The Ultimate EngPort Blog

It was dark inside the bar, especially after he pulled the door closed behind him. Uncaring about the noise he was making, Arthur rummaged through the shelves, taking a random bottle of something he hoped was strong enough to dull the pain. 

He settled down on the floor, swallowing several mouthfuls of his most recent find–rum, a part of him noted, something cheap and awful from the lowest shelf. He could do better, but the thought of getting up so soon was not pleasing. Instead, he took another swig, waiting for the inevitable. 

It did not take long. He was never one to dally. 

“How’d you get in here, Arthur?” 

Arthur groaned and squinted at the sudden light flooding the room. Afonso stood by the light switch. He was in his nightclothes, a bat held loosely in his hand. His hair was loose and in disarray, obviously woken from sleep. Like this, the head of district 351 looked vulnerable. 

Arthur wasn’t sure why he had come to Afonso’s bar of all places. Afonso was all but retired, preferring to keep his bar and his district as neutral ground these days. It was perhaps unfair of Arthur to keep bringing him back into the thick of it, but there was no one else he trusted more. 

From where he was sitting on the floor by the bar, Arthur grinned, teeth stained bloody, and he must look a frightful mess from the way Afonso winced. “Your door was open.” 

Afonso sighed and placed the bat down on one of the tables. “It was locked.” 

Arthur shrugged and winced when it pulled on his injuries. “You need a better lock.” 

Afonso crouched before him with a frown. With gentle hands, he tilted Arthur’s face towards the light, revealing bruises and a split lip. “What happened to you?” 

“Ran into trouble,” Arthur said flippantly. 

“So nothing unusual, hm?” Afonso said with a huff, but the pinched look on his face betrayed his worry. “Can you walk? I’d rather do this upstairs than here where anyone can walk in.” 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Arthur said as he struggled to his feet with Afonso’s help. Afonso steadied him with an arm around his waist, supporting part of his weight.

“That’s what you always say,” Afonso replied with a long-suffering sigh. “Aren’t you supposed to have guards to prevent this from happening?” 

Arthur grimaced as they entered Afonso’s flat located right above his bar. He didn’t want to admit that he’d made a habit of dodging his own guards, too annoyed at the ever increasing constraints on him as District 44 rose in prominence. 

“Your recklessness will kill you one day,” Afonso warned even as he urged Arthur to sit, rummaging in his bathroom for his first aid kit. Arthur couldn’t help but feel like a misbehaving child as Afonso took care of his injuries with deft, practiced hands. After he was done, his touch lingered, hesitant as he traced the bruises on Arthur’s neck. “I wish you’d be more careful.” 

Arthur laughed, disregarding how it hurt when he did. “You were even worse back then.” 

The plastic box in Afonso’s hands was shut with a resounding click. At the same time, the look of irritation on Afonso’s face cleared, and he gave Arthur a smile. “Stay for a while,” he said, glancing at the windows, perhaps wary of Arthur’s enemies following him here. “Tea?” 

“Please,” Arthur said. He followed Afonso to the kitchen, shedding his leather jacket onto the couch. He watched Afonso move around the kitchen as he put the kettle on and laid two mugs on the counter. Arthur leaned on the kitchen bar, lacing his fingers on its smooth surface. “I wasn’t looking for trouble, you know.” 

There was just silence for a while until Afonso placed the mug of steaming hot tea in front of Arthur. “I know,” he said. He reached out, his hand hovering over the patch of gauze on Arthur’s cheek without touching. Before he could retract his hand, Arthur took hold of it, pressing it onto his cheek. Afonso sighed. “I’m glad you came to me.” 

Arthur grinned. “So am I.” 

“Good,” Afonso said. “I do, however, have to get ready to open the bar.” 

 “Ah,” Arthur looked away in embarrassment. “I suppose I did make quite a mess there, didn’t I?” 

“And you owe me a bottle of rum,” Afonso replied as he headed for his bedroom. 

Arthur found himself wandering around the flat waiting for Afonso to finish. He sat on the couch, watching the rain fall outside, absolutely pleased that he was able to get himself inside before the downpour got as bad as it was. 

“Arthur,” Afonso called out as he left his bedroom in his customary suit. His tie was still left unclipped as he braided his hair quickly. “You’ll still be here when I return, won’t you?” 

