#cassmel

What little I know of it, I discovered through Melchior anyways. Hexatheon could never offer me that feeling of transgression, because the rewards for good boy behavior were never on the fucking table anyways. And—I don’t wanna say I tried, because I didn’t, not if we’re being honest here, my silly little head and I—I did spend time in temples, I did listen to prayers, I did ask to make small talk. Hey, what do you think of magiani? That they’re cursed by some inherent mistake of a daring womb breach? Well, I don’t like you either. I think you’re a waste of a thrust, asshat.

Sacrilege was something I just did by existing, by the sheer size of my body, a flag of everything gone wrong in this world. Like culture, worship was denied to me. And then, I stumbled upon a shrine. And who would have thought!

Sometimes, god talks back.

He doesn’t know I think about him this way. It would feel—strange? Weird? A strange, red man finds god in his lover, and what of it? There’s sex, and the whole dom thing, and then there’s this. I’m finding worship isn’t just being on your knees. It’s scary how deep that thing runs, like pathways I had no idea were even a thing, branching and interconnected in a web I can’t comprehend. Is that what devout people believe, only with silence on the other end of the action?

Fuck’s sake, it reminds me of my mother, except my mother yelled. Could you say thunder is the gods yelling at us?

„Crown for your thoughts?“ Melchior asks, throwing his head back from his awkward position to look at me properly. Earrings still hang from his ears, cast over the pillow.

„Nothing I can put into proper words, aloud,“ I say softly and look away. How can I say that I think he’s god? How can I say he’s the force that makes the world go forward? His lips are open just so, enough for a small show of teeth. His breath smells of wine and morning. My hand traces the markings on his ribs, light as a feather. He smiles and settles a little more comfortably.

I want to eat him.

My kiss is not gentle, though it is soft. I press with barely contained hunger, and my body shakes with it. When did I get quite so bold? He kisses me back, leisurely, as if to go against my flow. Part of me wants to resist, to press on, but there’s a small voice in my head that says otherwise. Was this a demand or a suggestion?

Sometimes, you can turn down a god’s request.

I don’t make my kiss gentler. My tongue brushes against his, and he follows suit. When we part for air, he smiles, deceptively calm. „I’ll remember this,“ he says. I’m looking forward to it.

„May I?“ I glide a finger over his jaw and neck, and lower. He settles on the bed and throws his head back. I kiss his nose in thanks and press my lips to his jaw, to the harsh little hairs that grow there, and make a line to his ear. His skin is warm under my touch, slightly sweaty too, and I lick away at his neck. There’s something about the sensation of my lips on his body, his fingers in my mouth, the weight of his dick, too.

He breathes out softly, for whose benefit I don’t know, but it adds to the whole experience anyways. My tongue dips in the hollow of his collarbones, all along his chest; his nipple hardens in my mouth. His hand digs in my hair, a command, and this time I listen. Not like I wanted to move anywhere, my dear blueberry lover.

Warmth falls on my naked back. We have nowhere to be, not yet at the very least; we don’t often have days like this, just the two of us, no real life standing in our way. My heart feels warm too, and I rest my head on his chest.

Sometimes, god is within reach.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks, a little petulantly. I laugh and bite softly at the middle of his chest. “Cassander.”

“Are you in charge right now?” I ask quietly, grinning. What’s gotten into me? He’s gonna retaliate, maybe twofold, and I’m looking forward to it. Is that what this is about? It feels like there’s a string of power beneath my skin, a bloodstream of a silly, temporary variety, a fucking crazy idea I’d cooked in my silly little head.

Is this what he feels when he’s all Daddy, all center of gravity? I nip again and look him in the eye. He lifts an eyebrow. “Hey,” I tell him, smiling, “we go at my pace today.”

“What is it that you often say? I hate you, but you sound like you’re very enthusiastic about it?” Melchior laughs. “That’s what I am feeling now. It is not often I can have you like this.” He then grins, showing me his fangs. “You’re in my claws next, though. And I will not be merciful about it.”

