A RELUCTANT KING

the  strife  king  grins,  hidden  behind  his  mask.  he  lounges  on  the  bench  tucked  into  the  alcove,  oxblood  eyes  regarding  his  beloved.  his  furs  and  pelts  keep  him  warm  on  this  winters  night,  and  he  finds  the  fashion  of  his  people  to  be  even  more  stunning  when  adorning  his  jewel  of  the  coast. 

“you  speak  so  solemnly  for  a  wedding  vow,”  he  murmurs,  rising  to  his  feet.  that  they  are  alone  is  the  only  reason  he  does  not  immediately  reach  for  the  grief  maker,  the  weapon  he  had  bonded  with  since  he'd  first  reached  adulthood.  “is  that  how  your  golden  coast  would  have  you  celebrate?” 

he  grabs  demos'  hips,  pulling  him  flush  against  him;  one  hand  moves  up  to  the  back  of  his  neck,  the  other  staying  at  his  hip.  as  he  gazes  up  at  him,  his  attention  does  catch  on  the  key  he'd  given  him  when  they  were  both  young,  glinting  in  the  firelight  from  it's  place  around  demos'  neck. 

owned  as  ever.

Tan hands rest atop furs outlining the strong chest beneath loosened shirt ties. A sight he admires for a moment before gazing up at him. Listening. A quirk of the lips as the man grows hungry.

If it weren't for protocol and that mask, he doubts the king would ever serve his kingdom. Especially with how intensely those eyes can look at him.

"As I've told you many times before, and you clearly haven't listened to, our celebrations will last an entire week beginning from tomorrow. Though we are married now, the public event will be at noon leading into five feast days." As he says this, a hand lifts from the man before him to the key at his clavicle, toying with it.

As ever, he is one to toy with the impatience of the other. Kleis had his strength, strength enough to rip of his mask and both of their clothes to ravish him. But he wouldn't.

"There will be parties, drinking, arena battles, the works. But tonight? I scheduled this for us. Us alone." With that the other hand at Kleis' chest lifts to touch the chin of his mask, tilting the war king's head where he needed it. Seconds later, the golden key was set in its lock and turned.

it  had  been  a  good  fight,  though.  a  bloody,  drawn  out  one,  but  he'd  won  in  the  end.  these  are  things  he  wishes  to  share  with  demos,  wishes  to  get  praised  for.  all  the  applause  in  the  world  means  nothing  if  his  love  can't  celebrate  too.  but  asking  for  this,  now?  far  too  soon. 

he  backs  out  of  the  embrace  and  takes  demos'  hand  with  his  good  one,  and  leads  him  upstairs.  they'll  close  their  night  together. 

               ⊹.𐕣.⊹

it's  nearly  afternoon  the  next  day  when  kleis  wakes  up.  his  body  greets  him  by  replaying  every  jarring  collision  and  point  of  contact  from  the  night  prior,  his  skin  and  muscles  aching  and  pulsing  in  time  with  his  heartbeat.  the  pain  meds  wore  off,  and  he  needs  more.  his  dominant  hand  feels  like  one  of  a  lego  person's,  stuck  in  a  curved  shape  from  the  swelling  against  the  tape.  he  flexes  his  hand  and  clenches  his  teeth  against  the  ache  as  he  gets  up. 

his  first  conscious  thought  is  ow.  his  second  conscious  thought  is  entirely  driven  by  the  fear  that  he's  gotten  blood  on  demos'  sheets.  he  stiffly  makes  his  way  to  a  sitting  position,  moving  his  legs  off  the  mattress.  his  bandages  held  overnight,  which  is  great.  the  pillow  looks  to  be  unscathed,  which  is  also  good.

he's  not  so  sure  about  the  impacts  that  broke  skin  on  his  torso,  but  he'll  check  that  later.  for  now,  he  needs  relief. 

Come the words, soft but firm. Demos puts down his book and slides out of bed beside him instead. Coming around to try and shoo Kleis back into bed.

"There is pain medicine and water on your table, I'll get you some ice, a breakfast sandwich and some coffee. Anything else you'd like, text me. I'll get it before I come back upstairs."

The words almost sounded scripted, and that's because Demos had woken hours earlier and not only brought up the pain supplies for Kleis' waking, but also planned out what he'd do when Kleis finally woke up. He would worry about the dressings later, he just wanted to get energy and relief into and onto the man before anything else. That plan is what had settled him enough to read in the time that Kleis was still asleep.

With that, he grabbed his phone and hurried downstairs to reheat the sausage and scrambled egg sandwich he had prepared for Kleis earlier to reheat, along with the other promised items. In no time, a tray with a coffee, the sandwich and two ice packs wrapped in tea towels was set on his lap. Any other supplies placed at the bedside, before Demos climbed back in beside him.

“i  can't  be  saved.  i'm  too  different."  a  pause,  trying  to  wrangle  his  thoughts,  but  they  spill  out  in  half  formed  sentences,  stumbling  and  wet  and  newly  made,  like  a  newborn  deer.  “i'm  so  angry,  all  the  time.  the  world  is  so…so  fucked  up.  and  i'm  jealous,  so  easily.  i  covet  and  i  lie  and  i  have  addictions  …  all  the  little  sins  that  make  up  humans.  but  i've  …  i  don't  learn.  i  don't  get  better.  and  i  …  i've  tried.” 

here,  his  voice  breaks,  his  tears  fall.  a  sharp  pause  and  then,  “…father,  i've  tried  so  hard.  but  i  can't  stop  the  need,  the  way  it's  so  easy  to  cave.  i'm  greedy,  wrathful,  envious,  lustful;  i  try  to  make  up  for  it  with  hard  work  but  it's  never  enough.  and  i'm  scared  that  …  that  i've  become  more  in  love  with  my  sins  than  with  the  savior." 

