AN: Serious content from Wenchicus Thoticus? What?
morrow.
a gray morning filters inside as he gradually comes to. the form beside him, in the recesses of his mind he has the knowledge, the memory, that it is not her. for his own sake, he pushes it away, lazily yet actively confines the thoughts. he takes comfort in the warmth that emanates from the figure, the bare skin on his, the rhythmic, gentle breathing.
if he focuses on this, his illusory peacefulness, hazy happiness, those sensations will not abandon him so soon in his liminal, sleepy state. he has not done it for years now, but his hand, its muscle memory acting without a conscious decision on his part, snakes around the other form's back, finds silky hair and rubs it between two fingers. it takes him by surprise, he had forgotten how he would do that. with her. he burrows deeper into the figure's chest, repressing the questions that arise as he continues to gain awareness. he meets hard muscle instead of smooth softness, a larger body is curved around him, not how it is supposed to be.
arms wrap enclose him, hold him tighter. is the other awake? the sudden movement coaxes a long, shuddering breath from him, he knows distantly that he should be afraid, but the emotion that comes is one of security, his sigh one of relief, of completion, as if he'd had a good cry, was exhaling to calm himself after finishing. he cups the head in his palm. the hair is hers, is it not? it feels the same. almost. the breathing is hers, is it not the sound he heard first thing every morning, last thing at night, for so many years? almost. he can hide the lurking knowledge from himself if he just stays like this.
if he only recognizes what he wants to, he can pretend that anything is true.
—
evening.
they have arrived, remarks one of his men.
it is as if they are preparing for battle. talks, they were promised, nonviolence. what a shallow mercy they had shown his people, not to slaughter the rest on the spot.
still. tension grows as the ships that tower on the horizon draw ever-closer, now reaching the dock. the fear that hangs over the village like a dark fog breeds mistrust, a belief that they will fail to uphold their promise of peace. like animals, surely, they can smell the lingering terror in this den that they have ravaged time and time again.
it's times like these that he wishes that someone else would take up the mantle of leadership, responsibility. he cannot be a coward. they are counting on him. even if it means that he gives up his homeland, he will do everything in his power to ensure that they never hurt any of his people again.
the walkway lowers and steam billows out. he knows that they are doing this to strike fear into his heart, and it is working. the mist swirls, sending him a message written in nature's own language, this is what we will do to you, you will burn and vanish with the wind. slaughtered and forgotten.
the steam clears, reveals the figure behind it. he hasn't heard much about this new leader, didn't know what he was expecting. was this it? he doesn't know. they are all the same, it doesn't matter anyways.
—
night.
stripped of clothing, stripped of their titles. he's sweating under the other's touch, he is burning with fear, with desire, with the agony of pretending it's her. the other's fingers leave aching, trembling trails on his skin, and the path of his mouth down his neck makes him weak in the knees. he hasn't felt this since it really was her.
weak.
the intrusion inside of him, he can't pretend it's her, so he focuses on the general ecstasy overtaking him, anything except the source of his traitorous pleasure. their damp bodies are locked together, the panting heavy in one ear. he rocks back and forth in time with the other, imagining that he's the one quickening the breathing, his actions bringing about the quiet moans that interject the other's sounds.
he grips the other just as tightly as the other grips him. nails dig into shoulders, sweat plasters hair to flesh, the room is too hot. it's not pretty, it's not clean. it's intimate, it's desperate, and it's almost gentle. the other's head turns, surprises him with a hasty kiss on the cheek, a reassurance. he returns it, the same motion, the same repressed hurriedness.
the other is pretending just as much as he is.
he doesn't notice the exact moment that he loses control, only that one moment he's holding it together, and then at some point he can't filter the animalistic jumble of thoughts and emotions from the noises that stream from his mouth. he knows that he can't silence himself, so he doesn't try. but no one can hear this. no one can see this, none of his people can see him like this, he knows that the other shares this stance. what would his children think if they were to enter, watch him screaming their dead mother's name, the enemy's cock buried in his ass?
yet he persists in his game of ignorance. the breathing is hers, it is her shoulders he grips, her hair, her skin against his. oddly, it is easy enough to ignore the intrusion inside of him, rather, it is the little things that catch him off-guard. the other's erratic thrusts, their bodies are unsynchronized, they are not used to each other, do not know each other's rhythms. his smell, it is bitter, of something smoldering and dying, and it cuts through the layer of sweat and fear that imbues the room. he shuts his eyes so that he doesn't have to see the other, he can block out that dimension entirely, but facial hair brushes his temple, his cheek, his neck, and when he shifts his hands, the flesh below him is rigid, hard, and muscled. there is no softness anywhere.
it ends. the foreign sensation of warm liquid where it shouldn't be jolts him back to reality, it hits him full in the face that it's not her, but the other doesn't seem to have the same revelation, kissing him almost absently and failing to register the unyielding stiffness of his lips. he keeps his eyes closed, now more than ever unable to face how it's not her.