I kiss his chest. “Holding ya to it, big guy,” I reply. His body relaxes under mine, naked, and it looks like an offering. I stare at him, suddenly aware what I’m doing, who I’m pretending to be. Are my hands truly that trustworthy?

“Cassander?”

“Are you sure?” I ask, swallowing. “That you’d like me to—“

“Cassander,” he coos and buries his fingers in my hair. “I trust you with my life, and my work, and the Lilac Company.”

Wow. That’s a whole fucking lot of things to be responsible for. I laugh, but it sounds like I’m playing a bad note on a faulty lute. I am a horrible fucking lute. “Are you sure? I mean, I’m not a natural at this. I’m just pretending I’m good at this. I don’t know what possessed me--”

“You have been doing just fine until now,” he points out matter-of-factly, and not like someone whose boner is touching my thigh. Wow, what self-control. “Have more faith in yourself.”

“I’m a bad fucking god to have faith in,” I mumble, “but sure. I can try.”

They also never tell outsiders that the Undercity truly is… under. I've always imagined it as more figurative, y'know, no fancy houses here, only poor people exist here? There's a city in the middle of a fucking lake.

What do you do when you're down under in the Undercity?

You get up over.

Fuck, even my inside my head jokes are now stupid. And okay yeah, maybe I never bothered to buy a map of Velantis, or borrow one or whatever, just so I could see the Undercity is not the Overcity. How the fuck could I have known I'd end up here? How'd I have known this job would go to shit so spectacularly?

Okay, okay, think of better things! Think of that beautiful melusine you spent a really good night with! Not that you don't think about him often, and his enchanting voice and his beautiful face and the way you felt safe in his presence! His fingers too, his kisses, his—

It's not like you'll see him again, Cassander. Because I can't have nice things. Because whoever's up above is getting off on my suffering.

Because you don't—

It's crack of fucking dawn. I can't sleep. My head feels heavy, my heart feels like it's been stuffed with lead, my body aches from the injuries from Dirandan. My throat burns with the need to yell, but my soul feels listless. I don't want to make decisions. I don't want to have to fend for myself.

I just want to fall asleep and wake up when I'm all fucking healed up, normal as any normal person goes, never too much, never like this. Maybe I shouldn't wake up at all.

Listen to me, a voice says, and it sounds like Sero. You're going to get up, you're going to shave and brush your hair, and you're going to walk one foot in front of the other until you can run again.

Shadows play on the walls. A tear slips from my eye.

That contract may have blown in your face, but what can you learn from it? How can you use what was handed to you to your advantage? Think, Cassander. Here I thought I'd picked up the most promising apprentice the Order has seen in the last 40 years.

I don't know about the most promising part. I sure feel like a collosal failure right now.

Are you going to fail me?

It doesn't escape my notice that I'm talking to myself. It doesn't escape my notice that I'm pretending I'm Sero just to will my body into motion.

It does hit me, belatedly, that I'm talking out loud. Great, I've lost my marbles somewhere in Dirandan. Maybe my dear friend Aeran stole them when he ran with Solarath? Please don't crack them, I need a functioning brain.

If he stepped on them right now, I would say thank you and kiss the foot that did it. He's always put his right foot first. Don't these boots taste nice?

I sit up and feel the ground with my bare feet. I recall Sero's advice from ages ago, when life was simpler and all I had to do was show up. When you feel like you're losing touch, try finding things that ground you in the real world. Use your senses.

My senses. I can feel the cold floor on the soles of my feet and the sheen of sweat on the skin of my back. I can see the tiny room I currently call home. I can see Shadowfall peeking behind my pillow and I can feel the warm metal of my Wayfarer pendant under my fingers. I can feel my hair tickling my shoulders, and for fuck's sake, I can already sense a tangle.

My hands aren't as shaky anymore. When did they get so shaky? How am I going to get that tangle out?

One pass at a time.

