There were few things Erron hated more in life than the thought of being forgot, and fewer pleasures more deeply ingrained than being wanted for something more than just taking lives. He didn't run across folk who wanted him around a moment longer than he had to be every day. Hell, sometimes not even in years. They knew what he was, the kinds of things he did for a living, and either found him wanting or of limited service. It was a lonesome life he lived; life in spite of itself ⁠— and everyone else, too.

Arthur was different, in more ways than just the most apparent. He hadn't turned his back or gone running off on him when they'd finished, abandoned him to his own devices in that cabin upon morning light. Arthur hadn't done nothing he'd become accustomed to, and Erron hadn't done nothing he'd become accustomed to doing neither. "I wear my memories on my body," he murmured hazily against Arthur's lips, his breath hitching as a tendril of slippery warmth trickled down his shaft to ease the way. "always have, 'cause it's all I got to mark the occasion."

Erron turned his head to drag his lips along Arthur's jawline and then nosed his way down the side of his neck. "But you don't work that way no more," he bit into the crook of his shoulder, hard, hard enough to leave his mark a second time.