“Will you worry if I’m not?” Arthur teased. When Afonso only gave him an unimpressed stare, he sighed. “I will. I told you, I’m not looking for trouble.” Besides, it has been a while since he’s spent some time with Afonso. It was a pity it took this kind of incident, this kind of excuse, for him to come here, but he was hardly going to cut their time short.  

Afonso smiled, and he leaned forward to press a kiss onto Arthur’s forehead. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised. “Get some rest, won’t you?” 

Arthur smirked at him, holding tightly onto the warm mug in his hand. “If you insist, love.”

+ a little something for the Superhero and Supervillain theme too LMAO

The solid oak desk hoisted Arthur's body high above the floorboards, his stance casual in a manner no one beside João would ever see. His legs outstretched. Hands gripping quill, gliding over paper.

"I think this is the one," Arthur exaggerated his completing mark. The scratch of the pen accentuating his excitement.

Candlelight danced over his body as he moved, struggling to coat him. It reached, and reached, but the darkness of the night had doused Arthur plenty. Selfish and persistent. Winning the war over his lover's body. Arthur like the moon in eclipse.

From across the room, João scoffed, "You say that every time."

João, too, was enveloped in his own darkness. The cool linens of their bed covering his skin. The shadows of their room blocking Arthur's peering eyes.

"This time I'm certain," Arthur replied, his gaze intense. He was certain about much as of late.

João lazily rolled in his sheath, like a cat in sunlight. "Forgive me if I need convincing," he droned. Spent, and far too tired to not have his lover within arms reach.

"Convincing I can do."

João groaned into his arm, "I will need a performance."

"But of course," Arthur was ever dutiful with his poetry, "It's only right."

João lifted his head, though he was sure Arthur could not see. "I will need a performance," João repeated, "Tomorrow. Come to bed, Amor."

João watched Arthur with lidded eyes.

He watched him furrow his brows and bite his cheek. Tilt his head and tap his foot against the floor. And then finally, decide to give into João's request.

Tucking his quill into the pages — so as to not lose his artwork later, João was sure — Arthur placed his notebook onto his desk. He then straightened. And blew out the candle. And the room plunged into complete darkness.

"Can you see?" João asked, his smile evident purely through his tone.

Arthur sighed, "Keep talking."

"So demanding."

A clatter came from the direction of the desk. Combined with a quiet noise of surprise from Arthur. João laughed, "Are you alright?"

He heard his lover grumble. Moving the object from his path, it creaking against the wooden floorboards. "I hit the chair," Arthur announced, his feet padding over towards João once again.

"Poor thing," João extended an arm out as far as he could from his leisurely spot between their sheets. "Reach for me," he coaxed, "I'll protect you from these shadows."

João felt Arthur's hand enter his. Cold and callused, and so familiar. He took the chance to pull his lover in, as though he were saving him from a whirlpool at sea.

Arthur gasped slightly, stumbling atop the bed and into João's arms. Their foreheads bumped awkwardly, and he struggled to get his bearings. But João laughed nonetheless. His smile being Arthur's first sight once his eyes adjusted to the dark.

"Not funny," Arthur chided, though he could not stop his own smirk. He pulled at the covers. Unrolling João from their restraints, though the Portuguese merely whined in reply. Comfortable in his silky, soft cocoon.

Eventually, Arthur joined him under the cloth. João closed any space between them quickly. Burrowing his hands under Arthur's blouse, and tucking his face into the crook of his neck. His warmth a welcome addition to the comfort of their bed.

"You'll perform your poetry for me tomorrow?" João asked, feeling somewhat guilty for denying him the time today.

Arthur nodded, his chin grazing João's cheekbone as he spoke, "Certainly, Love."

He was certain about so much as of late.

João peppered kisses against his bruised skin, "When will you return home?"

Arthur sighed, "At night, Love."

And he was busy with so much as of late.

João hummed.

Sleep came for them quickly. The next morning, João kept with tradition. He arose as the sun did. Its morning rays seeping in through their window, coating them in an orange glow.

João kept with tradition. He arose before Arthur. Only to watch him sleep in reverent peace. To soak in Arthur's features unburdened with worry.

