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defensivelee · 1 month ago

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Dona Dona: Who is Doomed to Die

I feel like it has been years since I posted any actual writing, but here it is, my sixpilled livesmaxxers... the last chapter of Dona Dona. I'm still not entirely sure that I like this whole backstory or my execution of it, and of course there's things I couldn't fit in, but I think they'll fit in nicely somewhere else (wink wink). I feel like it's all been rather messy, too... oh, well, at least you got to see me improve in real time!

So please enjoy the sixth and final chapter, a story about a boy (really a man now, but... you'll see) and his addiction. Here it is on AO3!

CW: graphic violence, terrorism, fantastic racism, religious indoctrination, implied/referenced genocide, animal exploitation, internalized aphobia, drinking, drug use, addiction, smoking, vomiting/emetophobia, implied/referenced father/son incest, implied/referenced child sexual abuse, sex trafficking, prostitution, dubious consent, objectification, sex under the influence, graphic sexual content.

That night was far from the last time that he had sex with Bentinck, nor was it the last time he tried heroin while doing so. It truly did nothing to make his Ally desirable to him, but Bentinck hadn’t had enough that first time, always offering his body up to William after another long day. It was by no means an order, and yet William decided to take it as such, though not without interrupting the shipments of heroin into New Amsterdam to take some for himself. Hardly anybody noticed.

He found quickly that he much preferred injecting it to snorting it, which brought nothing but congestion to his nose and tears to his eyes. In his veins it ran to him in an instant, and though he tried to forget it at first, he began to welcome it every now and then. He supposed it wasn’t so bad when it became every weekend, and it was the only thing he had to look forward to. The only reason for him to want to wake up and get through the day without the orders of his father.

He often had to pretend he hadn’t stayed up the night before, really in an exhausted, dim state for him in which he lay there in Bentinck’s arms, closing his eyes but never dreaming, never feeling the kisses his friend placed on his neck. He didn’t remember doing so, but he knew he’d sometimes vomit, because he smelled it both on himself and in the bathroom. Then he’d wake up worse than he was the day before, wanting to weep when he dragged himself out of bed because he realized it would be another seven days before he could relive last night’s blissful stupidity. He looked truly awful, but by then Bentinck had become quite skilled in putting on makeup, as an Ally, and he did the same with William, though not so much that it would bother him throughout the day. And at last he would step outside, dreading the moment he would have to speak with shifty shareholders, Ally politicians, insolent Disciple diplomats, or, perhaps a little more tolerably, members of his own faith.

On one hot Western day, in which he found himself unable to stop shaking anyway, he and Bentinck were to visit a few of the new brothels that the Devils had acquired from the Disciples, to assure that no Easterners remained there. He had always sent Bentinck alone, and he realized why as soon as he stepped into the first one. He felt his breath stop for a moment as he glanced around at the curtains, the familiar scent of incense filling his nose, reaching to his lungs to split them apart.

He coughed a little, bowing his head slightly towards the Madam who had greeted him, and set off down the halls. “Come, Bentinck, we can make this quick.”

“Why? It’s always so nice in here.”

Nice, indeed, it might have been— it was an incredibly dark place, lit with nothing but candles and little hanging lights on the walls, which served to illuminate the figures carved there. The devils and spirits portrayed were obviously of Eastern descent, much to William’s annoyance. He would have to order new carvings made that were more to his liking.

But the way the walls closed in on him, the way the candles flickered out from behind the curtains right after the prostitute’s initial ritual had finished, the stench of smoke that caused him to be unsteady on his feet— it was all too familiar. These were the sights of a cruel, selfish vice, only enjoyed if you did not enjoy it at all. It was said to be the favorite pastime of an Overlifer; at least he hid his hatred of it very well. Besides, what business did his people have in regards to the virility of their leader?

“Do you have a preference, William?” Bentinck asked, gazing at a fine Eastern devil scantily dressed on the wall. “For the gender of your partners?”

“Me? Not really.” William nudged Bentinck’s shoulder with his tail. “I mean, it’s only ever been you.”

“You ought to branch out a little.”

“You’re an Ally,” William said. “You’re all that I need.”

Upon examining the workers here he was pleased to find no Easterners, but he was rather disgusted to see how young some of them were, looking up at him with wide, scared eyes. One night had been enough for him; he couldn’t imagine how living this reality everyday was like.

“These brats aren’t legal,” he snapped at the Madam. “Do you want us to get caught?”

“They’re here from the Disciples’ rule, sir.”

“Well, get rid of them. I don’t want any children in our brothels.” William shook his head. “You can send them to the Hoerenkasten. I rather they work for Allies and be safe than work for me and suffer this...disgrace.” He scowled at the youngest of them, a child who couldn’t have been older than fourteen. “You must not forget the allegiance you owe me, however.”

“We can send them to my Hoerenkast,” Bentinck suggested.

“Good.” William brought his hand up to his eyes, tilting his head up with a groan. “See that it’s done, Madam. I need to get the fuck out of here.”

It was the first time he realized he couldn’t wait that long. He went to Bentinck’s house that night, hiding away in his friend’s room as he filled a syringe. The heroin inside burned at his fingertips.

“By the stars, William, give me- give me a second,” Bentinck said, following him inside and near out of breath. “Are you really sure you want to do this now? You have things to do tomorrow—”

“Cancel everything. I don’t care.” William had been learning where the best veins were on his arms. He rolled up his sleeve and began to tie the tourniquet just above his elbow.

Bentinck sat beside him. “You shouldn’t use these things so lightly, you know. So often. Just to get through the smallest things. You don’t want to be dependent on it.” He paused. “I mean, you think I don’t notice how you’ve been taking more and more each time?”

“And what are those ‘smallest things,’ Hanni?” William glared at him. “Do you think that my six lives are any small thing?”

“Well, no, but today was just—”

“Why the fuck did Charles and James try to save me if they’ve been making money off of every child that- that has had their life ruined like I have?!” William at last cried out what had nearly boiled over inside of the brothel. “Do Overlifers think that they’re entitled to every body they choose? Doesn’t it fucking matter to them how- how fucking young we are—” He cut off and buried his head in his hands, trying to force himself to breathe through gritted teeth. The headache came on abruptly, bringing with it tears that seemed to burn painfully through his eyelids.

“Well, you know that it matters to you.” Bentinck reached out to stroke his horns. “You know that you’re better than them.”

“No.” William opened his eyes and glared at the ground before him. “Do you see how far they will go—? Somewhere that I- that I cannot reach.”

“That’s good, William.”

“What do you know?” William finally looked up. He must have been quite a sight with the ruined mascara on his face, but it certainly wasn’t the worst thing Bentinck had ever seen of him.

“It never was part of the doctrine,” Bentinck said gently. “I’ve learned it well. An Overlifer can take whoever he wants, and that means he also has a right to decide that maybe nobody deserves his divine touch after all. Okay?” He dropped his hand down to William’s face.

William gave him a slow nod. Bentinck was so blissfully clueless about these things, but he wasn’t entirely wrong, either.

“So you’re doing better than most in deciding who deserves you and who doesn’t. That’s very good.” Bentinck smiled down at him and brought him closer, so that his head rested on the Ally’s ample chest. He froze as he felt the firm hands course through his hair.

It made something new rise in his throat, but he swallowed it back down with a shudder. “Let me- let me just get this over with,” he mumbled. He bit into the excess of the tourniquet and pulled back on it with his teeth. It was impatience he was not used to.

But De Witt, after all, had taken care to teach him that Altos Diablos was a nation of indulgence and consumption, from the reverence of the prostitutes and their masters to the high rates of overdoses from illicit drugs. No one here liked to wait for what they believed to be theirs, and this government of Allies encouraged the gluttony that William had always hated to see from their idiotic followers. The only time these beasts could be tamed were in the eight days leading up to Dwaallichtsdag, during the reign of the Northern Kingdom.

He never bothered to fast during that time, and even suggesting such a thing had been met with mockery from his father towards the practice. It was just fine with him, though he’d wished before that he could make his disdain more obvious rather than simply rolling his eyes whenever Dwaallichtsdag was mentioned.

As an Ally, however, Bentinck was required to fast under the watchful eyes of his followers, and for the first time William decided to join him this year. It didn’t take much work from him, surprisingly. He was never one to complain about those rare moments of hunger, even now that he hardly found time to eat these days. All food was starting to look repulsive to him, anyway. More often he was high during what was supposed to be dinner, and there was nothing he wanted to do less.

Bentinck didn’t find it so easy. It was the first year he was to lead the ceremony of the Fifth Honor late into the night, that of celestial bodies beyond stars, where he was to wave the treacherous flags of Altos Diablos and New Amsterdam as he shouted into an adoring crowd. He admitted, however, that he knew not how he was expected to have the energy for it.

“I mean, it’s just insidious, William,” he was saying. He was currently doing his make-up, in particular his eyeshadow of a deep violet color that didn’t suit him at all, but worked well enough for the theme. “Eight days of starvation, it’s insane!”

“It’s not that bad,” William said. He yawned; it was warm here, in the room that Bentinck had been given in his preferred Hoerenkast. The vines covering the already dim lights, as well as the constant running of the water beside them from the little waterfall and brook, did nothing to keep him awake, either. “We’ve lived through harder weeks.”

“The first thing I want to do after meeting with my followers is go to bed,” Bentinck said. “Same thing you want to do after meeting with all those nasty shareholders, leering at you like a bunch of fucking owls.”

William grunted. “That’s the second thing that comes to mind, actually. And don’t act like you wouldn’t have been one of them if you weren’t already working for me.” He leaned back on the sofa he sat on and rolled up his sleeve, squeezing his tail tightly around his arm. It worked well when he was in a hurry.

“You’re going to be speaking too, William!” Bentinck turned to look at him in surprise. “People are already talking.”

“Let them talk.” William took the syringe and held it up to his eyes, peering at Bentinck through the glass.

The only good thing about Northern Kingdom was that at least now all the Allies were covered up, though their outfits were still rather gaudy, in William’s opinion. The gemstones on Bentinck’s cape caught the light of the candles so as to be almost painful when William looked at them, and he was not used to hearing the sharp tapping of heels from his Ally as they made their way up to the highest balcony of the Hoerenkast.

There they could see a million people gathered below, or maybe, probably more; such an estimate was only a sixth of the city’s population. The two servants waiting there stepped aside and bowed their heads low as Bentinck paused, then stepped outside, William close behind him. At the sight of him, the crowds fell quiet almost immediately, though William was sure he could hear them whispering far below, if he tried hard enough.

There he stands...beautiful, beautiful...who wouldn’t want such a man...we are so lucky, very lucky...

Bentinck raised his head, and William looked up, towards the two parts of tonight’s ridiculous costume that he hated most. First, there were the rings around his neck, which he kept buzzing with energy, with a spell he’d cast to keep them afloat like the rings of that distant planet Charlemagne. It was stupid; he looked like an angel. Second, there was the muzzle over his lips, made so clearly for a snout, though of course no dog would be trusted with the gold wiring around its teeth.

William shuddered a little, drew his coat closer around himself. It was the same red one he always wore to these occasions, torn and stitched in some places that had been caught when he’d needed to flee quickly. He might have been jealous of Bentinck’s own opulence, standing so proud in his deep blue coat, his new cravat of the finest lace, his silk gloves and cape, his gold-heeled boots, if he hadn’t known that all of it would have dug into his skin like little thistles.

No, he liked it this way, in the coat that had fit him since he was fourteen; why would it be so if he was not meant to wear it out forever? He yawned again. He could feel the drug taking effect, the swishing of his tail slowly coming to a stop.

Bentinck glanced at him, and William narrowed his eyes. What did he want?

Shit, am I supposed to talk now? Or what? He couldn’t remember what it was, much less what he had planned to say. He lurched forward, involuntarily taking hold of the balcony’s metal railing, but drew his hand away the moment he did so, as if shocked by the cold. It was starting to snow, he realized, his gaze snapping up to see a snowflake that drifted to the ground at the corner of his eye.

“Sir,” he heard a servant whisper behind him, “you must take off his muzzle before he speaks.”

“That’s what it was!” It came out louder than he intended, and he couldn’t help but laugh, burying his face in his hands. “By the stars.” He laughed again, fumbling to tug the muzzle off of Bentinck. Was he to speak beforehand? He couldn’t do it later, he knew that much. But he could do it now.

William turned back towards the crowd, all dressed in heretical Northern masks much like his own, their tails folded in to give them the illusion of being cropped. He knew some of them were cropped, but that was an older trend, from long before he was born, during the ‘70s.

“We should have been the First Honor,” he hissed abruptly, smacking Bentinck in the face with his horn as he snatched the microphone from the servant that held it. “It should have been humans! It should have been me. I’ve led us to greatness— I’ll do it—”

Bentinck took his hand and pulled him closer, his eyes widening in outrage. He motioned at the muzzle, and William merely leaned back on the railing again with a sigh, nearly falling back on his knees. “We don’t even get to be the Fifth Honor, though. Why? Why?” He thought it must be the best feeling in the world to let himself fall back from the balcony, to fall forever, to have every bone shattered and yet to feel none of the pain. He lifted his hand up to Bentinck’s hair and pulled him closer. “Why? Tell us, Hans, enlighten us.”