One foot at a time.

I stand up, stretch my back and go grab my shaving and hair kit. My head feels heavy, but not as much. That's good. That's good.

One foot at a time before I can run again.

I sit at the small table and take out my tools. I yearn for the hair oil they used in Mahanin, but this.. what is it? Mint? Sage? Who the fuck makes sage hair oil? It's the best I could buy here, and it holds no candle to my Vestran orange one. It should work for my frizzy, dry curls though. This shaving oil smells nice, however.

I suddenly trust myself with a razor again. My hands feel normal. My fingers smell like sage and something fresh. My face feels as smooth as I like it. The oil makes it easier to get the tangle out. Thanks for cooperation, hair! Really needed the mercy there.

I braid it out of my face and tie it back, put on a nice protective scarf. Dark purple doesn't exactly work with my particular shade of red, but it's nice enough.

I finally feel like I can breathe again.

I'll have to do it all again tomorrow just to breathe, but it's better than nothing.

Cassander holds his gaze for a long time. He taps his fingers on the table, trying so hard to sit still under the onslaught. At some point, however, he drops his hand fully on the table and presses until his nail beds turn pale. “No,” he says, and his voice breaks. “It’s just that– Fuck. Why am I like this?” 

Melchior sighs. Cassander isn’t looking at him, shoulders bent under the weight of his own head. Hair shadows his face against the bright daylight that reflects against the gold in his long ears. Parts of  the tattoos covering his arm hide with him, yet the brightness of the roses on his forearm catches attention. 

Almost enough to make Melchior miss how his shoulders shake. 

Chair creaks as he rises, settling the papers that rustle when his hip catches on them. His slippers make no sound when he rounds the table and comes to stand by Cassander’s side. With a gentle hand, Melchior removes hair from Cassander’s shoulders; the curls, heavy and coarse, seem as ill equipped for such soft touch as Cassander himself. 

Cassander breathes a little cry-laugh. “I’m trying to be miserable here,” he says. “Stop trying to make me laugh.”

“That was not my intent,” Melchior responds. “I was trying to offer solace.” 

Cassander lifts his head and looks Mel in the eye, bewildered. “I know,” he whispers. “I don’t think solace will fix my head, but– Look, I don’t mean half the things I say, okay? Especially not– not this. You con people, sure, but you’re not playing with my heart, and here I am, accusing you of doing your job. No, that sounded wrong. Go scam rich people, I don’t care. Do your job elsewhere. I am not your job. I’m just an impossible to deal with fuckbuddy you keep around for whatever fucking reason and I’m making this even harder for you.” He blinks. “Not like that. Not all the time, anyways. I’m sure you’re not hard for me right now. That’d be weird. You’re angry, right? You’re probably so angry deep down but you’ve seen a lot of nutcases like me–” 

“Cassander,” Melchior says in a low voice. Cassander nods and looks away. “Go weave, or sew. We will talk later, after you’re not one hair’s breadth away from jumping out of your skin.” 

“That’s an order, boss?” Cassander says, in a strange voice. 

“Alternatively, you can kick something,” Melchior adds. He isn’t angry, not really, but he is starting to feel like conversations need to happen later. If today needs a boss, he will step up to the task. “No fights with the crew. We cannot talk when you’re like this.” 

“Got it,” Cassander says, frustrated. He stands up and marches to the door, playing with the tail ends of his hair. He closes them louder than intended; Melchior watches for a few more moments before he sits down again and rubs his face with his hands. 

It is true he is not angry, but he would be lying if he said these moods of Cassander’s didn’t make him exhausted. It is hardly Cassander’s fault, of course; no sane person would choose this kind of suffering. He doesn’t take any of the accusations personally, either. Were he younger, were his life less full of a senseless number of years, perhaps. Now, all he does is sigh deeply and rub his temples. 

