No Other Gods
By Kay
Disclaimer: You think I own this? Would anything like this remotely happen in the series? Oh hell no.
Author's Notes: Post!series, David/Christopher SLASH. So better prepare yourselves. One graphic mention of sex. Much love to all of you remaining EW fans! Anyone seen the shiny new prints in the stores recently? They've pushed the numbers together. Wow.
He starts to become more legend than man after the Great Battle at the Foot of Olympus. After victory poisons his blood.
It begins with his presence. A steady pressure, like being out too long under the sun, that weighs between Christopher's shoulder blades if he looks at David for more than two minutes. It's always been difficult to meet David's eyes, but now it's nearly impossible—too ageless, too golden, something hard and perfect and entirely unlike David settling imperiously between his eyelids. He doesn't get tired like he once did, like the rest of the men. Steps quicker, lighter. Lifts Galahad's sword with ease. Makes less mistakes. Consults Jalil less.
Christopher thinks he looks like a fucking psychopath. Like one of them. He smiles, and that unnerves Christopher the most. David's not supposed to smile. He grins with his teeth at the most—when tides turn, when Christopher says something that is actually funny. Not often. When he's proud of something. Most of the time, Christopher considers David their personal little, black rain cloud. A portable storm. He spits out grimaces faster than orders and that's saying something.
This thing, this is not David.
He doesn't ask, though. Can't make himself go through with it. Christopher will always be a coward. Instead, he makes lame jokes to cover his own fear, avoiding the places he might have to see the Davideus that replaced his friend. Ignores the rippling changes. Buries his face in David's shoulder at night when the thing fucks him, slow and deep and wrong, into the mattress. This isn't David. This isn't David, Christopher chants in his mind, because David has never treated him so gently and made him feel this worthless. Made him feel this dirty, like something's crawling over his skin and he can't scratch it away.
"What's wrong?" It murmurs into his neck one night, melting against Christopher's side like it belongs there.
Christopher can't relax. Can't unwind the mess of his bones, all caught up and tense. "Why do you have to do this?" he asks, brokenly. "God damn it."
"Christopher?"
But Christopher just shakes his head, twisting away so the burning wetness on his face won't show.
The End