Bentinck blinked at him, his face flushing, whether it was anger or embarrassment or both William could not tell, but he was close enough for William to finally pull the muzzle off of him. He leaned forward and kissed him for a moment, and it wasn’t good but it wasn’t bad, necessarily, and it was only for a second or two, anyway. There were a few gasps from below, and at last Bentinck shoved William aside and took the microphone.

“My worthy followers, you must forgive my handler, he’s rather excited to show his appreciation for me as an Ally,” he said. “As, indeed, you all have reason to. But I’ll tell you why we weren’t the First Honor.” He glanced over at William, then back down at the audience. “Billions of years ago, the powers of the dwaallichten, the forces that created our universe, knew what they wanted to create from the moment they came into existence. They created themselves, to create the devils, to create us. They knew two things: that life could not exist without an environment, and that life could not exist without the devils. So they went about creating these things because they wanted us here. They loved us from the moment of their conception. But they had to be patient, there had to be Nine Honors until they could create life itself. And then they let nature take its course. They knew we would come along eventually, and what were billions of years of waiting to such incredible forces?

“And, in between that, there was the Fifth Honor. What came before? The stars. If we were the Fifth, if life itself was the Fifth, why, we’d have nowhere to live except among stars. And the stars were, as legend would have it, the homes of those very forces that created us. Tell me, are we worthy of occupying such a space?” Bentinck leaned slightly over the balcony, and there was a sudden, single word from the crowd.

“Never!”

“No.” The Ally shook his head. “Besides, logically we’d all burn up. The Fifth Honor was intended to give us a home. The Fifth Honor gave us our moon, our neighbors Fierabras, Ysengrimus, Charlemagne, Beowulf, and all those beyond. As the Fourth Honor gave us the birth of stars, the Fifth gave us the possibility of their magnificent deaths. The Fifth was the gift of observation!”

He was met with roars of approval from the audience, cheering and whistles that sent a wave of nausea through William, his head suddenly becoming heavy. He sank to his knees, hiding under the railing and holding his hand over his mouth. Bentinck didn’t look down at him, still waving and blowing kisses as he was, but the servants quickly knelt down beside him.

“Sir, are you well?”

“I’m magnificent, you Ally-suckin’ dogs!” William swatted them both away and pulled himself back up, his head hitting the railing as he did so. It didn’t hurt as much as it startled him, and he yelped, scurrying forward on all fours like a fleeing spirit. At last Bentinck looked at him, lowering the microphone.

“Damnit, William, it’s your turn to talk! What are you doing?”

“I don’t want to talk! I don’t want to!” William clung onto a servant, trying to stand again. “They’re too- too loud. Too damn loud every time anyone says anything. Are these your followers? I hate them!”

Bentinck hesitated, then handed the other servant his microphone and helped William up. “Fine, let’s go inside. Tell them I’ll be right out again,” he said to the servants.

William stumbled on the stairs, slipping three times before Bentinck finally lifted him up in his arms and carried him all the way down. Even though he’d just been outside, he was warm, and William couldn’t help but shut his eyes and lean his head on his Ally’s chest.

But Bentinck could only be so gentle. He dropped William on the floor in his room, kicking the door shut behind him. William grunted a little, lifting his head to see the waterfall that was whispering so close to him.

“How the fuck do you think it looks when my handler is supposed to be preparing for Dwaallichtsdag and he can’t even keep himself sober publicly?” Bentinck snapped. “You’re supposed to be abstaining from vice! You have all year to be high, what’s a fucking week to you?”

“I’m fasting,” William protested, but Bentinck shook his head.

“That’s- that’s not what this is, William, the point is you hold off for the reward,” he said. “That’s what the first eight Honors were. And then, come Dwaallichtsdag, we fulfill the wishes of the devils by doing whatever we want, whatever you want, to prove to the dwaallichten that their creation was worth it.”

“I don’t give a shit,” William said, letting his head fall back on the ground. “I serve myself.”

“If you really didn’t care, you wouldn’t have fasted,” Bentinck said. “You just want an excuse not to eat, is that it? You want to spend every spare second of your life getting high.”

“It’s kinda nice,” William mumbled. “Maybe you could try it?”

“No.” Bentinck sighed and turned to leave. “William, we’re coming up on five years. You ought to call it what it is.”

“You don’t think I know I’m addicted?”

“I just think that you didn’t get your six lives for this.” With that, he shut the door behind him, and William sighed deeply, as much as he could. His breaths had always felt as if they were cut short, but now they were slow, as well, and his chest ached with the effort it took to use what little oxygen he could take in.

He couldn’t take this, Bentinck being so unhappy with him. William could never force despair in this state, but he knew he would despair later, remembering Bentinck’s glare, and it filled him with dread, so potent that at this moment he began to cry. It was hard, painful to sob, so he tried to keep his mouth shut, letting his tears fall silently into the stream instead.

It wasn’t enough. He sat up and began to look through the bag he had left here, pushing aside guns and daggers and poisons in favor of the syringes. He’d had some of his Devils prepare it beforehand, telling them that he needed it for when he walked through the worst parts of New Amsterdam, though he suspected that they suspected. That was how these things were— they served him, yes, they believed in him, but all the while they hated that it was him, and he hated that these were the people his father and grandmother had left him.

Sorry. I can have my fun, too. Me most of all. He pulled himself up onto the sofa and began to pull down the breeches he wore; they were his least favorite part of dressing for ceremonies or rituals or any kind of religious entertainment, which was all entertainment in this country. He lifted a leg slightly and pushed the needle into his thigh, letting out a low hiss of pain. He’d been too hasty.

But it worked, it worked. He was happy. Liselotte was right. He was happy.

At least next year wasn’t so bad, except for the fact that possibly everyone knew what was wrong with him. He knew they would be whispering about him when Bentinck spoke of the Seventh Honor this time, and so he decided to do him a favor by staying inside the Hoerenkast and keeping his mouth shut. He was higher than he’d been last year, having to swallow back the illness in his throat every time he looked up into the flame of a candle, every time he lifted his head to hear the music and bells outside.

He should have been dancing with Bentinck, he should have been telling everyone that he would not bend under the whims of an Ally, he should have been marking his territory. His father would have approved, even if he clung too closely to his friend. He had liked it when William was drunk, he’d love to know of this development.

Let them talk, he’d said, and indeed they must have been talking. He did not walk through the nearly empty Hoerenkast, rather lurched and stumbled, though he liked to think of it as drifting. Anything he did could have an air of mystique about it, that was how his father had framed it. An Overlifer cannot fall.

He pushed the curtains aside to enter Bentinck’s meeting room, his tail brushing over the many offerings that had been left on the floor from yesterday. The servants hadn’t bothered to organize it, they were too busy drinking late into the night, knowing that they’d have no time in the morning. They drank a lot, those servants.

He threw himself on Bentinck’s throne and tilted his head up towards the ceiling, opening his mouth to taste the air. He’d seen Liselotte do it before, but it had never worked for him to behave like a snake. Still, he thought that there was something sharp and painful about the air here, a scent of smoke where there were currently no candles lit.

“That’s heresy,” came a voice behind him.

“No, it isn’t,” William said petulantly, crossing his arms and leaning back. “He let me.”

“Hans William Bentinck?”

“Keep his name out of your mouth.” Whose was it, that mouth? The voice was low, bored, lazy with the Mercian accent. William thought he’d heard it before.

“It is you, sir, who should try to remember the sanctity of our names.” The man came up around the throne, and William sighed deeply upon seeing him. He was pretty, of course, artificial, as all actors had to be, probably even the kind of man William should look at and think, he’ll make us twice as much in the brothels. But he did not think that, and in any case he’d taken care that he would not be in charge of the brothels of Orange-Nassau.

No, the darkness in his rich brown, nearly red eyes, glinting along with all the rubies embedded in his coat and cape, told William that John Churchill had shot for higher in the religious hierarchy. Typical for an actor, though they usually waited until they were forty to dare challenge any devil.

“You’re one to talk,” William said. “You were here before me. You tryna kill him? You—!” He stood shakily, wavering enough that the Ally skipped abruptly forward and caught him before he fell into the small spring before him. He hadn’t even noticed he was about to fall until his tail dipped into the water, when Marly pushed him back onto the throne.

That was his name, Marly. He’d played the ancient devil of the same name once, the Duke of Marlborough, in a supposedly stunning film that only made William dizzy with everything that happened in a little over two hours. Was that his devil now?

“Get your hands off of me,” William growled, kicking weakly out at him. Marly stepped to the side.

“William, yes? William Nassau?”

“You’ll call me sir if you know what’s good for you.” William lifted his head to glare at him. He remembered, oddly enough, the legends that de Witt used to read him, of one forbidden love or the other, when Allies and remnants had to meet in secret, sometimes devils. There was always a remnant, the beloved little billions of spirits who could not fight back. This was what it must have felt like, to be hidden in the darkness, reassured only by voice, bodies plain and exposed and yet—

Fuck. He turned his head and covered his face with a hand. He wore nothing to hide his Over-marks, no glasses nor mask. And he’d just stared this Ally in the eye, an Ally who, like all the others, could see quite well in darkness.

If Marly saw, he did not remark on it. He merely blinked, neither smiling nor glaring, his gloved hand coming up to touch the green brooch that clipped his cape together over his chest. It seemed to be an unconscious movement, but it caused William to notice how the brooch stood out. It wasn’t anything particularly splendid, in his opinion it was actually quite displeasing to his eye, but it stood out against the magnificence of this man, even greater than Bentinck.

“You’re James’ Ally,” he blurted, facing him again. The green was the same shade that James wore on everything, including his own body.

“Yes,” Marly said. He seemed to be waiting for something else, but when William did not speak again, he added, “I remember seeing you up there with Ally Bentinck last year. I wasn’t an Ally yet, but- but I was there, with James. And Charles, of course, but when I heard you speak, I thought—”

“You thought what?” William snapped, or at least tried to. His words were too slurred to sound angry.

Marly sighed, and at last laughed, bowing his head. “What right do I have to think?”

So he knew his place, at least, either that or he had already given up on trying to reason with William. Possibly he was thinking of every way to kill him right now. Killing a rival Overlifer would please his crooked master, and William was sure he could do it. Not for long, but if he sprung now, what chance did William have? Such was the price of peace.

“You should be out there again,” William said. “With James. Tell him I said hello. Tell him you were unfaithful. With me. See, I get around, too. Tell ‘em that. Him and Charles. They’d like to know. Liar.”

Fidelity was an ancient thing, strange and foreign and reserved for the lovers of devils, who were themselves not restricted by such a word. But the Overlifers knew well that they deserved nothing but loyalty, and this doctrine was one that William had no problem enforcing. Bentinck was not necessarily his lover, but he could be, on a bad day.

“I’m sure they would,” Marly said. He sounded bored again. “I couldn’t be out there again, I just couldn’t stand it; I mean, looking up at Ally Bentinck, all I can think is that it should be me. I’m the newest Ally, the youngest—”

“Really?” William peered curiously at him. “How old are you?”

“Same age as yourself, no?”

“Ha. Inconceivable.” He waved his hand in the air and dropped his head back with a sigh. “Get out. You’ll have your own place eventually. It’ll be you up there soon, won’t it? Next year. Next year, you’ll make yourself a very easy target. I’ll send someone to shoot you.”

“You’re wasting bullets,” Marly said.

“You’re wastin’ time with that old man you work for,” William said. He intended to sound condescending, his words something of a warning, but he couldn’t allow enough emotion into his voice, and he didn’t move a muscle as he spoke. He sounded as if he were dying. “At least you know how you’re gonna die now. Sweet deal, innit?”

“That’s none of your business. James tells me you promised to abandon this world a long time ago.” Marly lifted his head haughtily. “It belongs to us now.”

“Yes. Yes, have fun.” William was starting to laugh. “Have it all to yourselves, cowards.”

“Cowards? I don’t see you out there.” Marly leaned in, and perhaps William should have felt some sense of alarm, something to make him draw away, but he was still as the Ally pulled him closer by his tie. “You’re no Overlifer, are you?”

He must see me, he must. But William shook his head.

“Then your Ally deserves some gratitude on the day of the Ninth Honor,” Marly said. “As do I, but I wouldn’t like such a man to be servicing me, anyway.” He smiled a little and let go of him, backing away. “You’re far below us all.”

“Watch who you’re talking to, you-”

“I know who I’m talking to,” Marly said. “I’m talking to an addict, no more, no less.”

“You’ve no right to accuse me of such a thing.” William buried his face in his hands. “Get out of here. Go. I’ll kill you, I swear it. You don’t think it hurts? You don’t think I know?”

“I can help you.” The voice was no longer dull, unworthy of belonging to an actor, but high, rich with that Grand Cabaretian accent that William had come to dread.

“Help me what? Overdose?” He looked up and into the eyes of his father. He looked shorter there, before the throne, but his horns were as large and twisted as ever, curving like his cruel smile. “I’m already happy. No thanks to you.”

