As Djura breaks away, lips wet and tasting of copper, he doesn't want to look at Gascoigne. Afraid to see what expression is now in Gascoigne's ruined eyes and ashamed at the way he's stiffening against Gascoigne's hip when he shifts to kneel over him. All in all, it's quite a clever trick his body is performing: simultaneously desperate to be touched and also filled with the need to immediately get up and flee.

The filigreed censer around the father's neck swings through his view and he lets his gaze follow it for a moment instead; the way it catches glints of the orange sunset light. How long, he wonders, before those long silver chains and baubles full of church incense become uncomfortable and then impossible to wear? Soon, surely. Djura frowns at the pendant and thins his mouth as he waits for Gascoigne to snatch him up and take what he wants.

But Gascoigne just chuckles at the stubborn avoidance and reaches out to thumb over his lip. "Hah ha. Don't tell me I disgust you now? Djura, Great Protector of Beasts, finally has one in his lap and he can't bear to look at it. I can't understand it." Gascoigne's knee slides further up Djura's thigh to rest right against the junction of his legs. Djura freezes. It's unpleasant and wrong and it sends a harsh jolt of pleasure shooting through his cock anyway. He's trying so hard to stay aloof but, oh, it isn't working.

"It's different," Djura says, not appreciating the unsteady shake in his voice.

"Is it? I don't see how." Gascoigne tugs his eye wraps back down and it's something of a relief, the frightening gaze being hidden away again. But there's still the slightly elongated face, lips that spread a bit too wide when they open. The powerful, clawed hand now tracing over his own much smaller shoulder and arm. And the sharp teeth that used to be blunt and human. Bad enough as they are but very capable of getting worse.

Damnit, it is different. Gascoigne knows why, he's just being intentionally difficult for the sake of it. Very typical of him. At least that hasn't changed, he thinks ruefully. Djura's chest gives a little twinge and he sighs softly.

...I could just give in.

Try to ignore all the little anomalies and just fall right back to the old roles. It could be easy. Eas ier .

Djura looks up, eyes meeting the criss-cross of gauze, flitting over the strong nose and severe lips to the pale beard and hair he used to cheerfully run his hands through. It's still there, he realizes. That little spark of love he held for the father. Maybe Gascoigne had been right. Maybe it was a weakness. Whatever happens is going to hurt the both of them but it's going to get done anyway.

His hands rise, sliding against rough cheeks and bring the father down to kiss him as gently and warmly as he can. Gascoigne breathes against him in surprise and yields to Djura when he presses in deeper. The smell of Gascoigne's clothes and skin is all around him, Gascoigne's leg drags harder against him, and the hand around his arm squeezes with a firm, reassuring pressure. The ache in his heart deepens a little at how familiar and nice it is.

"There," Djura says a little breathlessly, hands still holding Gascoigne's face and his fingertips resting in his hair. "Are you happy?"

Gascoigne smiles a little. "No," he says. It doesn't really sound like he's talking about only now. "But thank you." The smile gradually fades from sad to flinty, and Djura releases his hold, aware the moment has passed. He sighs and gestures vaguely to the ladder down.

"Do you want me to invite you in?"

"If you would be so kind."

Djura smiles a little despite the tense atmosphere. There's the sarcastic politeness. "After you, then."

Gascoigne stands and brushes the dust from his knees. Djura reaches out so Gascoigne's huge paw can engulf his hand and then they're both descending to enter his own small quarters within the tower.

As soon as the door closes, he's crushed against it, hands up to try to push back and gain some space but Gascoigne is far too heavy. Too heavy with one hand running up under Djura's jacket and teeth on the back of his neck. He wants to be angry at the way Gascoigne handles him so easily, but the anger won't come. Just the need pounding in his head and that bothersome sentimental yearning. Then the hand is falling to unlace his pants and it's on and around him, urgent and rough. Djura moans and curls his fists against the unyielding door.

"Just like old times, hey, hunter?" Gascoigne's tongue twists obscenely over the bump of bone at the base of Djura's neck and he shudders at both sensations. He doesn't much want to answer, rather close his eyes and concentrate on each sensation as it comes to him, but he knows one is expected.

