Beans (beans@beans-etc.com)
First Addressment
Early evening arrived, dragging the sun tediously across the west and punctuated by the sharp ring of steel. It was uncomfortably humid and Dilandau was irritable and tense. He fidgeted in his seat, watching the waning daylight shine through the large glass windows, illuminating the thin tendrils of dust that swirled up under the paths of a dozen Dragonslayers as they maneuvered their partners back and forth across the sparring room.
It was only approaching the first evening shift change and Dilandau was feeling unaccustomly worn. For a new change he was actually impatiently awaiting the end of afternoon practice and an early retire. He needed a strong drink, and maybe a whore -- if even only for a short hour.
It had been a several days since he'd confronted Miguel and the time had progressed with a quiet, uneasy air that gnawed at him steadily. He didn't know how long he had waited before venturing out of the assembly hall that night after Miguel had fled. For a long while, he had sat hunched back in his chair staring reproachfully at the closed door, unnerved. Something on the other side had scared him into cessation; a radiating tendril of heat that had made him shudder and his cheeks flush.
The next morning he'd watched anxiously as the Dragonslayers had filed into briefing; upon Dilandau's biting threat the prior night, Miguel had not attempted truancy again. Dilandau wasn't sure if the soldier's attendance was settling or not. There was an obvious and alarming shift in Miguel's composure now that put Dilandau on edge and made him weary -- the brunette went about his duties obediently, but he was quiet and sullen, and seemed jittery in his tasks. Dilandau had even once considered confronting Miguel after duty, but words had been unlending to him and he'd been censored by his shaken pride.
Grunting, Dilandau rubbed his temple slowly. He hadn't slept well last evening and had spent the night half awake nursing a dry bottle of vino. His head felt heavy and he tried to keep his focus on the afternoon practice; barking at Dallet for pivoting too slowly, razing on Gatty for dropping his shoulder when he lunged. The exercises seemed tedious today however, and too much weighed on his mind to pay his usual attention to meticulous detail, save the exception of a single body.
His eyes lingered on Miguel, assessing uneasily, appraising the slayer's moves and expression as he was danced through a series of cuts and thrusts; noticing every falter, every hesitation. Even a blind man could have seen the slayer's feigned attention. Miguel was slipping up in such definite ways it was alarming. Earlier in practice he had appeared so hollow that he'd left his left flank wide open, a blatant amateurs mistake that would have killed him had he been in a real fight. The careless fault had sent Dilandau rising from his observation near the back wall and he'd cuffed Miguel hard across the face in a stinging berate that had made the other Dragonslayer's grimace.
Dilandau remembered the feeling of Miguel's head being whipped back under the blow of his hand. He'd struck him harder than he'd actually intended, but as he had watched Miguel cradle his face Dilandau had wanted to strike him again. Hard. Harder, until the heaviness in his head dulled -- but he'd held himself back and only cast Miguel a smoldering look, withdrawn, and the practice had continued.
For the remainder of the afternoon Dilandau remained especially on edge, watching Miguel's progress with criticizing appraise. Expectedly, Shesta clung about the brunette's side like a protective patron and confronted the albino's gaze in a timid plead when he caught his look. Miguel never once met Dilandau's eyes.
The end of the exercise was finally signaled, and there was a familiar heavy air of unified exhaustion as the Dragonslayers mulled about and slowly drifted out of the sparring chamber. Miguel seemed quick out the door, and out of the corner of his eye Dilandau saw Shesta's stare follow the brunette's brisk leave. As the blond slayer hurried to collect his jacket and sword, Dilandau came up silently beside where Shesta was getting to his feet and tapped his finger twice on the flat of the bench in a very clear command that meant "stay here."
Shesta paused and glanced up at Dilandau furtively, biting his lip. He looked fleetingly back towards the exit, then once more back at the captain, and then with a wavering sigh obediently sat down again.
"How long is Miguel going to keep this crap up?"
Dilandau's voice was sharp. Tracing the rim of an empty wine glass from his side table, he stared down the blond slayer standing erect across from him, the chamber empty now save themselves alone. Shesta blinked and wrung his hands at his sides. His mouth opened and closed as he withered under Dilandau's steely gaze, looking abashed.
"I-- I'm not sure I understand what you mean, sir --" he struggled feebly, his voice quavering as he avoided the captain's stare. Dilandau's eyes narrowed.
"Shesta, you screw each other whenever the two of you get an open chance," he accused stingingly, in a tone that implied he was dangerously waning on patience. "Heaven forbid either of you ever make use of a good whore. You scurry around with him all the time so don't bullshit me and tell me you don't know what's going on."
