The darkness seems to sink into his skin, oppressive, just magnifying the empty ache that throbs in his chest. Fayt Leingod, eyes dry, sits back against a rough tree trunk, taking careful note of the sensation, grounding himself. He can feel the rough bark against the white cloth of his sleeveless shirt, the damp grass beneath him. Can barely hear the voices of the others, quieting now that the moon has well risen. It gives him a sense of self, a sense that he is indeed here and now. Things that he had never given thought to before, never worried about, back when life was so much simpler.
But things had changed.
And not, he thought, the ache focusing to an almost-pain, for the better.
I didn't ask for this, for any of this. The silence of the trees around him meets his soundless inquiries. Somewhere in the distance a bird calls out, long and mournful.
With a sigh, Fayt rises from the cold ground, dusting off and arranging his weapons. He should rest. Lately, his dreams have been filled with the faces of the dead, the suffering. The strain is taking its toll on him.
Because of me. They came here because of me.
A curious ache settles in his chest. He feels empty, hollow, each breath only taking more out of him. He knows the others don't notice; they are focused on their fight, on battle, on enemies. They are caught up in their ideals, their intrigue. The plots and counterplots, the constant questioning of what was the right thing to do, about motives and means and…
Sometimes…it's just too much.
Caught up as he is in his own dark thoughts, Fayt fails to notice the man approaching from behind him. It isn't until he feels the warm breath on his exposed neck, a pointed contrast to the cool night air that he turns, knuckles white on his sword, startled.
Albel's amused grin meets his wide gaze. The man is standing, innocent if one like him can ever be called as such, across the clearing. Fayt narrows his eyes, dropping back automatically into the precursor to a defensive crouch.
"I could have killed you," Albel says, almost conversationally, head cocked to the side as if he is examining some curious new object, or assessing a particularly dangerous enemy. "Sometimes I don't know how you do it."
Fayt futilely attempts to calm his racing heart. "Do what?" he finally asks, trying to sound bitter but having it come out as somewhere between childish and…nervous?
"Survive," Albel answers promptly, smug grin swelling. He is the only person Fayt has ever met who could make a smile seem so…threatening.
"Yeah, well," he removes his hand from his weapon, "sometimes I think maybe it'd be better if I didn't."
The smirk on the other man's face twitches, as if it is a sudden struggle to maintain. "And what, exactly, would make you think something like that?" The tone is one of subtle annoyance and even deeper anger.
Fayt sighs and looks up, blue eyes meeting the myriad of stars that gaze back coldly, impassive. It makes him feel…insignificant, vulnerable. Empty.
"It's just that, sometimes I think maybe it's not worth it. The fighting, the struggle. I just…make it worse. And even if I do manage to win, it's not a victory. It was my fault in the first place," he shakes his head, thick hair shadowing deep eyes that are far too jaded, have seen far too much in a too short time.
Albel crosses the moonlight and shadow striped clearing like part of the night, almost flowing, urgent. With the speed of surety, he reaches out his right hand and clasps Fayt's shoulder in a death strong grip, making the pain serve as emphasis for his next words.
"I always knew you were foolish, but never thought you were a fool," Albel hisses, all traces of the former grin gone. "Don't fancy yourself some sort of bringer of malcontent to my world. We were plenty good at making our own suffering, our own death, long before you came. Long before either of us was born." His grim eyes come even closer, until Fayt feels they are boring into his very soul. "We were stagnating in our own turmoil. So, boy, let me make this clear. There is no right, no wrong. There is only power and those too weak to make use of it."
"No," Fayt says softly, thick bangs falling over his eyes.
"What did you say?" Albel asked sharply, demanding.
"I said you're wrong," he repeats, voice coming stronger. Albel has to be wrong, or…he doesn't want to consider the possibilities. "There are innocents. And they are suffering. Because of me," his voice implores the other man to understand, to comprehend the enormity of his guilt, his pain. "What should I do?"