He sees the path to abject despair approaching, and already one hand moves to cup the back of Kleis' head right as the man leans heavily into the other. Already, he was shifting himself to prepare for what he wished to do, accuracy be damned, and he does it smoothly as Kleis begins to sob. As one hand cradles the back of the man's head, Demos' other gently presses to his back, guiding him into a firm hug and keeping him there. Encouraging him to take comfort in this way, not to fight it.

For a while he says nothing, letting his actions bring comfort (he hopes). It's only when he thinks Kleis might be calm enough to listen, and he is very certain on his words, that he does.

"What you love is no sin, my child." He says, tears stinging at his own eyes. "It is natural and it is inherent. God does not make mistakes, does He? You made no choice to love as you do, as other sins are a choice, it is inherent. God chose it to be that way. It is not wrong to follow that."

Highlighted passages and websites and words quoted come to him now, arranging the words of tolerant people into something he hoped fit. Though his heart squeezed as he now was about to add some of his own observations.

"But you were punished, scolded, shunned and that led you to other sins. To stifle the urge, or to deal with the pain of its absence."

He thinks of the Kleis in his fight clubs, and himself staring down a bottle of something or other.

" You are not the only one to struggle that way, many do."

His lips press to the crown of Kleis' head, his own need shining through for a few moments as he prepared to speak what he hoped might work most.

"You are not too different to be saved, and you don't need to be."

“yeah,  love.  promise.”  he  means  it,  giving  his  word  to  his  love  easy  as  breathing.  he  stays  in  the  embrace  for  as  long  as  they  both  can,  before  he  pulls  back,  not  wanting  either  of  them  to  fall.  “upstairs,  c'mon;  wanna  check  me  over?” 

"No, no I can't. It'd just-" He waves a hand, unable to quite say the words to describe the way he might just go back into panic the more he saw of bruises. His mind has been picturing violence and death for the past few hours, he needs relief from it.

he  swallows  as  obedient  stillness  falls  over  him,  something  far  different  than  how  he  usually  feels  when  engaging  in  play.  but  this  whole  scenario  is  different. 

he's  asked  to  confess  and  the  script  pours  out  of  him  in  an  agonized,  soft  whisper. 

“forgive  me  father  for  i  have  sinned.  it  has  been…two  and  a  half  years  since  my  last  confession."  which  is  true,  though  the  boundary  of  the  scene  still  exists  for  him  to  a  point.  he  knows,  dimly,  he's  still  at  home,  kneeling  on  the  couch,  not  in  a  confessional  with  an  actual  priest.  but  his  body  responds,  his  mind  responds,  and  the  tears  build. 

when  he  looks  at  him  again,  daring  to  open  his  eyes,  it's  only  a  stolen  glance  before  he  averts  his  gaze.  but  that  glance  was  enough  to  catch  the  afternoon  sunlight  bathing  the  crown  of  his  head  in  gold;  his  own  saint,  his  own  savior.  he  swallows,  and  speaks. 

“i've  not  found  the  lasting  peace.  i've  stopped  fighting,  i  don't  do  that  anymore,  but  i  still  …  i'm  fighting  every  day.  i  want  to  be  okay.  i  want  to  be  worthy  of  christ's  sacrifice  and  his  teachings  but  i  can't  go  to  church,  not  anymore.  and  i  know  i'm  hurting  people  around  me  with  this  conflict.  i  know  i  am.  and  my  apologies  mean  nothing  because  …  it  still  happens.  i  try  to  live  as  he  would  want,  father,  but  …  i  don't  think  i  am  worthy." 

And then his dear Kleis talks about being unworthy, about hurting those around him (probably himself). The sheer emotion in those eyes has his own stinging despite his restraint. Gentle hands continue to hold that precious face of the man so special to him, so kind and loving, yet who thinks himself so stained and unworthy. Of what, he doesn't know but can guess.

Oh Kleis.

Taking a moment to think, he lets his eyebrows furrow in concern as both he and the father would.

"Why don't you think yourself worthy? What has you doubting?" He asks, words so gentle yet still firm. Confident, as if he has all the answers and advice ready to give.

kleis  rolls  his  eyes,  though  he  smiles  fondly.  his  recent  work  has  been  more  fun  bits  while  people  enjoy  the  show,  and  he's  excited  that  he's  been  able  to  branch  out  (a  little)  from  the  way  he  looks.  but  being  in  a  music  video  for  a  song  about  sexual  freedom  and  shunning  religious  dogma  around  sex  and  sensuality  sure  is  a  choice.  one  his  fans  are  loving  and  he's  sure  his  parents  are  hating. 

"How many times? What do you mean...the whole video is a couple hours long." Demos grins, a hand running down Kleis' chest and just enjoying these moments of pride. Pride *and* admiration for how sexy his boyfriend is, and how everyone knows it. This video had been on repeat since it got released, with Demos fielding texts from friends asking if he'd seen it with a photo of it on his big TV.

Another kiss is stolen.

A roll of his neck came then, a grunt as he felt the tension everywhere in him. After a moment of pause, he then steps to pull Kleis into his arms, to hold onto him tightly. The smell of musk and cigarette smoke and old leather telling him he really was alright.

He was quiet again for another while, but this time the tension was not there as it was before. He just needed to hold on, to comfort them both.