“You’re happy? With him?” His father’s voice was almost kind, but William remembered too well the scornful look he’d given them both, William and Bentinck, on the last day of his last life. “Then you are his. Make yourself just that— his. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To be married to such an inconsequential person! Give yourself up to him, let him take it all.” This was not how his father spoke. “That’s how these things work, with Allies. Someone must take us or we must do it first. How did you say it was? Have it all to yourself.”

“That’s no problem,” William insisted, “just you wait. I’ll do it. You’ll see why he was worth keeping alive.”

“But were you?” His father turned away, his tail oddly dragging behind him. He was so gentle, William could nearly get up and run into his arms. But then the image would have had to be de Witt. And he would never return.

“Six times over, I- I’m worth it!” William called out. He was triumphant now, but alone, as he stood up and his legs shook. He was so dizzy, stumbling with excitement out of the room, his hands pulling hard on the curtains to keep himself up. “Worth it, you’ll see. Damnit. You’ll see.”

So came the day of the Ninth Honor. For once William had decided to at least try to be fully present in the celebration at the Hoerenkast, though he didn’t know how present he could be when he felt constantly as if he could vomit at the mere sight and sound of everything around him. In particular the people dancing and sitting down to eat and then getting up to dance again was irritating at first, until the cycle began to get tedious enough to frustrate him nearly to tears. Logically he knew he was in no pain, but everything was somehow painful to witness.

And, beyond that, how present was he expected to be when the end of the night was creeping up on him like a spider up his leg? Oh, what a thought, but even that could not make him feel alive enough to celebrate life itself, to welcome the new year. Truly, he hadn’t felt alive since the day he’d received his six lives.

“William.” There was Bentinck’s voice behind him. “You don’t want to dance? You ought to eat something, it’s the day we break our fast.”

“I want to throw up, actually.”

“Oh. Well, you can do that, but-”

“I can’t be here, it- it hurts,” William said. He stood from the table, nearly knocking over his glass of wine. It was so, so incredibly boring now, compared to everything he’d had. There was no thrill in drinking, unless he could go so hard he’d stop forming memories in an hour. But that would not do today.

“What does?” Bentinck asked. The softness of his eyes was starting to harden to disappointment, again, again, and William felt the dread rise up in him so rapidly that he turned away and began to retch.

“William!” There was Bentinck’s arm around his chest. “It’s okay, we’ll get you out of here. Come on. Can you hold it in?”

“I’m sorry,” William said instead of answering.

“No, no, shh, come on,” Bentinck said. “I’ll take you to my room, is that good?”

“Yes- yes, please.”

He collapsed on the sofa before Bentinck had even lit the candles. He drew his coat over his face and curled his tail in, feeling the cushion under his feet dip slightly as his friend sat down beside him. The nausea began to subside.

“Are you high?” Bentinck asked.

“N-No, not today,” William said. He lowered his voice a little. “I did it for you.” He regretted saying such a thing as it came out of his lips, but perhaps it was worth it, at least when he heard Bentinck sigh one of those amused sighs.

“So is it withdrawal? I’ve been reading up on these things, you know.”

“Must be,” William muttered. He braced himself before sitting up, wincing at the light of the candles. The room was dim, but it still hurt to ease his eyes open and to stare at Bentinck, whose eyes gleamed beside the flames. He looked patient, or at least like that was something he really wanted to be for William.

“I’m sorry, I know you-”

“William, it’s fine,” Bentinck said. He leaned in, lowering his voice to be just as quiet as William’s. “I don’t mind being here with you. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I-” He paused and swallowed hard, then made an effort to laugh. “I think you’re wonderful.”

Why did he stop there? William’s eyes widened, and his fear must have shown on his face, because Bentinck kissed him. It was not so hasty, not so forced, beyond anything that William was used to and had come to expect from even Bentinck. His first instinct was to pull away.

No, have it all to yourself. He screwed his eyes shut and pulled Bentinck in closer, moaning into his Ally’s lips the way he knew drove him mad, slipping his tongue straight through. He jolted a little upon feeling Bentinck take hold of his waist.

Much to his disappointment, however, Bentinck pulled away after only a few seconds. “Look, William, we shouldn’t—”

“Shouldn’t what? Fuck the same way as always?” William snorted and twined his tail around Bentinck’s hand, which still clung to his waist. He wanted it, too, what a liar. “You’re right. We could stand to change things up a little. It’s Dwaallichtsdag, after all. You deserve it.”

“I mean, if- if you really want to, you know, but we don’t have to.” Bentinck cleared his throat, and William felt his face flush with embarrassment. Did he truly have it in him to refuse his Overlifer?

“I want to,” William insisted. “And so do you.”

“I do.” Bentinck nodded slowly.

“I knew it.” William realized then that he actually, truthfully, didn’t want to do this, but it was too late, because he knew now that Bentinck wasn’t lying. But he had been decided on this for a few days now, and what else was he to do? Say that he changed his mind, let Bentinck see how weak he was? Weaker than an Ally, of all things?

No, I can do this. It’s good for me. He told himself this as he slipped off the sofa, sitting up on his knees expectantly. More than anything, he thought, Bentinck deserved it.

“So it’ll be you this time?” Bentinck asked.

William nodded. Already he felt his mouth go dry at the thought of doing this again, of his jaw aching afterwards and of how extensively he would have to wash out his mouth, how he could drink as much water as he wanted to and still the taste would never leave the back of his throat. He couldn’t do it, but he had to, he was happy with Bentinck, he knew he had to be.

“Here.” William blinked and saw that Bentinck was standing over him, his cock hanging a few inches above him. He had his fist closed around it to catch the pre-cum that was leaking out; by the stars, he was such an easy man to please. “Is this your first time?”

William opened his mouth to speak, but ended up shaking his head instead. He found he could not say a word, now that he tried.

Evidently Bentinck must have picked up on it, for he smiled patiently down at him. “I see. Take your time, I don’t mind.”

As if. William licked his lips and took a breath before leaning forward, taking as much of Bentinck as he could. He gagged instantly and was tempted to pull away, but he was rewarded with Bentinck’s slight groan. His hand came up to take hold of one of William’s horns.

Fuck. Fuck, this is so bad. He drew his head back, nearly all the way off the tip. He shut his eyes again and began to nod his head, working his tongue around to replace the oozing, watery fluid with his own thick saliva. He hated how good he was, admittedly, and he hated how Bentinck seemed to agree. He felt the hand on his horn squeeze him tighter, the hips before him beginning to buck into his throat.

“Oh, William,” Bentinck sighed, “William.”

Stop it. Stop calling my name. William at last pulled free with a gasp, his saliva still hanging from his lips. Bentinck laughed and tapped affectionately at William’s cheek with the tip of his cock, rubbing his own drool all over his face.

“You’re so- so cute, you know?”

At this William felt tears begin to fall from his eyes, and realized they’d been threatening to do so the entire time. He bowed his head, wiping at his face with his sleeve and trying to stifle his sniffles. He knew well what would happen if he let himself cry freely.

“William!” Bentinck knelt at his side, his smile disappearing. “William, look. We- we don’t have to continue, it’s okay. We can stop.”

William shook his head and flicked his tail upwards. What kind of Overlifer couldn’t finish their Ally? He was almost done, he was sure.

“You don’t have to do this,” Bentinck said. “I won’t force you.” He seemed adamant on it, firm in his belief of what was right, but William knew he was wrong. He shook his head again, his shoulders shaking as he breathed in, swallowing, trying to ease the painful lump in his throat. He made no effort to hide his tears now, but perhaps Bentinck might see it as a sign that he should keep going.

Oh, yes, how it does destroy me, to be unable to swallow a man’s semen! Now that was kind of funny, he almost laughed. He shoved Bentinck away and opened his mouth wide. He tasted the salt of his own tears.

Bentinck narrowed his eyes. “I can’t do this, William.”

William glared back at his Ally. He should have yelled at him, and Bentinck would have listened, as always, but the words felt too sharp to force out of his mouth. Too late, Bentinck was already beginning to step away.

But William kept his mouth open. Tail coiled over his lap, where his hands lay folded obediently, he tilted his head up, meeting Bentinck’s eyes in the darkness. It was cold here, and he hated the dampness of his eyelashes as he blinked, but he remained where he was. He knew how to wait.

Bentinck curled his lip up in a sneer. “Truly, you want it so bad?”

Yes. William barely had time to nod before Bentinck had shoved himself all the way down his master’s throat. William gasped, his tail going rigid behind him as Bentinck began to pound into him.

“We can get it done quickly,” Bentinck grunted. “Just for you.”

“Mm—!” William clenched his fists, but made no effort to move his head. Bentinck held his horns firmly; handlebars, as it were, and quite functional, too. Try as he might, he couldn’t get a breath in, nor even a thought.

Yet he could still feel them, his tears running down his face. They hadn’t stopped. He was still choking, wondering how anyone could derive pride from this, but he tried to nonetheless. At last he let himself fall limp in Bentinck’s grasp as he felt his Ally cum down his throat. As he could not breathe, he swallowed hard with a shudder that ran down to his tail.

“Are you happy?” Bentinck asked. He pulled out, his semen still dripping from William’s mouth. He sat back on the sofa with a lazy sigh and reached out to caress William’s cheek. “Hm? You did very well.”

William took a deep, shaky breath. “Yes.”

🝰🝰🝰

He didn’t know what was so bad, honestly, about being so tied to a drug as simple and forward as this one. Well, of course, he knew he was ill, he knew how it distressed Bentinck so to have to speak for him in public, he knew it looked bad when everyone spoke of him, expecting, hoping for him to drop dead at any moment now. He’ll overdose, they said online, and that’s one less rich heretic leeching off his Ally.

Heretic! Look who was talking. He was their savior, even if they did not know it, even if they scorned him, content to ignore whatever he spoke of upon a stage or into a microphone with Bentinck at his side. This was why he needed Bentinck— as long as he had such a beauty at his side, they would listen, as much as they claimed that they would not. It was remarkably predictable. He supposed, though, he couldn’t fault them for being ungrateful.

How could they know? It’s the Allies who have lied to them.

There was one Ally who had begun to lie better than the rest, one Ally who William could point at and decide that he would be a true threat. He was young, but already within a few years he had made himself loved, respected, in no small part thanks to his boundless career in the entertainment industry.

Marly and his Disciples, they all certainly looked the part, especially Charles, Charles their leader, the idol of his shareholders and the government itself. And William, what was William without his Ally to speak on his behalf, to make excuses for him?

Of course, he didn’t notice it, and in fact it wasn't something he particularly cared to notice, just the same as it was with everything else. Bentinck told him to at least try to be aware of how he must appear to others, but he was done being aware. Someone else could do it for him.

“And William...William Nassau, what is he without his Ally to speak on his behalf?” No, it was said flippantly on television one day, as Marly blew smoke from his lips, leaning back on the sofa, smiling at the woman interviewing him. “What is he without Ally Bentinck to make excuses for him? Oh, I can speak for my master- my patron, I mean, I may speak for him some days, but an Ally must never make himself subservient to these kinds of people, no matter how influential they may be.”

“Are you aware of the rumors surrounding his- his possible addiction?” Everyone always hesitated to be so plain, so forward. William had never found it easier.

“Oh, we must not say much.” Marly still smiled, but William saw him avert his gaze. “Not on that. Addiction is an honorable endeavor. Are you willing to die to enjoy yourself for just a little longer? Humans are nowhere near as invulnerable as the devils, and yet some of us will put ourselves in harm’s way to achieve the same level of pleasure as them. Indeed, addiction is...very noble.” As if on cue, he lifted his cigarette back up to his lips. “Addicts are some of the most devoted followers I have.”

Things like that. And the whole nation nodded its foolish head, for it adored him already as a symbol of the devils’ presence here in Altos Diablos, more so than it adored Bentinck, more so than William could ever hope to be. Anything he said must be true, any person he surrounded himself with must have been worth listening to. He was more beautiful, he knew how to lie, he was always going to be ahead.

On that night, William was alone. Oh, not completely alone, but Bentinck was not there, so it was just the same. Alone, high out of his mind, his breaths shallow but increasingly louder than the volume of the television.

“Arrogant viper,” he grunted. With some effort, he stood, reaching out towards the lamp beside his bed to steady himself. He nearly knocked it over. The clattering sound was enough to quiet down his breathing, though he knew that it must have only been an interruption, something louder than these labored pants.

He still wore his red coat, though the sleeves were slipping off his arms, and consequently the tails dragged on the floor, getting caught under his heels as he walked. He didn’t often change his clothes anymore, at least not before bed. He needed only to push his coat off his shoulders to be able to inject himself. And from there, time fell away before him, before he fell asleep wearing the same thing he’d been wearing the day before. Undoubtedly he would wear it tomorrow.

With a gun in his holster and spells spilling from his pockets, he stepped outside into the Southern chill, the wind rustling the trees that seemed to coil around his home protectively, their leaves falling to the empty pool behind the house. He couldn’t remember when he last rested there.

“Going somewhere, sir?” one of the guards at the gate asked.

“For a walk.”

🝰🝰🝰

He waited in a guest room at the Hoerenkast, as he and his mother had done so long ago. He’d been looked at strangely by the servants and handlers here, for he had made his disdain for the Allies known by now, but what could they do? Could they argue if he’d had a change of heart?