In the far corner of Fayt's mind left undisturbed, a remnant from his more innocent days, a voice questions just what the hell he thinks he is doing. Opening up to Albel the Wicked, of all people. A man who killed without moral twinge, who had not a trace of sympathy to him. Of all the people to ask advice on the right course of action…
But no. Albel might be uncaring, ruthless and damn near a monster to some, but…frighteningly, troubling as it was, some part of Fayt understands this man. And he is nothing if not brutally honest, straightforward. Artifice is beneath his consideration. And that is exactly what Fayt needs at this particular moment in time.
"Don't ask me, idiot. How the hell would I know?" the Airyglyph captain answers sharply, brows knit together in confusion and amusement. At Fayt's abrupt laugh, his face falls into a dangerous scowl. "You can either run from it or face it. There is no in between."
Fayt took a step back, oddly comforted by the answer. Cliff had told him he was easy to read, but then why was it that no one else ever knew what he wanted to hear? No. He still isn't satisfied.
"How can you think that way? See the world like that, in such black and white terms as strong and weak…" Fayt sighs, hearing his own words. The other man must think he is pathetic. Breaking. It doesn't feel like it, but maybe he is.
Since when did he care what Albel thought?
"Things live, and things die," Albel says, answer clear, for once, of all anger or sarcasm. "And everything changes." No condescending tone or arrogant taint to the words. It is, perhaps, the first words Albel has given him meant for meaning alone.
Fayt stands in silence, a mere step away from this once dangerous enemy, and now dangerous…ally? He mulls over the words. Suddenly a thought strikes him.
"What are you doing out here?" The question dissolves onto the silence of the still clearing, hanging in the frigid air. Albel doesn't even react, as if the question is beneath his notice. Fayt feels himself getting angry, the rage rising and filling the emptiness inside him, and he revels in the strange comfort it gives him.
"Why are you helping us? Why did you risk treason charges to let us escape? Why are you out here talking to me?" By the last question his voice has changed tone into something desperate. He doesn't like it.
Fayt glares in anger, but there is something vulnerable in his expression. There is no urge in Albel to respond in insult or anger – he is too intrigued by the fierce emotion that so obviously fuels the boy's desperate need for reassurance.
"I take no pleasure in trouncing weaklings. And if I want to get stronge-"
"Don't feed me that bullshit," Fayt says, abrupt but calmly. For the first time that evening, Albel looks surprised, then pleased. "If you wanted to get stronger you could train, not waste your time with us."
Albel gives him a long, considering look. "At one time I thought there was no more excitement left, nothing more this world had to offer or challenge me with." He takes a step forward, swift as a striking snake. He is taller than Fayt, but barely, though it seems much more this close. Fayt feels the heat from him, but attributes it more to the inevitable contrast with the night chill rather than any inherent properties of the man standing but a few inches in front of him. "I think perhaps I was wrong."
The bird cries again somewhere in the darkness, leaving the silence that follows so much heavier. Fayt can hear his own heartbeat and rough breaths, puffing into small quick clouds in front of his mouth. With the phenomenon of Albel admitting he was wrong, it takes Fayt an few extra moments to get to the shadowed significance behind the words. He feels off balance, lost.
"I said that things change," Albel continues, and Fayt realizes he is even closer, frighteningly close. "Perhaps they have. Maybe just enough for this to happen."
Lost as he is, there is no mistaking the sensation of warm lips on his own. That's right. Things have changed.
And for that, in some distant part of his troubled mind, Fayt is imminently grateful.
His last lines of defense are crumbling, and he is glorying in their fall.
Albel hooks a long finger in the loop at the end of the zipper on his shirt, eyes shifting to meet his own, hunger unmistakable. Fayt suddenly has trouble breathing, all his consideration is taken up by forcing the air in and out of his lungs at a decent pace. He doesn't think he is doing very well.
"You need me," Albel is husking into the clean line of his jaw, "and that makes you mine."
"Well," Fayt pulls back as much as his rising lust will allow and silently congratulates himself on the evenness of his tone. "I've always been a fan of making virtue from necessity."
Albel raises his eyes, heavy lidded and dangerous, from where they were level with the pale white skin of his throat. The look in them is exultant. Exhilarated.
"So much more than I expected," he says, softly but not gently, "and no less than I had hoped."
