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defensivelee · 19 days ago

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Dona Dona: High Up in the Skies, There Flies a Swallow

As some of you may already know, this is unfortunately NOT the last chapter of Dona Dona... but that is already coming along! The fifth chapter is a story about a boy and his power, please enjoy. Here it is on AO3!

Taglist: @thewhumpywitch

(Wowww I have a taglist now! Let me know if you would like to be added :3)

CW: graphic violence, mild descriptions of gore, implied/referenced murder, implied/referenced cannibalism, terrorism, cult-like setting, religious indoctrination, fantastic racism, capitalism(!!), implied/referenced genocide, internalized aphobia, implied/referenced child abuse, drinking, drug use, smoking, vomiting/emetophobia, implied/referenced father/son incest, implied/referenced sibling incest, implied/referenced child sexual abuse, dubious consent, sex under the influence, graphic sexual content.

One more hour.

William put out the last of the candles, sitting on the floor in the darkness.

One more challenge.

He had summoned a devil here countless times before, now a devil would summon him.

One more life.

He kissed the tip of the gun he held and pointed it at the summoning circle. Taking a deep breath, he shot the imaginary bullet there, and the room was instantly illuminated by an orange glow from the circle. It flickered at him as if in greeting.

He set the gun aside and wondered who the last devil would be. Surely it would be the most powerful of them all, as well as the one who probably hated him most. None of the previous devil lords had been too pleased to give him a life; they had, however, seemed eager to give him a challenge that could have killed him.

This one would be no different. But he had no time to waste, so he crawled forward and into the circle, like a mole hiding itself deep in the ground.

He was welcomed by the sight of an endless black sky. It was so dark, so empty, that the distance between him and it seemed meaningless, so the first thing he did was reach out towards it. There were stars there, of course, but as soon as he reached his hand up towards them, they blinked at him like watching eyes. A few blinked out for the last time and then fell.

And yet it was all silent. He brought his hand back down, only to sit up with a gasp when he saw that the grass beneath him ran as red as blood. He stood up and glanced frantically around the realm for a glimpse of any devil here to speak to him.

There was a whole lot of nothing here to see, but he had recognized it in an instant. While he had known he was in the Western Kingdom before, all the devils before had welcomed him into their opulent homes, so he had not seen even a hint of the world outside. He knew from all the books de Witt had shown him, however, that this was the Western Kingdom as it appeared before the devils had come home, when Ferocity, mother of all life, lived in isolation here.

So why did this land still look like this? Had the devils never touched it at all?

A heavily accented, echoing voice broke through the silence. “At last comes the little prince to claim what he believes he has a right to. What he has suffered needlessly for.”

“What?” William yelled out into the darkness. “Is that seriously going to be the first thing you say to me? You could at least try to feign politeness like the others, insolent devil!”

A star directly above him flicked out, and from that very spot came something galloping in the air, down towards the ground, towards William. He narrowed his eyes to see what sort of devil it was that approached him.

It only became clear to him when the devil landed on all fours, snorting smoke out of its nostrils as it came to gaze upon William. Its body was covered in feathers, save for its back, where long black scales ran down to its tail, an appendage made of exposed bone. Its front limbs were the black talons of an eagle, and its back limbs, predictably, were those of a lion. Its claws appeared to be made of fire as they glowed, burning up the grass underneath them.

It lowered its great head to glare down at William, running a black tongue over its jaws, where the bones also lay exposed in the air. The creature would have looked lifeless if it weren’t for the nearly blinding light of its orange eyes.

William lifted his head to return the glare. “So I finally get to meet my namesake, Your Highness.”

The ancient Prince of the Western Kingdom backed away with a rattling lash of his tail. He looked no less vicious than he did in William’s book, standing defiant before his dying mother. Only now, he stared back at his direct descendant, destined to inherit the world like he had thousands of years ago.

“William,” the Prince greeted him. “You finally did it, then. I could hardly believe what I heard from the others, but ‘tis true...you have killed your father. After nearly a century, I see another Orange-Nassau here to receive his lives.” He sounded more curious now than malicious.

“I merely followed the Law of Honorable Succession,” William replied. “I killed only to take what was owed to me, nothing more.”