He was shaking, sitting up on the bed with his coat drawn around him, his sunglasses shoved awkwardly on his face, when he began to hear the voices approaching outside the door. There was a familiar one, murmuring low, but the other was louder and harshly accented.

“I can’t meet with them tonight.” That was Marly’s voice. “You’ll have to tell them that. We just got here. I said all that needed to be said, anyway.”

“Are you going back with James, then?”

“No, of course not. It’s easier here...”

They were gone before William had processed what he had just heard. There was someone else with Marly, and they appeared to be staying here, at least for now. That would be easier; no Overlifer to deal with.

He waited a moment, an indescribable amount of time which could have been the whole night itself. He didn’t know if now would be perfect, or if now was too soon, or too late, but he dug into his pocket for the beloved spell that allowed him to go unnoticed. That would have been a nice life, maybe.

No. No, this is only destiny.

“Écartez vos ailes, Majesté.” Tearing the spell in his fingers, he melted back into the shadows that surrounded him, sighing against their warmth. It was too much, stifling his breathing, but it would only be for a moment.

He followed the direction in which he thought he heard the voices go, passing by numerous servants on the way. There was one lady he nearly collided with, for she hid well in the shadows, almost as much as he did, her head bowed underneath her hat as she smoked from a pipe she held in her black gloves. The smoke reached William’s nose, and he had to bury his nose in his sleeve as he passed her by.

At last he heard the voices again, muffled behind a glass sliding door, which was then covered with dark green curtains, so that William almost did not see the light from underneath them. He ducked under them, moving not the fabric itself but the shadows that they shrouded the room in. As for the door, he could not open that without being seen, so he waited there, shaking himself as if it might cool his body down.

“It doesn’t sound very promising to me.” It was the higher voice speaking again, with its hard, sharp pronunciation of every word, belonging to an evidently Eastern woman, dressed in the loose, but warm clothing and cloak of an Ally handler. “I haven’t watched a horror movie in years.”

“I don’t think you’ve seen anything that wasn’t from me in years.” There was Marly, sitting beside the artificial stream at the back of the room, where no candle was lit, and only his red eyes shone in the darkness. “You’re a busy woman.”

His handler barked out a laugh. “Well, I suppose I don’t want you working for something that sounds like it won’t do very well.”

“I’ll still get paid,” Marly said, turning to face her.

“Yeah, and have your name tied forever to a horrible fucking movie.” Sarah smiled back down at him and took a step to the side, closer to the door. “Though I suspect I know exactly what kind of people are going to rewatch your death scene over and over again.” She began to slide the door open, and William ducked through, hiding in the shadows cast by the candles beside the mirror. There were strange, numerous cracks running through it, but the jewelry strewn across the table gleamed like new.

“And what of it?” The humor was evident in Marly’s voice. “They can have this one. It’s not like you don’t like them, either.”

“Maybe I do, huh?” Sarah lashed her tail as she walked back over to her Ally. “But getting run over by a train seems a little excessive. I’m starting to think we could maybe get you signed onto- onto other kinds of films—”

William began to draw out his gun, staring right at Marly, who began to raise himself from the water with a sigh. Sarah blinked at him, her eyes softening for a moment as Marly stepped past her. William stumbled to the side just in time, but, as if Louis XIV himself had asked him to stand there, that was where Marly decided to stay.

Fuck, do it now.

“I’m not having sex in front of a camera,” Marly said.

“I know.” Sarah took a step forward as William aimed the gun at said Ally’s head. “But haven’t you?” Her gaze flicked from Marly to William, and he was too slow to realize she was looking directly at him until she surged forward and drove her fist into the shadows, viciously into his face.

His head hit the wall, and the shadows drew back as if they shared the great pain that spread throughout his jaw. He coughed, falling back against the ground with his gun, licking his lips with some measure of embarrassment— was he drooling? No, he tasted the iron dripping from his mouth, he felt his tongue push a single tooth out from his bottom jaw, bouncing against the glasses that had fallen from his face.

Damnit. He didn’t bother to wipe the blood off the lenses before he hurriedly slipped them back on.

“Fucking Devil,” Sarah said above him. “Using Southern tricks against us. You think you can hide from an Ally and his handler? Jackass!” She sounded nearly gleeful as she jerked his head up, gripping onto the hair between his horns before he could take his gun back. “But it’s only to be expected from arrogant Westerners.”

“There’s some Eastern in him, too,” Marly said. He slammed his heel down on the tip of William’s tail. It was too little to stir a reaction from William; nothing could hurt more than his whole head at the moment. How was it possible, how could he still feel it all?

“I thought you had abandoned your claims to this world of ours,” Sarah said. She took hold of his shirt collar next, forcing him up against the wall with such strength that he was lifted a little from the ground. He couldn’t say he was surprised. “If you don’t have your six lives, then this fight is meaningless.”

“I don’t need six lives to kill an Ally.” William spoke without lifting his head, though he kept his glare upon Sarah through the glasses. “It’s the favor of the devils that matters.”

“And of course you must think that you have that favor, don’t you?” Sarah snarled, leaning in to hiss in his face. “He was chosen for a reason, and you were not. You’d do well to remember that.”

“The devils are no longer the ones who designate greatness,” Marly said.

“Then let it be the people!” Sarah lifted William’s chin in her tail. “You know what my favorite part of this job is? Beating the shit out of rich cunts like you. We get a lot of you sick bastards here with us. It’s amazing how much your families are willing to pay to keep you parasites alive.”

“I don’t need my family to do shit for me,” William spat.

“Then I guess it makes things easier for us,” Sarah said. She dropped him back on the ground, then landed a swift kick on the back of his head with her heel. This time he couldn’t bite back his groan, and he fell forward, his breaths ragged behind the hand he held to his mouth.

“Is this because of what I said?” Marly asked.

“What’s he got to be mad about? It’s true!” Sarah kicked him again, this time in the side, and William bit his tongue. He felt his gun resting by his leg, if he could only lift his head—

“Well, now we have a reason to go see James, after all,” Marly said. “What’d I tell you?”

“Don’t look at me like that!” Sarah huffed. “How was I supposed to know you’d be so unlucky?”

“I’d say you’ve spent long enough with me,” Marly said. “But hey, enjoy it while it lasts. Isn’t he cute? He’ll be great fun in Charles’ arena.”

“What?” William narrowed his eyes, trying to swallow back the vomit beginning to pool in the back of his throat. He didn’t have to go to any arena; he could fight them here, right now, if that was what they wanted. Besides, an Overlifer’s arena was for lowly spirits— not the Overlifers themselves.

“Ha! I didn’t even think of that,” Sarah said. “I’d like to see his guts on the sand.”

Ugh, this girl! William shook himself, licking the blood from his lips and beginning to stand. He was unsteady, like a deer having been shot and now trying to flee. But he was staying, he decided. He could take more of what he wanted if he just waited.

“Y-You fucking wish,” he snorted. “Take me to the arena. I can kill you both.”

Sarah started laughing; Marly merely raised an eyebrow. William felt the heat rise in his face.

“It’s true—!”

“Is it? Let’s see it, then.” Sarah turned around, flicking her tail at him. “Come on, boys! There’s something auspicious about these odds, and I intend to cash in.”

For whatever reason Marly seemed offended when William told him that he had gotten here by train, and was only too happy to drive him to the arena himself. Sarah was giggling at his side as they drove throughout the city, remarking on things she was reading on her phone, or pointing out what she called “heresies” on the streets. She seemed perfectly content to speak forever, and Marly was content to listen, to such an extent that William worried he was more focused on the words than the road ahead of him.

How dizzying was Sarah’s voice that it could lull him to sleep in the back of the car, even with the wind streaming past his horns, sending a chill down his tail even as he leaned his head out the window. He tried to stay awake, but his eyes kept drifting shut, only startled back open when they would pass another billboard with Charles’ stupid grin all over it, with a golden tooth here and there.

Ha. He’d need one of those, too. He ran his tongue over the dried blood on his lips, his eyes following the tip of the needle that Charles held in one hand. GET VAXXED! was the order of this particular ad.

He snorted and let his head fall back on the seat. He wasn’t about to fill Charles’ pockets with two hundred guilders to protect himself against some imaginary disease.

He hardly noticed that they had stopped until Marly opened the door for him, holding a hand out towards him. “We’re here.”

“Get away from me.” William batted him away and stumbled out of the car himself. He was, however, eventually obliged to grab onto Marly’s arm as they walked through what appeared to be an endlessly long barn, with empty, worn stables on both sides of them. Sarah walked on ahead, her eyes narrowed as she inspected the place.

“What is it? Sense anything that I miraculously don’t?” Marly asked. He laughed upon seeing Sarah’s face.

“I’m supposed to be protecting you, but fine,” she said. She stepped up beside William and shoved him forward. “Hey, Westerner, get moving. You’re not fit to touch him.”

William fell forward, tripping over his own tail with a huff. He coughed as the dust rose up beside him, and he waved it away, grabbing onto one of the stable doors to pull himself back up. He glowered at Marly and Sarah out of the corner of his eye.

Oh, I don’t need to be fit. If I can kill you both by the end of the night— it’d all be worth it. He lifted each of his legs behind him, pulling off his increasingly impractical heels. He coughed again. It stunk of smoke here.

They were met with much whistling when they walked out into the small arena, where two dog spirits were barking viciously at each other, snapping their jaws to warn the other away. The larger of the two was limping, his paws leaving blood in the sand as he circled around the smaller, jet-black creature with pure white eyes. It was Monmouth, William knew instantly.

“You brought me here to fight dogs?” he mumbled.

“These aren’t dogs, they’re spirits,” Marly said, speaking as if he were offended on behalf of the creatures. “Do not let their appearance deceive you.”

“I’m sure they’ll have no trouble devouring you,” Sarah said, tapping a finger against William’s horn. She hopped onto the wooden seats with Marly at her side, and William awkwardly followed them both, stumbling over the tails and feet of the Disciples already there. They turned to look at him with brilliant, hungry eyes, but no one was hungrier than James Stewart, sitting beside his brother with the usual cigarette in between his fingers.

“William! How have you been?” Charles greeted him, his voice hushed but delighted. He stood a little awkwardly, leaning against his cane, and inexplicably wrapped his arms around William.

What the—? William swallowed hard, conscious of the sweat running down from his hair to his neck. There was a sweet scent around Charles— perfume, was it? Perhaps he should have felt bad for how he was surely soiling the other Overlifer’s dress, which gleamed so prettily under the lamps, as beautiful as should have been expected for a man of his status. His body swayed unsteadily against William’s.

“This creature desires a place in the ring,” Sarah announced, clearing her throat. “He thinks he can beat Marly. He thinks he can beat anyone here.”

“William?” Charles sounded doubtful, pulling away and flashing the young man a confused smile. “Are you alright?”

“Are you kidding?” James broke in roughly. “Come on, then, put him in after Monmouth. He’s Mary’s son, he’ll at least entertain us for a bit before we send Marly in.” He took a drag from his cigarette and blew it in Sarah’s direction. “Where’d you pick up this stray? He’s high as shit.” He turned to grin ruefully at Marly. “Or have you learned something from me, after all?

Sarah curled her lip back in a snarl. “If you think we’d learn anything from you—”

“He was already high when we found him,” Marly interrupted. “Or- or rather, when he found us. He was trying to kill me.”

“But Southern shadow spells don’t escape me so easily,” Sarah said. “Bold creature, thinking he could kill an Ally with only one life. I could have taken it. I should have.”

“He’ll die here, anyway,” Marly said. He glanced back at William, his eyes glittering. “Those horns will make a very nice trophy for us.”

“Saw them off while he still lives, then,” James said.

Ugh. William tensed beside Charles, who narrowed his brilliant, yellow eyes upon his brother.

“Don’t talk like that in front of him!” he said. “Have some tact, all of you. Come, William, sit down—” He squeezed William’s hand, but William pulled it away, his eyes widening. Did Charles think he was so stupid?

“N-No, I want you dead,” he mumbled.

“Yes, so you do,” Charles said, “but first you need to kill those spirits, hm? Get down there, then, if you think you’re ready. Monmouth’s just about done.” He leaned in close, whispering into William’s ear. “Last chance, William, I don’t want to make an enemy of you. ”

William turned away. “You already have.”

He was met with unexpected cheering once he landed upon the sand, wavering where he stood, his tail limp at his side. The eyes he did not recognize, not like the last time he had been standing on the sands, with the eyes of a fawn upon him, watching, expecting him to attack at any moment. Even then, de Witt had seen him for who he really was.

It’s not a bad thing, I suppose. William dug into his pocket and lifted the knife that had saved Bentinck’s life— now it would save his own. I wouldn’t like to be seen any other way.

“You expect to kill anyone with that little thing?” Monmouth called out. He still stood upon the sand, his tail wagging as William approached him. “I’ve never seen you fight, sir! Shall we start you off easy?” As he spoke, he slowly breathed the black, endless ribbons from his mouth, forming the faint shapes of dogs behind him. At length he severed the ribbons with a single claw, and the two huge, ghostly creatures at his side let out faint barks. They look as if they could fall apart easily, being so quickly strung together, with a sort of drool dripping from their jaws, glowing and hissing as it hit the sand.