Fayt wants to say no, wants to turn from this beguiling man with too knowing eyes and too simple, too ruthless view on the world. A view that clashes with his own carefully guarded, innocent ideals. He wants to offer up some sort of token resistance, yet at the same time he realizes this as the hypocrisy it is. He is in a place now where willpower holds no sway. Not when Albel is kissing him with a muted violence borne of pure frustration and an urgency just short of menace.
I...I'm sorry. The thought is quickly swallowed up by the lust-induced haze that is enveloping his mind. He doesn't know who he's apologizing to anyway.
Himself, maybe. Or the person he used to be.
With a hunger that overwhelms any other consideration he growls, leaning into the sensations with a single-minded determination. After so long empty and alone the fire that is filling him is more than welcome, burning away the scars of the last few horrible weeks.
Maybe it's time to let go.
The night is still there, brushing cool, inquisitive fingers over his flushed face, but is ignored in favor of the tendrils of fire that are smoldering in his core, fanned by touches up his belly, down his spine. Albel has gotten his shirt open, and his free hand is roaming unchecked over his skin, tracing the contours of his ribs. Fayt tries, tries so hard not to whimper, but it's a struggle. He won't be able to live with himself if he doesn't play this right.
Swallowing back his heartbeat, he pulls his own hands up from where they were, slack at his sides, and lets himself explore this man that has fought him, captured him. Fascinated him. He discovers that the skin of Albel the Wicked is soft, and warm. The muscles flat and hard. He skims his fingertips down the ridges of sharp abdominals and is rewarded with a renewed attack on his already bruised lips. Encouraged by the sense of himself, of the guilt and pain, slipping away he dares to push his hand under the rim of that tight black shirt. Maybe because of his actions, maybe not, Albel moves down his neck, sucking gently, leaving small bruise-marks in his flesh.
A small part of Fayt tells him to resent this, but he can't. God help him, he can't.
Eyes glazed, his teeth sink deeply enough into his lower lip to draw blood, the pain keeping him centered in the realm of reality, while the violent starbursts of pulsing tension threaten to rip away his very sense of being. Then again, maybe that isn't such a bad idea.
His knees weaken, and he wobbles despite himself, dizzy with the unfamiliar euphoria thrumming in his veins. He is caught in a strong arm, almost protectively. Then immediately shoved against a nearby tree, breathe whooshing out at the impact, making it clear this was no protection being offered.
"Uhhhn," he gasps, an incoherent protest. This isn't going all how he thought it would. Not that he thought it would happen at all.
"Shhhh," Albel says, a seductive whisper against his neck, hands busy stripping away his clothing and sanity. He runs the flat of his tongue over the bruised flesh as an apology, then bites again, lower, near the junction of Fayt's neck and shoulder. The delicate curves there fascinate him, the bones so near the surface, the grace so entirely artless and unpracticed.
"I'm not through playing. This time, you might give me a little sport." The words emerge from Albel's moist lips as a husky, sex-laden whisper.
"What do you want?" Fayt asks, breath coming in hitching gasps, sweat beading on his brow and reflecting the starlight. Albel feels a strange sensation. He has always been vehemently opposed to the idea of a benevolent creator, steeped as he was in violence, choosing the way of strength over that of faith. He allows himself a brief second to marvel at the first evidence he has seen of a higher power, as he is sure nothing could be this beautiful by pure chance.
"You, boy. On your knees, on your back," he answers, leaning forward until his soft exhalations at the words brush over the rim of Fayt's ear. "I want inside."
Fayt looks at him sharply. There is an expression of confusion, surprise. It quickly dissolves into complete longing as Albel drives one hand down the front of his baggy pants, the other tugging just so at the buckle. Fayt leans forward, pushing into the grip, letting out one long groan.
It's somehow almost too perfect, artless and sincere, no poetry, just inexpressible sensation. Thick hair falling into his flushed face, sweat beading, just so, on pale skin. Eyes, heavy lidded. The sullen beauty and complex nature that has first caught his interest as a warrior and then…
That ocean-blue gaze meets his own, eyes that are so pure in determination. In them now is undisguised, unrepentant hunger. His hips are moving in tiny hitching circles against Albel's hand, his arms clutching at him for support. Fayt is bent back onto the cold ground but still half sitting up, wanting to watch whatever is going to be done to him. His shirt is open but still on, and Albel nods in distant approval. The thin fabric should offer him some protection when he finally got around to fucking the boy into the ground.
