"You don't know
the power you have
with that
tear in your hand."
-Tori Amos, "Tear in Your Hand"
____________________________________________________________________
Folken was pretending to be busy with something. There were plenty of various unattended folders and papers that he really needed to be looking over, studying, but they dangled teasingly in front of his mind like some sort of animal bait. What he needed to be concentrating on was his work, his job, his duty to the Zaibach Empire, but what he was concentrating on was some lofty soldier boy who was due in his quarters any moment. Not necessarily the boy himself, but the side-effects of the boy, like drug side-effects. He was getting slowly drunk, intoxicated against his will. What Mercutio proposed every time he snuck into Folken's room, Folken completely willing, was unacceptable. It was unethical and downright sleazy for him to become involved in a romantic relationship with a subordinate. But there was always the tainted, dark sense that that was up to Mercutio, that Folken was under the thumb of the boy.
A knock whispered its gentle but demanding request at the metal door. Folken knew it would be him, and he knew he needn't so much as voice a "come in". The boy from the other side would politely wait in case Folken told him not to come in tonight, but of course, that kind of reply never came. Who was Folken to deny a young man his infatuation, especially in a place like the Vione, where so much was denied him already? And besides that, a perverted and twisted and taboo whisper inside, it was nice to be showered by such innocent and youthful affection again, even if he was tainted by his surroundings.
The door made a tired, hissing sigh, as if in as much inward but ignored protest as Folken himself harbored, and opened. Mercutio entered lightly, and closed the door behind him.
He was a tall, slender, bright addition to the vague gray of Folken's room- a delicate glass of wine. His best features, Folken thought, were his hair and his eyes. He was really careless about his hair, especially for boys as elite as the Dragonslayers. He let it fall over his vision, which was dangerous in Guymelef battle. It reminded Folken painfully of Van's hair, except that it was a deep, rich, brown color, like a purring forest full of bright-eyed, curious wild-life. His eyes were emerald green, jade green (he was, after all, a cynical and jaded boy). They were a nice significant other for his hair. He wore one golden loop earring in each ear, and he had a green tattoo on his right cheek, to match his eyes. It was a swooping spiral symbol, with sharp, blade-like ends. Folken had looked it up one night, to discover its meaning, because something inside wouldn't let him give Mercutio any inkling that he was the least interested in anything about him. The symbol was an ancient Atlantean one that translated to "warrior" or "soldier". Folken liked to think of it as meaning "Dragonslayer", and he supposed that was how Mercutio liked to think of it as well. The topic had never come up during the long talks they sometimes had, though Folken found it coincidental that they both wore earrings and facial tattoos. Mercutio had fallen into the habit of sneaking in to see Folken each night and offer him poetry to read and critique. Folken had fallen into the habit of letting him in and accepting his flirtation like a tiny side-effect.
"Don't you ever sleep?" he asked. Folken made eye contact with a random letter on one of the documents and pretended to be analytical with it.
"Don't the guards ever catch you? I'm an insomniac," he answered the boy gruffly. Mercutio paid no mind to his passive attitude, his attempts at resistance. He seemed to be accustomed to veiled emotions, or he just seemed to know what Folken was thinking no matter how hard he tried to be vague and secluded. Either that or he was just desperately insistent and dependent. Folken didn't believe the latter. The boy was loud, out-spoken, and out-going. Nothing within him needed to be nurtured, only to nurture.
"No one's really an insomniac," Mercutio said, and slinked slyly over to Folken's desk. Folken could smell him, his young, lively, spirited boy scent. His bright, warm, youthful radius hummed around him. Folken closed his eyes, his head turned safely away from Mercutio, and breathed deeply, making his nostrils slowly flare, inhale, elicit. He hoped wistfully, off-handedly, that he could somehow gather some of that aggressive, vibrant boy-life into himself- resurrect something that had been dead for so long that there was no point in even trying to remember what it was. Folken opened his eyes again, slowly, and turned his head just a little, enough that Mercutio could at least see his face.
"People just say that when their sleeping pattern is fucked up."
"I don't think language like that is proper etiquette for someone like you," Folken told him.
"Forgive me, Folken-sama," Mercutio said softly, heart-felt, unlike the almost-mechanical, respectful Forgive-Mes that he gave Dilandau. Folken never knew how to react to words like that. Dilandau would smile smugly at the humility of his followers, but it made Folken uncomfortable, squirmy, like a mouse caught under a cat's paw.
