Sir Pentious

"Not if you don't want to end up with a stomach ache."

Surely, that was a risk? She was tiny. Too much ice cream would undoubtedly cause some sort of... internal distress. She was like him in some ways and unlike him in many others. But he would at least let her finish what she had, settling to wait until it was gone and he could effectively finish cleaning the remainder of the outside of her shell.

Thankfully, being an egg, it did not seem as though there were any real considerations other than being sure not to get any soap in her little eyes.

As he set about making an effort to rinse her, he blinked down at her when she questioned the water's surface, even shallow as it was.

"Er - no. It's a bath. Fish do not live in baths."

Or... they shouldn't anyway.

He lacked the understanding of child-logic that might have alluded to something scarier lurking beneath the suds.

"Okay."

Fitzgerald chose to take Alastor's words in stride, and accepted that their bathtub was fish-free. The little egg reached for a loofah that hung off the side of the bath, and began to shake it around and drag it through the water in the place of the toys her other boss would hand her during bathtimes. She swirled the item around, considering the foam it emitted and how it reminded her of the mouths of those bad demons from the street.

"Boss," she said, a contemplating expression drawn on her small features. Fitzgerald still could not understand why anyone would treat her badly. She was boss' princess, and people were supposed to do what she wanted. Not to scare her or laugh at her. Or try to grab her, either.

How could such a thing even happen! It was impossible.

Beneath the warmth of his own exhalations, he is close enough to see Simon's skin turning red where he wanders, listening to the response to his question. Alastor quells the small bit of anxiety within that tells him there is a risk of Pen refusing him - turning him out and away for the evening for fear of being caught in the midst of such behavior in the very den of lions he is looking to escape. But it elates to hear a yes instead of a no, a small sound of acknowledgement escaping him as he remains pressed in close, eager to carry on with his soft appreciation for the pale flesh beneath his lips.

Curiosity, however, pulls him back enough to glance down inquisitively at Pen's wandering hands; until the other is slinking down from the bed and focusing instead on the laces of his boots.

"...You don't have to do that," he says, quick to protest, but not to pull away if Simon is so insistent. But perhaps he is not excluded from the pull and reality of their stations. Alastor is meant to be seen as lesser - for any number of reasons. But here is his friend, down on his knees and undressing him like a servant might his master.

Different, he reminds himself.

This is different.

So it is a quick relenting of what the other intends to do, until his boots are pulled off and set aside with a steady slowness that makes the gesture seem much more intimate than it might be otherwise. And in spite of himself, Alastor breathes out a small sigh of contentment, glancing down at the slightly blurry display before him.

"...You look rather nice down there."

A hand, outstretched, again reaches to card fingers through the darkened strands of Pen's hair, appreciative of how soft they feel to the touch; how familiar and comforting the sensation is to be able to touch and be trusted to do so.

"But I do so prefer you up here."

And, as if to add just the smallest inch of true flirtation to the dynamic, Alastor smirks.

"If you'd like that, I'd be happy to further assist," Simon replies with a flirtatious air of his own, but his expression retains its former coyness soon, an inky strand of hair getting swiftly brushed behind his ear as he rests his palms over Alastor's knobbly knees. His hammering heart is soothed and simultaneously energised by the hand that caresses his head, almost as if he is a beloved pet.

He is reminded of scenes in few scant pictures he sometimes feels guilty about looking. As if he is one of those confident ladies or gentlemen who touch each other with certain fingertips and love in their expressions. Except his own confidence is rather nonexistent. He has never sought out amorous experiences like his peers, although such experiences are valued and somewhat expected, even before marriage.

Simon reaches for Alastor's hands, holding onto them as he hoists himself up and returns by his side on the bed. He caresses them, and experimentally, the buckle of Alastor's belt and his shirt buttons, too. Pen's movements are slow, specific. He feels shy, and he smiles gently.

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CW: Mental health, family problems, estranged family mention

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It's a mutual craving, a slow and steady descent into repeated presses of his lips against Simon's, fighting the urge to churn a hum in his throat that provides enough feedback for the other to know that this is what he wants; what he has been thinking about ever since beginning his climb up towards Pen's balcony. Now, he finds himself frustrated only by the presence of those silly glasses, breaking the kiss only momentarily before he is taking the pair from his own face to set aside before resuming, heavier and more eager.

Something prompts him then to sever the kiss once again, but he does not go far, instead leaning to press his lips in a few short, tender brushes against the other's jaw, then down towards his neck, reaching with a hand to gently move aside Simon's jet black and silky hair to give him enough room to do so.