He pulls a small vial of burn salve from a hidden fold at his side. Preliminaries past, Albel devotes his efforts to preparing Fayt for entry, shifting the position of his hand after he judges they have been sufficiently smeared with the cool gel. He doesn't warm it before he uses it, but he uses. After all, whoever isn't worth killing isn't worth hurting.
Staring into those eyes, he eases in first one finger, to the second knuckle. He is gratified to witness their momentary widening, before Fayt hisses and squeezes his lids together. The dark lashes flutter slightly as he adds a second. He spends more time on this than he thinks he would, because he likes the delicious noises that come from the boy's throat as he scissors his fingers back and forth, back and forth. Fascinating.
"Albel!" The name is a gasping sob fallen from his lips without conscious recognition of its utterance.
Albel doesn't deign to reply verbally. He does it physically, by driving three fingers into the writhing body in front of him, not fast enough to tear, but fast enough to hurt. Fayt gives a protesting grunt, but then Albel bends them slightly, a light press just so…
Fayt screams, sharply into the darkness, his entire body shuddering. He breathes out forcefully as his body slams down onto Albel's hand. It's mind-numbingly gorgeous.
Albel, suddenly impatient when he sees a small, sparkling drop of water forced from the corner of those eyes, now not shut but wide, wide open and watching him so intensely he can't find words, just reaction. He is pleased when he absently notes the look of panic as he removes all three digits and switches position. Those brief seconds without the warmth of Albel's body on top of his own startle Fayt, not to coherency but near enough to let out a demanding sound, not a whine or whimper but not words either.
It is nothing compared to the sound he lets out as he is penetrated, painfully slow. There is something wordless and fervent in his gaze as he stares blankly, past Albel's shoulder and up into the sky. In his passion-twisted mind, he thinks briefly that he really doesn't give a damn if the stars care or not.
This is power, hate and passion, visceral in its force, battering him in a rhythm as old as life itself, this is what matters. This, not anything else, is the here and the now.
"Does it hurt?" Albel asks, more out of curiosity than concern as he pulls out again, one arm bracing himself over Fayt and the other putting half-moon shaped bruises in the hip attached to one of the legs hitched up over his shoulder. It is pleasure and it is agony, combined into one sensation so pure it rises above everything, burns everything else from his mind, scalds him clean.
"Y-Yes…" Fayt answers, with a strange, tense, smile. A smile in which, Albel fancies, he sees a shallow reflection of himself.
A feeling of surreality strikes Fayt. He's on the ground with Albel inside him, feeling the cold grass under him, his legs hitched up and he is smiling, a smile most definitely not like his usual self. Nothing about this is usual.
Usual, no, but it seems real enough – Albel is licking the side of his neck, letting his head fall forward, against Fayt's shoulder. If he had ever given thought to it, he would have expected sex with Albel to be a violent, wild affair of domination. And it had been. Except now, something is changing. Maybe, a victory assured, Albel was now reveling in his win, enjoying his prize.
Fayt, had he been rational at the moment, would have worried at the bolt of pure, undeniable pleasure that thought sent down his spine.
Albel is moving faster now, perhaps because Fayt has been writhing against him, pulling him forward with his legs, urging him with half coherent demands, not pleas. Yet, in a motion too slow to be arousing, a calm counterpoint to activity that had so far been nearly feverish in intensity, Albel is caressing his side, softly with sword-callused hands. And with a jolt Fayt realized he was being…soothed, calmed. Comforted. By Albel.
He isn't sure how he feels about that. At this point of no return, he isn't sure how he feels about much besides the golden sensations currently sparking from their juncture.
His breath is coming fast and shallow, his hands are tangling in Albel's hair. He swallows unevenly and tries to think of the implications of it all, but the only word he can call to mind is more.
