#and absolom confronting wolf and isaiah

[spiteweaver]

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(Note: this story takes place in October of 2019!)

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Of all the dragons Achilles had expected to show up on his doorstep out of the blue, Yọmí was the absolute last. Yet, there he stood, shivering in the early autumn chill, and looking very much like a sheep among wolves. The dragons of the pleasure district, patrons and proprietors alike, paid him little more than a curious glance now and again, but if you’d asked him, he would have told you they were leering at him, biding their time until they could sink their wicked teeth into fresh meat.

“We don’t bite,” Achilles said.

Yọmí gave a violent start, and scrambled to appear as if he wasn’t petrified. “N-no,” he stammered, “no, of course not, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Oh, don’t be so polite, darling,” Achilles cut in, “it makes me weak in the knees.”

“I don’t—I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Never mind.” Achilles turned, motioning lazily over his shoulder for Yọmí to enter. “Come along,” he said, “and explain to me what an upstanding young drake like you is doing calling on a courtesan at this late hour. I can’t imagine you’ve come to buy.”

“No,” Yọmí confirmed as he shuffled into the Nightingale’s dimly-lit foyer. “Actually, I’ve come to speak with you about a—a personal matter.”

Achilles arched a brow. “Oh?” he hummed. “Well, you’re lucky you caught me. I was about to head out for the Lighthouse District. The grand opening is next week, and the boys and I have hardly made a dent in the packing.”

“It seems a shame,” Yọmí said thoughtfully. “The Nightingale is—it’s a very beautiful building.”

“Want it?” Achilles asked. “It would make a mighty fine manor for a mighty fine architect!”

“O-oh no,” Yọmí replied, “I wouldn’t know what to do with so much space.”

“Get married,” Achilles suggested, “have a kid or thirty.”

The quiet hitch of Yọmí’s breath catching in his throat confirmed Achilles’ suspicions. There could be only one thing an aristocrat of his disposition could possibly want with a drake in this line of work. Sighing, Achilles braced himself for a long night. “So this is about all that then?” he inquired.

“Yes,” Yọmí mumbled after a split second of hesitation.

“I had a hunch,” Achilles said, and then cupped his hands around his mouth. “Darling! Dear!” he called. “If Arroyo or Jean-Baptiste come looking, tell them I’ve already gone down to the pier, would you?”

Another drake appeared in the doorway to their right. Yọmí thought he had seen the stranger before, recognizing his dark, mottled skin and smart dress, but wasn’t sure if he was Darling or Dear. “What should we do if they don’t buy it?” the drake asked.

“I’ll leave that to your discretion,” Achilles replied.

“Delightful,” the drake purred, and noticing Yọmí at his employer’s side, gave a short bow. “Lovely to see you, Master Architect!”

“You, uh, you as well.”

The drake departed, and Achilles led Yọmí up an unexpectedly modest staircase. He had imagined the staff quarters to be every bit as ostentatious as the rest of the building, but the third floor looked like it could have belonged to any of the houses in the capital. The drakes of the Nightingale were so famous for their showmanship, in fact, that when Achilles halted in front of an equally unobtrusive door, Yọmí stared at him as if waiting for him to go on.

“This is it,” Achilles said. “You did want to speak in private, didn’t you?”

Yọmí shook himself from his daze. “Er, yes,” he said. “I’m sorry, this is—it’s a first for me.”

“If I had a gold piece for every time I’ve heard that one...”

Achilles’ private chambers were more in line with what Yọmí had anticipated. Though lacking the rest of the building’s over-the-top decor, they were dressed in the deep purples and reds their inhabitant was so fond of, and Yọmí doubted a single item within was made of anything but silk, velvet, or lace. The intimacy of the space made him second guess himself, but Achilles appeared entirely nonplussed, moving immediately to pour his guest a drink from his exceedingly expensive stash.

“Sit—” He waved to the plush couch at the opposite end of the room— “start talking, and don’t be your usual bashful self. If you’re going to vent, do it right.”

Yọmí hurried to oblige his host, sinking so far into the cushions that he felt they may swallow him, but his mind was suddenly, inexplicably blank. “I don’t know where to begin...”

“You were a courtesan before you came to us,” Achilles supplied. “Start there.”

“That’s just it,” Yọmí said, “I wasn’t a courtesan. I wasn’t a—a—”

“A whore.”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Achilles silenced him with another wave. “Don’t apologize,” he insisted, “it’s not an insult, sweetie, it’s what I am. I’ve been called far worse by far less charming drakes than you.” With a small, reassuring smile, he offered Yọmí a goblet of rich red wine. “What’s eating you then? I thought you were worried about that ugly ex of yours spilling your dirty little secret, but that’s obviously not the case.”

