#ronor

As much as some people would like it to be, Halloween is in fact not an affair of great pomp and circumstance around the world. Depending on which one of them you asked, most would answer that they spent the day as any other day, others have minor little get-togethers for friends or family. Some years, Alfred throws a party for all of them, but after a few decades or so the gatherings have become less and less consistent.

This year, it ends up being him and Lukas. Usually, Mihai tries to make Halloweens at least somewhat special for his brother, but this time he'd been invited to some sort of arrangement by Peter which had promised lots of candy. Then Lukas had called to say he wanted to "get away" for the weekend, and Mihai figured he may as well do something for himself too.

He picks Lukas up at the airport and drives them out to a cabin he owns in Maramureș, which he keeps in case of a zombie apocalypse or nuclear holocaust, if he is to believed; his brother would say instead that "it's because he's sentimental." Regardless, Mihai makes use of it to escape the city and to hunt, quiet and tranquil tucked into the foot of the Carpathians.

The road looks miserable as they drive past. By this time, the leaves have wrapped themselves in kaleidoscope and shattered, leaving behind the skeletal limbs of their trees; the fields of grain have been harvested, and survived as little more than stumps emerging from the ground. Everything is dying, in this season, awaiting the cold blanket of winter to lay them to rest.

Mihai doesn't mind it. It's a suitable atmosphere for something like Halloween, he thinks, and says as much to Lukas. Besides, without a doubt, the farmers would start again to water their fields after the frost, and the leaves would come back in spring, greener and more alive than ever.

"Like us," he concludes. Lukas looks over at him from the passenger seat, and Mihai takes his eyes off the road just enough to catch sight of the thoughtful little smile on his lips.

"Well, I hope we don't come back greener," Lukas says.

"Depends on if you mean literally or figuratively, and in what way figuratively. I mean, plenty of times, I've–" He opens his mouth and lurches forward in imitation of throwing up.

The car lurches with him.

Lukas's fingers find his leg and pinch, drawing a yelp. "Watch the road."

He pouts. "I've driven this thousands of times. I could do it blindfolded," he mutters. He removes a hand from the wheel to rub at his smarting leg, but Lukas's is still there, his thumb brushing over the injured spot, soft and soothing. Mihai sees a glimmer of something red in his peripheral, and when he takes that hand, cold metal and hard stone press against his palm.

For a moment, it's almost wrong. Lukas freezes in his movements, fingers tensing in uncertainty, and Mihai's breath stutters. His focus narrows to their single point of contact, waiting for Lukas to stay or pull away, but then the moment passes.

Lukas unwinds, the tightness dissipates, and his fingers curl over Mihai's.

Recess after a conference in the U.S. is the ideal time to pay Vegas a visit. They rent a car, check into a double at a swanky hotel, and... Well, that's the only thing they really get done before he drags Lukas out to squander their paychecks (to which Lukas replies he must surely only mean his own).

They hadn't planned on it being just the two of them. They had made their rounds in the beginning, but everyone had been ruled out in one way or another, by their own design or not. Arthur had missed their flight by two hours by the time he woke up the morning of with an incredible hangover; Denmark was a massive "no, definitely not," according to Lukas; and Emil had simply made a face that looked like he'd been invited to watch kinky porn as a family bonding experience.

So, according to the hand fate dealt, it's just the two of them in Sin City, and the first order of business is to hit up the casinos. (The second is to drive out to a nearby nature reserve, because Lukas was "definitely not going, if all you plan on doing is getting drunk and bankrupting yourself.")

Mihai picks the fanciest-looking joint. When he strides in, it's with anticipation that he channels into twisting the ruby ring on his finger, and a smile that should tell anyone the wiser that a scheme is in progress. He sits at a poker table, offering Lukas a place next to him, but Lukas rolls his eyes and stands. Well, his loss, Mihai thinks, and watches the dealer shuffle.

The first game, he lights up a cigarette, and offers one to Lukas. Lukas shakes his head.

The second game, he feels warmer, and he undoes the next two buttons on his shirt, but his jacket stays on. If Lukas notices the cards he tucks into the sleeves, he doesn't say anything.

The fifth game, Lukas returns with a Cosmo, and this time when Mihai offers him a smoke, he takes it.

"Light?" he says.

Mihai tucks a cigarette between his own lips and flicks the lighter on. Lukas doesn't wait for him to finish–instead, he leans in, so close Mihai can see the untucked strands of hair brushing his brow, and lights his cigarette on Mihai's flame.

They get a few looks, but no one argues with the newcomer who's up almost six hundred dollars. Mihai breathes out smoke and grins. He may not be able to beat Miss Monaco, but several centuries of experience practically makes him a God among mortals when it comes to cheating at card games.

Lukas lets him stay for three hours and another thousand five hundred before dragging him away. "I'm hungry," he says, "and you've drawn enough attention."

Mihai cashes out with a smile. "No need to worry, darling, I've got nothing up my sleeves," he says with a wink that implies he definitely does.

Lukas is completely unconvinced, but there's a slight gleam of amusement in his eyes too. "So dinner's on you today with all that money you made, fair and square, yes?"

Mihai pouts. "Fine, but I call the shots the rest of the night."

"And what shots would those be?" Lukas says, raising an eyebrow.

"Get drunk enough off the money I made to get Vegas-married," Mihai says, grins toothily, and loops his arm through Lukas's.

