#gerardmacanthos

☽ blame it on the alcohol

for my muse to drunkenly confess feelings to yours

                                He hasn’t been this intoxicated in –– forever, actually. Alcohol is not, and has never been one of his vices. It takes away control; leaves him IMPAIRED and not thinking clearly. And when he feels his control begin to slip, the FEAR begins to seep in. He should have said no when Gerard offered him a drink, Caius knows that. How he was able to be convinced into this is a mystery. Yet here they sit, in silence, an impressive collection of empty bottles set on the table in front of the two of them; most of them Gerard’s, admittedly, but for someone who rarely ever touches a drink, Caius has had his fair share. And, as if that isn’t enough, Gerard has raided the kitchen’s supply of liquor, soon returning with a shiny bottle of whiskey. Caius groans at the sight of it. 

                               ❝ Stop that. You haven’t truly been drunk until you’ve had this shit. ❞ he waves it in his hand like some sort of  p r i z e  before settling back down into the seat beside them, popping the cork off. Gerard pours himself a glass with a heavy hand, then takes the initiative to do the same for Caius. ❝ DRINK. ❞ he says, deliberately placing the cup right in front of him. Caius runs his finger around the rim but doesn’t argue with the man. Instead, he picks it up, tossing his head back with the alcohol at his lips. It’s a BURNING sensation on the way down that causes him to cough and shudder, but it’s the most alive he’s felt this entire night. So he does it  a g a i n.

                              ❝ Never took you for a masochist, Jacos. ❞ Gerard comments dryly, all too happy to pour him another glass. Caius shakes his head, wants to ask him what do you know about me anyway, but he keeps his mouth shut. Talking has never been much a part of their relationship —- if they truly even have one. Their companionship usually begins and ends with Kieran, which makes this night all the more rare, as their friend is nowhere in sight. But here they are, getting drunk in a corner of the palace, away from prying eyes, and there’s something on Caius’ mind that he’s never been bold enough to ask. Maybe it’s the whiskey, or the Gods know how many drinks that came before, but the thought has crossed his mind and now, he decides, he’ll finally let it out.

                               ❝ What would’yo do… if you were M E ? ❞ Caius’ speaks slow but deliberate, choosing his words carefully as to make sure he gets across exactly what he wants to say. ❝ You said… I was ‘astin my power. Well, what’a bout you? … What would YOU do with it? ❞ Caius sets his glass down on the counter, staring at the ring of liquor running around the edge. ❝ Avenge perceived wrongs? Create new ones against sm’one else? ❞ For the first time in the evening, Caius turns his gaze to look at Gerard —- despite his intoxication, still careful that their eyes never meet.

                                 ❝ Kill a king? ❞

                               The stoneskin could never understand the singer’s reluctance towards his power. Didn’t he see what an  a w f u l  thing it was, to never trust yourself around someone? To fear that even the slightest wrong phrase could force a person to become a version of themselves they’d never want? Or did he only see the potential for self gain, at the expense of those in his path? It kills Caius, slowly, every day. How could Gerard think that he should use it any other way? 

                               ❝ What’s so fucking GREAT about taking away someone’s free will? Please, tell me, because I can’t find it, and it’s  s u f f o c a t i n g. ❞ The tone of his voice is nothing short of bitter as this time, he reaches for the bottle himself. He knows what it means, to be used as a puppet, a weapon, to lose the ability to CHOOSE. He never wants to put someone else in that position, certainly not by his own doing. Would Gerard really act any differently, if given the chance? 

13: hand kiss

Somehow, by some miracle or gods above, it had happened. Victoria had won Queenstrial. No one, including herself, was really sure how it had happened. Her performance at the competition had actually been quite the surprise though. She had managed to create a tornado inside the room that had rattled the windows, broken a few glasses, made various items that had not been held down fly, and even managed to suck the breathe out of some spectator’s lungs. It had been an incredible feat for the girl whose powers had ever been rarely more than a breeze. But for Victoria, it had not been about winning. It had been about proving that even if she did not become Queen, she was still strong. She was not the weak thing that everyone had made her out to be. And though people had been impressed, no had ever guessed that she would actually win.

But yet there she was standing besides Dom at their reception as everyone of the court came up to congratulate the newly wed couple. She was a vision in white, he a brilliant groom in his Calore red, and they smiled and glowed as if they were the happiest people in the world. After all, why wouldn’t Victoria be happy? She was now married to the man that she had loved for years, a princess and the future queen. A new sparkling tiara sat on top of her head. She had gotten what she had always wanted…right?

Victoria smiled at the Tyros lord as she bid him adieu, thanking him for the gifts that he had bestowed upon her and her new husband. She was beautiful, gracious, poised, kind and generous. Everything that the future queen should be. 

“I’ll be right back wife,” Dom cooed into her ear with a smirk, kissing her cheek before he went off to chat and drink with some war generals and lieutenants. 

“Hurry back,” Victoria said back before turning to greet her new subject. But the person before her made her eyes widen a little in surprise. “Gerard.”