“Good luck!” Monmouth said. Throwing his ribbons back around himself, he morphed into a crow and flew onto the shoulders of the watching Overlifer, who leaned over his cane with interest.

The ribbon-dogs sprung forward, not a hint of tact in their attacks whatsoever save for the coordinated way they moved, almost in unison. The first swiftly clung onto his arm, which caused him to cry out; there were no sharp teeth to dig through his coat, rather there was the burning of the decaying dwaallicht energy, an oppressive heat threatening to rip away his skin if it broke through the noble cloth. He took a step back and kicked out at the dog, once, twice, and then the cursed creature fell back with a thrilled yelp.

Does it think it’s winning? There was a fierce bark behind him, and at this he turned to see the second dog jumping towards him, jaws wide open, ready to close around his face. William shoved his blade forward, ripping upwards through the ribbons on the dog’s chest until he sliced through the bottom jaw. The deadly drool flew at his face, and he ducked down, drawing the excess of his coat around him as the dog fell.

“By Charles, what is this?” he heard Monmouth snarl down at him, tossing his head back with a vicious bark. “He’s cheating!”

The remaining dog threw William back against the sand, with enough force to momentarily wind him. He gasped, his hand coming instinctively up towards his chest, and the dog leaned dangerously close to his face. Its jaws hovered over William’s throat.

But how cruel it would be to die now, to waste one life to please a dog, so he wrapped his tail around a stray ribbon and pulled hard. The dog let out a high-pitched growl, one of shock, and turned around to snap its jaws around William’s tail. As soon as it turned away, he buried the knife into the dog’s shoulders and tore it downwards.

The dog collapsed, its jaws still closed around the tip of his tail. William sat there, huffing, bringing his head down into his hands when the Disciples began to whistle and cheer for him. He was still here, relatively unharmed, but already he felt the exhaustion begin to claw at his bones. And he knew he wasn’t done.

“He has a cursed blade!” Monmouth shook his head, pacing around Charles impatiently. “Is it allowed?”

“It’s allowed,” Sarah assured him. She curled her lip back down at William. “There’s great power coming from this one, though. How did you manage to hide it in the Hoerenkast?”

“It’s not...that special,” Marly said, clearing his throat.

“Silence.” James flicked his tail. “All of you. Send in more spirits.”

“Come down here and kill me yourself, jackass,” William hissed back up at him, pulling his tail out from the dog’s rapidly-loosening jaws. He pointed his blade up at James with a nasty smile. “Isn’t that what you want? To see me dead?”

James let out a snort of laughter. “I’d kill you in an instant. No, William, I want to see you bleed.”

“And take those glasses off, we’re trying to see your pretty face!” Marly added.

William made an effort to swallow. Had Marly seen the marks, after all? He turned his wary eye toward James, but the man had dropped his head against his brother’s shoulder, his gaze fixed coldly on William.

Thankfully, the next spirits bled, as he began to find out once they leaped on top of him, and he was obliged to drive his knife through their chests, their arms, even their open jaws, whatever they decided was so apt to kill him with. Their stinking, rotting blood fell upon his face as he kicked them away. The foul scent began to drive him to sickness. His reflexes were slow enough; he could not be fighting back waves of nausea when he was already fighting for his life.

No, come on. It’s not that serious, he told himself. He fell often, stumbling back on the sands as these wild animals charged at him, some sentient enough to know what was happening to them. They knew that only one of them could leave this ring alive. Unfortunately, it would always be William— did they know how doomed the whole effort was?

He gasped upon feeling the claws of a chimeric spirit rake across his face, throwing his glasses away. This spirit stood upright, hissing in what William could only guess was Infernal, but its eyes were wild, almost rabid with terror. That was how they all looked when they saw him, and the fear always became triumph when they managed to knock him down, just as this one had. They all used the same tricks, they all only wanted to survive.

That was all they had ever done, truly. And yet they’d been brought here to die for the pleasure of the Overlifers and their people. Centuries of serving these higher powers, and this was how they were rewarded, with the jeers of the descendants of their masters driving them on to kill, to be killed. Here they died an undignified death, and their bodies were left to decay with the very same energy that had brought them into this world.

The spirit paced around him, he could see it through his blood-soaked lashes. He was sure, in another life, that this one could have been willing to serve him, to sit on his lap after a long day, to aid him in his destiny. They were as loyal as dogs. Even now he saw spirits hovering around Charles, those who had been chosen by him to survive. And why?

Poor things. It wasn’t their choice. This was my choice. It wasn’t theirs. They didn’t have a choice. He’d seen enough spirits killed for no other reason than happening to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the wrong person, that wrong person, his father. And what crime did these ones have to pay for?

What did I pay for? What did he pay for? The words echoed in William’s head, even as the spirit crawled over him, its metallic breath sending another wave of sickness through him. Was that his blood? He’d been bitten a few times, he knew that much.

“Ugh, I didn’t come here for- for you!” He coiled his tail around his blade and began to drive it through the spirit’s back, over and over again. The spirit stumbled back with a screech, and at last William kicked it off with a sharp grunt. Frantically, the creature buried its teeth around William’s leg, pulling him back towards it.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Charles watching, the bright yellow gaze narrowed, focused onto him, so unlike the pretended disinterest of his brother. Would he have liked to see William dead as well?

A shudder ran through his body when the spirit tossed its head back, clearly trying to rip off the leg it held in its mouth. At this William drove the knife towards its chest, but the spirit’s long, heavy tail, like that of a crocodile’s, came up to slap his hand away, with enough force that the knife slipped out of his grasp.

No! He glared at the beast, huffing as it slowly picked the blade up with one of its many arms. Again William tried to pull away, quickly stopped by the fiery stinging he felt throughout all of his body when he moved.

“Damnit, let- let go!” He began to pummel the spirit’s snout with his fists, but the creature only blinked at him. It raised the knife over its head.

Shit—! William fell back, and the blade came down merely on his stomach rather than his face. It was no less agonizing, however, and his whole body jolted with the force, his teeth clenching so hard around his tongue that he bled. He could feel the steel move in him, Liselotte’s curse nipping at him as playfully as she always had.

William turned his wide eyes up to the spirit standing over him. It let out a low hiss, as if it was irritated, and then closed its teeth around William’s throat.

But it was not a moment worth the brief terror he felt, for the teeth had only begun to rip through the fabric of his cravat before two harsh gunshots rang out, and the spirit fell dead over him.

Nearly killed by a spirit—! How weak had he become! It was his first thought before he realized he should have been relieved. He was reluctant to kick the spirit away, however; if he stood, they would send another one in to finish him.

But at last, he shifted his body out from under the spirit, for its weight only pressed the blade further into him. He sat up against the sand, his breath rapidly beginning to escape him. Not today, he could not keep his promise. His destiny would have to wait.

And yet above him there stood a shadow, the cruel figure of a man with sharp, imposing horns, with hungry yellow eyes like that of a devil’s, matching the highlights of the dark dress he wore. The Overlifer grinned down at him, tucking his gun back into the holster on his thigh.

“By the stars, you smell, William,” Charles said. “You cannot say that this is what you wanted.”

“I wanted to kill you and the fuckers who decided you were worth dying for,” William snarled back. “You sent spirits here to die, and I-”

“I gave them a reason to die,” Charles broke in, not at all unkindly, with a voice so sweet that William was almost inclined to believe him. “Did you want them to be hunted down by the extermination companies, would you rather they cannibalize each other for no other reason than boredom? They have been here for centuries, William. Anyone who has lived that long wants to die. Pray, think of it as a gift.” He bowed low, his hand held up to his heart, and William swallowed hard.

“You always thought you were our savior,” he muttered. “Madman.”

“Haven’t I saved anyone?” Charles tilted his head to the side, as if he were really looking for an answer. “That’s not fair, William.” He dropped to his knees on the sand before him, his tail coming up to flick William’s chin.

“No, of course not.”

“Aren’t I allowed to feel just a little good about it? Or do you think the bad outweighs the good?” Charles pointed right at William’s nose, and William blinked, staring at the long finger, the nail painted with a rather intense black.

“I never thought there was good—” He was interrupted by his own cry as Charles dropped his hand back down towards the knife inside of William, pulling it out with such force as to bring his whole body forward. He fell back down, gasping, shakily holding his tail to the wound. Maybe he couldn’t stop the bleeding, but the fur, at least, would soak it up better than his hand could.

Charles stood again, stepping away from him and examining the bloody knife in his grasp. “Go home, William. You did well.”

“You would leave this little beast alive?” James called out, his eyes widening with disbelief. “Send Mary in if you can’t stomach doing it yourself. She is ready.”

“This isn’t her fight, James, it’s ours,” Charles said. He scowled back up at his brother; evidently the veiled insult had not escaped him. “Besides, he’s of no threat to us, not like his father was. He made a promise.”

Mary. It was the only word that made sense to William. It felt as if the pain were the only thing he could hear, mixed in with his heavy, quick breaths. Mary. He clung onto the name as if it could bring him any peace. Foolishly, he thought that maybe his mother was still alive— she’d only left him behind, of course—

“Do you trust him?” James dropped his voice, his tail lashing warily. “I don’t.”

“He’s only a boy.”

Marly snorted beside James. “He’s damn near thirty!”

“He’s only a boy,” Charles repeated firmly. “Look at him.” He ran the tip of his tail over William’s back, and William was almost deceived. “At least we have another cursed weapon now.” The tail retreated as he stepped away.

William grunted, forcing himself back onto his feet even as his whole body shook with the effort. He needed to go home, as Charles said. He could survive this as long as he wasn’t sober.

“I promised that I would kill you all,” he hissed out through gritted teeth. “Don’t think that that’s over.”

“It’s been over,” Charles said.

“No. No, you listen to me.” William stumbled forward, blinking rapidly through the pungent blood that was running down his face. It was starting to sting. “It’s not over, it never has been. I made a promise to keep my single life. But I’ll show you that I don’t need them to kill all of you. I’ll keep chasing all of you down until nothing but pure Western blood rules the world. My destiny is to stop yours, and I haven’t lived this long just to let it all go. That is my promise.”

There was a satisfying silence from the Disciples, and then James licked his lips and spoke. “The Devils of Orange-Nassau were disbanded.”

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think that’s what happened.” William grinned back up at him.

“So it was under your orders that the attacks have continued,” Charles said. He appeared calmer than his brother, but his tail was lashing with greater agitation by the second.

“That’s right,” William said. He turned around and began to walk out of the arena, laughing to himself. “This war has continued for three hundred years. I’ll drag it on for three hundred more if I must.” He flicked his tail upon seeing Charles’ cold expression. “We are determined to die in the last ditch.”

He knew he’d be hearing from Bentinck if he called him now, he thought about it as he slipped his heels back on and walked past the stables. This time, in one of them there was a dazzling, hooded figure slipping a bit into a horse’s mouth, speaking in a hushed voice to the alarmed creature. Its eyes fixed upon William as he walked by; could it smell the blood?

“Good fight?” asked the hooded Disciple.

“Piss off,” William mumbled.

Nonetheless, he decided to call him anyway. He couldn’t take the train back like this— maybe when he was high, that was tolerated, if not wanted, but what an unnecessary fuss they would all make if they saw the heir of the Nassau family bleeding out before them.

Was he bleeding, really? He placed a hand on his wound, and it came away wet, but not as wet as it could have been. Still, he didn’t know how long he could remain standing like this.

“Hello?” Bentinck’s voice rang out gently from the speaker. “What is it, William?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” William said. “Can- can you come get me? I was just- ah, you know. I was just stabbed.”

“What? William—” “It was in- in Charles’ arena, with some spirits. It’s not that serious.” He looked around for somewhere to sit, but all that he saw were hay bales. He much preferred the sensation of the blood on his face.

“What arena? Where?”

“The one that’s really far out. With the horses.”

“Don’t they have, like...three of those?”

“Damnit, I didn’t call you to ask all these questions,” William growled. “I was just stabbed. Are you coming to get me or not?”

“I thought it wasn’t that bad,” Bentinck said.

“W-Well— well, maybe it is!” William’s face flushed. “Can’t you think about anyone over yourself for once?” He hesitated, then hung up, then immediately regretted it. But maybe it was what Bentinck needed.

Or maybe he wouldn’t come at all. Well, William could risk it. He put his hand over his face with a shaky sigh. Somehow, it was his head that hurt more than anything else.

🝰🝰🝰

“What in the Prince’s name possessed you to do such a thing?” Bentinck snipped off the excess of the bandage and stepped back to glower down at William, who lay on the bed before him. He was tempted to pull the blankets over himself, but any slight movement from his waist caused him to grit his teeth with a hiss.

Bentinck leaned in. “Are you listening to me? You could have revealed yourself to them.”

“I will eventually,” William sighed, rolling his eyes.

“But you want to surprise them, not the other way around!” Bentinck sat back down beside him. “I- I’m sorry, William, there’s no way about it. You’ll have to go to a hospital.”

“What? Can’t you heal me or- or something?”