“Do not hide the better reason from me,” the Prince said, backing away. “You killed him to save your friend first. Loving someone is certainly not the worst thing you have done.”

“That’s none of your business,” William said with a dismissive flick of his tail. “Tell me, what is your challenge? I have a little less than an hour left, so let’s make this quick.”

“Ah, five hours fighting, my child?” The Prince lowered his voice. “It has been a long night for you.”

“I don’t want your sympathy, devil.”

“Are you certain that you want this sixth life? No, indeed— are you certain you want any of these lives?” the Prince asked. “I have seen much suffering in your future. It would be a mercy for you to die the first time.”

More suffering? William wanted to laugh. He should have known that his father dying wouldn’t solve everything, but somehow, hearing the words from such an omniscient being sent a pang of disappointment through him.

But death would not be a mercy. It was the way of cowards, and besides, how was he meant to fulfill his destiny then? No, he would have to face everything like he had faced it before. Nothing could be worse than living under his father.

And that was when he would be happy.

“Do you think I’ve made it this far just for you to tell me it’s not worth it?” William spat. “It’s always worth it. Just give me your fucking challenge.”

“Is that any way to be speaking to your ancestor?” The Prince sighed, but began tracing a circle in the ground with his claws. “Very well. Your final challenge is to take something, anything, from the King of the Southern Kingdom. Stepping through this circle means you step into his palace and accept whatever may happen to you as a result of that.”

“The Southern Kingdom?” William’s eyes widened. “Can’t I go to the Northern Kingdom instead?”

“Well, then it wouldn’t be a challenge, would it?” The Prince smiled down at him. “I will, however, provide you with a weapon.” He flicked his tail upwards, rattling the chains coiled around the base, then reached back to rip them off his tail. Two thick, long blades appeared, swinging at each of the metal ends. They appeared to William to be much larger versions of his knife.

The Prince seemed to know of the resemblance, as he cocked his head to the side and said, “I thought that perhaps giving you something you were familiar with would make it easier for you. They carry my legendary curse with them, as your knife carried Liselotte’s. You have practiced with swords before, yes?”

“A gun might have been easier,” William mumbled as he took the two swords. He had trained before this, of course, with Bentinck, but it didn’t come as naturally to him as it came to someone who had been preparing to become an Ally. A few weeks hadn’t nearly been enough time.

“Your father used these swords,” the Prince said. He backed away from the summoning circle he had drawn out as it lit up before William. “So has every leader of the Devils of Orange-Nassau. Nothing will change for you.”

William rolled his eyes. “Fine. I can do this better than all of them.” He rolled the chain around each of his arms, letting it go taut between the blades. “This is the last time you will see a Devil of Orange-Nassau here.”

“I do hope that is the case.” The Prince gestured to the circle with his tail. “What was it you said? Let us make this quick?”

“With your blessing, I shall.” William bowed his head slightly. He took a step into the circle, shutting his eyes as he felt the energy buzz around him, taking his breath away. He held a hand over his chest once he stepped out, the circle closing behind him.

His first thought was that the place looked a bit like an over-decorated Hoerenkast, with the aisle in between the towering columns, lying under the mysterious red glow from outside the glass windows. The ceiling above was painted with incomprehensible scenes of the devils throughout the ages, some of which were carved into the columns as well.

If this is a Hoerenkast, there have to be offerings, right? He stepped forward cautiously, turning around when he felt his tail brush along something.

It was an altar. He wasn’t sure if all the gemstones and gold there were meant to be offerings for King Louis, the highest devil in the land, but judging from all he had read of him, it was hardly likely that he would allow anyone else to be revered in the same way. And if the Prince had been telling the truth, that this was his palace...

Then of course it all belongs to him. Perfect. He could take something and leave in an instant.

Something beyond all the treasure caught his eye, however, leaning against the altar; it was a spear, glowing like the ones that the Allies would summon from this realm. It seemed more tangible here, as if it struggled to uphold its existence on earth.

He reached out to take it, but as he did so he heard a low growl echo throughout the room, followed by a loud thump behind him. A sharp clang accompanied it. Something had jumped from the galleries he had seen hanging above.