He loves Cassander. When he chose to invite him into his life as a partner, he knew it would be through joy and difficult times alike. That same love makes it difficult to watch him struggle, but he knows far too well that Cassander needs to make the call himself. There are people who can help; he just needs to reach out. All Melchior can do is wait and pray. 

The manuscripts glare at him in an accusatory manner. He feels restless. He’s suddenly all too aware of the half-empty cup of tea Cassander had made him, and he downs it with a grunt. 

Someone knocks. 

“Melchior?” Kit’s head peeks through the barely open door. “We need you at the rehearsal. We can’t seem to decode one of the scenes.” 

Good, Melchior thinks. There’s work to be done before he can talk to Cassander properly. That’s good for taking his mind off things a little. 

***

Evening falls on their little troupe. Running a company of actors requires a lot of time and a lot of work, a work Melchior deeply enjoys, and time spent with his people, his friends, never a time wasted. 

However, his thoughts turn, ever so slightly, to Cassander throughout the day. Melchior hasn’t seen him at all since breakfast, and the troupe hasn’t either. He trusts Cassander can take care of himself; he’s a Wayfarer after all. His heart aches a little every time he remembers what had happened, but he brushes it off. 

It is, after all, temporary. 

Cassander finds him when Melchior retreats for a pause. His clothes are fresh, his hair braided away from his face, long and sad. There’s a bruise on his right hand. 

“No civilians were harmed in the making of it,” Cassander says by way of explanation. “I was trying to stick it to the wall. Sero taught me just how hard I can hit it before I break my hand.” 

Melchior blinks. “What?” 

“You never had wall hitting lessons?” Cassander tilts his head. “You never had a don’t rage at other people talk? It was either the wall or some unfortunate fucker. Lots of dwarves today for some reason.” He stops. “I don’t like kicking people while they’re down.” 

“Are you less angry now?” Melchior redirects the conversation and rubs his neck. “Will you bite my head off?” 

“Depends if you’re a dwarf,” Cassander says, in a joking voice. “For real, though, I’m not as on edge as I was today. I don’t know what triggered it, but I did feel like my skin was too tight and I figured talking to people further while I’m like this will just make me feel worse.” He sits on the bed and taps the place beside him. “Uh, I’m sorry about that. How you have the patience for me is beyond my wildest dreams. I would’ve kicked my ass out of here long ago.”

“Fortunately, no such luck,” Melchior responds. He looks at Cassander’s awfully bruised hand. “Where’s your medical kit?” 

“I can do it myself,” Cassander mutters and pouts. It’s unintentional, but delightfully adorable nonetheless. “It doesn’t hurt, it’s not as bad as it looks–” 

“I need your medical kit,” Melchior orders gently. 

“In the first drawer by the bed,” Cassander gives in, putting his hand gingerly on his lap. Melchior takes the kit out and sits beside him. 

“You sweet, poor man,” Melchior whispers and takes Cassander’s hand. He hisses a little when Melchior kisses the bruised knuckles. 

“What are you doing?” His voice goes a pitch higher, embarrassed. 

“Kissing it better,” Melchior simply says and opens a jar of herbal-smelling salve. Cassander doesn’t move his hand away, though he does hold it a little stiffly, when he starts rubbing it into tender flesh. 

“I’m not a kid,” Cassander says - whines - as he stares pointedly at his injured hand. “I can take care of it myself. Sirin taught me well enough–” 

“That I do not doubt, but let me take care of you. You’re not helping anyone by punishing yourself.” 

Cassander looks away. “Go fuck yourself,” he says, with no real heat. He huffs. “I– Fuck off. Just. You don’t– For fuck’s sake.” He sighs deeply and with feeling. 

“What happens when you love someone,” Melchior continues, gently spreading the salve, “is that you will have patience for them and not abandon them when it gets difficult. What happens is you take care of them, even on their bad days, even if they inconvenience you. Because this is a partnership, no?” 

Cassander is quiet. 

“This is a partnership, Cassander, not servitude,” Melchior repeats, massaging his fingers. “I welcome inconvenience from you because it means you are my equal, just as you welcome inconvenience from me.” 