“Maybe a few hundred years ago, I could have,” Bentinck said. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t help you. I can take you—”

“N-No, there’s no need, I don’t- I don’t think it hit anything vital,” William said, raising his tail to interrupt Bentinck. “I would have bled out by now, right?”

“That doesn’t matter. There’s still other things that could go wrong.”

“You know I can’t be going to just any hospital whenever I get hurt,” William said with a scowl. “I’m not doing it.”

“Then- then at least let me call Bidloo.” Bentinck reached out and pushed the hair out of his Overlifer’s face, much to William’s surprise. He tensed under the touch, though Bentinck didn’t seem to notice. “He’s one of us.”

Bidloo? William swallowed. He’d heard enough from Govert Bidloo when they had last seen each other a year or so ago.

But he supposed he wasn’t an Ally; this wouldn’t heal by itself, and what a waste of a life it would be if he were to go into septic shock. Besides, Bidloo didn’t have to know what had happened. If William told him to shut up, he would.

“Tomorrow,” he said at length. “I wouldn’t like to deal with him right now, it’s late. Besides, you’ve already wrapped it up,” he added upon seeing Bentinck frown. “It should be fine for one night, right?”

“We don’t know that—”

“Hans, please.” William sat up. “Not tonight. I can’t.” He hesitated, then kissed his Ally gently. He smiled when he felt Bentinck sigh against him. He’d done well in pointedly refusing to touch him lately; maybe he’d keep it going. Such men were easy to control.

“Then I’ll stay with you,” Bentinck said.

“Well, I never said you had to leave.”

He said that, always with Bentinck at his side, but of course he wished he’d be left alone, maybe just this once, maybe for a little while longer. It was an hour of shaking and wincing against the pillow before he heard Bentinck begin to snore softly beside him, and he sat up once more with a displeased flick of his tail. He’d waited for too long.

You can’t be serious, thought William, almost affectionately, as he glanced back at Bentinck’s sleeping form. He made his way downstairs, biting his lip all the while, the feeling being newly unnatural to him with his missing tooth. Some part of him smelled, the same part of him that ached and stung and bit at him with every movement. He swore he felt it to the tip of his horns.

No one could sleep through that smell, nor through this pain. It was only logical, then, that he wasted no time in preparing a syringe or burning yet another spoon, and instead merely leaned over the counter and inhaled the powder he’d thrown upon it so carelessly. He rarely did it these days, but at least now his nose wouldn’t bleed.

“Ugh- damnit,” he muttered. He’d almost forgotten that he’d been high when he had left to kill Marly. So little did it feel like it now, with his tail still swishing about and his body burning all over. It never did feel like it was enough anymore.

When he dropped his head a second time, that was when he felt the blood begin to trickle down his nose, but it was only for a moment. He stumbled into the bathroom and wiped at his face, blinking at himself in the mirror. Had he always been so thin?

He paced there for a while, his own breaths becoming unbearably loud to him. He hadn’t showered, maybe he should have. It was tempting now that he was here, but he felt himself swaying on his feet, his tail slipping under him, and he decided he could wait until the morning. He could wait here, so Bentinck wouldn’t have to rest beside the mess he had become.

Especially now. He thought it was strange that he began to vomit much more quickly than usual. When he thought he was done, it was with a shaking hand that he flushed the toilet, and then he fell back on the floor with a groan. There was always the spell of dizziness afterwards, but it hit as if he had been stabbed all over again.

“What the fuck is this?” he asked out loud. He realized then how out of breath he was, chasing something that was never there. He blinked tears out of his eyes and lifted his head, or did he, really? It felt as if he were still resting on something, and he shut his eyes, thinking for a moment that he had somehow crawled back into bed. He could rest now.

Must’ve been too much this time.

Too much. Fuck.

With a start, he opened his eyes again and began to drag himself out of the bathroom. Bentinck carried naloxone now, didn’t he? Charles’ brand.

He used the railing to pull himself back on his feet and began to trudge up the stairs. He felt his wound rubbing up against it, sending a tremor through him. Yet there was no pain, only dizziness, and a deep, deep exhaustion, urging him to rest every time he paused. He could just close his eyes for a moment.

No. No, get to your room first. He forced himself to fix his gaze up ahead, though it was unsteady, blurred before him, even in this darkness. He could see his room up ahead.

He managed to open the door and then threw himself back on the bed, wrinkling his nose at the scent that seemed to surround him. It was stronger here, manifesting itself as shadows over his eyes, as dark as the blood of the spirits. He retched, turning his head to the side to bury his nose in the pillow.

He could wait. He didn’t have to tell Bentinck now, he had some time left. There was nothing more fearful to him than the thought of that smell again. Even now it seemed to coil deep in his nostrils, where the blood had long dried. Maybe that was why he could hardly get a breath in; that’s right, this time it was nothing but that.

“William?” He was startled by a soft voice above him. “Did- did you get up?”

No. He thought he heard himself say it, so he didn’t expect it when Bentinck leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, laughing softly.

“I swear, you’re always in my dreams.” And then he lay back down beside him, his arm over William, his hand resting over his heart. He was suddenly aware of how slow it was beating, slower than ever before— was it relieved? He would have been.

He soon realized he kept drifting off, then waking up again. He would have liked to fall asleep and make this a night like any other; tomorrow morning Bidloo would be here, and he would scold William for being so reckless. But then, that would happen either way, whether William spoke or no.

“Hans,” he let out in a shaky voice. His eyes were shutting again, and he yawned. “Hans, please...”

No, he slept too soundly. William lifted the hand from his heart, hesitantly kissing the palm. “Wake up.” The scent was overpowering now. “C-Can’t you hear me?”

What am I saying? This isn’t working. He felt Bentinck shift behind him, and he let his head fall back against the warm body of his Ally. It wasn’t a terrible place to die.

“Did you...say something?” It was murmured sleepily against his ear.

He paused, conscious of his chest falling, falling, failing to rise again. “D-Don’t call...Bidloo in th-the morning.”

There was no reply from Bentinck; he seemed to have fallen asleep again. Nonetheless, to William it was some kind of answer, and he rolled over so that his face was buried in Bentinck’s chest. He couldn’t think of anywhere else he would rather be for this. He only hoped it would end soon. It was exhausting to try and keep breathing.

And so he sank into sleep— forever. He didn’t know when his slumber ended and his death began.

Alas, forever would have been nice.

“William.” A talon prodded at his cheek, the other being pressed into the moist, red grass underneath. At least, he was sure it was red, for where else would he be if not with the Prince, in his realm?

“Your Highness,” he said hoarsely, lifting his head to face the Prince. The creature’s brilliant eyes seemed to dull and flicker as William stared at them, and then he turned his noble head away, pacing around his descendant with a hint of impatience.

“I’m sorry,” William began. “I swear it’ll be different when I get back—”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“That boy wasted his first life.” He hardly heard the Prince as he bowed his head to hide the tears beginning to warm in his eyes. “I won’t be the same way. That- that is not me, not anymore. I swear it. I’ll do whatever it takes to fulfill my destiny and never again shall I stray from—”

“What boy is it you speak of?” the Prince broke in, his tail rattling.

William wiped at his face and looked up, even though it did nothing to stop him from crying. “W-What?”

“You would abandon him so easily?” The Prince paused and sat down in front of William, his eyes beginning to burn again. “A devil cannot simply shed his feathers and decide he is a different beast now. He may change, but the creature he was before nonetheless remains with him. There is no past self, there is no running away to the safety of handing someone else the blame when that someone else is still you.”

“But it can’t be me,” William desperately exclaimed. “He was so weak—”

“Yet it was you, William,” the Prince said. He coiled his tail around William’s body and brought him closer. “You were not weak, my child, trust me.”

“I f-failed in- in everything.” William began to feel himself shaking, trying to stifle the sobs in his chest as he clung onto the feathers of the Prince.

“William!” the Prince nearly laughed. “Nay, of course not, it was you who was failed.” He sighed and lifted his head to the sky. “But you were meant to be, were you not? It was decided centuries ago that this noble family must put its destiny first, and that you, my child, yes, you...must always come last.” He poked his tail against William’s chest.

“But I’m the Overlifer,” William said, wincing a little.

“Aye, so you are,” said the Prince. “Then your child will take your place, your last place, at last. And maybe one day she, too, shall lie in the arms of her Ally lover as she blissfully overdoses on— what was it?”

“Heroin,” William said bitterly.

“Heroin.” The Prince sighed a little. “Yes.”

“It won’t have to be that way. Not- not with her.” William shuddered at the thought of her, his daughter. Or whatever she would happen to be, but somehow he couldn’t imagine her as anything at all.

“We’d all like to believe it of ourselves, William, but some of us have that instinct in us broken, and we only realize it when it is too late,” the Prince said. “When we have already broken it in someone else.”

William began to back away. “I just- I don’t see what else I’m supposed to do. I’m so close, you don’t understand—”

“So close to what? Your destiny?” The Prince, unexpectedly, began to rattle his tail again, hissing down at William. “Yes, what a fine destiny that makes, murdering everyone around you until you are the only one left. You can stay, William, do you know that? It can all end with you.”

“What?” William’s eyes widened. “And let the Disciples have it all to themselves?”

“Oh, William, ‘tis not about them!” The Prince bounded towards him, and William drew back, reaching instinctively for his gun before remembering that he had died with no weapons on him. “This is about you. You can stay here before you ruin lives like your father did.”

“Well, maybe those lives will deserve to be ruined, hm?” William lashed his tail and turned away. “It’d be a whole life wasted if I stayed here. A life that boy wasted. But I have another chance, and I intend to use it. You devils have done nothing but stand in our way. Just let me go back.”

The Prince stopped, baring his teeth for a moment before tossing his head back with a snort. “Clearly ‘twas my fault for thinking you had more compassion than your father, more than all those that came before you.” He lifted a talon and began to trace a circle in the grass, and William kept a wary eye on the glow of the claws.

“Maybe I do,” he said.

The Prince said nothing more. He sat back and motioned at the circle with his tail. There was a grim disappointment in the way his eyes flickered, but William didn’t bother remarking on it. Anything must have seemed disappointing to a devil who had seen everything.

Now, what is this? William stepped closer, seeing the summoning circle begin to glow before him. Was this how he was meant to return?

“I’ll be better,” he said, looking back at the Prince. “Everything from my first life— I’ll leave it all behind—”

“Go if you will.” The Prince stood and began to walk away. “I never asked to hear this.”

“Fine, fuck you!” William braced himself to step through, hopping from one foot to the next. He realized then that it did not tempt him, nor did it pull him forward; it was as the Prince said, he could stay if he wanted. The circle could just as easily be sealed, and he would stay here.

By the stars—! He shook himself out. Was this the Prince’s doing?

“Your Highness,” he called out.

He heard the Prince stop behind him. “Yes?”

And William stared it in the face— death. Real, permanent death; before he’d even reached thirty, he overdosed, just like everyone thought he would. But at least that meant that the burning memory of his father’s hands on him had died with him. His mother’s shame had died with him. And maybe, just maybe, the Devils of Orange-Nassau had been put to rest. No one else had to die by his hand, and Liselotte only mourned the boy she thought she knew.

Could he defy this destiny?

He sighed. “Nevermind.” And he stepped through the circle.

#six lives won't make you happy #FINALLY I GET TO KILL THIS DUMBASS #IT ONLY TOOK THIRTY YEARS

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ollieofthebeholder · 4 years ago

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3

Chapter 26: Jon

When Jon’s grandmother passed away peacefully in her sleep, not long after his twenty-fourth birthday, he quickly discovered that her life insurance and savings weren’t enough to cover all the bills that needed to be covered and put the house he’d grown up in on the market. He only vaguely remembers the whole procedure, as he was in something of a state of shock at the time, but he does remember accepting the first offer presented to him despite the realtor’s comments that he could “probably hold out for a bit more” if he wanted. Thus, he’s the only one not really startled at the speed with which he, Martin, and Tim find out that they’ve got the house.

To be clear: He’s not startled at the speed. He is, however, startled that they got it. Surely someone must have been willing to pay more for it, been better qualified. But no. They learn their offer has been accepted less than a week after the Primes’ disastrous encounter with Basira’s partner and the closing is scheduled for the following Friday. Martin theorizes that their position at the Magnus Institute gave them some extra clout. Tim jokes that it’s his charismatic personality. Jon frets that Elias might have had something to do with it for nefarious purposes.

Sasha finally does some research and tells them that it’s being sold by a pair of siblings barely out of their teens whose parents died unexpectedly and probably just need the money fast.

Martin doesn’t have much, just the little he managed to bring with him to the Institute when first escaping Jane Prentiss and the few things he’s re-acquired since then, and Jon’s things are still packed up from when he declined to renew the lease on his flat in August, so it’s mostly just Tim who needs to decide what he’s keeping and what he’s ready to part with or needs to replace. It takes them the better part of two Saturdays, but they manage to get everything boxed and sorted in time to move out the last full weekend of September.

The moving-in process is surprisingly fun. Sasha and the Primes even come to help (Tim suggests the latter so that Martin Prime knows his way around the house from the get-go, which is actually really sensible) and they make a party of it. Tim insists on setting up the sound system first, then gets everyone to contribute a certain number of songs to a playlist on some app he has on his phone. He puts it on shuffle and lets it play while they work together on the various rooms.