His notebook remained in its place on his desk. The wax of the candle melted to its brass guard. The sun chased the shadows from their room. And João placed a kiss to Arthur's temple. Because he, too, was certain about much as of late.

Reference, of course ::

“Your Majesty,” João said with a small bow as he stopped beside the table. The knight had come to the Queen’s Solar as soon as he had received the summons. 

Arthur smiled up at him. “None of that now,” the Queen of Spades said as he set down the papers in his hand. “Come play a game with me, old friend.” 

João chuckled as he took the seat across the queen. “You know, you cannot always pull me away from my duties.” Even as he said that, he was already playing the first move on the board before taking one of the tarts from the plate by Arthur’s hand. This was an old familiar dance between them. “We’re no longer children.” 

Arthur grinned at him before he made his own opening move. “Can’t I? The crown affords us with certain privileges.” 

João cradled his chin on the palm of his hand, watching Arthur with a fond smile. The queen had tossed his coat on the arm of his chair. He looked mildly annoyed at best, so whatever it was that was bothering him, it must not be too terrible. 

“And I, of course, get to enjoy those privileges, don’t I?” João teased as the game progressed between them. 

“If not you, then who else?” Arthur said, and even though his response was perfect for João’s teasing words, João could not help but think that Arthur was thinking of something else from the distant look in his eyes. 

João waited him out. Arthur would tell him what was wrong eventually, and as his ever loyal knight, João would help him. He took another tart from the plate, and his eyes roved over the board as the dessert crumbled in his mouth. Arthur was quiet, his fingers drumming on the side of the table. 

“I’m getting married,” Arthur stated, his hands suddenly going still on the table. 

João choked on a bite of his tart, coughing and hitting his chest to dislodge it from his throat. “Come again?” 

“Have a drink, why don’t you?” Arthur said, and he fixed him his cup with just the right amount of sugar and cream that João had always preferred. 

“Arthur,” João said softly. He suddenly felt unmoored, like someone had cast him adrift without warning. Whatever problem he was expecting his queen to tell him, it was not this. He did not know why it was suddenly so difficult to find the right words to say. “Married?” 

“My council insists upon it,” Arthur explained. He turned over a captured piece in his hand, running his thumb over the base of the white knight. “They’ve found someone to be King, a good lad from a good family.” 

João took a sip of his tea. Somehow, despite knowing it was his and Arthur’s favorite blend, he could not seem to taste it very well. “And? Do you like him?” 

“I’ve never even met him,” Arthur said. 

João glanced at the papers Arthur had been reading before he’d arrived. “But he’s written to you?” 

Arthur shrugged. “We’ve exchanged a few letters.” 

“And?” 

“He’s a good lad, as I’ve said. He’ll make a great king, but–” Arthur cut himself off with a scowl. On his plate, he tore apart a scone without taking a single bite. With his other hand, he continued to play with the captured knight. 

“But?” João prompted when it seemed Arthur would not say anything more. He leaned forward, his crossed arms resting upon the table. The game was already forgotten between them, but it no longer really mattered. “Is there something wrong with him?” 

“But he’s not you,” Arthur said, finally meeting his eyes when he’s refused to since declaring that he was to be married. Having known Arthur for years, João could see the moment he stubbornly set his mind to something. Arthur was so rarely so sincere and straightforward with his affections that it now caught João off guard to be faced with it. “I would only ever choose you.” 

This time, it was João who refused to meet the other’s eyes. He busied himself with his cup, pouring another serving and drinking it unsweetened. He could not help but think that they needed something stronger for this conversation, brandy or wine instead of this too bitter tea. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, blowing out a breath. 

“Say something,” Arthur prompted when João remained silent for too long. 

“What am I to say, Arthur?” João asked as he looked at his queen with a sad smile. “Such a choice is not a privilege afforded to you by the crown.” 

Arthur flinched at the echo of his words from before. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again without saying anything. 

“I will stay, of course,” João continued, “if you still wish to have me as your knight.” 

Arthur looked at him in horrified surprise as if he could not believe it was ever an option for him to leave. “Of course you will!” He exclaimed. “You weren’t actually thinking of leaving, were you?” 