“And the sex thing?” Cassander sounds strained. He flexes his hand.

“That is sex,” Melchior replies. “Relationships are more than just sex. If I ever make you feel like you are not cherished, I trust you’ll tell me.” 

Cassander lets out a chopped breath. He pulls Melchior closer and buries his face in the side of his neck; his eyelashes, wet with tears, tickle Melchior’s skin. 

Melchior puts the salve down and wraps his arms around him, lets his hands rub Cassander’s back and buries one of them gently, yet firmly in his hair. 

“Theoretically,” he responds. “I mean, yeah. A cuddle is nice. Kisses are great too. But this whole - how’d you called it, the adjective game? - feels like something that’s in fairytales for kids in their first relationships.” He leans back and crosses his arms. “They met, fell in love and told each other what they liked about each other’s bodies every night for a few days. I suppose these kids are fucking too.” 

Now, Melchior is entirely familiar with Cassander’s brand of jadedness. He expected this response. He knows not to take it to heart, especially because Cassander’s eyes keep darting to his, as if torn between anxious adoration and the desire to squash it. Instead, Melchior sits there, patient, gliding a finger over the freckled skin of Cassander’s face. 

“There’s more to like a body for than simply sex,” Melchior says. “This one is free of charge, of course, but for example, I like the shape of your nose. It makes for a majestic profile, perfect for the walls of an estate.” A theatrical pause. Cassander huffs again. 

“I also like–” 

“Ah-ah,” Cassander interrupts, with a smile. “That makes two. I’d owe you one. What more can I give you that you don’t already have?” There’s such a soft sincerity to it, invisible to Cassander himself, that makes Melchior’s chest warm.

“I’ll demand nothing you can’t take,” Melchior replies, softly leaning in. He almost gives a throaty chuckle when Cassander breaks eye contact and shakes his head. Melchior chases his face, but they end up hitting noses at an odd angle. 

Cassander laughs, unexpected, loud and high-pitched. Melchior laughs with him, playing with a strand of his hair. 

“Don’t wanna burn the whole place down,” Cassander says once the laugh subsides. His voice is tinted with amusement. 

“So?” 

“So what?” 

“Do you accept my proposition?” 

“I…” Cassander leans back and taps his nails against the table. He then rubs his face. “Do I have the option of backing out?” 

“Of course,” Melchior replies. He watches the shadows play over the fiery roses inked on his Wayfarer’s hand and forearm. “I never wish to make you uncomfortable, unless it is what you ask of me. And even then.” 

“Yeah, consent’s very important,” Cassander mutters. “This can go between I like your dick to I like the curve of your left ear?”

“Exactly. You can make it as sexual or non-sexual as you like. The only rule is that we exchange them once a day for a week, as long as we’re both agreeing to it.”

“I’ve faced fucking monsters less scary than this,” Cassander says, though his annoyance seems more aimed at himself. “Okay, fine. We can try. We can do this. It’s just words. Words have meaning, and words can impact, but it’s– it’s good words, you know? Kalon rhēma.” He then adds quietly, “Kalon rhēma..” 

“Kalon rhēma,” Melchior repeats in an accent that probably rings ancient to Cassander’s ears. But the accent doesn’t matter when the intent is good. He leans in and kisses Cassander softly, and somewhere in another room, the Lilac Company laughs. 

***

The day after their agreement, they hardly see each other. Melchior is busy preparing a new play, he’s trying to win a music score and everyone seems to need his attention. Cassander comes at one point to bring them something to eat, himself busy with errands and work, but they don’t get a moment together. 

A shame, Melchior thinks. He finds a lot of people intriguing, he’s seen many come and go from his life, and it is not often that he lingers on the sensation of noticing someone’s absence these days. But he feels Cassander’s absence; he feels the days where they don’t see each other more heavily than he’d done so for a long time. 