"Do you forgive me?" Mercutio asked him quietly, and propped himself against Folken's desk.
"You don't need my forgiveness, just don't do it again," Folken said flatly.
"I do need your forgiveness," Mercutio said, reaching over to lay his warm, callused hand over the cold flesh of Folken's, "I like to hear you say I've done something good."
"Well," Folken corrected, "And I don't see why my opinion should have any effect on you. I'm not an author, I'm just someone who happens to write and appreciates writing."
"I'm not just talking about writing. But, anyhow, you know what you're talking about with that, even if you don't know what you're talking about when you say you don't want to start a relationship with me. And your opinion matters to me because I'm infatuated with you," Mercutio said matter-of-factly, having no illusions about what he felt for Folken, "Maybe one day I'll even fall in love with you, if you'll stop being such a prude and admit to yourself that you love being with me just as much as I love being with you."
He stroked the back of Folken's flesh hand with one
finger. Folken moved his hand away, but not out of Mercutio's reach. Another of
his subconscious and insecure pleas for affection.
"I've told you that that sort of thing is
inappropriate. I cannot get tangled up in relationship with a
subordinate," Folken said.
"I know it's inappropriate," Mercutio said helplessly, "But is war appropriate anyway?"
"If you feel that way, then you shouldn't be here."
"I've told you why I'm here. My father wants me to be a soldier, not a writer."
"I could dismiss you if you wanted."
"No, I don't want that. My father would be even more pissed, and say that I was miserable at everything I tried. That I disappointed him and our whole family."
Folken narrowed his eyes to tiny garnet slits. Disappointment. Every time he heard the word he wanted to take a metal handful of his own flesh and just tear. Instead, he closed his eyes, balled his mechanical hand into a fist, and opened them.
"And if you dismissed me," Mercutio added tentatively, "it'd be because you were afraid of feeling something for me."
Folken was silent. He lifted a sheet of paper with one mechanical finger, held it between his thumb and forefinger, pretended to be concerned with it. Mercutio watched him think, stared at him, squeezed him in the middle of an invisible palm.
"You're under Dilandau's command, anyhow," Folken said finally.
"Yours too," Mercutio said quietly, and touched the rim of Folken's ear gingerly, "In more ways than one."
Mercutio's slender fingers glided across the side of Folken's face, just under his eye. Folken tensed, braced himself for the sliver of erotica that Mercutio possessed. Even with all his clothes on he was seductive, the slight hint of his sculpted body frame under his lanky vest. His arms were dark, sun-tanned, like Van's. His legs long and lean, sure and light, like a cat's. Soft feather-fingers touched the purple tear tattoo.
"How long have you had this?"
"I can't remember exactly. I was fairly young and in an odd mood."
Mercutio bent his forefinger slightly and brushed it across the tattoo, as if he could actually wipe it away.
"You've been so sad for so long that you're afraid I'll make you happy. You won't know how to handle meaning something to someone."
"I've told you why I refuse to engage in a relationship with a subordinate, and it has nothing to do with my emotions," Folken said blandly. He paused, waited for Mercutio to trap him again.
When the Dragonslayer was silent, Folken added, "I don't see why you don't find any of your soldier-mates, people your own age, worthy of infatuation. I think they'd be better off handling your persistence."
Mercutio smiled, amused, at him.
"I want a real man," he declared boldly, "Not some bloodthirsty blind follower like one of them, Folken-sama, sometimes I don't think they even understand what this war is about."
"And what makes you think you do? What do you think it's about?" Folken asked, not accusingly, not sternly or reprimandingly. He merely liked hearing different stories, seeing the war from different angles.
"Unity!" Mercutio said passionately, "We're fighting to unite everyone under the Empire, and once we're together, we'll be one strong unit," Mercutio clasped his hands together into a combined fist to emphasize his point, "and then we'll resurrect the power of Atlantis, and people will realize how stupid they were to resist."
"I thought you said war was inappropriate."
"I was playing hard-to-catch with you," Mercutio grinned.
A tickle of a smile flickered at the corner of Folken's mouth.
"Was that a smile, Folken-sama?"
"If you'd like to think so."
"I do. I at least like to think I make you happy, even if you won't show it."