“Of course not, Your Majesty,” João said, even though it had crossed his mind that the new king would not wish to have him close if he knew of the extent of his relationship with the queen. He took Arthur’s hand and brought it to his lips to kiss. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, Your Majesty.”

The use of a nation's first name. First name, ever.

In some ways, it was a blessing. Arthur chose to view it that way for his mental health. How lucky were they to share centuries? To have known each other in their most chrysalis stage. Eyes starry as the ancient skies, and bodies green as the budding trees.

In other ways, it reminded Arthur of being hunted. Of being a nation, young in face and land. With swords too large for his frame, and legs too short to outpace his opponents. Prey, in all manners of the word. An island cast out to die. And reeled in to loot.

He felt much like prey, now.

"Our guests will be here in an hour," João hissed, present in the kitchen doorframe with a splotched, worn apron. His hands on his hips, foot tapping wildly. "An hour," he repeated with heightened intensity, "Where is the dessert?"

Arthur had few fears. War, famine, plague — they did not deter him. Demons, folklore, the undead — that was child's play. João angry, however… that shook the world.

"I've been cooking all day," João wasn't blinking, "Your only job was the dessert. Where is the dessert, Albion?"

Arthur's mouth felt increasingly dry. His throat felt like sandpaper. Placing friction between his head and his heart. Abrading his words into a nonsense shape that João would not care to decode. So he, instead, kept silent. Placed his keys in the bowl beside his front door, and handed João the bouquet of lavender he had hidden behind his back.

It had been intended, yes, for Arthur to grab a store-bought — but expensive, and thus, nice — cake to serve at dinner tonight. But the bakery had been closed, and the cakes in the other shops looked hopelessly dry, and Arthur had made a promise to himself long ago to never skip a florist in his path. To always bring lavender for João.

And it seemed that decision was smarter than returning empty-handed.

João's face twitched. His ocean eyes softening like the waves during a half-moon. Taking hold of the bouquet with feigned apprehension. His face relaxed with its scent, and Arthur felt like he, too, could take a deep breath.

Until João's eyes flashed towards him once again, "You have 2 seconds to get in this kitchen."

At least his tone was gentler?

Arthur was in the kitchen with 0.5 seconds to spare.

João gingerly placed the lavender into a vase, and began their planning session with a recap of his day. How Arthur had lacked the ingredients he needed, and even some of the tools. How he had to make do with what they had. How he changed his recipes on the fly. How the entire dinner was Portuguese, and it would be nice if the dessert didn't have to be his responsibility too.

Arthur nodded along. Fiddling with this fingers. Picking at his cuticles. Conscious now, more than ever, that he needed to file his nails an extra half-millimeter.

"Shall I contact Gordon?" Arthur offered. Like a child, using his most powerful Pokemon first.

João stopped speaking. He stared back at Arthur, blinking slowly. Seemingly putting in a great deal of effort to understand. And once his neurons fired, so did he. "Ramsay?" he nearly yelled.

Arthur nodded sheepishly in reply.

João released an exasperated, sarcastic chuckle. "Oh, sure. Wonderful," he said, "Should we watch The Great British Baking Show, as well? For inspiration's sake?"

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck timidly, "That was going to be my second suggestion."

He wanted to kick himself. Surely, this was not the same King of Strategy and Surveillance that he had boasted to be mere decades ago. The mirror in his mind was cracking.

João sighed, leaning forward against the counter, "You stupid, dense, gorgeous, idiotic, insolent oaf."

And just like that, the mirror was restored.

"Gorgeous?" Arthur's grin was anything but coy. He was prepared to hold onto any semblance of affection he could garner, with a grip stronger than that of Atlas. And like Atlas, he was prepared to hold the world up as well. For João. Just as he had centuries before.

Arthur approached his lover from behind, snaking arms around his waist and resting a chin upon his shoulder. When João didn't flinch or falter, he continued on. Peppering kisses along his lover's tan neck and back. Playfully nipping at his ear.

It was then that João laughed, ever-so-slightly. And gently shook Arthur's teeth from his skin.

"Go rest," Arthur murmured into his lover's hair, inhaling the aroma of his sandalwood shampoo, "I'll handle it. I promise."