"Things…damnit," he groans as a thumb flickers over the slick head of his cock and rubs lazy circles there. "Things will never be… the way they were." But even as he says the words he knows it's a lie. Even if the situation isn't exact, the rest is a damned close replication. This position they're in was a favorite, the sounds of both their panted breathing a familiar harmony, and the nerves of each little precise spot Gascoigne knows how and how hard to touch are singing with pleasure.

Gascoigne just sighs into Djura's shoulder as the smaller man thrusts into the tight loop of fist around him. "Djura, you've gotten more melancholy over the years, I have to say."

"This city wears on you."

That was, perhaps, the wrong thing to say to the wrong person. Gascoigne tightens behind him and the hand that isn't still roughly jerking him slinks around his neck and clamps down. It's meant to be a show of anger or a threat, he's sure, but all it does is excite him and he hums quietly.

"I know it does," he growls into Djura's ear. "It's been breaking me apart for months. And you knew. You could tell when it started on me, you filth." The hand tilts his head to the side and Gascoigne bites down on his shoulder. He can feel the pressure threatening to break his skin, even through his thick jacket and cries out softly, not entirely from the pain. "Maybe I needed your help most of all, Djura, did you ever think of that?" The huge body is burning with heat, he can feel it through both of their layers of clothing and in the hand holding his face captive. "Did you?"

He… had thought of it. But had also thought it presumptuous to believe he could have affected the change in any positive way. Rude to place himself alongside Viola or his daughters or fierce, loyal Henryk. His cowardice had played no small part in it either. The changes frightened him, and he hadn't wanted to watch. He regrets it sorely and nods his head, admitting it.

The hand squeezes him tighter and he edges closer, skin nearly as hot as Gascoigne's and he curses softly against the door, "Oh, you fucking bastard."

"Did you run here to hide as fast as you could when you noticed the change? To lord over these wretches instead of helping your friend?"

The pressure is unbearable and it's only a few more ragged breaths before he's coming and moans "I'm sorry!", everything white-hot and shaking.

Gascoigne strokes him through it, wrenching every last little shake and twitch out of him and crooning against his neck. "I know you are. Sweet little Djura. Let's see how sorry."

And he's lifted up and flung face-down onto his thin mattress. True to tradition, it's fast and ugly. Djura, still in a post-orgasmic daze, feels his pants being yanked down and his coat being rucked up and then impatiently torn off. There's no prep either, also standard. Just a quick swipe of tongue against palm, palm to cock, and then he's shoving into Djura's much smaller body. The difference this time is there's no accompanying blood vial to heal the agonizing stinging throb in his ass. He tears in a breath and tries to wriggle away but that only makes it hurt more.

Gascoigne taps a cool glass vial against Djura's bare thigh. Doesn't inject it, just lets him know it's there. He rocks against him and the pain doubles, blearing his eyes with tears and making his breaths sound like sobs.

"Fuck," he says, voice robbed of any volume. Don't cry. "Fuck!" Gascoigne settles all the way in, the weight of him pressing over his back. Was he always this heavy? "I'm sorry! I'm fucking sorry, damn you!" Gascoigne makes to draw out and his breath is hot and raspy. Djura knows he's going to slam back in. "Cillian, please!" he begs, one tear finally spilling over. "Don't, please." It's just a whisper.

A sharp pinch in the upper part of his thigh and relief blossoms outward, making Gascoigne's over-sized intrusion bearable and making the faint throb in his cracked nose and split lip finally fade away.

Gascoigne's huge hand crushes his face against the bed as he rides him. "Good," he says. His voice hasn't lost that rasp, and Djura suddenly doesn't really want to look at him. "I don't blame you for it. I just wish you'd been around."

He wishes he had been too. However afraid he had been, it would have been many times worse for the man it was happening to.

