#isk

“Hey, Bronte.”

Bronte usually did not fare well with visitors but the elf staring at him seemed to find ways to make him almost… friendlier.

“Hello, how may I help you?” The blond elf punched his arm playfully “no need to be so fancy! I’m only your best friend ever”

sometimes it was scary how similar Oralie and Fintan were.

Bronte rolled his eyes and huffed a breath “very well, still, what are you looking for?” surely coming into his castle couldn’t just be for fun, then again, Oralie did seem to enjoy his company.

“I need a favour,” Bronte looked at her in question. The younger of the two grinned sheepishly “we cannot seem to get Fintan to answer to talk, so I thought maybe… you could convince him?”

Bronte snorted “may I ask what has conceived this idea?” Oralie gave him a knowing look.

he chose to ignore it.

“I am quite busy currently and would appreci-“

“you literally have nothing to do. You have been face-planted on your bed for the past few hours, which is good, your finally sleeping, but you have free-time so please? Or we will all go crazy”

He blinked, once. Then twice. Then thrice. “What makes you think I can convince him?”

Oralie gave him another knowing look “didn’t you guys fuck?”

Bronte was good at masking him expressions usually. It took long for one to decipher his face, a twitch of an eyebrow, a split second smirk.

but it did not take a skilled elf to decipher how he felt as his face turned tomato read and buried his pointed face in his hands.

Bronte choked slightly and half-heartedly agreed.

______________________________________________________________

“Well hello old friend,” the raspy voice echoed through his ice prison: made specially to ensure no flames may be sparked. Bronte knew how hard it was to surpress an ability, there had been a time he was forced to by the elven population. Yet he still voted for Pyrokinesis to be banned. It was simply foolish, although that seemed to be the ancients specialty.

foolishness.

“I hope this little meeting of your wont have you just sitting there sulking, councillor.” The voice was awfully smug.

Bronte hated that voice.

and loved it.

foolishness.

“Yes, actually Finan, we have plenty of information we need attained from you.” The brown haired elf’s clipped tone made the pyromaniac somehow grimace and grin simultaneously.

“yes, I do recall you needing information about Elysian. And I’m not giving any.”

Bronte has asked the guards to take a short leave outside of the prison so they could guard it effectively without risking them overhearing.

Fintan was still talked, not that Bronte was really listening. Fintan looked attractive even when he was weak, his eyes were beautiful.

unfairly beautiful.

foolishness

Fintan had sharp cheekbones, lying behind pale skin: paler than usual due to extreme temperatures and shit food.

Fintan was still speaking, his lips were somehow still fairly coloured despite placement.

What would it take to kiss those lips once more?

To feel his slender hands on his own body.

as Fintan began removing the clo- NO!

They were done.

they had to be councillors, that was the end. They didn’t love eachother.

or maybe… they did?

no… that was wrong.

foolish

______________________________________________________________

Fintan had stopped talking, and began watching his ex in mild interest.

Bronte was doing the thing again, where he was so lost in thought he forgot he wasn’t 25 anymore.

thousands of years it had been.

thousands.

“Please Fintan. We really need this.” Came Bronte’s overdue answer.

Fintan wanted to laugh.

but… when did Bronte say please?

never.

not unless-

Please Fintan, I need you, I need-

Fintan shut down the memory before the pain returned.

too late now.

the beautiful man standing in front of him had chosen.

the world over Fintan.

it was selfless, that was Bronte, selfless, beautiful, kind person.

with horrible people surrounding him.

Fintan was so angry that they banned Pyrokinesis, did they not know every night he was filled with grief over the friends they lost? Did they truly not understand that he was the cause of so much death.

did they not?

and then they expect him to give them answers, which would never happen-

soft lips touched his in a quick tiny kiss. Yet, somehow it lasted at least a hundred years.

Bronte mumbled an apology.

when had he got into Fintans cell? When has he approached him?

why were grey eyes staring at him with warmth? And freezing cold.

Fintan found himself immediately telling everything he knew about Elysian to the ancient bit younger than him councillor.

Bronte looked stunned, and then smirked pretending that that was the plan which had worked.

Fintan didn’t care, he thought there last kiss was going to be hundreds of years ago and yet-

Bronte seemed to realise what he had done, flushes, stood and began stalking away.