João's mouth twisted in contemplation. He turned in Arthur's arms, facing the Englishman. But still denied him touch, hands stuck to the cold counter behind him. "What will you do?" he asked, inquisitive eyes searching emerald.

"Sticky. Toffee. Pudding." Arthur spoke as if the words were a spell that would magically cure all ailments, physical and mental alike. João's gaze drifted to his lips as he spoke. "It's fast and easy. And I'll get Alfred to pick up ice cream on his way."

"Does he even like sticky toffee pudding?"

Arthur sighed and shrugged, "Lately he hasn't been eating anything that's not Dubai Chocolate."

João laughed, this time louder and more content. "Are you sure you can handle this?" he asked once more. It seemed even in his irritation, he wished to ensure Arthur's comfort. It was soothing to see that his vigilance over Albion had not shifted during the millennia.

Arthur nodded.

João's hands warmed his lover's neck and jaw, finally granting him the touch he so craved, "And you won't burn the kitchen down?"

Arthur nodded once more. Inhaling soundly and fluttering his eyes shut. Melting into his lover's hold.

João tapped Arthur's lips with his thumb in a slow, aching tempo. Then trailed down to Arthur's chin. "And you're responsible for clean-up," he charmed, Arthur malleable in his grip. Like the purest gold there ever was.

They were right. Falling was too easy. 

Their runes protected them from the impact as they hit the water, but the cold weight of the river still wrapped around them like a cage. Arthur reached for his witchlight, and it shone between his fingers like a star in the darkness beneath the river. Gabriel reached for him, and together, they swam towards the shore. 

The two of them gasped as they heaved themselves onto dry land. When Arthur thought he had coughed out all the water in him, he collapsed on his back, glaring at the night sky above until Gabriel’s face appeared over him. 

“Why, in the angel’s name, did you jump after me!?” Gabriel asked. 

“And what was I supposed to do?” Arthur replied defensively. “Leave you to drown?” 

Gabriel looked baffled. His hair had come loose from its tie, and it dripped water onto Arthur. “And remind me again, which of us is the better swimmer?” 

Arthur groaned and pushed Gabriel away so that he could sit up without knocking their heads together. “Bloody hell, I wasn’t thinking then, was I? You could be a little more grateful about it.”

“Of course,” Gabriel said. He feigned swooning, putting his head on Arthur’s lap. He grinned up at him, playful and teasing as he pressed a palm over his heart. “My hero.”

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing. “You’re an arse,” he said. “See if I try to save you next time.” 

Gabriel chuckled at his words, and they helped each other up. Arthur could not help but hold on a little tighter to his parabatai. The fall should not have shaken him as much as it did, but the thought of losing Gabriel made Arthur feel a little sick. He would not survive it, he thought. 

Arthur felt Gabriel squeeze his shoulder. “Who else would keep you alive if I don’t?” 

“I don’t want to hear that from you,” Arthur said, playfully shoving the other as they both made their way back to the Lisbon institute, some unspoken agreement passing between them to leave their original mission for the next night. “I’m not the one who keeps rushing towards our enemies.” 

“Of course you wouldn’t, Art,” Gabriel replied with a grin. “You’d be an awful archer if you did.” 

“That’s not–oh, just shut it, would you?” 

It did not take them long to return after that, both of them hurrying so that they could get out of their drenched gear. By some miracle, they managed to avoid everyone. It was habit that made him follow Gabriel into his room, and Arthur did not think twice about it until Gabriel was peeling off his shirt, revealing the toned muscle and the sun-kissed skin covered in runes and scars underneath. 

Arthur’s mouth went dry as he looked away, very much aware of the blood rushing into his face. It was ridiculous. He had seen Gabriel naked countless times before, and it had never been a problem. He had also never been aware enough of his own attraction to his parabatai before to make it a problem. He could blame that particular problem on an ill-fated comment from someone admiring Gabriel during training last week. 

No one ever warned Arthur how easy it was to fall into temptation, how easy it was to forget all the laws that bound them both. 

“Arthur, what are you doing just standing around? You’ll get yourself sick,” Gabriel said as he gestured towards Arthur’s own wet clothing. A drop of water trailed from Gabriel’s hair down his chest as he turned to face Arthur. Arthur wanted to follow its path with his lips. 