—
evening.
I don't wish to use force, but you are leaving me little choice. don't waste my time, chieftain. I didn't come here not to get what I want, he says. the other is leering, he is formidable, commanding. compared to him, what was he?
he can't do this anymore, they have covered countless conditions, negotiating for hours, and he has already conceded so much more than he ever wanted to. frustration, anger, rage that has been building up wells up through his lungs, like he is shooting venom, he releases it. he doesn't care, he hates this man and he hates everyone he represents. he speaks, you cannot ask for more than what you have now taken. you have taken, no, you have stolen, all I will let you steal. enough is enough. don't you know what you've done. you people, how much pain you have brought us all. you have killed so many, without mercy, and you have this audacity to ask us for sacrifice after sacrifice. do you know what it's like? to lose so much, to lose your family, your wife.
vicious fury flickers in the other's eyes like firelight, but he seems to have landed a harshly personal blow. as if he has been physically struck, the other recoils in startled pain, but strikes back, seizes him by the throat. heat blisters his neck where the fingers squeeze, and if he hadn't been consumed by such terror, he would have cursed his reckless stupidity.
the other does something, runs his free hand back through his hair like she would have done. he sees her everywhere now, in everyone, everything, and he is disgusted by how he sees her in him, even if it's just for one instant, in one trivial mannerism. he reaches to touch the other's face, an instinct he should've overridden, but he can't. the other shuts his eyes, leans into it, the aggression drains from his features. the burning hand releases him from its death grip.
I had to do a lot of things I regret to get where I am, you know, says the other. from his hair, he tugs lose his crown. the wound is still fresh for him, it hasn't been any longer than three weeks, and as much as he wants to, he hasn't let himself feel anything yet.
then you know what it's like, he says. they are just two imperfect reflections of each other.
—
night.
please, stay with me? he begs the other. lying beside him in the low light, he traces his jawbone with a finger. I want to remember what it's like to sleep next to someone.
the other obliges. they'll just say that negotiations ran long. in a way, they did. no one will dare disturb them.
—
morrow.
I don't want to leave, whispers the other. they are still curled around each other, in the bleary state just before waking as the gray morning light fills the room. the words aren't meant for him, but he pretends that it is her, returning to him from the afterlife for just one night.
I know, he says, and kisses the memory of her on the forehead, looks into the eyes that aren't hers.
will I see you again?
it can't happen, he murmurs. it can't happened ever again. he feels like a traitor, and he knows that he should be scared. they are enemies, both at their most vulnerable. he could kill the other right now, he knows that an extra spear rests beneath the bed, maybe he can get to it without him noticing.
but it's stupid. they're not leaders, representatives of a people right now. they're just men filling the gaps in each other's lives. the other runs a hand through his hair, kisses the top of his head.
I'm sorry, says the other. he's apologizing to his own memory, but he also gets the sense that it's for what his people have done to the world, to each individual family, to him.
it's okay, he says softly.
it's not okay.
I really ought to leave, the other insists, reluctance dragging down his voice. neither of them want to let go of their memories, but this time, at least, they can give them a proper sendoff.
let me say goodbye, he extends awkwardly. he hadn't been able to give her a proper farewell. he hadn't known the end was coming. he doesn't know exactly how things were for the other, but he needs to do this.
the other chokes up as he agrees. it's one of the long, gentle kisses, there's passion in it, but instead of lust, it's sorrow. a tear rolls down his cheek, and he doesn't care that his enemy sees him cry. because in the moment, they aren't enemies, nor are they substitutes, memories. the other is just a man, one who's suffered loss just as he has. a loss he'll never know about, one different from his own, but a loss nonetheless. he stops seeing her in him, and instead he sees himself, and he sees another human. an unknowable reflection. because in the moment, he stops kissing her memory, and kisses the other. just a man. stripped of his clothes, bare to the world, stripped of his title, defenceless. just a man.
the other stands up, and his mind screams for the touch to return, he doesn't want it to end. he watches him dress and become a stranger again, an enemy.
goodbye, he says.
the other other's eyes are red from crying. it is the last trace he sees of the naked, exposed, and vulnerable man he had spent the night with.
goodbye, says the other. if they see each other again, it will never be like this.
he doesn't know why he feels so empty and broken once the other leaves. it's almost like losing her all over again, tearing open a wound that was just beginning to heal.
but it wasn't her. none of it was real anyways.