Folken said nothing, only closed his eyes slowly and sighed through his nose.
"Mercutio-"
"Do you have time to read some?" Mercutio interrupted knowingly. He held up a few rolls of elegant off-white parchment. Folken had loaned it to him after discovering that all of Mercutio's poetry had been done on stolen napkins from the cafeteria and toilet paper.
"You've got so many so soon?"
Mercutio shrugged.
"I write a lot. There's a lot to write about here."
"Very well. Let's see," Folken said. He leaned back and let his chair support all of his weight, which seemed so heavy this late at night. Mercutio laid the rolls neatly on Folken's desk like an aristocrat from some of the cities Folken went to on political trips proposing Folken's approval of a new document. Folken chose the roll closest to himself. He unrolled it, set the glass paper weight on it so it wouldn't roll up again. Unconsciously, he lifted his mechanical finger to his cheek as he read.
A morning bird sings
of ominous things
As the day draws near
of Fanelia's first tear
"The rhyming is a bit pushed," Folken said, "If it doesn't come all at once, freely and on its own, don't try and force another line to rhyme with it."
"It's not one of my best," Mercutio admitted.
And what will be their primitive fear
is, to us, no more than a foreshadowing drear
"Drear isn't a word," Folken commented, placing one metal finger over the word on the parchment.
"I know, I... sometimes I make them up."
"Some readers and critics enjoy creativity or scattered and erratic thought-flows, but most prefer poetry traditional and grammatically correct. Most new-age, modern writers are turning to original, creative and unheard-of paths."
"I think the newer ways fit my moods better sometimes," Mercutio said.
"Mmm," Folken nodded, and went back to the poem.
My heart, slapped and stunned, will follow into the
sea
Like the call to the slaughter, the battle will lead me
"This last stanza is very good," Folken said, "In the second and third ones, the lines all rhymed, but this last one switches. I don't suppose there's anything wrong with that, however..."
"Here," Mercutio urged, swapping the parchment in Folken's hand for another one, "Read this one."
His face, a soft, delicate, creamy mask
of tears he can't cry by himself
and melancholy
and waltzing ache
Veins and dreamscapes and nightmares and faults
Soaking up regret like a tired, worn sponge
in a porcelain sink of stinging acid
It sinks so deep,
it sinks so slow,
it festers like a blister
brought on by the snow
"This one is extremely good. Creative, and the thoughts are well-distributed," Folken said dryly, mechanically.
"It's about you," Mercutio declared with a sliver of pride.
"Yes, I know," Folken said, "It's rather morbid, even for your style."
Mercutio tilted his head thoughtfully, making his soft, scented hair hang like velvet icicles.
"That's just how I see you, I suppose. And it's not nearly as dark as some of the others, don't you think?"
"It's a rather dreary perception to have of someone you're infatuated with, that's all," Folken said.
"No one said I had to scribble down your name with a bunch of words like 'handsome' and 'mysterious' around it. Besides, our relationship isn't typical anyway."
"We do not have a relationship, Mercutio," Folken said dutifully. He said the name out loud so rarely- saved it on his tongue like and exotic piece of fruit or candy in his pocket.
"My point exactly," Mercutio said simply, "You're lucky I haven't resorted to irresistible methods of seduction."
"Am I?" Folken said dryly.
"Mm," Mercutio nodded, "But I'd like to think it'll be my cryptic and profound mind that eventually wins you over."
"So you see me as a challenge," Folken concluded.
"No, but if you insist on making yourself one, I suppose I'll have to do so," Mercutio retorted sweetly. He loved these talks with Folken. He loved letting his intelligence blossom like a flower that only opened at night.
"It's quite natural for young men of your age and situation to be attracted to older males in authority. Instructors, superiors, and in your case, military strategists."
"I can appreciate a beautiful man, whether he's fifteen or fifty," Mercutio said.
"Fifty. That's a bit steep."
"Then I suppose I'll have to settle for you," Mercutio said, and grinned broadly. "And how old are you? Twenty... seven?"
"Twenty-five," Folken said.
"I'll be sixteen soon. Orange. Twelfth moon. When are you twenty-six?"
"Purple, seventeenth moon."
He wanted to tell Mercutio that Van's birthday had been (still was) on a twelfth moon. White, twelfth moon.
"So... you're only nine years ahead of me," Mercutio said.