“Fucking devil!” He turned around, loosening the chains around his wrists as he swung the swords in his hands. “I would have thought you wanted this to be easier for you.”

The devil said nothing, merely glowered at him with its three eyes, visible under its visored helmet that was surrounded by infinitely thin rings of fire floating in the air. Its bushy tail sprung up behind it, snapping its jaws at him. It was the only part of its body, save for its horns, that was not covered by the striking black armor it wore.

Is this devil the same class as Liselotte? Well, that would be easier— he would know how to fight those.

He lowered his head and charged at the devil, his swords held out beside him. As he approached, he raised one over his head, and still the devil only stood there. It wasn’t until he was close enough to slice into the beast that it turned around, its massive tail coming forward to bite into the chain between the two swords, lashing upwards to lift William off the ground.

Oh, shit—! He bit into his tongue to stifle a cry as his wrists were pulled above his head, straining his shoulders. The devil then turned and swung its tail sharply in the air, the jaws opening up to let him slam against one of the columns. He bit down even harder and felt the blood drip from his lips as he fell back on the ground.

Was he losing this already? He held a hand over his chest and clenched his teeth when he felt the pain spread from his back down to the base of his tail. It settled at the twist there, growing and biting until he nearly cried out. Moving his tail wouldn’t be an option if he wanted to win this. But how was he to stop that from happening?

The devil stared at him for a moment, then took the spear from the altar and began to walk towards William. It dragged the head of the spear on the floor, letting the sparks fly against its armor.

Ugh. Fuck. William lifted his head. He knew his wounds would heal when he received his sixth life, as had happened with the other challenges. He just had to survive this.

He brought one of the blades down on the base of his tail, chopping it off with nothing but a shaky gasp. The pain there disappeared for a second, to be replaced by a dull, stinging ache, as if something were nipping at him. It must have been the shock, but it wouldn’t last forever.

He looked up just as the devil lunged at him, shoving the spear down towards William’s chest. He blocked it in time with his blades, holding them out before him in an X-shape. He rolled swiftly aside and got back on his feet.

The devil roared and ran at him again. William spun to the side, turning back around to swing his blades against its armor. They flew easily off the metal, but William could see the devil was disconcerted as it jumped back with a hiss.

Never had a human land a blow on you? He sneered and drew one of his blades back, feigning a blow towards its face. The devil took the bait and reared up with another roar, only for William to bring the other sword down against one of its thighs.

“Roar, grandfather!” he yelled as he did so, and this time the blade sliced through the metal, hitting flesh. The devil shrieked, stumbling to the side, and William took the opportunity to aim at its chest. He could feel the power surging through the chain now, the power of all who had come before him.

Do you see me now, sir? He missed the devil’s chest as it held its spear out to block his blow, but he kept going anyway, driving the devil back as he rained strikes relentlessly down upon it. The blades met nothing but the spear, however— he was fast, the devil seemed to be faster.

He could almost hear his father’s voice, taunting him from behind. He let out a hiss of frustration as the devil blocked yet another blow, and he glared up at it, pushing against the spear. Much to his surprise, he heard something begin to hiss back in reply. It certainly wasn’t a devil’s sound; it was too high.

In his brief moment of confusion, the devil brought its spear back, lowering it under the chain connecting the two blades. William quickly realized its intention, but he was too late to step back. The devil threw its spear upwards with all its strength, pulling the chain up with it, and consequently, William as well.

The spear slid deep across William’s shoulder as he fell, clattering next to him on the floor. The impact knocked the breath out of him, and he lay there in shock, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Much of his weight lay upon his injured shoulder, but he couldn’t bring himself to move.

At least now he could see where the hiss had been coming from. It seemed a small part of the spear was melting away, dripping onto the floor, as if it had been burned there. The metal hissed and bubbled at him for a moment longer before going silent.

It’s the Prince’s curse, he realized. It’s like fire.

He tried weakly to sit up as the devil limped towards him. He could feel blood running down the sleeve of his ceremonial coat, enough to make his fingers slide against the floor and cause him to fall back down again. Had the spear gone through an artery?