“Oh, my God,” Sasha moans after the eighth song that she evidently didn’t pick comes on. “Do any of you listen to a single band that’s put out an album since 1984?”

“Yes,” Martin says indignantly, his cheeks coloring slightly.

“Remasters don’t count.”

Martin Prime grins. “None of mine have come up, either.”

“What did you put on?” Sasha asks suspiciously.

She gets her answer a few minutes later when, after shuffle coughs up a Spice Girls song they all tease her mercilessly about, an honest to God sea shanty comes on. Tim and Jon laugh at Sasha’s dramatic, despairing groan, but it’s hard not to respond to the Martins’ enthusiasm as they—surprisingly��harmonize along with the recording while they set up the living room.

They’re almost done assembling the new bed Tim bullied Jon into buying (“You’re not in uni anymore, you don’t need to be sleeping on a futon, and anyway, when was this made, the Thatcher premiership?” “Brown, and shut up, Tim.”), which is the last piece of furniture they need to put together, when there’s a sound from the front door—two firm, solid knocks, audible all the way upstairs. Jon nearly drops the screwdriver as his heart kicks against his ribs. It’s stupid, and he knows it’s stupid, but two knocks like that always makes him think of that book.

Tim makes a noise in the back of his throat. “God, hope the music isn’t too loud.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Martin says, but he sounds uncertain. “I-I mean, it’s been ages.”

Jon pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll check.”

He hurries out of the bedroom before anyone can comment on the clear break in his voice. He is, and there is no way to deny it to himself, legitimately afraid of what might be outside. The likelihood of it being a being of another entity is slim, but…well, there was Mr. Spider, and Jane Prentiss knocked on Martin’s door more than a few times to keep him off-balance, so there’s always the chance. It’s something he feels he can deal with, though, so he heads out to face it.

He does not, however, expect to open the door and be faced with what is either a small child or a casserole dish with tennis shoes.

“Hello,” a tiny voice says brightly from behind the dish. There’s a bit of shifting, and then two big brown eyes and a mass of curls appear over the rim. “I’ve brought you a cake.”

Jon will deny to his dying day that those words freeze his blood in his veins and make his heart stutter to a stop, but since this might actually be his dying day, he’ll be lying if he tries. His lips part, but no sound comes out.

“And a casserole, too,” the child continues, completely oblivious to Jon’s unwarranted panic attack. “That’s not as much fun, though, but Nan says it’s important to eat good, hearty food when you’ve been doing lots of work and that cake shouldn’t be a whole meal. I think there’s no point in being a grown-up if you can’t eat whatever you want, but…” The child heaves an enormous, dramatic sigh that seems too large for such a small body. “My Nan’s very, very old, and you don’t get to be old if you don’t do something right, so she must know what she’s talking about. Anyway, we made the casserole with lots and lots of cheese and she said that was okay, so at least it’s a little better.”

“Ah—thank you?” Jon manages. “H-here, let me…take that.”

He manages to extract the casserole dish, which certainly feels as if it’s laden with cheese; it weighs the proverbial ton. Quite possibly a literal one. It’s solid enough to anchor Jon to reality, though, and he studies his benefactor. The child can’t be more than seven or eight, at the most, with a round face and limbs hidden in an oversized, threadbare sweater that looks like it’s been handed down through more than a few generations. Dangling from one arm is a wicker basket that does indeed appear to contain a cake.

“It’s a chocolate cake with marshmallow frosting,” the child says. “I tried to write ‘Welcome to the neighborhood’ on it, but I didn’t put the tip on the piping bag right and it came off, so now it’s just a mess, but it’ll taste just as good, I promise. My Nan makes the best cakes.”

Jon smiles in spite of himself. “I don’t think I have enough hands to take it from you now. Would you mind bringing it into the kitchen for me?”

“Oh, sure!” The child practically hops over the threshold. “I always wanted to see what this house was like on the inside. Tibby used to babysit for me sometimes, but she always came over to our house, never me coming over here. Nan says it’s better that way, and Tibby always said it was laid out exactly like all the other houses, but it’s not the same as seeing it for yourself. Firsthand knowledge is best, that’s what I think. What do you think?”

“I—I think I agree with you,” Jon says. He also feels a bit like he’s staring at his younger self. “I assume you live in one of the other houses on the row?”

“Two doors down,” the child agrees cheerfully. “With the window boxes. My Nan likes to garden a bit, but she can’t bend over so much anymore, so Toby set up the window boxes for her a couple years ago.”

“And, uh, who is…Toby?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you knew. Toby McGill. He and Tibby—that’s his sister Tabitha, but everyone calls her Tibby—they were the ones selling this house after their parents died. He’s at Surrey University now and he says he’s going to stay out there when it’s all said and done, and Tibby got a job on a boat.” The child sounds deeply impressed. “I want to be a sailor someday, too. Can you imagine getting to see the whole wide world by water and getting paid for it, too? I’d never want to leave. I told Tibby she has to save a spot on the crew for me and she laughed and promised, so I can’t wait. I’m going as soon as I grow up. I’m not going to university. You don’t need to go to university for everything, you know. I know Nan really wants me to go ‘cause Mum didn’t and neither did Dad and she doesn’t want me turning out like them, but you can turn out well even if you don’t go to university, can’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Jon says gravely. He casts an involuntary glance in the direction of the stairs, thinking of Martin. “One of my housemates didn’t go to university, and he’s one of the most brilliant people I know.”

“How many of you live here, anyway?”

“Just three of us.” Jon has no idea how much this child has seen and how many people he knows are in the house at the moment.

“Oh. There used to be three of us in my house, too.” The child scuffs a toe against the carpet just before they step into the kitchen. “And then there was going to be four, but Mum died and the baby did, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says softly, feeling a pang. “I grew up with my grandmother, too.”

The child looks up at Jon and smiles, in such a way that Jon can’t help but smile back. “And you turned out okay.”

“Debatable,” Jon says. He sets the casserole dish on the counter. “I’m Jon, by the way. Jonathan Sims.”

“I’m Charlie. Charlie Cane.” The child smiles up at him and hands over the basket. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Tell your grandmother we said thank you. I don’t know that any of us will have the energy to cook tonight. We’ll bring back the dishes tomorrow.”

“There’s no hurry. Nan doesn’t go anywhere.” Charlie flashes Jon a grin that’s missing two teeth, then turns and waves to the doorway. Jon glances up to see Martin, looking somewhere between worried and amused. “Hi! I’m Charlie Cane. Welcome to the neighborhood. Do you live here, too?”

“Um…yes. I’m Martin Blackwood. It’s…nice to meet you?” Martin raises an eyebrow at Jon.

“Charlie and his grandmother made us a casserole,” Jon says, gesturing at the counter. “And a cake.”

“That’s very nice of you. Thank you.” Martin smiles at Charlie and winks, although Jon doesn’t quite understand why.

“Welcome.” Charlie’s beaming smile could probably light the house for a week. “I’d best go before Nan thinks I’m doing something stupid again. See you later!”

He’s out the front door before Jon can respond, or even blink. He looks back to Martin, who isn’t even trying to hide his amusement. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, Jon. We were just wondering if you were okay. You were gone for a while.”

Jon gestures vaguely at the front door. “I don’t think that child has many people to talk to. Or at least not many people who will listen to him.”

Martin snorts. “I think you’ve got yourself a new best friend.”

Jon almost wants to say something flippant like Just what I need, but thinking on it, he actually doesn’t mind all that much. “Considering how much I would have given to have an adult pay that kind of attention to me when I was his age, I think I can handle that.”

Martin reaches over and pulls Jon into a hug. Jon lets himself be comforted for a moment, then extricates himself gently and smiles. “Come on. Let’s see if the others are ready to eat.”

As it turns out, the others finished putting together the bed and even made it while Jon talked to Charlie, so they’re all too happy to come into the kitchen for a hearty meal. It’s exactly as cheese-laden as Charlie promised. Jon recounts his conversation, to general amusement, although something flickers briefly across Martin Prime’s face and Jon Prime shoots Jon an understanding and slightly frightened look when he repeats Charlie’s opening words. If anyone else notices, they give no sign of it.

Tim lets the music keep playing while they eat. Jon mostly tunes it out, no pun intended, and he rather suspects the others do too. But just as they’re scraping their plates clean—the food is delicious, and Tim declares he’s going to try and charm Charlie’s grandmother out of the recipe—Martin Prime suddenly tilts his head to one side, as if trying to catch a sound. A smile twitches at his lips, and he stands up and holds out a hand to Jon Prime. “May I?”

Jon Prime looks startled for a split-second, then smiles—no, grins—and places his hand in Martin Prime’s. He lets Martin Prime pull him away from the table and into his arms, and the two of them start slow-dancing.

Jon pauses, fork suspended over his plate, and watches them. Jon Prime lets Martin Prime lead him in a simple box step, one arm draped casually over Martin Prime’s shoulder, while Martin Prime’s hand rests firmly at his waist; their other fingers are laced together in a way that would make it difficult to telegraph intended moves if they didn’t—probably—know each other so well. The space between them is so little it’s a wonder they don’t constantly trip over each other’s feet, and before long their foreheads touch. The song is gentle and plaintive, encouragement from one partner to the other to trust and relax and allow the first to take care of the second, a promise that the second person won’t be considered weak or lesser if they allow themselves to be comforted.

I promise you’ll be safe here in my arms…

Martin Prime lifts his arm and spins Jon Prime around gently, and when Jon Prime comes back into the closed frame, he leans his head against the shoulder where his hand isn’t resting and closes his eyes. Martin Prime pulls him closer and rests his cheek alongside Jon Prime’s as they continue dancing. It’s one of the most intimate and romantic things Jon has ever seen, and he almost has to look away from it.

Almost. Not quite. Something keeps him drawn, and there’s a tiny part of Jon’s brain that suggests it probably isn’t just the pleasure at seeing someone who’s basically him safe and happy and in love mixed with the vague sense of longing for something like that—maybe not that exactly, but something like it. It may also be that watching the Primes slow dancing means he doesn’t have to look at anyone else.

The song plays itself out. Martin Prime turns his head slightly; Jon Prime turns his at the same time, and their lips meet gently in the middle. This time Jon does look away. He’s never quite been able to figure out how he feels about kissing, to be honest; it’s one of the things that sent his and Georgie’s relationship down in flames, was the fact that he always acted like you think I’ve got poison in my lip gloss, according to her. But he finds himself wondering for a moment what Martin’s lips would feel like against his, if they’d be as soft and warm as the rest of him. If it might make a difference to kiss Martin instead of Georgie, or Meredith, or Kelly. And that’s not a question he’s comfortable asking himself just then, let alone trying to answer.

The scrape of a chair breaks his attention, and he looks up to see the Primes sitting down like nothing happened, although they’re still holding hands. Tim clears his throat. “Who wants cake?”

The cake is, as promised, a bit of a mess—it looks like someone tried to tease out the blob created by the icing tip popping off with a toothpick or something, but the resultant design looks like the pictures someone showed Jon once of a web woven by a spider that had been fed caffeine, and the fact that the icing is bright red doesn’t help—but it is absolutely delicious.

Afterward, Tim and Jon store the leftovers while Martin and Sasha start on the dishes. Jon Prime glances at the kitchen clock and touches Martin Prime on the shoulder. “We should probably go. The later it gets, the more likely that…someone might cruise by the Institute, and I’d rather not risk that.”

Martin Prime squeezes Jon Prime’s hand gently, and Jon swallows on the sudden surge of nausea. They haven’t seen anything of Detective Tonner, and Basira didn’t say anything about her when she showed up last week to switch out the tapes, but the memory of the Primes’ faces when they stumbled back to Tim’s place to change and return his car is a hard one to shake. Even though Jon Prime swears he and Daisy eventually became friends, it’s the eventually that sticks out, and Jon isn’t sure what he’ll do if Daisy turns up at the Institute. It’s also obvious that the Primes are more afraid of her than they’re letting on.

Tim opens his mouth, probably to invite them to spend the night or something, but Sasha beats him to it. “Can you wait a few minutes? I’d rather not walk to the tube station by myself, if it comes to that, and I think you said there’s an entrance to the tunnels near there.”

Jon Prime frowns slightly. “I…don’t think I did, but there is.”

“We’ll walk with you, Sasha,” Martin Prime assures her.

Tim sighs theatrically. “I feel a little better, which is a relative statement not to be taken as approval.”

“Your objection is duly noted.” Sasha hands Martin a plate to dry.

All too soon, everything is cleaned up, just as the playlist comes to an end, and there’s really no way of stalling them further. There’s a round of hugs and see-you-Mondays, and then Sasha and the Primes head out the door, leaving Jon, Martin, and Tim alone in their new house.

It’s not that late, comparatively, so Jon suggests a card game. They’ve played most nights since Sasha went back to sleeping in her own flat; they’ve played a couple of games of Rummy or Go Fish, and Tim once tried to teach Jon and Martin a game he learned from his grandparents that uses a forty-card deck (Martin picked it up quickly, Jon did not), but most of the time they play Crazy Eights. Tim declares that they’re going to keep playing until either he or Jon or both manage to overtake Martin’s score, which is clearly going to be an impossible task, as he’s up by nearly a thousand points and consistently wins at least three or four games a night. Still, they give it a valiant effort. After Martin manages to go out while both Tim and Jon still have an eight each in their hand, though, they decide to call it quits for one night.