He is not sure where this goes beyond the moment - he is certainly not thinking very clearly.

But that is okay. The inexperience between them both is not much a deterrent. What they are doing is... new and novel - there should not be any rules to dictate how they do or do not draw each other closer by touch and sense. This is just for them; just between them.

Alastor pauses then, though he does not draw away, resting his head in a press against Simon's and murmuring against his skin.

"Shall I try to stay here through the night?"

Simon manages to withhold gasps and other utterances for a short moment, but a hot breath escapes along sound as soon as Alastor's curious lips touch his neck. It's a sensation he can compare to no other, and one he desperately wishes to continue. To advance, even - Even if he does not exactly know how to do so.

Being well-read and educated does not help him here; he runs on instincts that compel his arms to reach around Alastor and arch his neck back so his companion may reach further and caress nerves that have never been touched before.

And when Alastor proposes to stay, Simon shudders from the pleasure that sparks at such a lovely, forbidden request. He responds in a heated whisper before he even thinks about the very possible consequences and risks they will be taking.

"Yes. Please stay. I invite you to."

His room is bloody big enough to hide the other man if worst comes to worst. Under the bed, inside his desk, or his wardrobe... or the bath. Maybe even behind the curtain.

Simon does not care to think about it much deeper than that. All he knows and cares about is Alastor. Simon wants the other to remain in his hold beyond the night; he wants to keep touching him. He wants Alastor to touch him. He wants Alastor to rest beneath silken sheets and above a mattress that's not too small or thin.

The young lord's hand inches down to where Alastor's hip lies beneath worn fabric. His blue eyes descend too as he leans back for a moment to observe the other's travel attire, and then return up to meet Alastor's. A pause, coy and expectant.

"Let me help you."

The young lord smiles coyly at Alastor's compliment and subsequent touch to his delicate and still recovering ear. The earrings are pretty, yes, but he had never considered actually growing accustomed to them. Simon did not think himself so pretty as to match them. It is flattering that Alastor seems to think otherwise.

He nods when Alastor mentions the printing press, his pride and joy. The culmination of years of hard work and dedication.

"Please do not accept too low a bid, even though we are working on a deadline. You worked so hard for that press..."

Pen's words trail off, guilt evident in the heaviness of his expression and the lowering of his gaze.

But his gratefulness rings just as clearly. He cannot fathom that Alastor would revere him enough to cast aside his long-term goal - at least until they found their footing on the mainland. Or elsewhere. Even if the young lord does not find himself worthy of such sacrifice, he is adamant to prove to his best friend that he can be.

Simon's hand rises to rest gently against Alastor's palm, pressing it against his round cheek. The contact of Alastor's warm, already slightly work-hardened hand comforts him and his woes greatly. Simon closes his eyes and sighs. Alastor's little finger touches the corner of his pale lips.

Alastor is not so concerned about the price that one might pay for the press. At least not then. Anything will do them better than the thing sitting in a room and rotting while he cannot use it, and he is sufficiently distracted in the moment, the sensation of the other's skin against his palm assuaging any worries he may have of them being caught.

He is silent, for a moment, absorbing Simon's appreciation and the soft words that are uttered to him in the privacy of the room. Alastor exhales slowly, glancing from Pen up to the space around them.

For all of its luxuries... It's still a prison; one that separates them and has done so since they were young.

But soon... they will not.

"You will not lose yourself to this world as long as I have something to say about it," Alastor murmurs in return, closing the distance between them so that he can set his head in a gentle nudge against Simon's. It's a calm, quiet sort of moment, not unlike some they have shared before. But it feels different now, if only in the sense that now there is a weight upon his shoulders to spirit Simon away before the tendrils of the ton can ensnare him, knowing that they will not release his friend once they have a hold.

The possessive flame within him flickers once more, as it had when he'd briefly noticed that the other man at the fair had briefly captured Pen's attention. But this time, it spurs him to whisper once more, in the small space between them.

"...Don't make a sound and they will not hear us."

Alastor does not wait to chase an urge, to lean and capture Simon's mouth in a kiss, an impulse that has been festering for as long as they have been sitting here, not set at ease with the first meeting of lips but only further stoked. He knows it is a bit of a frightening thing, however, to do this here - in the most dangerous place of all...

And yet -

The danger is what turns that flame into the roar of blood in his ears, heart thrumming against his chest as he braces fingers gently against Simon's skin. It's risky to come on so strong... but he has always been a bit of a risk-taker.

No one will hear, he tells himself. No one will know.

And once the young lord can think once more, he realises that this is a feeling he has been craving for, more hungrily each of these recent nights they have been forced to remain apart. That hunger towers over any fear of being caught, at the moment, though it may very well return later.