He saw Shesta's face flush and the slayer waver on his feet. Leaning forward in his seat, Dilandau fixed Shesta with a solid resolute gaze, holding him to the spot, and his voice lowered.
". . . Is he finished with this?"
The young Dragonslayer shifted uncomfortably, lowering his blond head.
"Lord Dilandau. . ."
"Do not bullshit me, Shesta. Is he?"
There was a long, drawn out pause. Very slowly, Shesta raised his head. He met Dilandau's eyes firmly in a furtive, pained expression, then his shoulders fell and he spoke in a strained, fluttering voice. "He can't force himself to stop loving you, sir."
"Fuck me. . ." Dilandau hissed. His lip curled back and he buried his face in his hand. "Get out."
He barely heard Shesta's hasty exit. The hair on the back of his neck prickled and he shuddered. Tumbling blue eyes seared him like a hot poker sprung from the dark. Dilandau grit his teeth, his hand curling tightly around the empty wine glass, and then punctuating a tight, enraged exclamation, the goblet erupted into shatters of glass against the wall.
In the far back hidden halls of the Vione, a cold draft hung from the stones and pooled in the corners of the floor. No one ever ventured down these hallways. They were just long, never-ending treks of brick and iron rafters no one ever used and that always carried a chill. Miguel sat completely alone in the empty corridor, hooded in a blanket of shadows and drowning in the cold.
He couldn't move. It hurt too much to try so he didn't, and instead he stayed curled up against the wall, his legs drawn up to his chest and staring at his knees. Dark circles had drawn themselves under his eyes and he looked jadedly pale. He wrapped his arms tighter around his shoulders, trying to shelter and hold onto the warmth that was being sucked dry from himself as his tongue probed gently at the lingering, coppery taste of his own blood in his mouth.
He thought about letting himself die right here. Freeze to death, drown in the cold, alone in this empty corridor.
. . . But he had never given him permission to die -- and everything needed Dilandau Albatou's permission, even death. Death, and speech, and touch were things only allowed if given grant for the privilege.
Dilandau. . .
Miguel had felt the garnet eyes watching him agitatedly through practice earlier. He'd left the sparring hall quickly, and some how tried his best to feel surprised when he'd received the anticipated summon not even a half-hour afterwards. Shesta had cast him a furtive look and bit his lip when he'd past him in the corridor on the way down, and Miguel had drawn out his tread. When he'd finally arrived at the sparring chamber, Dilandau had been waiting for him.
No sooner had the slayer slid inside, the door had barely closed once more and he had fell under the captain's first throw. Writhing on the floor, Miguel had made the abominable mistake of daring to look up and confront the red eyes for a single fleeting second, and with that Dilandau had bared down upon him in an enraged fury and mercilessness; unrestrained and brutal.
Teething his lip, Miguel fingered his swollen black jaw tenderly. Dilandau had never said a single word. Not one. But between the stinging falls of the leather fist he had seen the look in the albino's eyes: licking wide and alive with a smoldering fury and loathing, while veiled agonizingly deep beneath, a pulsing, unrestrained fear -- and when Dilandau was scared or confused, he became violent. The swelling black bruises which laden Miguel's arms and face were nothing but of his own making.
Tendrils of frigid air snaked around Miguel's ankles and his body gave an instinctive shiver. He wondered remotely how long it had been since he'd collapsed in the hallway. It felt like hours . . . days. Shesta would be looking for him now. The blond would coerce him up to the medical wing and then spend the night fussing plaintively over him with tender, gentle kisses and soft strokes. Usually Miguel welcomed the tiny slayer's comfort and coddling, but all he wanted right now was to drown in this horrible cold.
Dilandau. . .
The chill stung at his face, cutting like a razor, and Miguel winced. It was ironic, really. It seemed somehow severely unjust but fitting that such feelings that welled inside him in this cold had also been the prelude to his fancies that lay tangled and bleeding now somewhere up in the dark assembly hall. That such a horrible, wrenching emotion spurred his thoughts back to his first encounter with Dilandau Albatou: standing in long queue in dim lamp-shaded lights of the chamber before the young lord, tentative and entrapped, freshly christened with praise and rank, and awaiting inspection by the steely red stare. Dilandau had touched the side of the brunette's arm as he'd past behind the line and a jolt had run through Miguel's limb as if it had been pierced by cold, sparkling metallic shards. He'd caught a breath in his throat and closed his eyes, and for a split second sparks of red and silver had exploded behind his lids unlike anything he had ever experienced.
