#plaguedcount

15. A Hope We Don’t Get Caught Kiss

👍 OC in a crop top

Aight so, firstly – you’re welcome to toss Errol in! 

Secondly, it’s pretty simple. They’re mostly rescue mers who stay at the sanctuary because, for whatever reason, going into the wild isn’t an option. Jax (belongs to @hypotheticalandroid ) has his prosthetic, Cassius is mute, Julian and Asra have never been wild. Muriel (who I haven’t drawn yet but is a mer) is too gentle, and Lucio is too delicate (he’s got all these frilly fins, wouldn’t do good without, ahem, his many fin care creams and assortment of skincare products). 

Kofi doodle for @3rrol / @plaguedcount of her apprentice, Errol!

Welcome to Angst Central, May I Have Your Order? “4. A kiss where it hurts.” CW for implied homophobia, and death.

Five.

He needn’t be told he’s not supposed to refuse girls, but he doesn’t like them. Not like he’s supposed to like them. He never notices the daughters of lords, or the pretty girls from the commonfolk around High-Garden: he’s always noticed their sons, their boys: how their muscles flex when they lift something, or how close they stand to him during a jest or a sword fight, and how his heart flutters when he wins and he feels their warmth under him.

His androgyny is uncomfortable. Men like him always have a hard time in Westeros — he feels powerless against it, it’s stupid, it makes no sense. So when the boy kisses him and then never addresses him again, he cries his heart out to his Cousin Valerius.

He’s only 17, and he’s supposed to like the girls, chase after them, dance with them, but he only ever wants to dance for the boys, and kiss them, and make them blush. Sometimes he can, but it always ends up hurting in the end

Four.

Ten years later, when his position as Master of Whisperers has solidified, and his hard work is beginning to show it’s first blossoms, he’s not as powerless as he was when he was only a teenager, but sometimes he still feels like that boy. Running around the gardens, flirting, pretending he’s greater than he feels like, proud of his refusals and mysteries.

He has the power to refuse to get married, he has the power to not let anyone touch him, he has an amount of political power in his hands he never expected to have; that the boy he was never had, but it’s all the same anyway because he’s still all by himself. His work and Valerius as his sole companions.

There’s one Ambassador from House Martell he’s particularly fond of. Things are different in Dorne, because no one cares about these things not really. Not that they did in High Garden, you can kiss whomever you like there too, and same gender “close friendships” aren’t particularly frowned upon, but in the end, you’re expected to get on with it. You get a wife, or a husband, do your thing, and go on. If you want to keep your paramour, keep it, but you do your duty.

Not for this Lord of Sunspear. Anatole has always known his duty, to his job, to the crown, to his own expectations, but in this particular matter he refuses to bend, and there’s something about unbowed, unbent, unbroken as a promise to lovers which makes his blood boil, and the butterflies in his gut simmer.

It’s not an affair meant to last, clearly, but he can pretend it doesn’t bother him and tell his lover things like: “Oh dear, pretty words and flattery will grant you no favours” and pretend he means them.

(Does the Master of Whisperers, the Snake of Westeros, mean anything he says? Some days, the Snake himself does not know)

When he kisses him his yearning is so ingrained in his bones it has turned into an insatiable hunger, and it makes his lungs hurt.

Three.

This one he loved. He was a townsfolk from King’s Landing, a painter who worked in his little network of spies, and he adored him. He loved him so genuinely he often joked it should be quite convenient to him, if something happened, for if it came to the worst possible scenario — him betraying Anatole — at least he can make a living out of him.

It’s not really a funny joke, but he has a rather morbid sense of humour.

The only problem is he kept calling him Milord, and he cannot be with someone who can’t call him by his name.

“How many times I have asked you to call you by my name?” He repeats, undeterred.

“Many, but I simply can’t.”

“Which is why it’s irrelevant how much we might care about the other— do you have the papers I asked for?”

They never did anything, not physical at least. He drew him a lot, but they never kissed, almost never touched. Except for this time when, upon being handed the information he had gathered for him, Anatole deliberately took his wrist, pulling him closer and kissing his cheek.

“Perhaps in another lifetime.”

It all grew cold from there.

Two.

His hair is not like fire, but like the deep red of sunsets that reflect on water, and his eyes are the crispest grey he’s ever seen. Julian’s eyes remind him of snow, his hair of dying suns, and his voice makes his heart sing in his chest, but there’s a war going on, and he’s technically on opposing sides with him.

He’s never believed in any gods, not the Lord of Light, not the Seven, not any of them, but he might pick one and pray he survives not the war, but his star-crossed crush on the One Eyed Raven.

He doesn’t think he will, his actions betrayed him the moment Astaeria told him Julian had been taken prisoner and she was going to rescue him. She had the upper hand: she knew his caring for Julian would move him to act, she knew his caring for her would forbade him to leave her alone.

(She doesn’t know he also promised Valerius)

Ever since they did they’ve been orbiting each other; it’s bothersome and inconvenient, because he has the nerve to appear whenever he doesn’t need more emotions demanding to be felt inside of him.

Like right now, when he’s sitting in the loneliest corner of Winterfell he could find, and this bastard still managed to find him. He looks at him with wild eyes and trembling hands, feeling weak and pathetic and images of the last battle they were dragged into flashing in front of his eyes, forcing him to face that for someone who despises violence, he has ended many lives. Not just during this war and rebellion, but also in his job. Specially in his job.

He wants to push Julian away but he doesn’t do it. He can’t stand being alone when he’s afraid. He’s well aware he’s just as wanted for Treason as Valerius and Astaeria are, at leats in Lucery’s eyes. He knows his head had a price the moment he stepped down to become Astaeria’s Master of Whisperers and collaborator. If this is the price of glory, then he doesn’t want glory any more, and Julian is warm and dramatic and intelligent and a little dumb at the same time, and he’s so very alive, so very pessimistic, so very infuriating.

“It’s pathetic: a swordsman trembling because he ended a life, a life that wasn’t worth much in the end but a life. A Snake who feels guilt for his bite, a rose who apologises for having thorns,” he says, scoffing at himself.

“If I may be so bold, you’re the opposite of pathetic,” Julian says. “You’re brilliant, Anatole. Astaeria told me you were like this, and she was right: you’re a little hard to know but you’re caring, dedicated, you genuinely care for the common-folk of Westeros, you’re a loyal friend, you’re a very talented swordsman, and you’re beautiful. Sweet even, too sweet, perhaps.”

He could say some smart-arsed comeback, pat his shoulder and leave. Thank him at most. His games aren’t worth it any more. Everything has changed too much for his smoke and mirrors to be any worth. Not to forget he’s never been one to lie to himself — realism in the core of his luck, of his intelligence and insight, and there’s no use betraying himself with false notions.

Instead he says: “I no longer know where I begin and my job ends, or if who I had to be for it ate away all the remnants of who I was.”

“Do you believe in forgiveness?” Julian asks.

“Forgiveness? Why?”

“Do you believe even the truly heinous can be forgiven?”

He has no idea why Julian is asking this, yet he gives him his honest answer anyway. “No. Some things cannot be forgiven, but I do believe you can always come back.”

“Then there’s your answer. You’re not the only one who has done terrible things.”

He’s not entirely sure how it happens but his lips find Julian’s, and his heart feels less heavy.

One.

An arrow, a crossbow arrow, a fall, and shriek from Nightfyre. He’s running, running, running towards her because she is one of his few comforts in this cold world, one of the few people who knows him fully, who knows everything he’s done, and still choose him.

“No, Astaeria, please stay with me, focus on me, let me get you out of here, please—”

She dies, and he hates himself for it.