It is only in the evening that Melchior gets to see him. Cassander is sitting in the company common room, propped by the pillows, lost in thought. Shadowfall gleams unsettlingly in his hands, bare in the moonlight, but he isn’t afraid of it harming him. A waterfall of red hair covers the hilt, highlighting the sharp bridge of his nose. 

“Hello, Melchior,” he says, raising his head. “How were the rehearsals?” 

Melchior blinks. “Kit almost broke her leg during a jump.” 

Cassander frowns. “Is she okay? I can straighten any–”

“She’s fine, Cassander. She shook the shock of it off as professionally as her job demands.” He walks over, eyes fixated on Shadowfall. Cassander sheathes it and scoots to the side. “How was your day?” 

“I did some deliveries for a quick pay, nothing special,” Cassander replies when Melchior sits down tiredly beside him. He wraps a hand around Melchior’s shoulders. His hand - the one with the inked flowers - reaches out to play with the ends of Melchior’s tunic. “Ayden gave me some of their new baked goodies to try today. Said it’s on the house for being a cute little helper. Now I don’t know about little, exactly–” 

“Your hands,” Melchior interrupts. Cassander stares. “I like your hands. You have long fingers. I find the way the flowers sit on your hand in motion very pleasing.”

“That,” Cassander clears his throat. “I like how your hair looks when it’s all messy and unstyled. Imperfect. Without illusions. Less of an act.” A pause. “Honest, in your own way.” 

Melchior cuddles closer. Cassander hugs him and softly plays with his messy, blue strands. 

***

The next day, Melchior leaves Kit in charge for a few hours to stare at numbers. Leading a troupe is often a busy, grueling work. He would not trade his people for the world, of course, but at some point, even numbers begin to look like past enemies, like dangers of Lyrian’s smile right before they pull him in trouble, like dalliances he should have forgotten already. 

And he has yet to learn to resist the pull. Thankfully, the choice is made for him. 

A kitten, naked and pink like a baby bird, jumps on his lap. He meows around the green ribbon in his mouth and tilts his wrinkly, small head to look into Melchior’s eyes. Melchior gives him a small pet behind his ears. 

“Balthazar!” Cassander screeches from the door, grabbing the doorframe like his life depends on it. “Workout’s nice and all, but it’d be nicer if you didn’t steal my fucking hair tie!” 

Balthazar digs his small body into Melchior’s shirt. Cassander spots him and squints, trying to fight a smile. 

“Gotcha,” he says confidently, and it looks beautiful. It makes the corners of his eyes crinkle just so, his whole face softens and the scar on his cheek forms a misshapen line. He strides to where Melchior is sitting, leans down to gently get a hold of the kitten, and pulls the hair tie from his maws. He even manages to smoothly drop a kiss to Melchior’s cheek. 

Melchior laughs. “Let him be. He is innocent.” 

“He’s a thief,” Cassander retorts and hugs Balthazar to his chest. “We're a little naked thief, yes, we are, little man!” Balthazar meows in protest and wiggles, reaching a paw to the hair tie. Cassander giggles and kisses his pink head. 

Melchior watches his wide, gummy smile disappear into another kiss. Then, Balthazar decides to bite an unsuspecting strand of hair. 

Cassander sighs. “Cats,” he grumbles without any heat. “If you ruin the curl pattern, you’re giving me one of your own, you naked beast. Sorry if he bothered you, Melchior. It’s just that– I’ve been chasing him all over the damn place and I know you guys are busy. Someone’s gotta watch over the kitten, right?” 

“I needed a break anyway,” Melchior waves a hand. “He is a nice, if not an odd-looking distraction. I do like your smile, Cassander. It suits you.” 

Cassander looks away, cheeks tinted red in the sunlight. 

Later that day, he stops Melchior in the kitchen to whisper, “I like your smile too.”

***

The day after, he has Cassander pinned to a wall, biting urgently into his neck. Days’ worth of absence have caught up to him. 