Never before had he yearned for something so passionately, craving in return of his life for just one touch; a single brush of contact; a momentary glimpse. It swelled Miguel with an emotion so intense and wanton that it brought him to his knees in sparse of breath -- but such elation was not without strings. He knew the risks he taunted with his affection, of course he did, and it was enough threat to force him to hide it as much as he was able to; leaving his haunts and unsatisfied reveries to kiss his thoughts only and turn him in bed alone at night.
Watch but no touch. Crave but never take. Fundamental rules of his own survival that Miguel had learned early and had worn grooves into long since.
Touch. He remembered the first time he had ever dared to touch without sanction. Still fresh from recruitment, Miguel had once observed secretly Dilandau spar with Gatty late in the afternoon. Afterwards, the silver-haired soldier had removed his jacket in the heat and slung it over the arm of the throne. When the captain and his second had left the room, Miguel had fingered the wear furtively, cautiously, constantly looking nervously over his shoulder like a scared hare; and then in a rush of giddy thrill he'd buried his face in the soft leather and titillating scent, his senses flooding with the stolen privilege. It had amazed him that something so bloodstained could smell so clean, and pure, and chaste.
Dilandau Albatou. . .
Nothing made him feel like it did when he watched him. Miguel had made a cautious, carefully practiced habit of settling outside the entrance of the sparring chamber late at night, just beyond the corner, to watch the captain train alone. He never felt so thrillingly warm and cold at the same time as when he'd sit there enthralled in Dilandau's dance. The absolute perfection if it: the crisp, smooth thrusts; clean, fiercely timed precision; drowning in the single thin bead of sweat that would glisten on the back of the white neck in the heat and exuberance of the captain's exercise -- until Shesta would be on his arm pulling him gently away.
The blond slayer was the constant voice of concern to his affection, always brushing him with timid, anxious tones of the jeopardy that came with Miguel's devotion to their lord. It was easy for him to scoff -- Shesta never looked at anyone. He could be surrounded by the alluring lull of a score of other men in the bunks or the showers and he would keep his eyes averted down and decent. But when Miguel would undress, in their times alone together, Shesta's eyes would trail his movements and the sways of his figure as if the blond slayer had never seen Miguel so intimately close and private. Miguel appreciated the comfort and attention.
But Shesta didn't understand. He could never know what it was like to feel this much pain. It tore Miguel apart from the inside to long for everything he ever wanted at such a distance. To be so close to something he could never have, and to desire absolutely nothing more than a mere touch of that world of exquisite crystal glass. To kiss his tears; to taste his sweat; to move in smooth, perfect time with the alabaster skin pressed up against him. . .
It was a magnificently cruel, mocking reverie he couldn't bare to settle, and it burned him hollow.
Because like all other privileges in the world, love needed Dilandau's permission as well. Terms of endearment didn't sit well with the captain. He was uncommon to accept it and even more rare to voice it, and when he dared to it was dutifully undertoned. Affection was something to be earned through hard work and practiced skill, and then still he would demand more -- Dilandau took your best and critiqued it, berate it, and punished it. Never praised. But that was his way. He was harsh with them to drive them to be stronger.
Watch but no touch; crave but never take. Fundamental rules. Don't give enough and you were punished; give too much and you were punished worse. Cross the line and you wound up dead. Miguel should have been dead. He wished he was, because this was so cold. . .
Lord Dilandau.
In the corners of the empty corridor, the shadows bled into one another, so black and deep that a person could lose themselves forever. Alone, Miguel hugged his legs tight against him as unshed emotion stung his eyes. Fresh bruises blistered, blackened, and swelled. He could still taste the blood in his mouth. Somewhere faraway in the dark and cold echoed the sound of sparkling crystal glass being shattered to pieces over and over again, and Miguel buried his head in his knees.
You always hurt the ones you love. . .
There were few who were completely aware of the some of the subtle leisure pleasures that the rewarded of Zaibach were privileged with, and very few knew at all of the small secluded addition of the Vione tucked in the back corner of the vast fortress. It could have been compared indecently to a crude city pub, although a critical eye could have called it some less.
Nevertheless, it was a small reward the fortress had been blessed with, cuddled in the restricted upper halls from the majority, where the cold liquor was stored for the sparse celebrations when the commanders had a good day. It was opened to commissioned officers only, early in the morning and late at night following each shift rotation. Command insisted it was there solely for diplomatic forums and delegates that came aboard, but Dilandau figured they just wanted a place where they could find a good drink like every other warm-blooded man.