Later, Arthur would blame his recklessness on the adrenaline, on their most recent brush with death. He would know that he was lying; they both would know, but it didn’t really matter by then. 

At that moment though, all Arthur thought was that he wanted no one else but him to claim any part of Gabriel. After feeling like he had lost his best friend earlier that night, Arthur just wanted to be a little selfish for once. 

Arthur crossed the room and pressed Gabriel’s back on the wardrobe door he was just about to open. Gabriel looked startled and just as baffled as he did when Arthur had told him he wanted to save him from drowning. Before Gabriel could question him, before Arthur could talk himself out of doing something so stupid, he kisses him. 

Arthur wasn’t certain what reaction he had been expecting from the other, but he was certain it was not what he got. Gabriel froze only for a moment before he was kissing back, with a ferocity that made Arthur think that the hunger and desperation to possess was not Arthur’s alone, that Arthur’s forbidden love might not be so unrequited after all. 

Like with everything else in their lives, they were of one heart and one mind, both of them damned. 

Gabriel gently guided him, his fingers cooler than usual as he brought them under the hem of Arthur’s shirt. He could feel familiar calluses as his fingers traced the line of Arthur’s spine. They did not stop kissing, but Arthur felt it when the back of his knees hit the edge of Gabriel’s bed. He sat and let Gabriel pull his shirt off over his head, shivering as he was suddenly exposed. 

Arthur looked up with a smile that immediately dropped at the look of horror on Gabriel’s face. Once, Gabriel had looked at the parabatai rune on Arthur’s side with a look of awe, like he could not believe they had been allowed to bond themselves so closely. Now, he looked at it in horror, like he could not believe what they had allowed themselves to ruin. 

Once, Arthur had thought himself so clever when he had proposed becoming Gabriel’s parabatai. It would bind themselves forever as brothers in arms, and he could not imagine spending forever with anyone but Gabriel. The best Shadowhunters in their histories had parabatais, he had thought, and he had so many plans for them to be the best pair of them all. 

Back then, he had chosen to ignore that many stories of parabatai pairs were also the greatest tragedies of their people. That wouldn’t be them obviously. They would be smarter than that. 

Looking at Gabriel’s shaken expression, Arthur felt like the biggest of fools. “Gabe–” 

“What were you thinking?” Gabriel asked desperately, a strange echo of his sentiments after their stint in the river. “Why did you kiss me? If this is some joke, Art–” 

“It’s not,” Arthur said, even though it would be so much easier to pretend that it was. “And you kissed me back. Don’t pretend that you didn’t. This is not just–” 

“It cannot be anything at all!” Gabriel exclaimed. “You know that, right?” 

Arthur wrapped his arms around himself, almost as if he was trying to cover the parabatai rune. “So, what, we just pretend that nothing happened?” 

“What else are we supposed to do?” 

They could run, maybe let themselves be stripped of their runes and be exiled from the Clave, but Arthur knew even before speaking that Gabriel would never go for it. “I lo–” 

“Don’t,” Gabriel said, his voice soft and wavering, “please, do not say those words.” He grabbed Arthur’s shoulders in a painful grip. “Promise me, Arthur. Don’t take this any further.” 

Arthur flinched, though he did not know if it was because of Gabriel’s grip or the feeling of rejection. Was it really rejection though when Arthur knew that Gabriel would not be acting so defensively like this if he did not feel the same way? “Don’t be a coward,” Arthur said with a sneer. “It does not suit you.” 

“I don’t care about that,” Gabriel said as he loosened his grip. He sat beside Arthur, but there was a gap between them where there was always none before. Before the kiss. Before Arthur ruined one of the best things in his life. “I just don’t want to lose another home, Art. I cannot leave my brother. If that is cowardice, then let me be the worst coward of them all.” 

Arthur thought of Madrid then, of Gabriel losing both his parents at once. He cringed at his own thoughtlessness and buried his face between his hands. By the time he had uncovered his face, he had made his decision. There was no power, divine or infernal, that would make him betray Gabriel. He sighed before he stood up from the bed, picking up his discarded shirt from the floor. 

“Arthur?” Gabriel’s voice cracked, and when Arthur turned towards him, there was a wet sheen over his eyes. 

