Archive of Our Own ^beta

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The air is still and empty, no sound or scent from the forest around. This place, which has been a playground and a home is suddenly strange and foreign, and infinitely frightening. The soil suddenly feels dirty, the moisture from the dew dropped leaves feels uncomfortable. He feels dirty, standing still in place, unable to take his eyes from the still form lying on the ground before him.

Death does not have a place in his world. His grandfather has implied as much, if not said it out loud. But his hands remember the feel of fur warm and soft as he embraced that body, so large and powerful, so protective, like a mother he never had.

There’s an unexpected feeling that he can’t explain, nor even begin to fathom. A tickling behind his nose and stinging in his eyes, and then her body is blurring, like shimmering in the air. The strangest sensation, he feels then, like hot rain slowly trickling down his cheeks. He touches a single finger to the progress of one drop and stares at it for the longest time in contemplation. What is this?...

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D’s breathing is deep and even, the pink silk of his camisole shifting at the movement. The candle has burned low, the light insubstantial. In the shadows cast, D’s skin glows golden, though Leon supposes that might have something more to do with his perception, than with the lighting. He would be so magnificent, but all his defenses have fled him in sleep. His smirk made soft, full lips parted slightly; his gaze shuttered, eyelashes fluttering against the curve of his cheek while he dreams. D looks very human.

And for the first time, Leon's willing to believe he’s not.

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Teasing eyes, flashing bright beneath thick lashes and thicker hair. A stretch of pale, like china, smooth, flawless, infinitely breakable. Breathe, and it’s arched against you; eager, ready, painted mouth parted in silent pleasure. It’s all colour and dark; the texture of peaked peach nipples on your tongue; pink nails leaving bloody tracks down your back; black silk in your fingers. And pulling, he responds to your every thought a moment before it’s acted out.

He knows you better than you know yourself--loves you better than anything else. He plays out every fantasy in your hands. And you’re safe.

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He’d never thought to appreciate the colour white before. So used to seeing it, so easy overlooked.

Though here, gazing up at the unpolluted blue of the sky, framed by the vibrant green of the leaves, and many-coloured birds and blossoms upon the trees, he understands white. The clouds, in shapes of million things, a universe alone, so unlike the yellow, smog tinted clouds of Los Angeles. Pure white, like the face of his companion, suddenly looming over his own, smiling.

D has this clever way of teaching things without ever saying a word. Leon is learning to love it.

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“How, again, did I get talked into doing this?” Leon muttered darkly. It seemed that damn T-chan was smirking at him. Yeah, well…fuck you, buddy.

D smiled beatifically and flicked his long fingernails against the spinner. Not green…nothing on green, Leon thought hard.

“Left foot green,” D sing-songed. Leon groaned.

Chris easily shifted his foot from yellow to rest on the dot next door. One green dot left. Leon met D’s eyes, and knew they were thinking the same thing. Lightning fast, Leon made for the dot at the same time as D. Of course, that disrupted his precious balance, but there was no way he was letting D have the damned dot. Both their feet brushed the green dot and Chris dodged out of the way just in time, as Leon and D went down in a jumble of limbs.

*I win!* Chris crowed, dancing around happily.

D laughed a little breathlessly and Leon shifted on his elbows, looking down at the man beneath him. “Nope, I think I win,” Leon murmured, and D’s pale cheeks flushed slightly as their lips brushed.

Distantly, Leon heard Chris sigh, *I can’t play anything with those two.*

Leon grinned into the kiss.

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We aren’t allowed near Him, for He is divine. We are unworthy of His presence. Sometimes, though, we would catch glimpses of Him, passing through the gardens, conversing with wild animals or simply staring into forever, the saddest expression, longing and loneliness, on His delicate features. How I longed to be the one to relieve Him.

Then the American came. Mortal, not even holy; unworthy, but bold enough to approach Him, touch—kiss Him where anyone could see, and He welcomed it. I should hate that man, but I didn’t understand beauty til I saw him reflected in His eyes.

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Night is just a word here; they don’t understand its true meaning. They don’t know the absolute enveloping black, freezing like the caress of the dead. They don’t know the brilliancy of stars, too far to reach, but infinitely close to scorch away lies of daylight.

Perhaps Leon knows; remembers a time when his people burnt their gods and slept naked in the bitter cold night. Maybe that’s why he holds me so tightly in his sleep. Doesn’t he know, or does he simply choose to ignore, I’m darker than the night? I will scar him deeper than the stars.