“I do quite like your ass,” Melchior whispers into the heated skin between bites. Cassander’s neck looks like a garden of blooming roses. His eyes are heavy-lidded.

“And I have a feeling I’ll like your cock soon,” he says between pants, half-way between a witty remark and genuine comment. 

“Let us see how correct your feeling is,” Melchior whispers and kisses him again. 

***

“Turn a little to the right,” Cassander shakes his hand vehemently. “Not that much. Just– I need to see the flow of the fabric, not a twirl.” 

Another on his long list of professions over the years, Melchior can now add a serithan model on it. He obeys with a small smile, happy to support his partner’s project; he had discovered, much to his sadness, that Cassander for a long time did not have a hobby. Having pastimes is key to a journey of healing, after all, and if spending an extra hour at night on work means taking care of his partner’s mind, that is a risk worth taking. 

Besides, Cassander gets an adorable little wrinkle between his brows when he concentrates. And Melchior enjoys having someone’s attention so intently. 

“You’re cute,” he says when Cassander adjusts the fabric on him. Cassander sticks his tongue out in response. 

“Let me do my job,” he mumbles. Melchior pulls at a stray curl. “Let me do my job!” 

“I can’t keep my hands off you, it would seem,” Melchior shrugs and shimmies. 

Cassander lifts his hands and puts them on his hips. He holds Melchior’s gaze; light from a nearby window brightens his red eyelashes. His eyes, equally red, seem to dig into the depths of Melchior’s mind, looking to bend it to his will. 

“I’ll invent a new tea blend for you if you let me do my job,” he says, deathly serious. His hands rest on Melchior’s waist, not quite pressing, but present. Gold rings slide against the cotton.

Melchior’s too experienced to shiver at his tone, but it thrills him nonetheless. “Cassander, if I may,” he says. “Your eyes can be incredibly intense.” 

Cassander squints. “And your waist can be small, if you just stay still.” 

Melchior simply smiles.

***

“Hey, Melchior?” 

“Hmm?” 

“It’s the last day of our game, isn’t it?” Cassander whispers into Melchior’s chest. He chose to lay on top like a cat and Melchior had no heart to chase him off. Part of him thinks he’s taking after that silly kitten of his. 

“I wouldn’t personally mind continuing,” Melchior runs a hand over the scar on Cassander’s back. His hair, messy and dark red, tickles Melchior’s sides; the heat of his bare, textured skin leaks onto Melchior’s own. There’s so much to explore under his fingertips, scars, tattoos, coarse hairs, patches of acne. “Would you like us to stop?” 

Cassander considers. “Yes,” he says after a time, sighing. “I’m just– I’m just not used to all this positivity. It makes me feel a little weird. Not because it’s you saying it, but because–” He groans helplessly. “My head’s fucked up, that’s all.” 

“I understand,” Melchior replies softly. “We will stop because you asked to.”

Cassander blinks. “That easy, huh.” 

“Yes. Consent is a must in any relationship,” Melchior murmurs. “Did you see the value of a body outside of sex? Value of a kind word?” 

“Kalon rhēma,” Cassander says. “I.. I do. It’s new to me, sure, but I do.” And then, he adds quietly, “It hasn’t been like this since Senna. Aeran is..” He laughs weakly. “He’s many things, wholesome even. Sometimes. We never did this, though.” 

“I am happy to be the first,” Melchior kisses his head. Because he loves this strange, red elf, in his capacity as a Wayfarer, as a man, as a survivor. He has loved many people, and his love is not a finite thing, but he almost feels like he might love Cassander almost as much as he loves Lyrian. 

It is a very fascinating thing.

Cassander huffs and settles by Melchior’s side now. It’s a quiet summer night, and they both descend into a pleasant silence, sharing time and bodies.

Better yet, he also has a sphynx cat he’s carrying around like a newborn. Said cat has buried his naked, wrinkly head into Cassander’s side, kneading the air with his gnarly little paws.