His door is locked, at least. Perhaps not fool-proof, but it will slow down any possible intruder.

He nods, finally, a non-verbal promise to stay as silent as he can.

Simon is loathe to admit how inexperienced he is, but his affection towards the other is not diminished by his insecurity. He fumbles with his hands until they find Alastor's shoulders and gently press against them. He explores the sensation of the other's mouth against his with coy and eager lips. Alastor feels so warm, and Simon leans closer against his strong body. Familiar and secure, but touching him in new and exhilirating ways.

"You are! And a fair decent one, I might say. More practice and you could be quite the entertainer." And he would not hesitate to make way for her on one of the hotel's stages so that she could do her little song and dance for a small audience, if she so pleased.

It was true that she had grown, though it was not by much. Alastor would not have minded if she maintained her tiny size for the rest of her little hellborn life. He had begun to understand that he would do quite a bit for this tiny egg, regardless if she were ever as large or capable as her siblings.

Not that he doubted her ability.

"You'll have to finish that before I can finish bathing you. I'm not giving you a wash just so you can smother yourself in more ice cream."

A rather stern caretaker, he was, in spite of it all.

"Mowe ice cweam?" Fitzgerald repeated, and waggled what constituted as her eyebrows. Whether she understood what Alastor meant or not, or was just making a joke, remained unknown, but she quickly gobbled down the remains of her ice cream anyway.

And after the sweet treat had disappeared into her always-ravenous pit, Fitzgerald let out an exasperated sigh from the effort of finishing such a large dessert. The occurrences of the day at large had left her quite confused and tired at large, and her following splashes of water lacked some of her characteristic mirth. Even if she still apparently enjoyed herself.

As she allowed Alastor to brush her stained shell, courteously lifting her arms so he could reach everywhere, she suddenly realised they were indeed in water. And she knew that sometimes water held creatures unlike herself. Scaled tails not akin to her other boss's warm one, but those slimy and fidgety. Those like the mean thugs from the streets.

Simon's verbal fumble and quick correction is enough to raise Alastor's eyebrows, but only in some cursory amusement. He knows Pen too well to believe it to be truly lascivious in nature - but the fluster is appealing to his humor, and though he says nothing, he is certain this his own smug expression is enough to communicate how he feels about such an invitation. How devious.

Instead, he permits the other to carry on with his own report, pleased that Simon has seemed to find some purchase in their idea to pilfer a few of 'Nana's' finery. Surely the old crone does not need them, Alastor thinks, and so he neglects to feel any semblance of pity for the woman who has done very little but give him grief for as long as he has known her.

The least she can do is contribute something meaningful to the lives she has very nearly ruined out of tradition and spite.

Pen's anxiety is familiar to him enough that Alastor is patient, expression turning to a rather giddy sort of surprise when the other reveals those stolen earrings that decorate his ear. It's an odd thing to see, a man with such jewelry, but given all that they have been dabbling with in the last few weeks... he supposes it's not the strangest thing to come across.

All for a purpose, anyway.

Reaching up with a free hand, Alastor's fingers brush delicately over the dangling things, noting their sheen in the light and how they give a rather pristine sparkle. They can only be real with how they glint, and the young Hartfelt gives a few small chuckles to keep from being too loud or boisterous in his humor.

"How sly," he says. "And I can't say that they look terrible on you, either. Best to keep them hidden, but... You will have to work hard to not get attached to them if we are meant to sell them later on."

But while his hand is there, his fingers lightly trail from Pen's ear down to the line of his jaw - just touching, with subtle appreciation. There is no expectation in his touch, but he feels the compulsion all the same.

"Well done. I'm sure there are a few more things we can do to provide ourselves with a solid foundation. But I can't say I'm not pleased with what we've managed so far." Or, rather, what Simon has managed more so than he himself.

"I am working to sell the press, but... There are not many who can afford it. I am sure I will find a buyer sooner or later." A reassurance, in case Pen begins to fret about it at all. Alastor is a bit distracted from going into further details about it, however, his eyes fixed onto a few different points of Simon's pale skin.

The young lord smiles coyly at Alastor's compliment and subsequent touch to his delicate and still recovering ear. The earrings are pretty, yes, but he had never considered actually growing accustomed to them. Simon did not think himself so pretty as to match them. It is flattering that Alastor seems to think otherwise.

He nods when Alastor mentions the printing press, his pride and joy. The culmination of years of hard work and dedication.

"Please do not accept too low a bid, even though we are working on a deadline. You worked so hard for that press..."