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Leon lives outside of time now, in cities without names, without histories, futures, or even presents where the people are shadows of themselves, echoes sent out and repeated in every country in the world. Coffee, honey? (He never drinks tea.) Are you looking for a good time? (Now that’s funny.) So people leave…It ain’t the end of the world. (I’ve yet to determine.)

Sometimes he’s not sure if he’s really where he is, or someplace else, or in a dream, or dead.

Sometimes Leon knows exactly how D felt, surrounded by humans. And then he doesn’t blame D for leaving.

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I’ve seen the look on the Count’s face when Leon gets crumbs on the rug, or puts his boots on the table, or burps. I’ve seen the rows they’ve had. I say to myself, D will never want Leon. The Count is too smart, self-possessed, and regal to have anything to do with that filthy…human. Just wait and see…

He’ll stop staring when Leon’s not looking.

He’ll stop being so eager for Leon to arrive, and so disconsolate when Leon has gone.

He’ll throw him out, eventually, and tell him never to come back.

I’ve just got to be patient.

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When his mouth goes up on the one side as he moves to straddle you, you know you’re in trouble. D is nearly always mischievous, but not necessarily playful. D gets like this and you can only go along with it. Whether you want to admit it, or not, in the end you always bend to his will.

But you’re exhausted, hungry, not in a particularly playful mood. D can tell as much—he’s good at reading you. His lips at your pulse say you won’t regret it. His body sliding against yours is a promise.

“Just wait,” He purrs.

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D had incredibly long legs. They were silky soft like a girl’s and the colour of white sand and stretched for miles from toe, to ankle, to hip. He kept them hidden beneath dresses and loose fitting pants, his best features (except his eyes, his lips, his nose, his fingers, his everything).

At night, he spread them. Teasingly—desperately—eagerly—wrapping those long limbs around Leon, pulling him in.

D slept wound around Leon like some sort of creeping plant, ankles locked firmly at Leon’s hip, wrists at his neck, so he couldn’t get up. As if he wanted to.

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He found Chris in the bathroom, the boy blinking apologetically. D remained silent, taking in the situation, waiting for an explanation. Chris struggled to find release from the toilet paper wrapped all around him, from ankles to wrist to neck, gaping, haphazardly donned.

Tet-chan said my Harry Potter costume was lame. I wanted something scarier.

D stifled a giggle, and knelt to offer Chris a hand. “Let’s see what we can manage to pull together.”

Nothing’s gonna scare him anyway. ‘Specially not some stupid mummy costume, Chris said sullenly.

“Oh…” D smiled secretively. “I’m sure we can think of something.”

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He needs blood to survive, but he’s always preferred sweets. Sofu indulged his grandson’s tastes, though it went against their nature—especially to eat fruit. Perhaps this was his punishment, being made to watch while D devoured over-ripe blood oranges. D was very particular in eating one. Nails neatly separating rind from fruit, taking each individual cell between his tongue and palate til it burst, letting juice fill his mouth.

When Sofu first tasted D, as carefully as D had ever tasted his oranges, he was surprised to find his grandson’s tongue pleasantly bitter as blood, and just as sweet.

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Leon said he wasn’t gay.

He knew the taste of the skin at the back of D’s neck, and the sound D always made when he sampled it. He’d begun saying “I love you” first sometimes, instead of in response to when D said it, and he meant it. He loved many things about D. His smile, his lies, his grace, his touch, his experience.

He no longer felt anxious about going down on D, but anticipated it. He loved the feel of D in his mouth, thrusting, wild. He loved when D came inside him.

But he wasn’t gay.

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“So, which one of you is D?”

“That’s a secret,” said the first, dressed in powder blue and lacy white layers of skirt and crinoline that reminded Leon of Alice in Wonderland. The D smiled so broadly, Leon couldn’t see his eyes.

The second D moved forward, a smirk poised on his lips. “Trick or Treat, Detective,” he purred. Clothes distractingly tight and revealing, he seemed wildly amused at Leon's confusion.

Leon looked to the third D, wrapped in silk and shadows, face down-turned and hidden by a curtain of hair.

Leon gulped. He was never any good at guessing games.

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Leon loves playing D. He makes such delightful sounds, varying in pitch and length depending on the pressure applied. A pleased hum for the meeting of lips, barely discernable but for where bodies met. A soft sigh against open mouth, moaning at each bite. D’s breath catches and skips whenever Leon’s fingers trace his spine. D’s nipples are sensitive, and he hisses when touched, groans deep in his throat when licked.

The keening when Leon slides inside— panting and gasping when Leon takes his cock in hand— the ragged screech of crescendo when he comes— those Leon enjoys best.

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D said, with a playful smirk.

But Leon didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t grab D and shake him violently. He didn’t even scowl. Instead, he wore a terrible, knowing expression and D felt his heartbeat step up as he took a step back.