The devil paused in front of him, lowering its head towards the chain that lay before William. He flinched back as it raised his claws, but instead of bringing them down against his face, it sliced cleanly through the chain, splitting the two swords apart. It took hold of one of the chains and then pulled it off of William’s wrist, taking the blade with it.

“N-No,” William protested breathlessly, dragging himself forward. He was right; the spear must have gone through something vital, as he could feel the blood pooling underneath him, sending a spell of dizziness through him. He had no idea how long he could remain awake for.

But the spear was right there. He reached out and took it, pushing himself back up on his knees with it. He had what he had come here for.

The devil swung the sword around almost playfully on the chain, watching it dangle before William. It stopped, stepped back, and then threw the sword down at him, right at his face.

William swung his remaining blade outwards as hard as he could, roaring out with the effort it took from his injured shoulder. The airborne sword split in half and fell to the side. Its chain rattled near his feet as it landed.

He stood back up with the support of the spear, the chain he still held dangling close to its other half. The two tips burned bright orange for a moment, and then an extra link appeared between the two, connecting them again. The broken blade, lying some distance away, clicked itself satisfyingly back together.

The devil seemed to hesitate. It then turned around and sprung up onto a column, climbing up towards the galleries. Even its tail snapped shut.

Where do you think you’re going? William dropped the spear behind him, instead taking the chain and spinning the other blade on it. Just as the devil made it to the top, he threw the chain forward, the sword at its end slicing right through the middle of the beast’s tail.

It threw its head back and shrieked, crashing down to the floor rather noisily with its armor. It frantically grabbed its tail, its claws glowing as it began to weave the two severed ends back together with what looked like blazing pieces of string. It had cast a healing spell, the one class of spells that humans no longer had access to.

Insolent creature. William huffed and pulled the bloody blade closer, recoiling at the scent of it. It made his dizziness return with a fury, but he swallowed, walking shakily towards the devil anyway. He could just kill it and go. It wouldn’t fight back now.

“Damnit,” the devil grumbled, much to his surprise, “why isn’t it healing? There’s no way the Prince actually gave you his real blades.”

William paused. He knew this voice. He should have known from the way it darted around him; the devil was not of Liselotte’s class, the devil was Liselotte!

“Liselotte?” he blurted behind her, causing her to jolt and glance back at him.

“You weren’t supposed to know that!” she said. Her voice seemed to soften as William dropped his blades and sat down beside her, like he always had in their shared dreams. “Hello, William.”

“Why didn’t you tell me it was you?” he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. “You think I would have done this if I had known? I—” He blinked rapidly and buried his face in her arm. “I’m sorry.” All this after she had saved his life, over and over again, more times than he could count.

“Oh, William, we promised we wouldn’t go easy on each other, didn’t we?” She laughed, but William could hear the difficulty she had in doing so. “And you- you kept that promise, just as I expected.”

“I would have broken it for you.” William shut his eyes, feeling her claws run through his hair.

“But I wouldn’t have wanted that,” she said. “King Louis knew you were coming for your final challenge. He sent me here to stop you. I don’t know why he chose me, but I couldn’t let you see who you were fighting, because then I- I really would have won.” She lifted William’s head in her hands, narrowing her eyes at him through the visor. “I didn’t want to be the reason you didn’t fulfill your destiny.”

“I would have- I still—” Even as William spoke, he knew she was right. Did he truly love her so much that he was so willing to throw away his ambitions for her?

He was truly pathetic. Meanwhile, here she sat before him, as the blood streamed endlessly out of them both—

“Would you have killed me?” His hand flew up to his shoulder. He would have to leave soon if he wanted to survive this.

Liselotte tilted her head to the side. “Yes. Yes, if I had won, I would have killed you, but I knew without a doubt you were going to beat me, anyway. I suppose I ran off in the end, but who knows?” She shrugged. “You fought better than I expected.”

Was her dedication to her king worth more than her love for him? He wanted to scream at her, to weep in her lap like he had so often, but he was also aware of how very juvenile it was of him to believe he would be her favorite forever. No, she was stronger than he was, and he respected it.

“It’s the greatest honor in the world to beat a devil,” he said, sitting up and wiping at his eyes. “Thank you for- for this.”