Pen's words trail off, guilt evident in the heaviness of his expression and the lowering of his gaze.

But his gratefulness rings just as clearly. He cannot fathom that Alastor would revere him enough to cast aside his long-term goal - at least until they found their footing on the mainland. Or elsewhere. Even if the young lord does not find himself worthy of such sacrifice, he is adamant to prove to his best friend that he can be.

Simon's hand rises to rest gently against Alastor's palm, pressing it against his round cheek. The contact of Alastor's warm, already slightly work-hardened hand comforts him and his woes greatly. Simon closes his eyes and sighs. Alastor's little finger touches the corner of his pale lips.

Permitting himself to be tugged towards the bed, he settles there without question, taking a moment to breathe out and in a few times to settle the slight racing of his heart. Whether it's from his precarious climb or from seeing Simon in a way that he knows is slightly illicit in nature, he is not sure. Maybe a bit of both. Innocent as this is in his opinion, Alastor knows that any observers will not think that way.

The hand in Pen's possession relaxes, and he does not see fit to fuss about the contact between them - even if he has in mind to not simply leave it as is for very long.

But conversation and some slight bit of etiquette first. To keep from seeming like some sort of cretin.

"As well as it could, I suppose. Collin is on board - he's looking after the home now, in fact. He seems to rather enjoy the chickens. I don't think we'll have any problem with getting him acclimated." But, Alastor gives a small, sheepish smirk.

"He has taken over my only bed, so- Given that I would not be sleeping, that is why I assumed coming to see you might be an adequate distraction."

His fingers slip in between Pen's as long as their hands are in contact, leaning back on his other hand as he takes the time to appreciate the lush feeling of the sheets beneath his slightly rough palm.

"I've put together a bit of money thus far... But still not quite enough for me to feel comfortable. A little more and I will have something a bit more sufficient for our use." And still only scant in comparison to what he assumes Simon will be able to contribute, but he will do what he can, regardless.

Simon nods along as the other's words come to a conclusion, glad to hear his endeavours have been successful so far, even if it means he is out of a cot. Suddenly, the young lord is aware of the size of the bed they are seated on in comparison to the one that awaits in Alastor's little cottage. Collin is a tall boy and probably trashes about at all night as children do. Alastor has been wise to not even attempt to sleep in his close proximity.

But as the young man says, that has left him with no other option.

"Well, you are always welcome in mine," Simon says, and then baulks and pauses, frozen in the spot as he splutters out a continuation: "I mean, my room. You're always welcome in my- I mean... yes."

Agh, what a fool he is!

Simon latches onto Alastor's question to avoid any further embarrassment and gives a fervent nod.

"And ah- yes! Yes indeed. I have committed myself to the dreadful endeavour of chaperoning Nana at all opportune moments. It has been horrible, but I have managed to locate a few of her jewels."

Unfortunately, one of her hiding places was the servants' outhouse, down which Nana threw one of her priceless pearl necklaces. Simon was desperate, but not that desperate.

But that did not mean he had escaped his mission empty-handed.

Simon fidgets with his sleeves once more, and sucks in his lips as if trying to gather courage. It's an expression Alastor must be familiar with, one Simon's face conjures when he knows he has given into something decidedly naughty, exhilarating and maybe dangerous. Anxiety and maybe a bit of shame. But also steady resolve.

Simon straightens his posture and brings his hands towards the strands of hair that frame his face. Then, he brings his fingers between his silken locks and pulls them behind his ears to reveal not only two piercings but, most importantly, two large, dangling gold and diamond earrings that glitter in the room's abundant lamplight.

His expression is a bit coy as he glances towards Alastor.

Her exuberance was what separated Fitzgerald so readily from the other eggs, in his opinion. While she harbored quite a few similarities with the other egg girls, none of them - nor the egg boiz - had ever really caught his attention in such a way. Perhaps it was because he had actually contributed to her making that he found himself leveraging his role as a general 'caretaker' of her safety. That, and he had not wanted to disappoint Pentious, at some point.

But he knew it had grown beyond that, by now, his expression slightly fond as she seemed to carry on with her impromptu performance.

Alastor had to wonder how she seemed to conjure up such lyrics.

"Write that yourself?" He asked when she'd paused. "I could see it going platinum in certain circles."

Fitzgerald took Alastor's compliments eagerly, nodding along as he posed his questions and comments. She took a bite of her melting ice cream sandwich before replying.

"Fitz is singer."

But not as original as expected. She did not have the proper vocabulary to explain that she had heard the song in a movie.

She closed her eyes when the first suds of soap began to coat her smooth shell, but then turned towards her boss with another announcement in mind.