(hand around his wrist) This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. (pulling closer, but gently) D had set down clear rules. (hot breath stirring his hair) There was a routine to follow. (warm lips, warmer tongue) Leon was a creature of habit. (shivers up his spine)

And he was breaking it.

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“Your body is mine,” Father would say. He meant so many things by it, and D agreed implicitly.

D’s fingers always touched his father gently, hesitantly, as if he feared his father’s flight. It was not an irrational fear, given how rarely his father appeared to him, and how brief those visits were.

Father’s skin was paler than D’s, almost translucent white. D thought, if he could just look hard enough, he could see inside, and figure out what made Father work. He might see what was broken, and he could fix it, and then Father would stay.

D loved his fingers in his father’s hair, tangling, smoothing, braiding. It made a curtain around D’s face when his father kissed him as they made love. “If you drink from me, we’ll be fine,” D would say, breathless, desperate, lost.

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The chocolates he could accept without remorse. They were an offering for information, for payment, to keep peace.

The vacation was easily rationalised. Of course it was convenient to have a nanny watching Chris while Leon chased everything in a bikini.

The delicate peacock figurine Leon said reminded him of D because it was pretty, the look in Leon’s eyes, these affected D. These made him feel guilt very vividly, sent a bright, sharp pain through his chest, set an ache in his stomach.

It was harder still to accept Leon’s explanation: “That’s not guilt D. That’s love.”

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Steerpike always kept his eyes open, fixed on him when D slid inside him. Those eyes paralysed D, devoured him, liquid silver in perpetual gloom. Steerpike’s face was always open, for whoever was observant enough to read it. He was only a kitchen boy by birth, after all, regardless of how far he’d risen and how desperately he’d attempted to leave his origins behind. D could see all Steerpike’s desires, all his sadness, his evil deeds.

Sometimes he would sing, in that rough, addictive voice of his, lyrics that didn’t often make sense. D heard the true meaning behind the words. Steerpike said he craved power, but he really longed for freedom. Steerpike wanted to be loved, but didn’t know how to reciprocate. Steerpike had killed so many, and had convinced himself it was only out of his desire to see the people of Gormenghast freed.

Steerpike was wilful, arrogant, innocent…and utterly charming.

They did not love, or so Grandfather said. But that didn’t change the way D felt, the pang in his chest whenever he regarded his lover. The thought of leaving him was unacceptable. He did not know how it had happened, this attachment. Steerpike smiled at D now, from across the room. Between them all the court of Gormenghast—the lovely Fuchsia, the lovelier Titus and, as it was the first, all the trappings of a feast to celebrate the silversmiths—but Steerpike, his hair pulled back tightly to showcase his features, his bright eyes hooded, that suggestive smirk, was all D could see.

D didn’t have a pet to give Steerpike. He would rather give himself, anyway. “Come away from Gormenghast,” he would offer, as he stroked his fingers through silky dark curls, plaiting the long strands.

Steerpike would look at him in sleepy confusion. “But there is nothing but Gormenghast.”

“I am not of Gormenghast,” D would explain.

Steerpike would smile a little sadly. “I do not believe you are real.”

The ache in D's chest widened and deepened each time. He kissed Steerpike’s full lips, tasted years of bitterness and hurt and emptiness. He would turn it sweet, heal it, fill it if only Steerpike would allow him. And Steerpike would never allow it.

Years later, as D sat on his ship amidst his pets, reflecting upon the look on Leon’s face as he’d fallen, he thought he finally understood Steerpike. He finally understood the human concept of love. It was always too late.

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Ink feathers over delicate paper, through tiny crevices, making a dozen paths, everyone unexplored. As it dries, so seals his victim’s fate. D has no illusions to how things will end; he’s always had a dispassionate attitude toward the process.

Sometimes, when he dreams, D sees his own body as parchment. Places Leon touched him, physically or otherwise, are stained a brilliant red. D hadn’t realized at the time, and Leon couldn’t have known what he was leaving behind.

D knows Leon’s mark is as indelible as any contract D has issued. He just isn’t sure yet whether he minds.

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This will help you see reason.

It was hard to see anything through the blood that ran like tears down his face. They wanted him to forget, but he wouldn’t. So they tried to make him sorry to remember.

They weren’t entirely unsuccessful.

In his daydreams, he had something tangible to which to cling. In reality he possessed few precious images—the curve of a smile, the bright flash of blue eyes—he held the sharp pain in his heart.

You need to see reason.

“It isn’t that we cannot feel love,” Grandfather explained. “It is that we do not.”