Arthur gave him a sad smile, and he bent down to press their foreheads together, something familiar and comforting for both of them. “I promise, Gabriel,” he said softly, as he brushed a thumb over his parabatai’s cheek to catch a falling tear. “I swear by the angel, no one will know about this. This stays between us, I promise.” 

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel said. 

Arthur stepped back. It felt like temptation being so close. He wanted to kiss him again, wanted to press Gabriel down on the bed and leave marks on him that had nothing to do with runes. He did not want Gabriel to apologize for wanting this as much as he did. He wanted Gabriel to choose him over the Clave and their duties, but that was a selfish thing to ask for. 

“Then, I’ll just, well,” Arthur said, swallowing down the pleas and declarations of love. He gripped his wet shirt tightly in his fist. “I’ll go get changed in my room.” 

“Yes,” Gabriel agreed. He did not meet Arthur’s eyes, staring instead at the first rune he’d ever been marked with at the back of his head. His mother had been the one to give him that first mark, Arthur remembered. “Good night, Arthur.” 

Once he was in his room, just across the hall, Arthur pressed his back on the door, knocking his head back on the wood. The descent into hell is easy, he thought. Falling in love was a little harder. He was damned either way.

Gabriel sighs and shuts said bedchamber door behind him. He feels England’s roving eyes on him and feels a tad vulnerable in his plain linen banyan for sleeping.

“Getting a bit old for that, aren’t you?” He grouses, bending over to pick up the largest shards of his shattered cup. He’d liked that one too, and it will be difficult to replace. The tea steams from the floorboards.

“Well, I couldn’t exactly waltz up to the main entrance, not with him around,” England watches him petulantly for a moment before folding and crouching to help him pick up the shards. He is dressed for land rather than for sea (which is a change in this century), but this close he still smells of sea salt and that distinctive wet earth scent that he always associates with Arthur’s green countryside.

“It’s sharp,” Gabriel murmurs.

Arthur picks the pieces up carefully and they deposit them in a heap on the table. He remains a destructive whirlwind in Gabriel’s life, it seems. Or perhaps Gabriel is simply not careful enough around him.

“What the hell are you doing here, Arthur? It’s—”

“Port?”

The pair of them freeze as Spain’s voice drifts through from the corridor outside the door. They stare at each other, struck dumb, as his footsteps approach the door.

Realising England has no plan Portugal finally moves, seizing the other and spinning him around, pinning him against the wall. England makes a noise of complaint in his throat, so Portugal slaps his hand over his mouth, gripping England’s chin with his thumb bracketed against the edge of England’s nose. The warning is clear: not a word. He pretends not to notice the way Arthur’s eyes roll back and flutter shut.

Seconds later there is a knock at the door. “Portugal? I heard a crash?” Spain sounds worried and Portugal rolls his eyes. Summoning the most transparently unbothered expression possible he opens the door. England is just out of sight from the corridor behind the wall and Portugal keeps him silent with his hand, leaning as if propping himself up tiredly.

“Oh Toni! Sorry to wake you so late. I…uh…dropped my cup, I’m afraid.”

Spain’s eyes are blown as if he has been drinking, and he smells of rioja. There is a magenta stain on his sleeve. Definitely drinking then.

“Oh, I wasn’t sleeping Gabe,” he says absently, and sways on the spot slightly. He peers around Portugal into the room and his heart leaps into his throat.

“Why’d you drop it?”

“Oh…uh…a bat…um…flew in and startled me.”

“A bat?” Antonio echoes.

Portugal forces a meek smile, leaning coquettishly on the door and tilting his head to obscure Spain’s line of sight. “A bat! So clumsy of me…but…thank you for checking on me!”

With his spare hand that isn’t keeping Arthur quiet Gabriel risks letting go of the door and caressing Antonio’s jaw appealingly. The other leans into the touch and captures him, pressing a kiss to the meat of his palm.

“Gabe…” he murmurs. Portugal almost jumps when he feels England caressing his other wrist, as if encouraging him to tighten his grip.

Gabriel snatches his hand back from Antonio and plants it on the door to hold it to with a tight grip. “Goodnight, Spain.”

Spain sways and he almost says something but then his mouth grits and he nods his head glumly. “Goodnight, Portugal.”