"And Fitz big. So big. Pwincess."

She reached her twiggy arms as far up as they could reach to accentuate her mighty size, which was perhaps two or three ounces more than she had been at the time of her creation. And around the size of the ice cream wrapper still in her grasp. She smiled, certain and elated that other Boss kept telling her she was growing.

It had been difficult for him to contend with, the more he thrived in Hell. To have a chain and thread wound so tightly around his throat; to dance when told to dance, to fetch when told to fetch. A perfect dog - the prized hound. And even now, he knows that if he is told to leap; if he is told to bite -

He will have to.

Alastor is silent for a few lingering moments, until Pentious expresses his own hopes, predictable as it is, and yet still marginally reassuring to hear. To be fought for - it is a new feeling to harbor. He might not have believed it, had there not been time after time in which Pen has shown and expressed that he is committed. To whatever this is. To a partnership of a kind which Alastor has only almost known one singular time, forced to shatter it entirely because of his own fear and trepidation.

And now he has a second chance.

His head turns when prompted, glancing at the other as he is drawn to do so, unable to keep the slight back-and-forth swish of the tail behind him.

"I am yours for as long as I can be," he murmurs in turn, leaning to gently nudge his head against Pen's before he pulls back enough to listen to what he is being told. It's a curious segue, but not unrelated, he supposes, glancing down at the other's scales as they are illustrated in the vision he does not quite have.

"Dandelions." He smirks, somewhat, thinking through the descriptor. He can, at least, parse the yellow of Pen's various features, but the rest is muted and muddy. But even so, he is drawn in all the same.

"I would have said like the sun."

Eugh. Such sap that he is incapable of except in a moment like this with this one specific sinner. But it is drawn from him in such odd ways with the other's soft touches and heartfelt words.

Pen smiles when his offered descriptor is elevated from a weed to the source of all life on the Earth they once called home. That's right. The sun before his death had looked yellow. Not red, like it did in Pride.

Another nice detail to recall.

The serpent leans closer and meets Alastor's lips in a gentle kiss, not letting the proximity between them break further than mere millimetres once they separate.

"Say more things. Convince me to stay until I mussssst rest," he orders, but the words escape much more like a plead. He knows they must eventually part ways to gather their strength before the battle. But he does not want to go just yet. He wants to inhale Alastor's scent for longer. He wants to describe more colours and hear more of Alastor's filtered voice.

"Black queen?"

There were no black queens that he could remember. Right now, there were three - tawny and grey and spotted. But none black. The more Precious seemed to fret, the more likely it seemed as though the medicine cat's assessment of him was correct. Perhaps he had simply been dreaming. And to rile everyone up so soon before a skirmish was risky - and distracting.

Silently appreciative of Spidershine's ability to reassure when the white tom made an appearance, Stagtooth nodded in agreement.

"They're in the nursery with the queens as they have been all night. I promise you, they will be fine while we head out."

And for the moment, he turned away to join the rest of the battle party, lead by Morningstar as they, along with the medicine cat and Precious as an assistant, headed out for the oncoming collision with Airclan. Stagtooth had not prepared Precious much for what they would see and encounter out there, with the understanding that he would remain back far enough with their medicine cat for it to not matter. But as he sped up to a run alongside the others, he thought that it might have been prudent.

Oh well. Too late now.

Without any mortal wounds.

He flattened against the ground in fear of the stranger clan, even if the medicine cats were spared from the battle itself. The scent of them stood in stark difference to the Fireclan. Their scent told Precious of strength too. Strength and aggression.

"Is that brown tom the leader of Airclan?" he asked, though he was certain it was so. He was large and formidable, and spoke to leader Morningstar in a way that no other cat would dare to.

"Yes. That's Rockstar. Pompous, arrogant. He has been their leader for many, many moons, and he does not let anyone forget it. He is not wise like a leader should be, but he is strong. One of the mightiest warriors I can remember."

Sir Precious swallowed and bowed his head in understanding. And almost as soon as he did, the rival cats engaged in fiery combat, which was unlike anything Precious had ever seen. The wildcats growled and hissed and clawed and bit each other in a mixture of practised strategy and warrior instincts. It was hard and gruelling to watch, but Presh could not look away. Especially when Stagtooth was right there in the middle of the battle, his wounds still likely aching.

Presh's only respite from the action was when an injured cat limped back to him and the medicine cat, forcing him to focus on following orders and delivering needed herbs to the injured.

After tending to a third bleeding cat, Presh's eyes returned to the stream, and the cats fighting by its flow. Ah, he hoped no cat fell in!