It was a long room with soft lights and a high counter running its length; meticulously clean, but still it always smelled like booze, dirt, and smoke. There was one other patron when Dilandau stalked in, an older lieutenant with his face down on a table and a bottle of a dirty colored liquor clenched possessively in his fist. When he looked up sluggishly and noticed the new arrival, he half fell from his chair then grabbed his drink and tottered out in a clumsy haste.
Dilandau crossed the room and slid onto a stool at the bar, muttering a curt order for something tall and dry. The tenant, an aged man with gray hair, cast a somewhat nervous sidelong glance at his customer, his eyes flitting up the armored uniform to the jeweled diadem upon the brow. Dilandau slid a hand of several bronze coins across the counter.
The captain was there regularly and the wisped-haired old man knew his place well enough. Avoiding Dilandau's garnet stare, he glanced fleetingly down along the other side of the counter.
"Your money is no good here, m'lord. . ." he muttered under his breath, but Dilandau had already repocketed the coins. On occasion, some of the rewarded enforced their own privileges.
The barkeep hastily rubbed down a fresh glass with the tail of his apron and filled it until it foamed. He slid the drink across the bar top to the awaiting soldier and then quickly began to try to look busy wiping down the back counter.
Dilandau drank back half the glass and then without looking up, extended a hand and beckoned soundlessly. He withdrew without a thanks as the shape of hastily rolled cigarette was obediently thrust into his fingers from behind the counter, and a match was struck and offered to the end of the butt.
Dilandau leaned over the top of the bar with the cigarette to his lips and dragged deep, tracing the rim of his mug with the tips of his gloved fingers. He didn't smoke of habit. It was a hypocrisy he had beaten out of half his men upon recruitment and it made his mouth taste like smoke and ash, but occasionally he found that the tobacco managed to do what the liquor couldn't; and what with no potential for bloodshed close at hand, it was sometimes all he could resort to to take his mind off troubling things.
The nicotine tainted smoke curled up around his head. Dilandau maneuvered the roll around in his fingers, tapping the ashes onto a used saucer beside him, while his other hand moved up and began tediously stroking the long scar that marred his right cheek in a restless, newly accustomed habit. He stared glassily down at his drink.
When had this happened?
Down in the shower. That's where this mess had begun, among the warm water and veils of silver steam. Or after? Afterwards, up in the assembly chamber pressing Miguel up to the wall, spurning threats against that illicit stare -- No. Before that. So long before that. It had built and built and built. . .
Dilandau blinked hard and shook his head briskly, irritably pushing silver strands back from his face. He took another long drink and a deep drag, rolling the knots that had crept surreptitiously along his shoulders. This was too much right now. Too much all at once. First the god damn Dragon had fled from Asturia and Dilandau was getting restless; and now the general had ordered the conquest of Freid and they were mobilizing too slow than Dilandau felt comfortable with. He had precious little time for Miguel's revolting antics. This had to stop.
'He can't force himself to stop loving you, sir.'
Dilandau's mouth felt dry and he narrowed his eyes, leaning over the bar with the rim of his glass touching his lips. He flexed his fingers where encased under soft leather, the knuckles were sore and bruised from repeated assaults against flesh and bone earlier that evening. Calluses from his frustration.
Trying to beat it out with force hadn't worked; trying to intimidate it into recession hadn't worked. Nothing could smother that look from those blue eyes. It unnerved him.
Everything had been so damn easy before. Dilandau would give anything to have remained blind to Miguel's fixation. It still made him shudder when he remembered the feeling of the slayer's hand around his wrist the first time, the ardent warmth that had flashed in his look. Dilandau hated to think about how long Miguel had been harboring those muses prior.
That's not to say Dilandau hadn't known the other soldier's partiality to gender. He'd always been aware of Miguel's preference long before he had realized the brunette's infatuation towards him. Both Miguel and Shesta -- the captain knew too well about the clandestine nights they lived off of in each other's beds behind the backs of the rest of the ship. He found it hard not to at times. They were so drunk in each other's bodies that sometimes they'd forget themselves to an extent that Dilandau would catch them whispering coquettishly in the middle of an open hall, passing intimate caresses, carrying on as inconspicuous as two melefs in a cropped pasture.
He hated finding himself so often playing chaperone at such times to cover for their careless need to indulge themselves. Once to his horror, he'd accidentally come across the two of them going at it in the empty assembly chamber one evening. In panic, he'd slammed and bolted the door from the prying eyes and wagging tongues of late night watches, and after the two slayers had frantically decencied themselves Dilandau had descended upon them in a exasperated rage and beaten them furiously for being so bold. They had both endured the punishment with commendable dignity for being caught under such circumstances as they had, although Shesta had gone white at Dilandau's frenzied threats of a court martial. Miguel had only reddened and avoided his stare.