“Someday I’ll figure out how you keep doing that,” Jon says, shuffling the deck lightly before putting it back in the box.

Martin shrugs. “Practice, I guess? I used to play with my granddad a lot when I was younger. We kept a running total, too, and I think I was up three thousand points or so when he died.”

Tim gives a low whistle. “How old were you?”

“Nine. We’d been playing pretty regularly since I was five. At least one game every time I went to visit.”

Jon thinks back to the conversation he and Martin had in Tim’s kitchen the morning after Prentiss’s attack. “Is this the grandfather who had the cherry trees?”

“You remembered.” Martin looks pleased. “Yeah, he was my mum’s dad. I never met my dad’s family, that I remember anyway.” He pauses. “You, uh, you told Charlie you were raised by your grandmother. Was that…?”

Jon didn’t know Martin was there, but he’s kind of glad he doesn’t have to figure out how to bring it up. “My father’s mother. She was…formidable. My father died when I was two, from an accidental fall, and my mother died a couple years later. Surgery complications.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says softly. “That must have been hard on you.”

“Harder on my grandmother, I think. I was barely old enough to remember them.” All Jon remembers of his father is his laugh, and he’s fairly certain that most of his memories of his mother come from his aunt.

Tim leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Is she still around? Your grandmother?”

Jon shakes his head. “She died just before I started working at the Institute. What about yours, Tim?”

“My dad’s dad is the only grandparent still around. I think.” Tim worries at his lower lip with his teeth for a moment. “I’d like to think someone would call me if something happened, but I don’t know.”

Martin hums sympathetically. “Is he…in a home?”

“Not as far as I know. Last I heard, he was still living with my parents. Moved in when Granny died, just after I left for university.” Tim sighs. “We’re not…close. After Danny…”

Jon reaches over and touches Tim’s arm gently. “It must be hard on them, losing a son. No parent expects to outlive their child.”

“That’s just it. Mum refuses to believe he’s dead.” Tim smiles weakly. “No body, you know? Dad isn’t sure, but he also thinks I know more than I’ve told them. Grandfather all but accused me of having a hand in Danny’s disappearance.”

“What?” Jon blinks, shocked. “How could anyone think you’d—you would never.”

“I know, but…well, Dad’s family was always a bit conservative, blue collar and all that, and I’m…well, me. I think that’s why Dad encouraged my hiking and camping and all that. Hoped it would knock some ‘sense’ into me,” Tim says with a wry twist of his lips. “Once I came out as bi, though, I think they decided there was no hope left for me. It just got worse after Danny died.”

Martin’s expressive face closes down, and Jon’s stomach lurches. This is the most they’ve talked about their families in…ever, he thinks, but from the little bits of information Martin—and Martin Prime, for that matter—have let slip, Jon has formed a very unfavorable impression of Martin’s mother. He’s always kind of had a hazy idea that Tim’s family situation was better, especially after he heard the pride in his voice when he talked about Danny when giving his statement, and finding out that it wasn’t much better than theirs…

“How old were you?” he asks, not sure why. “When you—told them.”

“Seventeen. There was a guy I’d been seeing—nothing serious, really, but we had fun together—and we went out for Valentine’s Day. My parents were confused because they knew my girlfriend and I had just broken up before Christmas and I hadn’t mentioned another girl, so I told them about Steve.” Tim gets quiet for a second. “Mum cried. Dad just…told me to stop upsetting my mother and never brought it up again. Not until Grandfather started in on me.”

Jon swallows. “You’ve a great deal more courage than I have. I—I never admitted to my grandmother that I ever had any interest in boys, let alone dated one.”

“Only one? You’re missing out.” Tim’s grin is a pale echo of his usual one, but it is at least genuine. “How ‘bout you, Martin?”

“A few.” Martin relaxes with a visible effort that makes Jon’s heart ache. “Been out since I was fourteen. Mum reacted…about as well as she reacted any other time I told her something she didn’t like or did something she wasn’t expecting. I never brought anyone home to meet her or…really talked to her about my dating, and she only ever brought it up in relation to herself. Like saying it was a good thing there wasn’t any risk of me passing on any of my numerous undesirable traits to a helpless child.”

“I don’t think your mum understands what ‘bisexual’ means,” Tim points out.

“Probably not, but it doesn’t matter. I’m gay.” Martin grimaces. “I’m also ace, so no risk there anyway, but…”

Jon wants to say any child would be fortunate to count you as a father or I can’t think of a single undesirable trait about you, but what actually comes out is, “Ace?”

“Uh, asexual. It’s—I don’t…get attracted like that. Romance, sure, aesthetic stuff and all that, but not…” Martin gestures vaguely. “Tried it anyway, for a couple of guys I was with, but i-it didn’t go well.”

Jon’s world view shifts abruptly on its axis. Tim, though, looks suddenly worried. “Are you okay? They didn’t—”

“No, no,” Martin says quickly. “It wasn’t—I just don’t like it. That’s all.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Never bothered telling Mum that part. She wouldn’t…I’ve done enough damage.”

Tim pulls Martin into a quick one-armed hug, and Jon reaches across the table to squeeze his hand as gently as he can, but they change the subject after that.

They end up sitting up for a while in their new living room, relaxing. Tim props his feet up in the recliner and works on a crossword; Jon curls up at one end of the sofa with a book he’s been meaning to read for years that Jon Prime assures him he’ll love; Martin sits at the other end and knits. It about bowled Jon over completely when he learned that Martin made most of the sweaters he wears, but the sight and sound of him working away has become increasingly familiar in the last few weeks, especially after the Primes and the rest of the crew collaborated to get him an array of needles and knitting wool in all colors of the rainbow for his birthday. Jon usually finds the gentle clicking of the needles soothing, but tonight it’s just a hair distracting, and he keeps glancing up from the page to watch Martin’s fingers as they expertly manipulate the yarn or Tim tap the eraser of his pencil thoughtfully against his jaw while he contemplates an answer. He’s not even quite sure what he’s looking at.

Finally, Tim lays down his puzzle with a sigh. “I think I’m gonna turn in,” he says, sounding oddly reluctant. “Long day and all that.”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna—” Martin works a couple more stitches and folds up his project. “Probably a good stopping place for tonight.”

Jon considers saying he’s going to stay in the living room and finish the chapter he’s on, but if he’s being completely honest, he’s been on the same page for however long it’s been and hasn’t taken in a single word. Silently, he slides the scrap of paper he’s currently using as a bookmark back between the pages and closes the book. “Well. Good night, then.”

“’Night, Jon.”

The bedrooms are all upstairs, two on one side and one on the other with the bathroom handy, and the three of them wish each other goodnight again before disappearing into their rooms. Jon closes the door and looks around the room, his room.

There’s not much to it, to be honest. A nightstand, a dresser, a battered desk he’s had since he was a child, a lamp and the bed. He sets the book on top of the desk and changes into his comfortable sleep clothes, then crawls into the bed and pulls the covers up over his shoulders.

It’s…odd. No, not odd. Jon can’t quite think of the right word for it. But the sheets feel unfamiliar against his skin, and they don’t smell right, either, probably because they’re new. The mattress that felt perfectly comfortable when he tested it out in the store doesn’t seem to afford the same comfort now, and he wonders if the floor model has simply had much of the stiffness tested out of it over time. Even the pillows, which he did retain from his old bedroom setup, seem determined to thwart his attempts to find a comfortable position.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, arm draped over his midsection. He won’t fall asleep like this, he’s always been a side-sleeper, but his mind is a seething roil of emotions and he needs to get his thoughts under control before he can even have a hope of getting comfortable enough to sleep, he guesses.

Asexual. Jon probes at the word, at what it describes. I don’t get attracted like that. I just don’t like it. Honestly, until meeting Georgie, Jon had no idea that sort of attraction really existed; he thought it was just something out of the lurid romance novels his grandmother favored and he’d read once or twice in sheer desperation. It was something she’d wanted, though, so he’d tried a few times, but his efforts hadn’t satisfied her and he never really saw what all the fuss was about. He can take it or leave it, preferably the latter.

He never knew there was a word for it.

Suddenly, he wants to talk to Martin about it, about how he realized, how he knew. Where he found the word. If there are many more like—well, like them, he supposes. If that’s one of the reasons he was reluctant to tell Jon how he felt. He wants to ask about Martin’s experiences, if they were bad just because his body didn’t want them or for some other reason. A part of him also wants to cry from sheer relief. He isn’t broken. There’s nothing wrong with him. Well, not in that respect, anyway.

He sighs heavily and rolls onto his side again, plumping the pillows and curling one arm around them. They’re too flat, he thinks idly, too soft and yielding. Which is odd, because that’s never bothered him before. He can’t seem to get warm, either, which is also bizarre because it’s been an unusually mild day for late September and he’s under the duvet he’s had for years, which suddenly seems too light and insubstantial. The room is too quiet and still. It all feels…wrong, somehow.

Jon closes his eyes and stubbornly tries to force sleep, to no avail. The sense of wrongness pervades his being, curling through him and keeping him tethered to consciousness. He runs through the list of problems he seems to be having and tries to come up with which one might be keeping him awake. The only thing he can think of is the unfamiliar mattress. Everything else is exactly the way it was in his old flat.

And when was the last time you slept there? The thought hits him all of a sudden, and his eyes snap open. He forgot. The last time he slept in his apartment was the night before Jane Prentiss attacked the Institute. Ever since then, he’s been sleeping in Tim’s living room…or in Tim’s bed. With the others.

That’s all it is. He isn’t used to the silence of being alone. He’s not used to not knowing, right away, exactly where Tim and Martin are and if they’re safe. He’ll just go and check on them, see that they’re safe, and he’ll be able to get to sleep just fine.

He throws back the covers, slides his glasses back on, and heads into the hallway. Jon somehow ended up in the room by the bathroom, while Tim and Martin are on the other side of the hallway. Martin’s room is first, though, so Jon heads there. He’s as careful as he can be. Martin is probably asleep by now. He definitely seemed tired while they were still in the living room, and Jon wonders if he lingered because the other two were still sitting down there. It makes him feel slightly guilty, like he should have called it a night earlier so Martin can get some sleep. And after all, they did have a very emotionally draining conversation, which probably exhausted him as well. All that runs through Jon’s mind as he slowly, slowly eases the door open and peers around it to see into Martin’s room.

It’s sparsely furnished; nothing but a bed and one of those flimsy pop-up cloth jobs bisected into cubes, which is serving as his dresser. Martin’s laptop and phone sit on the floor, both connected to their chargers. The bed is mussed slightly and shows signs of having been occupied, but Jon’s heart rate accelerates when he looks at it. It’s empty.

There’s no sign of a struggle, he tells himself, and he heard nothing, so surely everything is fine. Martin’s probably just in the bathroom, or downstairs getting a glass of water or something. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Jon will just…go check on Tim and Tim will be fine and then he’ll go find Martin and make sure he’s fine and it…will…be…fine. He pulls the door closed and turns to Tim’s room.

The door is slightly ajar, and there’s a faint glow coming from the room. Jon hesitates, then taps lightly on the door three times before easing it open. Tim is sitting up on the bed, cross-legged and leaning forward slightly. And—Jon’s shoulders slump in relief—Martin is there, too, on the edge of the bed, one leg hanging off the side and the other tucked underneath him. They’re talking quietly, but both obviously exhausted. They look up at the sound of the door opening and watch Jon stand in the doorway. He opens his mouth, then realizes he doesn’t know what to say and closes it again.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Martin asks gently. The circles under his eyes are almost black.

“No,” Jon admits. “I—I just wanted to—” He breaks off, still not sure what to say.

Wordlessly, Tim holds out a hand. Jon lets the bedroom door shut behind him as he comes forward and takes it. Martin wraps an arm around him from behind, and the two of them pull Jon onto the bed and into a lying-down position. Tim rolls over and snaps off the lamp by his bed, then pulls the covers up over all three of them. Jon manages to reach down and snag the middle to help.

“Better,” Tim murmurs.

It’s not a question, but Jon hums in agreement anyway. Trying for levity, he says, “Shame to waste money on new beds, though.”

“We’ll be able to sleep there eventually,” Martin says. Jon only realizes how much stress was in his voice when it’s drastically lessened. “At some point we’ll probably want the space. But for now, there’s this.”

“For now, there’s this,” Jon agrees. He tilts his head back briefly to rest it against Martin’s shoulder, and Martin scoots in closer.

Tim does, too, the two of them sandwiching Jon securely between them. “Get some sleep,” he says. “It’ll be all right tomorrow.”

Jon yawns and closes his eyes, and it doesn’t really surprise him when he falls asleep straightaway. The nightmares are as present as ever, but in the morning, he can almost fool himself into believing they weren’t so bad.

Almost.

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #referenced homophobia cw #internalized aphobia cw #panic attacks cw #please click that link and listen to the song #it'll make that bit so much better

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