Gabriel watches him turn on his heel and wobble down the corridor back to his room. He keeps his hand on England’s mouth until he is sure Spain has closed the door behind him, then shuts his own door and blows out all his breath.

“Jesus Christ that was so close.”

He doesn’t let England go immediately, and he makes another muffled noise of complaint until Portugal releases him. His fingertips have left four blotchy imprints on his cheek and jaw where he gripped too hard and Arthur rubs at his face with a pout.

“Ow.”

“Entirely your own fault and you deserved it.”

João was sure that, perhaps in Arthur's mind, he sounded absolutely thrilled. As though this clay pot were the apex of all his wants. Sun-dried, and sweet as a raisin to his heart. And his question was merely speculative of his lover's clairvoyance.

However to João, Arthur's tone was forced. And ignorant.

João frowned. "No, not just a pot," he spat, "A Cantarinha dos Namorados."

He shoved the clay pot into Arthur's hands. Nimble fingers finding bearing around the dried, orange clay. Gripping onto floral, white indents and protruding ornamentations. João had opted for the largest pot he could find. Unabashedly taking up space and time in several workshops, till he was satisfied with his proposal gift. A large base for their shared prosperity. A thin, but long, snout for their myriad of struggles, but none that they could not face head-on.

What a shame it was, then, that Arthur was oblivious.

"A pot for… lovers?" Arthur spoke, translating the Portuguese words in his mind. As though they were painted artwork, and he, a cheap imitator.

"Do you have a single romantic bone in your body?"

Arthur tutted, "Come now, Port. Were my sonnets not enough?"

His sonnets. João prickled to remember Arthur's sonnets. Imbued in Iambic Pentameter, and performed to him through voice cracks and flushed, full cheeks. Not poorly written, and in truth, quite endearing. Yet innumerable in their collective.

"They were far too much, Amor," João sighed, then immediately moved to close the distance amidst himself and his lover. Knowing much about Arthur's tendency to drift when not aptly secured.

He gripped Arthur's shoulders, the clay pot in his lover's arms being the only separator of the two. Under morning sun, Arthur's hair lit like raging fire. Wild and persistent as he was. Unfettered by that which scared most. Yet in all his bravery, João watched his worry peak like magma through the cracks.

"This pot is a… proposal of sorts," João soothed, rubbing warm friction betwixt Arthur's blouse and skin, "I am promising myself to you. And when I eventually return, all gifts I bring for you may be stored in there. As symbolic of our grand love."

Arthur's eyes searched his, before gazing down at the pot between them, "So you aren't planning to bring me anything larger than this?"

Arthur was shoved away with little regard for if the pot disembarked from his grip. Laughing in reply, but only holding his proposal gift tighter. Apologies escaped with his mirth, placing the pot down gently, protective of their love. Then reaching out to João, who had dug his boot into the sand and crossed his arms in firm denial.

"You are simply ungrateful."

"I love it. I love it," Arthur coaxed, pulling at João's arms and wrapping them around his waist. Arthur cupped his hands around his lover's face, beckoning his gaze, pale fingers lost in umber curls. "I love you. Thank you, it's wonderful."

"You are selfish," João muttered, but let himself be persuaded all the same. The cotton of Arthur's blouse stuck on his palms, pulling the Englishman closer. Close as they could be with bothersome fabric dividing their skin.

"Only when it comes to you, Love," Arthur replied, undaunted by the descriptor, "You are only mine."

Solemn was the wind this morning. With hardly any fight, or any screeching wail. It hung close around their garments, their hair. Entangled their bodies and teased their skin. And served as reminder to João, that it was time to leave.

And Arthur understood too.

"João," he tucked a curl behind his lover's ear. "Promise me…" Arthur's voice wavered, "Promise me you'll come home. Soon."

João smiled, unable to respond.

He tucked his face into Arthur's, aquiline nose trailing freckled cheek. Their skin warm under coastal heat. Arthur's red with burn. João's lips placed a kiss on his jaw, subtle and small, as if hardly there.

"You can go," Arthur sighed, "See the world." His fingers tightened around João's skull, "But don't fall in love with it. Come home."

João laughed into his lover's neck. He arose, determined to memorize Arthur's eyes. "There could be nothing out there more lovable than you."