“I am,” Yọmí said, accepting the wine with a gracious dip of his head, “sort of. It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

Yọmí stared hard into his glass for a moment, and then, to Achilles’ astonishment, drained it in a single gulp. Achilles was glad he’d thought to bring the bottle with him. “My father arranged my marriage to Abaeze,” Yọmí went on, “because he found out I’d been seeing other drakes behind his back. I was lonely. Without my siblings, father was all I had, and he wasn’t very much. I started seeking solace in the arms of my peers, wealthy bachelors like myself who understood and respected me.

“I knew it was wrong; I was meant to be saving myself for marriage, for the sake of our house. That’s why father was so insistent that I marry Abaeze. Abaeze knew I was spoiled, but he wanted me regardless. Marrying into royalty would cement our family’s influence in Dragonhome after father’s exaltation, so he made all of the necessary preparations without even consulting me. I simply awoke one morning to find that I was engaged to a prince, and father was gone before I could think to protest.

“Then when Abaeze turned up here, he—” Yọmí’s words stuck in his throat, coming out as a strangled sob— “he humiliated me in front of my clan. Now they all think I’m some kind of harlot who will spread his legs for anyone, and I can’t tell them any different, because I was, Abaeze is right, and—”

“Stop.” Achilles pressed a finger to Yọmí’s lips. “Breathe.”

Yọmí did as he was told as Achilles leaned forward to light a stick of incense on the low table in front of them. It smelled of lavender, and Yọmí found his eyelids growing heavy all at once. There was a gnawing fatigue in his bones that he hadn’t noticed until then, with a goblet of wine in his belly and a beautiful drake’s hand against his cheek. Unable to fight it any longer, he allowed his head to be guided down to rest in Achilles’ lap.

“There,” Achilles murmured, “now slow down, take your time.”

“How do you do it?” Yọmí asked.

“Do what, love?”

“Deal with it.”

“Ah—” Achilles ran a hand wistfully through Yọmí’s wild curls— “that. Well, I don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“It isn’t about ‘dealing with it’,” Achilles elaborated, “there’s nothing to ‘deal with’.”

Yọmí didn’t find that a very satisfying answer, nor much of an elaboration. “What about what others think of you?” he pressed. “What about your reputation? Your status? Your family name?”

“Why should consensual sex between two drakes tarnish any of those things?” Achilles retorted.

“Because it—it isn’t done—”

“Stop,” Achilles said again, “breathe.”

“I just—” Yọmí took in another deep breath to steady himself, but his next words came out soft, barely audible and hoarse with emotion. “I just want to feel normal, like everybody else.”

“Oh, sweetheart—” Achilles bent to press a tender kiss to Yọmí’s forehead— “what did they do to you in Dragonhome? You’re such a darling thing, and still so young. Drakes your age are supposed to wear their hearts on their sleeves.”

“I’m two cycles already,” Yọmí said, a bit indignantly.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Achilles, evidently ignoring his guest’s displeasure, “come with me to the Lighthouse District tonight. It sounds to me like you’ve been taught an awful lot of awful things by the aristocracy, and if you ever want to get that weight off your shoulders, you’re going to have to unlearn them.”

“Un…?” Yọmí tilted his head back, so that he could catch Achilles’ gaze. “Unlearn them?”

“That’s what I said!”

“How?”

Achilles smiled, and Yọmí felt a peculiar stirring in his chest that he had not felt for longer than he cared to quantify. “Little by little,” Achilles replied. “It won’t happen overnight, but if we can start by changing your view of the world, perhaps we can change your view of yourself.”

“Will that really work?” Yọmí asked.

“Well,” Achilles said, “it certainly worked for me.”

“You…?”

“Do you think confidence like mine springs up out of nothing and nowhere?” Achilles scoffed, pinching one of Yọmí’s cheeks playfully. (The teasing gesture brought heat rushing into them, and Yọmí was glad then for his dark skin.) “I had to work hard for my vanity, darling, and a boy like you, with such low self-esteem, will have to work even harder. That’s why we ought to get started ASAP.”

Perhaps it was the wine, or the stress, or simply Achilles’ skill as a courtesan, but without really even looking for it, Yọmí had found his courage. Reaching up, he placed a hand on the back of Achilles’ head, and dragged him down into a kiss—the first kiss he had shared with another drake since leaving Dragonhome all those aching, longing eons ago. Achilles tasted sweet, like wine, and honey, and something Yọmí couldn’t name, but that made his entire body warm with desire.

When they parted, it was breathlessly, and Yọmí didn’t let Achilles wander far. “I am not,” he said, “a boy.”