The other hand trails down Djura's back and closes around his hip, the nails sharp sharp. Then there's a hoarse, growling breath through a clenched jaw that gets louder as it goes on. Gascoigne's hands are both clenching tight; tight enough for Djura to know he's going to have dark, shadowy hand-prints adorning his side and back later and to feel his bones start to squeeze together.

It hurts and he's back to feeling that whistly, distant fear, but his traitorous body is lapping up each offense and making him stiffen again. The breathing has fallen into actual growls by now, and Djura mutters, "Gods, control yourself."

Gascoigne laughs and Djura's fear tightens down. He was right, it's sounding less and less human. He'd expected it, but it still managed to be a nasty shock.

"Hah haaahhh, how do you think I've kept it together for so long?"

Except for when you don't , Djura thinks pointedly.

"I should have gone over weeks ago, it's long past time for me," Gascoigne says as he grunts against him. But the hands relax a fraction and the howling breaths quiet as his pace stutters. Gascoigne drives in as deep as he possibly can, rocking Djura with each movement. A few more shaky thrusts and he can feel the hot liquid spilling into him and being forced out as Gascoigne groans and shoves hard one final time.

Mild disgust is what Djura feels, paired with satisfaction and some feeble sort of relief. Not really regret though. Gascoigne wrenches free and lets him collapse onto his side, neither giving the mess a second thought.

Then his curiosity wins out and he rolls onto his back to sit up and look at the hulking man standing by his bed readjusting his clothes. It's not as bad as he thought, hair looking a little wild and mouth stretched a bit, nails a tetch longer, and… oh. His legs have a strange curve to them, as if the bones have been slowly melting and rearranging. He can't see so well for the loose pants covering them, but it's definitely something different. Regret does surge up then. If this was caused by what they did… hell.

Gascoigne notices where his eye's gone and makes a face, impatience and amusement. "It was bound to happen," he says with a shrug and a long lick of his tongue over his teeth. "I told you it's past time." Then he's walking closer on those bizarrely-articulated legs and sinking to his knees in front of Djura with a heavy sigh. "It doesn't stay like this, if you're worried. You look concerned. It goes and comes back."

Djura touches his face, tracing the edges of Gascoigne's lips and jerks a little when his tongue pokes out to swipe across the pad of his finger. "Does it hurt when it happens?"

The father smiles, far too many teeth showing. "Yes, very much."

Djura realizes he's still in a bit of a state of dishabille and just how close Gascoigne's face is to him. His hands part Djura's thighs and he sucks him into one last release for the night, sweet and soft.

Everything's cleaned up and clothes are back on, those that haven't been ripped to shreds at any rate. Djura looks around the room with a terse glance; it seems back to normal. The smell of them would be gone in an hour or so, but he still had to sleep here. He stared down at the bed. The memory would last a lot longer than the smell. Tch.

Gascoigne turns back to him before he leaves, his face sad again. Neither of them are big conversationalists, and goodbyes have always been curt and unembellished. He puts a hand out to Djura's face and eases it under the wide swath of fabric covering his bad eye. It's pushed back and Gascoigne leans down to press a kiss there on the outside corner; Djura smiles faintly and presses his hand against where Gascoigne is holding his face.

"There's another hunt on soon, Djura, I can feel it. No need to tell you, of all people, what that means. So I'll just say 'Fare thee well' and we'll hope for the best."

Djura nods and lets his hand slip away as Gascoigne tugs his gauze back into place. "Fare thee also well, Father. And if there's no best to be had, perhaps we'll meet again when the hunt is over." Maybe they haven't forgiven each other, but at this point it doesn't really matter that much.

Then Gascoigne is gone. And he's right, as he usually is. Infuriating man. They don't meet again in this turn of life. The next flicker of movement Djura catches with the eye that can still see worth a damn is no more than a large shadow. Down by the great double doors leading back up to the Cathedral Ward; there and then whispering away to vanish as he turns his attention to it.

And this time it is his death.


Cillian is an Anglicized Irish name that means 'little church' or 'of the church'. Seemed fitting.
The sad, cyclic ending also seemed fitting. Stop being so depressing, BB.