The pace changes again, Albel hitching up Fayt's legs higher with a grunt, altering the angle slightly, but with explosive results. Nothing, nothing has ever felt this way. He isn't thinking about his problems, or the others or fighting or his friends or father…he is absorbed, completely, in the sensations Albel is causing in his pleasure-tortured body.
His head falls back, neck arched, body leaning into the pure sensation of it.
It's tornadoes and hail storms and floods and wild whims of nature, elemental and overwhelming and insatiable and there's nothing Fayt can do to stop, nothing that could make him want to stop and he can't breath. He sucks in huge gouts of air, bangs plastered to his flushed face with a layer of perspiration, his back bowed, his hand scrabbling at the arm Albel is using to brace himself. Chunks of grass are pulled up, clenched in mindless fingers. Mud is stuck to Fayt's hands, and as he leans forward, moaning, to pull Albel down for a mind-blowingly intense kiss, streaks of dirt are smeared across pale shoulders. Fayt is caught in the sheer eroticism of it, the friction and the desperation. He shoves back mindlessly, no longer analyzing the feelings rushing through him, just reacting.
Albel inhales sharply, breaking the seal their bruised lips had made. He takes a moment to memorize the sight before him, savoring it. Fayt is a pale contrast to the dark ground, goose bumps unnoticed just as the cold of the night is ignored in favor of the heat between them. His hair is sweaty, thrown in dark ropes over his face. A face tensed in the midst of the pleasure, pleasure that Albel continues, even now, pushing into the man under him like nothing else matters. As far as he's concerned, nothing else does.
"Harder!" Fayt demands, a near snarl as he drives up his own hips with a demanding thrust. Wiry arms cinching around his neck, Albel has no choice but to comply, glorying in the result.
Fayt gives a last, loud cry, his face drawn in lines of agonized ecstasy, his body jolting beneath Albel's as he convulses. Thick white streamers spurt between their locked bodies, striking Fayt's tense stomach like liquid fire, smearing across the sweat-streaked skin of his chest.
As Fayt lies on his back, catching his breath, he notices the clearing no longer smells like empty forest cold, like leaves and dirt and pine needles. Salt, sweat and semen hang heavy in the air, the scent of their fevered coupling.
Fayt lowers a sluggish hand to his belly, twisting his lips when he meets the swiftly cooling mess. Quickly, he uses one corner or Albel's…well, he'd call it a skirt, but never to his face, to wipe it away. The other man notices and scowls, but it is proof of the surrealism of the whole situation that he does nothing but pull away and sit up, almost silently. His breathing is still heavy, and there is a slight rustle as he reclaims and straightens his clothes.
Fayt hauls his sated body up, pleased that the residual pain still gives him some distraction from his thoughts. "What did…" he begins, surprised at the huskiness in his own voice. He hopes the others were far enough away or deep enough asleep to not hear him crying his pleasure into the night.
Albel sighs, tossing Fayt his mud-streaked white shirt roughly.
"You are my prey." He hopes the Fayt will be satisfied with that. Hopes he won't be asked to dig too deep for explanation. "I'm not about to let anyone else have you." In this moment of post-coital affection, shallow as it is, he fears he may be forced to answer his questions.
"Albel…" Fayt begins again, now almost fully clothed. His hair is still mussed, and his face, though quickly returning to normal, is still flushed, a delicate rose colored blush across cheekbones. Obscenely pretty.
"I expect you to know me better than anyone," Albel says, sharply. But there is an undercurrent of admonishment. You should know better. "I suggest you cease your chatter if you don't wish to see the consequences."
Fayt sighs and pulls on his boots. He shouldn't have expected anything else.
"Although…" Albel appears to be struggling with himself, "I will say this. I don't regret any of my actions, least of all this one. That's all you need to know at this point. So shut up."
Fayt is taken by surprise by his own smile, the first time in a long time. He finishes pulling on his boots and stands on weak legs. With a last look at Albel, who, he is convinced, is sporting an even smugger version of his usual smirk, he starts walking, awkwardly, back to camp. And hears the man's quiet steps, neither sure nor steady, but present, behind him.
Maybe, sometimes, things are as simple as that.