“It’s an even greater honor to be an Overlifer’s challenge,” Liselotte replied. She slipped off her helmet, revealing her smiling, tearful face. Lifting a claw to one of her long ears, like that of a rabbit’s, she finally unclipped a familiar earring.

“Why- why’d you keep it for so long?” William asked as she handed it to him. It sent a pang of grief through him to hold such an earring again, to be reminded of the dreams they had shared after a day he thought would never end. “It’s useless without mine.”

“It always reminded me of simpler times,” Liselotte said, turning away as if she were embarrassed. “Simpler, but not- not better, if that makes sense. Still, I always liked seeing you, and wearing this almost made me feel the same way.”

“Then you should keep it. What am I going to do with this?”

“Well, it did belong to King Louis at some point, didn’t it?”

William looked up at her then, his eyes wide.

Liselotte smiled back down at him. “You could always take the spear, but maybe taking something that carries your dreams with it will bring you greater triumph.” She waved her hand in the air. “But, you know, you won, so you can take whatever you like.”

“I— thank you.” William clipped the earring to his ear. He glanced to the side, seeing her hand resting on the other half of her tail. “I’m still really sorry about that.”

“Ah, it’s nothing the King can’t fix, I’m sure. It’s not even bleeding.” She stood up, clutching her tail in her fist, and that was when he realized he had been leaning on her for support, for he slipped gently to the side as she shifted away. He found himself unable to lift even his head.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as she knelt beside him.

“I think it’s time for you to go,” she said. “You’ll die out here.” She lifted him slightly in her arms and dragged him back to the altar. As she laid him down there, he saw the summoning circle he had come through light up again. The Prince was calling him back.

“Don’t forget this.” Liselotte dropped the swords beside him and hopped back up to the galleries, nearly disappearing into the darkness save for her brilliant eyes. She was so quick, so agile, William could see why Louis had chosen her.

“Thank you,” he called out.

She glanced back at him, remaining silent until she said, “This won’t be the last time we fight each other, you know. And it was hard enough the first time.”

“Nothing- nothing could make me hurt you.” William began to drag himself through the circle, pulling the swords in behind him.

“I think you would be surprised. Goodbye, William.” The last thing he saw before he left was Liselotte turning away from him, lowering her head as if in mourning.

Goodbye, Liselotte.

It took effort to crawl through the circle, and he panicked for a moment when his breath left him once more. He collapsed onto the grass once he was all the way out, rolling on his back to face the sky.

He had completed the sixth challenge. He would be an Overlifer, everything that the world needed of him. He would topple the Allies, make the devils pay for ever handing their power over to undeserving, ordinary humans.. How many times had the Overlifers suffered at the hands of this ruthless theocracy over thousands of years? How could they ever forgive all of humanity for refusing their rule so long ago, when their ancestry was supposed to give them the power to protect what the devils could not?

How could humanity have preferred the Allies, who did nothing but leech off of every follower; never changing, always lying, and in fact growing weaker everyday? How could they prefer the Allies when the Overlifers had sworn time and time again to make everything right again?

“I’ll fight for everything you took from us,” he breathed out loud, and he heard a heavy sigh behind him.

“I was there,” said the Prince as William sat up in alarm, “when the first Ally was given her power. Do not deceive yourself; it was hard for everyone to take in. No one could understand why we had chosen someone who never had any devil blood in them at all. But it was the only way we could stay, the only way we could give ourselves fully up to humanity. We loved you very, very much.”

“You abandoned us.” William curled his lip back in a snarl.

“Why do you think the ruler of the Eastern Kingdom agreed to give the first Overlifer his six lives?” the Prince snapped. “What do you think I am here for? We agreed to this because we listened to you.”

“And yet you let the Allies get away with everything—!” William coughed and fell forward again, his arms shaking. He didn’t have time for this.

“No, it was the Overlifers who destroyed any chance they might have had with humanity,” the Prince said, bowing his head and circling around William. “You had no tact, no class. You were angry at us. We may have listened in the end, but you committed the worst crime in front of a population who still adored and worshipped us at that point. They did not see your devotion to the ways of the Kingdoms; they only saw that you defied us, you rejected our first choice, and, worst of all, you declared that you held more power than we did.”