“Your Highness,” he said and bowed in a slightly overdramatic flourish that made Victoria want to roll her eyes. But princesses did not roll their eyes. He took her delicate hand into his rough one, pulled it towards his lips, and pressed his lips towards the back of it. Victoria was surprised that his lips were actually smooth and soft and not hard like the rest of him. “A kiss for our new princess. So…you got the prince. Is it everything that you ever dreamed of?”

Victoria could hear the tone of mockery and she pursed her lips slightly. It was not very princess like of her. But she hesitated on answering. Though she and Gerard had never had much of a friendly relationship, they had never lied to one another. He had always told it to her exactly as it was, never pitied her or coddled her. And just because she was his superior now did not seem to have changed that. He raised his eyebrows at her, waiting for her response, and Victoria just slid back on the brilliant smile that she had been wearing for long that her cheeks were starting to hurt. 

“Of course,” she told him, “I could not be happier.” And it was true. As she looked at over at Dom, Victoria had to tell herself that is was true. 

But Gerard just smirked at her, like he could see right into her thoughts, and she wanted to blast the expression right off of his face. “Go dance with Diana. That’s an order,” she commanded him, her own smirk coming to her face as his fell. And with that, Victoria turned on her heel and went to join her husband and continue to be the happy, glowing bride that she was supposed to be. 

Helene hadn’t been built for sparring; that much was clear after the third time the man took her down with relative ease. She was smaller than him, faster than him, but her long, lanky limbs made her clumsier, too. The blonde pushed herself back to her feet once more, dusting herself off as Gerard waited a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest. One more time, she thought, and she’d set fire to their “no abilities” agreement and, quite possibly, the man himself.

He knew better than to offer her a hand up. If he did, it’d come away burned and blistered before he could even think to turn it to stone. That was another agreement they’d come to, this one unspoken: though they might’ve been civil—if not friendly—outside of the training room, they left their camaraderie at the door.

“Again?” He wouldn’t succeed again, not if she had anything to do with it; a wave of indignation—fueled partially by familiar pent-up bitterness and partially by stubbornness—crashed over her, but instead of putting out her fire like mere water might’ve, it fanned the flames higher.

“Again.” 

This time, she let the stoneskin make the first move. His fist flew toward her face in a blur, and she ducked away from it, almost dancing out of the reach of his punch. Seraphina would’ve frowned at the lack of grace in the movement, and the very idea nagging at the back of her mind was enough to make the princess abandon any and all concern for fluidity.

This went on for several minutes. Gerard threw punches that practically screamed of dark bruises on the royal’s pale face, and the burner narrowly avoided each one, sometimes by a margin so small she swore she felt his knuckles brush her cheek. Her skin was already darkening in spots from earlier blows; she’d be damned if she let the stoneskin have any more small victories to boast of—even once Kieran Skonos erased the evidence, he wouldn’t let her forget.

He stuck his foot out to trip her, but the nineteen year old didn’t take the plunge alone. She took her opponent down with her, her shoulder digging into his chest as she stumbled forward and he fell backward. Sharp pain bloomed at different parts of her body when they made contact with unyielding stone, and the blonde let out a cry of anger and surprise.

He’d broken their agreement first. The woman started to roll off of the man-turned-rock as he returned to his normal state, his laugh swelling to fill the training room and shaking his body beneath hers, but the second Macanthos son pulled her back, his lips drawn back in a chuckle that was nowhere near as harsh as normal. “Not so fast.”

Then his mouth was on hers, and the youngest Calore’s burning hand settled on his arm, her most trustworthy defense against such an attack. Or so she thought. The dark-haired man flinched, his teeth coming down hard on her bottom lip, but instead of his retreat, she felt the skin of his arm turn to stone beneath her scalding touch.

He pulled away a moment later, and Helene drew the back of her hand across her lips, mild surprise evident in her blue eyes when it came away silver. Another laugh of his shattered the relative silence that had settled over the room, and just like she had every other time before, the princess forced herself to her feet, her entire body protesting the movement. 

One thing was clear: Gerard Macanthos was fireproof, and if she wanted to win, she’d have to find another way.

They were snowed in. Was that not typical? For the most part, the Macanthos home lying in such isolation was a good thing to Genevieve. It meant she need only avoid her brothers and her parents, and that was easily done in the vast, echoing corridors. But with Yuletide’s approach came the thick fall of snow, muffling the world around them into glittering solitude.

It was Genevieve’s task, at seven years old and therefore very much the baby of the family, to help with the gingerbread men. There wasn’t an artistic bone in her body and she really, really didn’t want to, but father was sitting there at the vast kitchen table poring over a map, and he told Genevieve that he expected her to produce a veritable army of gingerbread men, enough to feed the alleged guests that were supposed to be battling their way to their ancestral home. The servants had been instructed to make up batches of brightly coloured sugar icing, and under the watchful eye of her father, she was to decorate.

