Love is a noose.
It was his dogma. A lesson that over the years, he abided to almost as reverently as Count Drake did to his notion of 'One God.' And every time he failed to heed to his creed, someone he loved died. His creed was to never love, a terrible irony in itself. It was safer for them for him to be indifferent. As much as he would try to save them, some other wetboy got them in the end. A king, a duke, a duchess, even rival wetboys, they found out his weaknesses through spies, through observation. But it always got out. Durzo had already risked his life, god, he lost count how many times he had risked his life, for Kylar.
It had been too many, he knew.
It had gone past his usual "one per customer."
His prodigy had already passed out on the other side of the cot, the poppy wine clasped just under his sternum in both callused hands. To be fair, it was nearing the ass-crack of dawn. They had been drinking most of the day, and well. He could barely see the threadbare, dusty floor through all the bottles. After the whole fiasco with the asp, Durzo had introduced the young apprentice to a wine cupboard full of bottles that he had been ferreting away for years. It was worth the completely stunned expression across the lad's face.
And that stroke of genius led him to the new problem.
It snuggled closer, and Durzo felt something in his chest make a plunging leap. Then it righted itself, and he felt the prickle of irritation that it moved at all. Kylar, in his drunkenness, had slumped over some more onto Durzo's side of the cot, and onto his shoulder. One of the hands clasping the bottle slipped free and gently folded around his elbow, and Durzo thought twice about shaking his arm free. He was gentle, instead slipping his arm from the boy's grip.
He wasn't helping the problem.
Well, your problem, Durzo grimaced to himself.
Kylar's head slipped down, so he was practically crushing his face into the space between Durzo's arm and side, hand slipping around to clutch at the other man's loose-fitted tunic. Durzo tried to fidget, wake the boy up, get him to realise who he was trying to snuggle with. It didn't help at all. Kylar's head twisted around, plonking straight down on Durzo's chest, wine bottle clattering to the floor. Empty.
It wasn't the first time that Durzo hated the fact that he didn't own a chair. He could have gotten the boy drunk while sitting on that and left him there. It might've had a bit more space too. As well as had them sitting up. They were both mostly half-way down the cot, propped up on a few pillows against the wall. But Kylar had slipped further to be more lying down than anything. It was excruciating.
Since Kylar moved to live with Count Drake, Durzo had tucked most of the second beds away in the safehouses, and being honest they didnt sit down much so he only had three chairs across his seven houses. Tomorow, at the market, he was going to buy a million chairs.
One of Kylar's lithe thighs slid over Durzo, his own thighs ram-rod straight down his meagre cot. The hand fisted deeper in his shirt. The face buried itself into the crook of his neck. Only his wetboy restraint kept Durzo still. A little candle in his head clicked on. He was slow about it, meticulous. He was Durzo Blint. His precision and patience were legendary.
One of the hands he had forced into stony obedience snaked from his side, the one opposite the sleeping lad, pale fingers testing Kylar's knee. Nothing but a slight change in breathing. Durzo waited until it regulated. Then, the hand clasped the knee. Nothing but a tiny sigh from the lad. Durzo pushed back a wave of nausea. He would never drink again; he promised. As he waited for his head to stop spinning, he busied himself by focusing on getting his other arm out from under Kylar.
The boy seemed to want to help, because with an irritated, sleepy growl he lurched sideways, almost lying completely across Durzo. His bent leg straightened, and the Master was left with nothing to do but put both his hands into the dip at the small of Kylar's back.
Kylar himself, in one more of his strange sleeping habits, slid both hands underneath himself, between his and Durzo's sternums, and let his head fall into the space under his master's chin.
The kid sure as hell squirms a lot. Does he always do this?
Durzo pursed his lips, flicking through all the files he had stored away in the back of his head.
Durzo looked down at the sleeping youth, one that he had dragged up from the slums at eleven. He was around twenty, now. Lithe, young, weird. It was Azoth's heart that had brought Durzo to him, not the ka'kari. That was just a bonus. Then the whole ka'karifer thing became an excuse. And a convenient lie to cover up that he had needed someone. At first it was just someone to talk to, to get his mind off all the shit with Vonda. Gwenivere cracked the mask. Kylar broke it.
As a guild rat, he would have learnt to sleep light. And especially after the training Durzo put him through with the swords. There was no way he could be such a deep sleeper. Even with all the poppy wine. Durzo grimaced. The wine was an unwelcome excursion from his calculations. It could very well be that the boy was drunk as a fart and this was his drunken habit. Some talk, others dance, some fuck and others hug. Maybe this was Kylar drunk. Asleep and snugly.
One of the hands on Kylar's back slid up, grabbing the boy by the chin, half rolled him over and tugged him slightly upwards to let Durzo look at him. Same old Kylar. Dark hair, dark eyelashes, straight mouth. The only difference was that this Kylar looked young. Kylar awake had a tiny line between his brows. Unwittingly, Durzo realised how close he had pulled the boy. He could practically feel the little man breathe. The mouth moved. Muttered. Garlic.
Durzo almost laughed.
Love is a noose.
The head moved in his grip, but Durzo was numb to the movement. Kylar's eyes flickered beneath the lids, but Durzo was blind to the hint. He had begun to ask a question, mouth already forming the words, but Durzo wasn't listening anymore. What he did realise, was that the fist was in his shirt again, that it was tightening, that something was pushing his head back. It was about then that he realised he was attached to the lad's mouth. That Kylar was pushing back against him and that strange waft of tea-leaves and sandalwood were coming from the boy.
The fist tightened even more when Durzo's other arm crushed Kylar against his chest. The boy squirmed for a moment, a small flicker of fear told Durzo that he was trying to get away. But then Kylar's legs filtered between his masters, his other hand catching the collar of Durzo's tunic to tug harder. In the strange instance between the taste of Kylar's tongue and the feel of his hands around his neck, he finally felt the irony of his own dogma.
Love is a noose.
Kylar seemed to twitch in confusion as Durzo sat up, the boy pulling away from his mouth as it quirked into a smirk. Sat on his heels, staring with those same dark eyes, he looked ready to start that ritualised questioning again. Why did you stop? What's going on? Why did you kiss me? Blah blah blah. Durzo even watched the mouth begin to work, but he was too fast for his naïve apprentice. The growling, the tugging, the tearing fabric, well all of that rather suprised Durzo. It was as if for a moment, both of their masks had hit the floor. There was no special smokescreen keeping that mole on his ass from Durzo's sight, and there was no magic rock keeping the spatter of hair across his chest from the lad's attention.
A small, bitter voice said it doubted Elene had chest hair.
Another, slightly louder voice, growled about Kylar never knowing that.
But he might one day. He's chosen her every time so far.
Durzo pushed the bitter next thought away.
Love is a noose.