“Maybe because we don’t hide behind lies like the Allies.”

“Please, do you think anyone wanted your honesty?” The Prince snorted a cloud of smoke through his nose. “Do not blame us for your violence or arrogance. After all, we fear you, too.”

What? William’s eyes widened.

The Prince flicked his tail dismissively, now leaning forward to unclip the earring from William’s ear. “Ah, I have seen these before. On Louis himself, no less. You did well, William.”

His heart leaped a little to hear it, but he buried his head in his uninjured arm, trying not to let it show on his face. He would not play the part of a faithful human to these beasts.

The Prince lifted the blades up in his tail, looping the chain back around the bones. “With that, William, you have received all six of your lives. You have earned the right to call yourself an Overlifer like your predecessors. If you are willing to sacrifice just enough of your apparent immortality, you may one day be able to rival the power of the Allies and the devils.”

“I already do.” William stood up and stretched as he felt the wound on his shoulder begin to stitch itself back together, his tail growing long once again. He swore he could take on all the devils in this moment, every single one in this realm, no problem.

“Whatever you say.” The Prince was tracing another summoning circle in the grass. “Very well, William. Go on, now. Please do not make me regret this. Be humanity’s savior, not its nightmare.”

What a stupid thing to ask of him. Whatever he did, he would always be the savior. And he had six lives to prove it.

“Go tell all the other devil rulers.” He turned around to face the Prince, stepping back into the circle as he did so. “Tell them that if they want to live, they better start making up for centuries of ignorance and betrayal.”

The Prince smiled. “You sound just like your father. Scared little boys.”

William lifted his head towards the sky and fled into the circle without another word.

🝰🝰🝰

There was an unexpected visitor at the Celebration of the Six Lives, a few days after William had shut the summoning circle for the last time. It was made worse by the fact that he hadn’t wanted anyone but his Devils to be present, though the usual tradition was to invite members of the rival group to make it known to them that they were now up against a new, stronger Overlifer. Years ago, when he had promised to Charles and James that he would never receive his six lives, he had known it was a lie, but they hadn’t. As far as they would know, his father was dead, and William had abandoned the leadership of the Devils of Orange-Nassau, leaving the Disciples of Restoration to their own devices.

They were truly stupid if they believed him. He knew it couldn’t go on forever, sooner or later they would find out, but at least he would have the element of surprise.

But it was not a Disciple that showed his face at what was now William’s door, far into the night— it was an Ally, as he was informed by one of his servants while he sipped away at some absinthe, the decorated spoon hanging loosely from his fingers.

“What could an Ally want with me?” William asked calmly, though if he was being honest with himself he was already furious, damn near panicking. Was it someone who knew of his true nature? Had de Witt not kept his mouth shut after all?

“He claims he doesn’t want trouble, he just wishes to speak to the, ah, master of the house. It appears he came alone.”

“Ugh, which one is it?” William set his glass down.

The servant seemed to hesitate. “It looks like the Master of the Devils himself, sir.”

The Master of the Devils. The dull noise of the party faded into the back of his mind, the words echoing before him. The grand ruler of Altos Diablos, here to visit on this night, this night out of all them— there was no way he didn’t know. Had he suspected William’s father all along; did he come to pounce now that he was dead?

But maybe he doesn’t know that. He had, after all, referred to the master of the house, not William specifically. Perhaps he had just come for a regular visit, continuing with the usual practice of politicians squawking at the elites who truly ruled the world. As if they thought they could change anything.

“Very well.” He sat up straight, adjusting the hair around his face and putting on the sunglasses he had clipped to his belt. “Let him in.”

He would have liked Bentinck to be at his side, someone who had definitively studied the Allies more than he had, particularly the Master, but his friend was still recovering from the beating he had taken on that last day. He seemed to be in high spirits when William had seen him in the morning, even expressing his wish to join his master at the Celebration, but it wouldn’t do— he couldn’t be seen with those bruises. Still, his warmth and loyalty would have been a welcome presence here, in the midst of these suspicious faces who already seemed to prefer his father.

