A/N: A sequel of sorts to 'To Every Maze a Map'. I needed something to be a bridge between aforementioned prequel and the original fic that I posted to tumblr a few weeks ago. Basically (I nearly typed 'bassically', well that says it all) a glimpse into Miles and Bass' relationship now that they are Generals in the established Monroe Republic. It's getting darker as the light begins to go out.
Again, I might have had too much fun writing this, so it says a lot about me. Damn miloe feels, I swear it.
The quote regarding absolute power and great men comes from one Lord Acton, a 19th century historian, writer and politician. I remember studying it during my A Level Politics and instantly becoming fascinated with it.
Warning: slash, language and definitely a touch of a heavier, darker theme.
Disclaimer: I do not own Revolution, the characters within or the actors outside of it.
Without further ado, raise that curtain and all eyes look to the stage.
The diary was battered and thick and brown. Holds it in his hands. Turns it over. Opens it. It's blank, the pages virginal white and glowing. He flicks through the whole of it, but there is not a scribble or line to be seen. He frowns as he closes the book.
"You… You still have this?" he asks, because this book, although empty, is too full of grief and despair. He drops it suddenly as if it were coated in filth. Too many bitter, painful memories. Miles slowly shakes his head and makes no effort to reach down and pick up the abandoned book.
He can remember all too clearly holding a crying and shattered lover in his arms, feeling naught but helplessness and love and pain. They had lain in each other's arms that night; not speaking, just listening to each other breathe. Trying to convince themselves that the other existed. The steady rise and fall of Miles' chest was the only lullaby that Bass had needed.
"You're holding it in your hands so you're answering your own question."
"Smartass," Miles snaps, giving him a light shove. A pause, considering. "You never wrote in it."
"No," Bass murmurs, resting his head on the bare shoulder. Feels Miles' breath on his forehead. He's exhausted, with dark smudges under his eyes and pale skin. Too much working by candlelight. Too much working by daylight.
"Why not?"
"I didn't need it, Miles," it comes out sharper than what he had intended. He doesn't want to remember anymore. He turns his head away sharply.
Perhaps Miles knows – no, he is all too aware because damn it's Miles – this, because he places a hand under his chin and tips his head up.
"Hey," Miles says quietly. Runs a hand through dark blonde curls. Bass leans into the touch because it's soothing and peaceful and calms his head. A soft sigh escapes his lips as the older man continues in his ministrations -
A sudden pause.
"You're burning up," Miles proclaims, momentarily distracted. Dark brown eyes narrow again, but this time in concern.
"I'm fine," the younger man begins, but a roll of the eyes and a sigh from Miles cuts him off.
"Cut the crap, Bass," he all but growls, "don't argue with me. You're not fine."
The words stir in Bass' already burning head and a whimper escapes his lips, but damn if he knows why. He blinks, trying to clear his suddenly foggy and swirling vision. Blinks again. No luck.
"My head's on fire, Miles," he whispers, "it hurts." He hates having to say it; it makes it real and hell he's actually admitting to feeling weak. He tries to push himself upright, but he feels strangely light. "It's on fire," he says again, feeling annoyed and disbelieving at the same time. Fuck it, he can't be like this, he has to ignore any weaknesses. Attempts to get up again but Miles just places a wonderfully cool hand to his forehead and whispers back so tenderly it brings tears to his eyes instead.
"Hey, hey, shhh," Miles says, pulling him in tighter to his chest. Swallows. "God, Bass. You need to take a break. You've been burning the candle at both ends for too long; it's catching up with you." A small shudder runs through the frame of the younger man - Miles feels the vibrations in his chest. They dance along his fingertips in a mocking fashion.
This is becoming far too routine for his liking. It scares him. Scares him to hell.
Sure, Miles works himself to the bone and feels drained and shattered. But he gets by. He feels as though he was born to do this. Commanding men, fighting in battles, building and fortifying towns. And he did all this and more with Bass. And it felt good.
But it's doing something to his brother.
The power is like a virus, Miles thinks, watching as Bass just lets his head weakly lie on Miles' chest. Miles must be immune to it; he can turn it on and off at will. But Bass? It's inside him now, pumping through his blood and eating into his mind. He had walked into the labyrinth of power, hand in hand with Bass. Somehow, they had gotten separated along the way. And once you walked into the labyrinth, you cannot easily escape it. Miles couldn't help but think that Bass was answering the siren's song from within and was heading straight towards the centre.
What was the old saying again? It was a Brit who had said it. It had been taught to them back in high school -well, to be truthful, Miles never really paid attention in History but Bass did; he would always admonish his best friend, saying that History and politics were connected and damn it, Miles, it was interesting and it was relevant. Then he would sigh and pull Miles' latest paper from his hands with a 'give it here. I'll do it, but you owe me' - Ah yes. 'Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.' Is Miles seeing this played out before his eyes? He doesn't know. Or maybe he does and just doesn't want to dwell on it.
Fire licks his hand as it rests on his best friend's forehead. Miles sighs, a nagging feeling beating in rhythm to his heart.
"It's alright, I got you," he says as Bass' eyes flicker. They were oddly glassy, a pale copy of their normal selves.
He stirs, trying to adopt a position more comfortable from both himself and Bass without moving him too much but a keening sound comes from his best friend's lips.
"Fuck sake, don't do that," the words are the right ones, but said in the wrong way, "makes my head want to explode."
Miles drops a series of fast, light kisses on Bass' head and down his face until he calms down.
"I'm making sure you stay in bed for the rest of the week."
"Only if you're in it with me," Bass mutters dryly into his chest. It tickles. He laughs, just a tad too quickly.
"Fine, let's both go AWOL."
"Damn straight."
They lie together in silence for a few moments, and Miles thinks there is nothing so beautiful as watching Bass breath. But that beauty is ultimately corrupted as the younger man's breathing hitches once, twice, and then Miles knows he has a long night ahead of him.
"Miles?" Bass says sleepily.
"Yeah?"
"I didn't write in it."
It takes Miles a second to realise what it is he means.
"The notebook? I know you didn't," and he feels a bit confused, because they had discussed this already and Bass seems to have just rewound the entire scene. Then he sees Bass is staring at him, those blue eyes looking hazy and glazed and Miles realises that the fever is already starting to kick in.
"I didn't write in it because I didn't need to," his best friend whispers. "I had you."
Miles smiles, feeling his heart break a little as Bass puts his head back down again with a sigh. The older man gently strokes the side of his best friend's face.
He doesn't want to think of the second part of the saying.
[Great men are almost always bad men].
Later that night as the fever raged, Bass will cry and yell and Miles would have to hold him down by his wrists. His best friend screamed at whatever was stalking him, teasing him, murdering him. Screamed for Miles to help him. Cried as fire burnt him alive and smoke stung his eyes and a hundred knives were stuck into his back -
Miles would hold him and rock him and pin him down. He will watch as Bass stared at him with glazed eyes, seeing and unseeing. He will lull him into a temporary calm by whispering into his ear and stroking his face. Miles will ignore the pain in his heart and fear in his head in order to devote his full and complete attention to his brother.
When the morning comes and Bass no longer has the energy to cry or struggle and will instead lie still on their bed, eyes flickering under burning eyelids, that is when Miles will think. He'll look at the curls stuck to a forehead and dry, cracked lips. He'll look and think and fight away his own tears because... Because the world is fucked up and now Bass is too.