesn’t need his hopes up for what’s about to happen. Instead, he manages a simple “come on” before turning on his heel and striding off towards the inner chambers of the Derelict. It gives him time to think about where to possibly start, so by the time they’ve reached the cramped living room, he’s at least got a grasp on what he wants to say. He tosses the mess on the couch to the floor; blankets shoved out of the way, and the gun he’d been working on moved to the table. Everything’s a mess, and distantly he wishes he had time to clean it. Not that it’s going to matter.
Looking back at the other man, he sees him examining one of the random artifacts he left on his kitchen table. An oddly shaped mechanism he’d gotten his hands on through a series of illicit trades with Spider. There’s an intense, studious focus that lingers in his eyes as he studies it, turning it over in his hands. All at once, a flood of memories comes back to him like a wave crashing into the beach. Offering no relief as he’s reminded of nearly every instance he’s seen that same expression on Mars, Io and Nessus ages ago.
“See something interesting?” Drifter chuckles, attempting to shake himself from the memories.
“Ah, sorry. It’s a passion of mine - research into alien cultures. You had something on Eli for me?” Ellis stammers, putting the device back down on the table.
“Eh, it’s fine, don’t worry ‘bout it. I was cleanin’ up anyway,” Drifter shrugs, offering the couch to him as he grabs a bottle of brandy from the cabinet. Two glasses are set on the counter, and he focuses on pouring them ever so precisely before continuing their conversation. Ellis makes no move to start talking again, leaving it up to him to continue.
“I’m not sure how to say this,” he admits as he hands him his glass, taking a seat on the couch.
“Any information is good information. Even if it’s that you saw him two decades ago on the moon,” Ellis shrugs, making a face as he takes the glass. “Thanks for this.”
“Don’t like brandy?”
“Nah, don’t like the moon. Or, well, don’t like the Hive very much. Accidentally opened a Hive portal and got sent to the middle of nowhere once… uh, well, actually, I mean, it’s the whole reason I’m looking for him. I was with him at the time, ya know. Er - right, no, you wouldn’t,” Ellis explains, staring down at his glass.
“Actually, I do,” Drifter corrects him. He curses himself immediately after. It’s such a cop-out. He hasn’t let himself spiral this dismally far in centuries; to contemplate this conversation, and he’s at a complete loss for anything meaningful or prepared. His earlier preparation gone out the window.
He manages to steal himself to glance at Ellis and finds him staring at him, eyes narrowed. His brandy’s set on the coffee table as a slow hand comes up to the bandana around his head. He holds his breath, pressing his lips together as he lets him unwrap it, his hair falling down messily. There’s a long pause as he gingerly runs his fingers through his hair, the confusion spreading like a slow poison across his face.
“You’re an ass,” Ellis says abruptly. It brings a tense, fleeting smile to Drifter’s face for the briefest moment.
“If you’re going to shoot me, I’m kicking you off the ship,” Drifter states before the conversation can go further.
Ellis’ eyebrows shoot up for a brief moment, and he moves quickly. Drifter has half a mind to draw his gun from where it’s resting in his belt, but he’s too slow to decide before it’s pressed between the two of them. It’s something he’ll probably lecture himself about later - slow reflexes get you killed. Yet, right now, he couldn’t care less. Strong arms wrapped around his torso, hands gripping his shoulder and side as he’s pulled from his spot on the couch into his lap as if he weighs nothing. He breaks from his stupor to wrap his arms around him as well, melting against him. If he kills him like this, it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.
Ellis buries his face in the crook of his neck, making him wish he’d showered before he went drinking tonight. He doesn’t seem to mind, laughter breaking from his lips as he only pulls him tighter. Drifter's brow creases at the sound, yet he refuses to let him go. If he has his way, he’ll never let him go again.
“You’re such an ass,” Ellis laughs, the sound vibrating against his chest. “You’re such a fucking ass. You could’ve just told me who you were - you didn’t have to play that song and dance for so long.”
“What? Is my face not memorable?” Drifter scoffs; not sure if he should be offended or not.
“Memory gaps, remember? I don’t remember faces like I used to, and you’re not… you’re different. You look older, somehow, and you’re wearing - what happened to my jacket?” he questions him, his voice steady and soft. That familiar tone that he was always more than happy to trust.
“Lost it continuing what you started. Went looking for something greater than the light and had to use it as a distraction to keep my life. It’s probably still out there, but there ain’t enough money in the world to make me go back there,” he explains, his eyes screwed shut in an effort to make this moment last. He doesn’t need to remember his grungy couch; he needs to remember the weight of his arms around him.