He knew the Master had entered when the conversations stopped, the guests at William’s table looking up with wide eyes. He turned and saw that Lucky Balcer had, indeed, come alone; it was unnerving to see such a clearly powerful figure without servants or handlers at his side. What was more familiar was the revealing outfit he wore, like all Allies, his slightly tanned breasts and belly gleaming under thin, golden chains which clung to the sheer cloth that covered little of his body. He had let his dark hair fall completely free behind him, bouncing against his waist as he walked.

He might have been beautiful, William could guess from the stunned silence of his guests, but more certainly he was a gaudy, overconfident fool, walking in here like he owned the place. The new Overlifer stood, pausing for a moment before he stepped forward and bowed low. His face burned with shame as the Master held his white-gloved hand out towards him, and he was obliged to take it in his own and kiss it.

“I welcome you, my lord,” William said as he stood up straight again.

“I hope I was not interrupting anything,” Balcer said, looking curiously around the place with his quick, darting eyes. Unlike most other Allies, his eye color had not changed, but the tear markings were ever more prominent. “What is it you’re celebrating?”

“My father’s life,” William said automatically. “You knew my father—”

“Not very well,” Balcer interrupted. “But enough.” He tilted his head to the side. “I did hear of his death. My condolences, you’re very young to inherit...all this.”

William bowed his head a little. “Yes, thank you. May I ask what brings you here?” He was on edge now; Balcer knew his father had died.

The Master hummed thoughtfully. “Come, take me somewhere away from this...audience. I’d like to speak to you alone, child.”

Child! William swallowed his retort and nodded. He led Balcer through the winding ballroom, the fur on his tail prickling under the prying eyes of his Devils. He hadn’t realized he was so eager to leave them as well.

They found privacy up the stairs, on the highest floor of the house. There wasn’t much up here save for another dining room and a balcony, which, as far as William could remember, was rarely ever used. As such, everything lay neatly in its place, however dusty it may have been. He inhaled sharply and coughed as he pulled out a chair for the Master.

“It’s much nicer here,” Balcer remarked. “The light of the moon reaches in to shine upon us, the great conductors of humanity.” He smiled over at William as the boy sat down, his tail twitching apprehensively.

“That’s one way to put it,” he said. He could hardly see through the darkness of his sunglasses, but Balcer’s eyes were the brightest jewel of all in this room, outshining even the said moonlight.

“Come, look at me, William, take off those glasses,” Balcer said warmly. “It’s dark here.”

“Forgive me, I have...a great sensitivity to light,” William said, which wasn’t entirely a lie. He hadn’t realized how the fiery lights in the ballroom below had been stinging against his eyes until he had put on the glasses. They had been a welcome relief. Now, he couldn’t risk his Over-marks being seen here, in this room, in private where Balcer was free to do whatever he wished.

“Is that so? Poor thing, you must have inherited it from your father.” Balcer sat back. “About him, now. May I ask how he died? I know he lived...a very long life.”

Shit. He seemed ever closer to knowing. But William’s story had successfully deceived hundreds of thousands of Disciples over the past few days, surely a greater feat than deceiving a smug, self-satisfied Ally. He could repeat it one more time.

“A dwaallicht spirit of the highest class attacked us,” he said. “From my understanding, he had some kind of feud with my father, which wasn’t really the unusual part. He had a lot of enemies.” He shrugged. “It was a long time coming. You understand that people like us...are often targeted.”

“You do not grieve for him.” It was not a question from Balcer, but a statement.

“No,” William said, clearing his throat. Was he supposed to? Did it look suspicious if he didn’t? He realized, too late, that Bentinck had mourned his own father; he might have at least tried to feign his grief, as impossible as it seemed to him.

But seemed not to phase Balcer. “I didn’t mourn my father, either,” he said. He was silent for a moment before asking, “Have you heard of the Law of Honorable Succession? It used to be very important for us here.”

William curled his tail in nervously. “Yes. What about it?” It was almost a challenge, but a necessary one.

“It has remained a law for a reason. I ignore those who say I must now repeal it.” The Master leaned back in his chair, glancing back out the window as if trying to see anyone out there who was listening. “Under all circumstances, you are protected. Especially you, William.” He stood up and walked over to him, the bells on his feet jingling as he did so. “Know that whatever you did, whatever you will do now, without him...you have my blessing.”