“He is not meowing,” Melchior says with a smile. “He did as you told him to.” 

“Doesn’t mean he has to audibly chainsaw the bedframe with his purrs,” Cassander counters, affectionately kissing Balthazar’s head. “I didn’t wanna wake you up, but… Did we wake you?” 

“No, no,” Melchior sits up and stretches his back. “I awoke on my own accord.” 

“Are you also practicing your renaissance theater dialogue, my lord?” Cassander gives an exaggerated bow. “Perchance, for a court appearance?” 

“I am older than you, but not that old, Cassander. But if you’d like me to, I can bend you over my knee like patriarchs of old as my property– or should I say, spouse?” 

Cassander cackles. “Point taken. Shit for shat, tit for tat.” Balthazar meows in agreement. “Okay, now you can meow. Nobody’s sleeping anymore.” 

“Maybe my son and heir would like to give me affections?” Melchior suggests, tapping his thighs. Cassander walks over, sits on the bed and places Balthazar on it; it takes him around three seconds to figure out his favorite human isn’t holding him anymore, so he meows so despondently that Melchior’s heart clenches for a moment. 

“You’re mine now,” Melchior whispers menacingly and reaches out for Balthazar. Balthazar meows as soon as Melchior touches his body and drags him close to kiss his head, but relaxes as soon as Cassander holds his paw. “I don’t know what it is about you, but I have never seen a cat love a person so much.” 

“Do you not love me as well?” Cassander says in a quiet voice. His smile is genuine and bright, tugging his lips upwards to reveal his gums. He has a few crooked teeth. He seems to have freshly shaved this morning. 

“I do,” Melchior simply says. Because that is the truth. He loves Kathan, and he loves Cassander. He loves Lyrian, in his own way. With every one of them, it’s a little different. With Cassander, sometimes it’s good jokes and good sex and good company. Other times it’s holding his hands during an anxiety attack. And other times, it’s cuddling their naked, miserable-looking feline son on a Saturday morning. 

Cassander hums in acknowledgement. That is growth from when they first got together. He still blinks an emotion away, still clenches and unclenches the fingers of his free hand, but he’s made progress. “Care to kiss me too?”

And he sounds so soft, so fragile - similarly to Balthazar, pets and owners may start to look alike - that Melchior leans in and captures his lips in a soft kiss. He tastes like cooked eggs and milk. He must’ve eaten right before Balthazar demanded his utmost attention. 

The moment lengthens in increments Melchior doesn’t care to notice. He feels the tickle of Cassander’s hair on his face. Their noses touch. His eyes are impossibly big and impossibly dark this close, framed by long eyelashes and plucked eyebrows. 

“I love you,” Cassander says. Melchior kisses him again in response. 

“By the way, did you borrow Kathan’s shorts?” Melchior asks. 

“Mine were all in the laundry,” Cassander shakes his head. “It’s not as if you don’t like me wearing her things from time to time. That one crop top comes to mind.” 

“On her, it’s a proper shirt. You are simply tall.” 

“I prefer overstretched, but yes. Tall. Towering. Looming. Large. Infusion stick of a guy. Shaped as if a kid made me in play-doh and I’m a stick figurine.”

“Whatever the case may be, entirely too sexy for your own good more than anything,” Melchior laughs. Cassander clears his throat. 

Balthazar’s meow cuts the moment as it stands. Their feline son is feeling neglected. 

Melchior kisses Balthazar’s head again and runs his hand over his side. The cat wiggles his way out of his grip and settles between them, giving them little sad looks all the while, and places his head on a crease in the blankets. “He is so very spoiled,” Melchior declares. “A spoiled little baby.” 

“I think he’s kinda neat, personally,” Cassander shrugs and scratches the end of Balthazar’s back. 

“Of course you do,” Melchior says serenely. “He takes after his mother.” 

Balthazar makes a mrrrp noise. Cassander chokes on a laugh. 

“You are an asshole,” he says. “I am filing for divorce.”