“Sounds like we both had some shitty travels,” Ellis chuckles, his fingers tickling the back of his neck. Since when had he started running his hands through his hair?
“Yeah, and none I want to recount right now. It’d ruin whatever this is,” Drifter grumbles, shifting in his lap so he can swing a leg around him and sit more comfortably. He buries his face in the crook of his neck and takes a deep breath, smelling the ever-present smoke that clings to his skin from wielding Solar, mixing with the choking acidic scent of Hive and the alcohol clinging to his shirt.
“A conversation for later,” Ellis agrees, shifting his grip as if to pull back only to pull him closer. Did he change his mind about something…?
He’s given little time to contemplate it before Ellis tips back on the couch, taking him with him. He moves quickly to ensure his leg isn’t squished under his weight and finds his head on the other man’s chest. His greaves would dig into his legs had it not been for the fact that he wears three layers of clothing on a good day. Even if that wasn’t the case, he can’t bring himself to mind. How long has it been since he’s felt safe? A year? A decade? A century? Since the last time he saw his face…? Drifter decides not to think about it as he closes his eyes. If he wanted, he could probably kill him right now. Kill him and destroy his ghost, and he wouldn’t be quick enough to stop him. He finds he doesn’t care. Not right now.
“Can I stay here, at least for tonight?” Ellis asks quietly, breaking him free from his thoughts.
“Bold to assume I’d let you leave again,” Drifter scoffs, shifting in his arms. Alright, the chitin is starting to press awkwardly against him. “I am, however, gonna get you to take your pants off. You make a particularly uncomfortable pillow right now.”
Ellis chuckles, pushing himself up on his elbows and displacing Drifter.
“How do you want me then? Striped and bare across your bed like a pre-Golden Age painting?”
“Maybe I do,” Drifter grins, sitting up fully and pulling the pistol from his belt. “Come on; I’ve got more comfortable places to sleep than my unwashed couch.”
“Gross, how unwashed?” Ellis mocks disgust as he gets up from the couch.
“Probably spilt Vex milk on it too many times to count,” Drifter shrugs as he saunters out of the room, the heavy footfalls of boots on the metal floor echoing behind him.
“Do I even want to know why you have Vex milk, to begin with?”
“I’ve - there’s a lot you’ve missed. I’ll explain it tomorrow, trust. For tonight, don’t worry about it. It’s perfectly safe… probably,” he dismisses, playing with the gun as he finds the door to his bedroom.
“You’re not instilling confidence,” Ellis laughs as Drifter elbows the door open, already shrugging off his robe.
“But I can’t judge. I had to eat Hive at one point. Too much Hive. Don’t think I’ve ever really gotten the taste out of my mouth.”
He sees him grimace as he drops the robe on the stool he keeps in the corner of the room.
“Hey, Hive’s not bad. Cabal’s what you wanna avoid. All muscle - almost too tough to chew through,” Drifter comments as he covers the floor in his usual outfit per usual.
“Cabal? Yeesh, I can’t even imagine,” Ellis says, his greaves disappearing in a burst of blue energy back to his inventory.
He rolls his shoulders, and suddenly Drifter finds himself back at the bar, frozen in place, staring. Has he gotten broader since he last saw him like this? Of course, he has; look at him, his chest smattered with hair, thin scars running under his pecs, clad in nothing but boxers as he regards him. They’re staring at each other, caught in the moment as they find themselves rendered speechless. He’s covered in more scars, one's Drifter doesn’t know, and one's Ellis doesn’t know. The mystery clings to the edges of the room as Ellis takes a step forward, then another, and another until they’re standing practically chest to chest. His hand comes up, carefully holding Drifter’s jaw with enough caution to remind him he could pull away at any moment. Distantly, he can’t recall him ever being this unsure - apart from their first time together. He was always so forward, so sure of himself.
“May I kiss you?” he asks, the whisper sounding like a shout.
“Yes,” Drifter manages to choke out, unable to find the words for anything more.
Thankfully, he doesn’t need to muster up anything further. Ellis’ lips are on his before he can finish speaking, his hands pulling him in, closer and closer still until they’re one step away from melding into each other. He can feel the heat of the Solar he wields through his skin, coursing in his veins, no longer hindered by layers of clothing. He’s hot in a way that Drifter’s needed desperately for too long, his body chilled from Stasis and rendered unable to retain heat after so many deaths from frostbite and hypothermia. His hands are desperate and needy, grasping his waist, splaying across his back, trying to cover every inch of skin he can possibly reach. They’ve needed this - each other - for far longer than either cares to measure and once again, for the first time in a long time, Drifter feels like he’s found home.