She really, truly loathed the holidays. She was dressed in a Macanthos-blue frock, with grey ribbons in her hair to match her stockings, despite her insistence that she’d be far more comfortable in trousers, but because it was Yuletide, they had to be a perfect family. With the hearty fire of rebellion glowing in her belly, Genevieve stood on her little stool and scowled down at the gingerbread men. They were all perfectly formed into neat little regiments, ten big men and ten big ladies, and five little boys and five little girls, all waiting for their icing. Glancing behind her, Genevieve gathered up the broken shard of gingerbread that hadn’t made the final cut, and carefully whittled it into the shape of a sword. They were Macanthos’ - surely their gingerbread counterparts ought to have gingerbread swords to wield?

“Genevieve, why don’t you make one of those little biscuits for your brother? The Eagrie girl isn’t able to come; perhaps he wants cheering up,” Geoffrey intoned, barely looking up from his battle plans yet somehow still able to see her distraction. “It would be my pleasure, daddy,” she said blandly, and they both knew that her heart wasn’t in it. Gerard had tripped her up too many times for her to care if he was angry that Diana couldn’t come. With hands still chubby with youth, she simply smeared an inelegant red line of icing across the throat of one cookie, and toddled off down the corridors with it.

“Gerard!” she lisped (having recently lost both of her front teeth, most words came out in a whistle), “I made you a biscuit,” And she held out the little gingerbread man, snapped its head off, and dropped both pieces on the floor where they shattered into crumbs. Immediately she forced tears to her eyes, and let out a howl of misery. “Mu-u-u-u-m,” she wailed, grinning at Gerard as he frantically tried to pick up the pieces. He knew her game. Lavina stormed into the room, flushed with anger at being disturbed. “I made Gerard a biscuit and h-he-” She sniffed theatrically, rubbing at her eyes, “He STOOD on it! On purpose!”

Genevieve sniffed, wiping at her tear-soaked lashes with the hem of a silk dress that she couldn’t remember ever wearing. It had been years since she had cried, she thought, but she had just heard that Diana would no longer be marrying her brother, and she wondered if this was what it was like to have your heart broken.

In times of duress, she often hid in her wardrobe - it felt safer, scooped up within its dusty darkness where nobody could see her cry. Her best friend, her only friend had been snatched away from her, and nobody had thought to ask if SHE was okay because they were all too busy thinking of the mental toll it had taken on Gerard. Her hands shook with grief; the weakness felt like an indulgence, and one she had earned.

All of the clothes around her were supposed to muffle the sound of her tears, but she heard a rough, familiar voice call out-- “Gen!” As though he were about to yell at her about something. He was always shouting these days. Then, confused, as he came further into her bedroom and saw the absence of her. “Gen?” And she hiccoughed, a sound her hands couldn’t quite contain. She heard him sigh then; he hadn’t found her in her closet since she was about five years old. Light flooded the enclosed space, and her sticky silver face scowled up as Gerard appeared. To her surprise, he didn’t haul her out. Instead he clambered in, sitting toe to toe with her.

“Don’t close the-” she began to say, voice thick still from the tears. But it was too late, and he’d pulled the door shut with a click. “It locks from the outside when you close it,” she said in a small voice, staring blankly into the darkness. “Oh,” he said, “Fuck,”

“Yeah,” Genevieve agreed, sniffing. She felt an awkward, heavy hand on her shoulder in a semblance of comfort. “I’m not crying because I’m sad. It’s dusty in here. There’s dust in my eyes,”

“That’s not yours,” Genevieve said, striking the back of Gerard’s hand with the flat of her dessert knife as he reached out to take some for himself. It was one of her favourite’s - a baked apple, hollowed out and filled with an almond paste drenched in honey - and she would be damned if her least favourite brother got a bite of it. If any of her brothers got a bite of it, in fact. But Lavina had seen, sharp as ever to acts of violence at her dinner table. “I don’t tolerate hitting at my table, Genevieve. You will share with your brother, or I will take that apple myself and deliver it to a starving Red on the streets,” she said, voice heavy and commanding in a way that let you know she wasn’t used to being disobeyed.

Something in being bossed around always managed to embarrass and irritate Genevieve, and she didn’t want to be the childish one and refuse to follow such a simple command. Gerard was smiling smugly at her; she scowled back, and wordlessly drew her knife down the centre of the apple. The bigger half she kept to herself, and the smaller half she pushed to the other side of her plate for Gerard. 

Bastard.

He dug in without so much as a thank you, and continued hailing them all with the story of his latest win in the Feats. As though their stupid games were worth anything. Skulking down lower and lower in her chair, Genevieve’s eyes were all but level with the table - which was preferable to watching flecks of apple skin flying from Gerard’s vulgar mouth. She had a spoonful of the dessert all ready to be consumed, but somehow she’d lost her appetite. Instead, she waited and watched for the most opportune moment, and flicked her wrist to send the food careening directly into the open mouth of her brother across the table.