“Evidently not,” Achilles conceded. “My, when you decide you’re going to do something, you commit! Here I had you pegged for a bottom, but that was raw, visceral top energy right there! I’ve got goosebumps!” Then his sly smile returned, indescribably beautiful beneath the pale pink color of his blush. “Are you certain you aren’t here to buy?”

“O-oh, n-n-no, I c-couldn’t—”

Well, so much for courage.

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@nostlenne

[spiteweaver]

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(Note: this story takes place in April of 2020!)

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Late morning sunlight filtered through slatted blinds, pooling in rich amber splotches on the floor of Isaiah’s office. Beyond its cramped confines, he could make out the clamor of the hospital’s daily routine, but it came to him through a thick fog of grogginess. He cracked an eye open, only to be greeted by a messy whirl of blurred shapes and colors; his glasses had slipped from his nose sometime during the night. Reluctantly, he began to search for them on his desk, one hand sweeping across unsigned papers and discarded pens, the other tucked comfortably under his cheek.

As his fingers brushed against cool glass and metal, the lock on his door gave a hearty click and swung inward. Wolf stepped into his office, closing the door politely behind him, and waited while Isaiah struggled to collect himself.

“Thought I locked that,” Isaiah grumbled.

“You did,” Wolf said. “It isn’t a skill a holy man should possess, but—” He held a makeshift lock pick aloft to catch the light, both his smile and posture sheepish— “old habits die hard.”

“So do old boyfriends apparently.”

Wolf took a seat across from him. “He dropped by then?”

“Yes.”

“How did it…?”

It was a stupid question. For Isaiah to have locked himself in his office was one thing; the clan had yet to settle since waking, and he didn’t have the time to spare for every minor worry. (“That’s why we have interns,” he always said.) For him to refuse to see anyone, even those closest to him, was another matter entirely. If what Wolf had been told was correct, he had even sent Xerxes away when the lad had come calling. After that, everyone had decided it might be best to leave him well enough alone.

Everyone, except for Wolf.

Isaiah slid his glasses back onto his scowling face. “Terrible,” he replied, “it was an absolute disaster. He’s as much an idiot now as he was then, and I’m busy enough without him trying to bumble his way back into my bedroom.”

“I don’t think that’s what he came for, Isaiah,” Wolf said.

“No?” Isaiah looked up sharply, but swiftly dropped his gaze to the papers scattered helter-skelter across his desk. With a muttered curse, he began to organize them. “He told me he still loved me,” he confessed after a pregnant pause. “I kicked him out on his ass.”

“Well—” Wolf shrugged— “he never was any good at reading the room, was he?”

“No,” Isaiah agreed. Pursing his lips, he turned his attention from neatening his desk back to his guest. “That’s why I fell for him; he’s honest to a fault. Look, I know you’re gonna tell me to make amends, but I can’t. After what he did—y’know, trying to murder me and all—I don’t think there’s any reconciliation to be had.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“How would you know? We haven’t exactly been friendly these past seven cycles.”

At this, Wolf’s smile faltered and then gave way to a thoughtful frown. He stared hard at his hands, clasped neatly in his lap, and saw, for the briefest instant, the mark where his father’s ring had once sat proudly upon his finger. It had long since faded, but he remembered how looking at it after leaving Goldsparc had made him feel—homesick, uncertain, alone. He wanted to say that those had been better days, back when they’d all been together. Maybe they had been. He wasn’t sure anymore.

“We were both trying to escape our pasts,” Wolf tried to explain, but Isaiah cut him off.

“I know,” he said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. You thought I needed space, I thought you needed space, we made new lives for ourselves, and then they just never intersected again, not in any meaningful way.”

“They can, you know?” Wolf shifted forward in his seat, the subtle movement catching and holding Isaiah’s attention as easily as it had seven cycles prior. “No matter who I am now, my love for you will never change. We were brothers then, and we always will be. I know that Absolom feels the same.”

“I know,” Isaiah said again, “I know, I just—” He took a second to chew on his next words, the taste of them nearly making him gag— “I’m not ready.”

“You’re still in love with him, you mean.”

“No, I—”

There was no point in lying to Wolf, so Isaiah decided to save himself the trouble. The pair fell into a lengthy silence, during which Isaiah pretended to busy himself with his desk again and Wolf pretended to watch him do so. All the while, they waited for the other to speak, the only sound the clock on Isaiah’s wall, ticking ever onward. The space between them felt sickly and warm.

“Of course I am,” Isaiah mumbled. “I’ve tried not to be. I’m a doctor; I’m supposed to be able to think logically.” Then, groaning, he dropped his head into his hands to hide the red rising in his cheeks. “We were practically engaged,” he went on. “I was just waiting for him to pop the question—and if he didn’t have the balls to do it, I was more than willing to do it for him. I’ve told myself for seven cycles that there are plenty of fish in the sea, but there aren’t. Not for me.”