However, despite the captain's hissing threats and rebuke, the two soldiers carried on in their affair without missing a beat -- forcing Dilandau to incessantly find himself keeping the damn mess under wraps, while at the same time desperately attempting to keep such necessary intervenes as few and far between as he could possibly manage. Yet still, it was always a constant nag at the back of his mind. This torrid love affair they shared was too dangerous a liaison to be screwing around the damn Vione -- Miguel and Shesta could both receive confinement or even dismissal if higher command ever found out they were queers.
That alone was only one of the reasons Dilandau continued to purposely neglect reporting the two Dragonslayers' offenses -- he feared their forced separation from the team, but more so Dilandau harbored the fear that Miguel's dutiful affection might not be kept in check any longer if he was removed from his only source of alleviation. He imagined the only reason Miguel had remained reasonably well-behaved all this time, tolerable at least, was because Shesta was there to distract him.
. . . But now Shesta was losing Miguel's attention, and that attention was taunting fire. Dilandau didn't know how to bridle it anymore.
The lights around him seemed to dim, deepening the shadows that clung along the walls in a cool, comforting blanket. Dilandau's drink had dwindled to the far bottom of his glass and his gulps had become small sips with his lips fluttering along the rim. The foul taste of ash lined his mouth from the smoldering cigarette. He didn't feel very well.
Miguel and his little toy. . .
The corner of his eye twitched and the captain wrinkled his nose. It made his skin crawl when he thought about the revolting little trysts they had in the corners of the corridors and the shadows of the back rooms.
The little boy's getting bored of his toy. Like a child with his face pressed up to the window glass, day after day, engrossed with the new sparkling and gleaming something he can't have. To touch it. Just to play with it once.
Dilandau brushed his fingers down his face, pulling at his marred cheek and teething the fine leather covering his wrist. With a tired motion, he dropped his hand and ran a finger absently along the top of the bar in a critical inspection for dirt or tarnish. His glove came off clean, as it always should.
His garnet eyes narrowed and he rubbed his finger against his thumb.
That there was no alternative in war was a scoff; the pitiful claim that you had to take what you could, when it came and from whoever offered it -- was a sick, fabled mock. Dilandau wasn't a dog and he refused to scrounge. The Empire highly regarded its esteemed and were usually good to provide the necessary solace on call, but when they didn't there were always other ways to get around. Pretty golden skin and rolling curves spent the days cooking in the kitchens and scrubbing the dirt in the halls. There was no sparseness when you knew what you wanted.
If you were discreet; if you were subtle; and if you let them believe that consent was even an element, you could take what you needed, when you wanted. If you played nicely and with a moderate amount of amiable compassion, sometimes the comfort would even be readily offered the next time; which made things easier, far more quiet, and settled the fear of a marshal ever getting involved. It was all an easy routine he'd fallen quickly into a long time ago. The alternative repulsed him.
The captain shuddered slightly, and glowing cigarette embers tumbled onto the bar top. He brushed them away with a hollow flick of his hand.
When it all came down to it, Shesta and Miguel could screw around as much as they wanted. They could fuck each other senseless for all he cared and Dilandau would keep his mouth shut, as long as he wasn't pulled into it . . . but now he was further in this mess then he had ever wanted. All thanks to that frigging look and insatiable heat in Miguel's eyes.
Dilandau glanced down. His hand was trembling and the cigarette balanced between his fingers shook unsteadily. He sneered in spite of himself.
Damn you, Lavariel.
From behind the bar, the gray-haired tenant spoke up with gentle wariness. "M'lord, sir, can't help noticin' your restlessness tonight," There was a careful pause. "An early retire an' you might sleep it off, if I may offer my humble advice, sir."
Dilandau shot him a deadly look, his lip curling back. "Did I imply for you to advise anything?"
No answer.
"Then shut up."
The man didn't say anything else and Dilandau lowered his head again. For a long moment he just stared down into his glass watching as the small remaining bit of liquor sloshed around the bottom of the mug. Several minutes past, then Dilandau dragged a hand back through his hair and shook his head. He snuffed out what was left of the smoldering roll in the saucer and pushed away his drink, the glass leaving a distinct water ring on the polished counter top. Rising from his stool, Dilandau turned and walked out of the room and away from the soft lights, his steps brisk and stiff, burdened with a long agonized, final resolve.
Because when all was said and done, he didn't think he had a choice anymore.