"And who would be the unlucky bride?" Lukas asks, not pulling away. "Destined to wither away while you maintain your youth and good looks."

Mihai thinks about this. There is, obviously, one solution presented to his completely earnest ambition, but Vegas isn't exactly known for its enthusiasm for marrying gay couples. "Maybe if we put you in a wig and a skirt..." he says, even more completely earnest.

Lukas snorts and bumps him into a pool table.

Day 2: First Kiss

It's not romantic, as far as first kisses go. Kisses between them rarely are–they're stolen in the halls of their enemies' palaces, forged in the battlefield with the taste of iron on their tongue.

As far as first kisses go, Mihai figures, getting wasted on whiskey and going for the nearest attractive person who seems to hate you least is one of the more rewarding ones. It's made even better by the fact that, rather than shoving him away or punching him over the bar counter, Lukas is kissing him back with the same fervor, one hand behind his neck and the other fisting the cloth of his shirt.

"I'm so drunk," he announces when they pull apart.

"So am I," Lukas says, and pulls him back in.

Several thoughts are occurring to Mihai all at once. One is that when their governments had decided to convene their national representatives in a League of their own, they probably didn't expect the conferences to end (regularly) in fistfights, extravagant charges from the hotel bar, and one-night-stands that could potentially make the next bilateral visitation a tad awkward. Or improve the experience exponentially–whichever.

The second is that he has no clue how they got here. He acknowledges that there is a particular portion of his anatomy that has taken a liking to Lukas–not exceptionally the day they met but ever-increasing after that–but he had not considered that he would have the opportunity to lay hands (or anything else) on Lukas anytime soon. It wasn't through any lack of self-confidence; rather, the simple thought that if they had lived on the same-ish piece of land for two thousand years or so and had never known one another, much less known one another biblically, he assumed that they wouldn't just start now.

He really ought to thank their governments and the expanding realm of international relations for this opportunity.

The final, and slightly more concerning, thought is that there are perhaps several people in this same bar or in close enough quarters who would hate this. He's not sure, because it's not like he's had this conversation with Lukas before, or any conversation not involving small talk or diplomatic affairs or magic. Still, he thinks such people might exist, in the form of Denmark, maybe, or Sweden. They strike him as the possessive type. He has the idea to ask Lukas whether or not he's spoken for, but when his mouth is finally free, the words that come out of it are:

"My room, or yours?"

After two thousand years or so, one tends to think that everything to be seen has been seen, and everyone to be met has been met.

So when Knudsen tells him that there's one Rumanian nation waiting to see him, Lukas is surprised. Not because he doesn't expect diplomatic visits, or because he's unaware that there's somesuch country in Europe called Rumania, but because he cannot conjure an image of his visitor's face.

Ah, he thinks, like a realization has come to mind. He supposes it's only right–he has never meddled in affairs so far south, and they had never extended their reach northward. For most of them, there hadn't been a need to. A long time ago, he had sought distant lands and resources to pillage as the new maritime powers did, but he himself hadn't set foot far out of the north in centuries–he made his friends and enemies at home, out of his closest neighbors.

(His family.)

He shakes that thought from his head and focuses on pouring coffee. The past is past, and in the end, everything had ended all right. They all got what they wanted–mostly.

He tries instead to remember what he can about his visitor. The collapse of Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire was a mess, and he feels like the next few months will consist of nothing but a parade of newly-independent nations across his office floor, making bids for his (his government's) acknowledgment and goodwill. He doesn't look forward to it, but he supposes he can sympathize. He was in the same position not so many years ago.

But Rumania is not one of them, he recalls. The Ottomans had lost their European possessions to independence decades ago, and if Rumania had ever made his diplomatic rounds, then it was to governments closer or more important than Norway's. He sympathizes with this as well; up until recently, the world had seemed distant and vast, and only the tumult of the immediate had been important for countries like theirs. But then what should have been a skirmish in the Balkans had spiraled into a war that enveloped the Continent, killed the Sick Man, and America had shipped guns and then men over the seas to fight and die in lands far away from home. The world was no longer so vast–it is contracting at an alarming rate, and he feels it, and perhaps others do too.

Perhaps that is what brings Rumania to his door.

He sets the two cups of coffee on his desk, one across from the other. He has no milk or sugar to offer his guest, and he considers knocking on a few office doors to see if any of his coworkers might; before he can, there is a rap at his own door.

He opens it to a young man with straw-brown hair, who looks ill-at-ease in a suit that's slightly too loose for his thin frame. Lukas might have taken him for a new hire, sent to deliver a message or a summons, but beneath the nervous energy that the other man exudes, there's a peculiar gleam to his eyes, all at once guarded and watchful.

"Mihai Roșu," the young man says, face splitting into a grin. "National representative of the Kingdom of Rumania."

Lukas notes the sharp point of one of his canine teeth, dragging over his bottom lip. It makes the smile seem more dangerous somehow (lethal), like Mihai could wear the selfsame smile with someone else's blood coating his lips.

Then again, Lukas supposes, it's not like that isn't shared between most of them.

Mihai extends a hand, and Lukas takes it. Mihai's skin is chilled–perhaps from the weather outside, or perhaps that is how he always feels–but when Lukas's eyes meet his, they're bright with something like curiosity. That look ignites something in Lukas too, an intrigue beyond the superficiality of diplomacy, towards the stranger that nevertheless has shared his existence for a millennium.