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” Wolf said. “The two of you were smitten from the moment you met. You spent your entire lives courting one another. That’s a difficult relationship to simply toss aside.”

Isaiah peered at Wolf through a crack in his fingers. “What are you, my therapist?”

“No,” Wolf replied, “I’m your friend.”

“All right, friend, what do you think I should do?”

The question seemed to catch Wolf off guard, and Isaiah couldn’t help the slightest smirk as he watched his old partner in crime flounder for a response. Wolf swirled his reply around in his mouth for several moments, like a fine wine, before finally heaving a weary sigh.

“I think you should do what is best for you,” he said, “and in my opinion, what is best for you is to confront your past, just as I now must. However, my opinion is not the one that matters.”

Isaiah wanted to say, “You’re damn right!” but wisely held his tongue. After all, he’d asked for Wolf’s input—but, gods, it was just like Wolf to give him the right answer and yet no answer at all. Of course confronting his past was the right thing to do; running from it had only made him miserable. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, though. What he wanted to do was lock himself away until his chest stopped aching and his head stopped spinning, until Absolom was long gone, until he didn’t have to confront anyone or anything anymore.

Where was he even supposed to begin?

Before he could ask Wolf that very question, the door to his office flew open, slamming noisily into the wall and causing several books to jar loose from their shelves. In the doorway stood Xerxes. He was gulping down lungfuls of air, and trembling so violently that Isaiah immediately leapt to his feet. Fortunately, Crucis was there in a flash of fuchsia and white, all but forcing Xerxes back into his wheelchair.

“I tried to stop him,” he insisted in his usual monotone, “but the boy’s as stubborn as ever.”

“Xerxes—” Isaiah began.

“Don’t ‘Xerxes’ me!” Xerxes interrupted, rising from his chair again, only to be held down by Crucis. “No one’s seen you since yesterday! Did you sleep here? Do you know how worried we all were? You’ve never refused to see me! Never! I thought—I thought someone must have died for you to be so upset!”

“No one’s died,” Isaiah assured.

“Then what happened?” Xerxes asked.

“Xerxes? Is something wrong?”

A familiar face appeared around the door frame, though Isaiah had not expected to see it again so soon. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a high-pitched wheeze of, “Lamium?” The young Imperial blinked groggily, stifling a yawn and shuffling into full view. He looked healthy—or, well, as healthy as someone like him could look. Were it not for the sleepy way he moved and spoke, Isaiah would never have guessed he’d been caught in a time loop.

“Oh,” said Wolf, “I forgot to tell you. Those we managed to pull from Aphaster’s loop have started to wake.”

“That’s why I came to see you last night!” Xerxes cried. For a moment, it looked like he may overpower Crucis—then Lamium placed his hands on his shoulders, and Xerxes settled deeper into his wheelchair, every painfully tensed muscle in his body relaxing all at once. “You told us to tell you if any of them woke up. Well, Lamium did, so I came straight here.”

“I—” Isaiah looked away, examining his once flawless bookshelves— “I’m sorry, Xerxes, Lamium. I, ah, had a few personal things to see to.”

“Are you all right?” Lamium inquired.

“I should be asking you that,” Isaiah replied. Finally, he found the courage to meet Xerxes’ tearful glare. “I’m fine, Xerxes. Wolf and I talked it over, and I’m going to, er, ‘take care’ of what’s been bothering me.”

“Just…”

Xerxes slumped somehow further into his wheelchair, and for the first time, Isaiah noted how exhausted his ward was. There were dark circles hanging beneath his eyes, which seemed to have lost their luster in recent weeks, and it was clear by the looseness of his clothes that he’d lost weight. Isaiah’s chest tightened at the sight, a lump swelling in his throat.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasped. “I’ve been tied up here at the hospital, and—Xerxes, I’m so sorry.”

“Just don’t scare me like that again,” Xerxes demanded, but was quick to add a quiet, “please.”

Without another word, he fell abruptly into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Isaiah watched as Lamium leaned down to brush a strand of hair out of Xerxes’ face. He had known the two had grown close before their clans had been caught in the loop, but to look at them now, he would have thought they were lovers. Yes, that must have been it; that must have been how Xerxes had been able to pull Lamium from the Aphaster loop.

How had he missed so much?

“I suppose he’s right,” Isaiah said as he shrugged on his coat. “I need a break, before the rest of your clanmates start to come ‘round, Lamium. Come on; let’s get Xerxes home and into bed.”

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@nostlenne :3c