Folken picked up another rolled parchment and smoothed it over the previous one.
I sleep like a tiger
coiled up in the wild
chest rising and slumping in dreams of a Child
a plump little Child in tattered rags
in mussy hair
In the deep of the forest, playing with insects
and falling asleep, curled up,
sleeping deep
with dreams of fairies and unicorns and rainbows
And my Alseides sits waiting,
a skeleton,
a transportation for war
a factor,
a tool,
a hate-fueled decor
And my hands wrap round the metal handlebars
in their gloved second skin,
My armor,
my shield,
skin that's a passage to Death
Together, we'll creep,
through the Fanelian forest
through the dreams of fairies and unicorns
and come upon the Child, sleeping coiled up
and we'll pray that his Journey
ends well
Folken stared at it, wondered if Mercutio was trying to hurt him intentionally.
"Something wrong? You haven't said anything about it," Mercutio said. "It's not really supposed to rhyme that much, it's supposed to be a bit tainted."
"No," Folken said, "It's good. Very good."
"I don't actually dream about killing small children, of course. The child was supposed to represent all of Fanelia. The people, anyhow."
"Is this all?" Folken asked.
"Well...," Mercutio said, "I do have more. But those are the ones I write about you late at night, and I doubt it would be appropriate for me to show those to you. Maybe one day, when I don't have to call them fantasies."
"I think it's better they remained that way, and I think you know that."
"No, I quite think you'd enjoy some of the things they suggest."
"I refuse to talk about sexual intercourse with you," Folken said, rolling the parchment up.
"Oh, not all of it is intercourse, per say," Mercutio said quietly, slowly.
He watched Folken roll up the poetry, and stopped him when he reached the one based on himself.
"You keep this one," Mercutio said. "You seemed to like it."
"It's your work," Folken said.
"I have plenty more interesting ones," Mercutio grinned, "and I want you to have this one, because I think I subconsciously wrote it for you. Call it a very late birthday gift. Besides, I won't take it if you try and give it back."
"I can order you to take it, if I wish."
"Take it, Folken-sama. Please?"
Folken sighed.
"Very well."
"Arigatou," Mercutio said, then after a pause, "I think we got that backwards. You're the one who says thank you."
"Arigatou."
"Well, this is when the guards are off in the hangar. I supposed I'll have to go, unless you let me spend the night here."
"Which I do not intend on doing," Folken replied.
"Very well," Mercutio said. He leaned in toward Folken.
"Can I kiss you, Folken-sama?" he whispered, and looked into Folken's passive garnet eyes with his green ones, which seemed to be pulsing with life all their own.
The smell of him sucked in all the other smells in the room and perforated Folken Strategos. Deep, rich, musky, mellow, warm boy-scent lighted on Folken's skin like feathers and sank into his pores, into his veins, like a drug.
Folken stared at him, tried to scan through his thoughts like a machine, and found that his emotions blocked the way.
Mercutio slanted his head slightly and closed the shades
to his eyes, alternate universes containing superior alien life forms.
His lips were so warm and soft that Folken could nearly feel
the contrast to his own cold ones, like ice touching a hot iron and hissing. He
found himself closing his eyes and surrendering to the feeling, letting his
lips cradle the kiss carefully as Mercutio's puckered gently, pushed vigilantly
against his.
It ended far too soon. Mercutio pulled away slowly, letting his lips hang on as long as they could and finally slip away.
He was still close, close enough to kiss, close enough for Folken to reach his human around around him, pull him close, and kiss him again, feel his pulsating warmth again, slip, melt into him like a deep sleep. Folken pressed his palm hard against the cold wooden desk, as if it could somehow chain his wrist there.
Finally, Mercutio pulled completely away. He looked down at the desk, gathered his poetry, and looked at Folken again. Folken looked down, hooding his eyes.
"Goodnight, Folken-sama," Mercutio said softly, and left.
Folken listened to him leave, the door hiss closed, and for a while, sat silent.
He slid one of the documents slowly to one side of his desk, revealing Mercutio's military file. It was opened, Folken had been looking through it before Mercutio arrived.
He ran his human finger lightly across the words. Urai, Mercutio.
"Mercutio," he whispered faintly, letting the
syllables dance like fairies on the back of his tongue, up to the very tip of
it, where they stood on their tiny tip-toes, spread their gossamer wings and
flew out of reach.