“I- I thank you, my lord,” William said. “But it isn’t what you think—”

“Don’t tell me about what I think,” Balcer interrupted, his eyes glinting unnaturally as he stepped back. “I know what I think. But worrying is pointless; you have my utmost assurance of your safety.”

“It’s most appreciated, but certainly not needed,” William said sternly, standing up to glare back at the Ally. “We made our own fortune in this family. We didn’t rely on the government, we- we didn’t need to rely on the likes of you.” He winced as Balcer narrowed his eyes; had he gone too far? His hand slipped into his pockets, ready to pull out a spell.

Or, even better— just kill him right now.

He dismissed the thought as soon as it came to him. There were too many Allies that would rise up against him if he staged his coup d’état right now. But it was so tempting as Balcer stared at him with those cold eyes, eyes like fire. He surely, at the very least, suspected.

“The blessing remains nonetheless, child,” he said, stepping back with a lazy shrug. “If you ever would like an Ally at your side, you may have that as well. Ah, you are so young, after all. I was young, too, when I first—” He paused and looked to the side, barking out a peculiar laugh. “Nevermind. That’s everything I wanted to discuss. I simply wanted to wish you well.”

“Then I’ll escort you out,” William growled, “my lord.” He rolled his eyes as Balcer held out his hand; still, he took it and led him back down the stairs.

It seemed everyone was much more relaxed with him gone, and even William could feel the fur on his tail lying flat again as he put away his sunglasses. After all, shouldn’t he have rejoiced, for his destiny was now laid out ever more clearly before him? He was accepted, however warily, by the former vassals of his father; these were his people now.

He sat down for a while, drinking with one of his cousins, who had congratulated him and even praised the manner in which he had dealt with the treacherous de Witt. That was when William decided he’d had enough, so he stood and made his way to the center of the room to make his Overlifer’s speech.

Once again, he wished Bentinck were with him; William would be proud to call him his most loyal, trusted follower, soon Ally, before the audience. But he stood alone, illuminated by the stuffy candles and the harsh lights hanging above. In a sense, he was at least accompanied by all the Overlifers that had come before him, displayed on the tapestries hanging all around the walls in a circle. Soon, his father would hang with them— if he allowed it.

“Good evening, my loyal subjects,” he began, hoping that the warmth he intended was showing in his eyes. “It pleases me to see you all here tonight. I know that surely you must worry about the progress of our noble cause, when we have just lost yet another Overlifer. I know it seems that we have spent centuries fighting, and we are still no closer to victory.

“But I promise you, throughout our history, your leaders have focused only on getting stronger, on guiding humanity, on purging every flaw and returning to that beloved, familiar world, before the Allies came to power. Before everything shattered, before those needless, ancient wars, blood and power was everything, the only way humans could get ahead under the devils. And so there was order.” William paused to let them all recall that distant glory they had never lived in. “Upon the devils’ departure, they left behind a chaotic disarray of things, supposedly fixed by the Allies they had appointed in their place. But no, they have allowed pure blood to be ruined, rendered useless; they have made it so that the only way anyone with devil ancestry can ever hope for power is if they serve directly under the Allies.” A hint of anger tainted his voice, which he believed to be so clear until now; he could feel growls starting at the back of his throat.

“These humans, with not an ounce of divine blood running through them, run the world. A devil’s power runs through them, yes, but the devils themselves have long abandoned humanity. There is no status, no meaning there.” He shook his head. “No, it is the Overlifers’ turn to bring order back to the world, to stop the corruption and prove that in the end, it has to be your own power that gives you what you want.” He swept his arm out towards them in a dramatic gesture and raised his voice.

“No one can give it to you; no one can take it from you!”

The Devils of Orange-Nassau met this with fierce cheering and applause, but William continued to speak over them, though his throat seemed to be closing up again.

“There will be no more waiting,” he reassured them. “Everything is in place now. For every Ally we have assassinated in the past, two more have sprung up in their place, but this time, we will burn it all down right at the source! And then—” He was almost giddy as he reached his closing statement. “The ancient hierarchy will return. All will be as it should be, forever!”

The guests roared out their approval, and William let the voices tire themselves out before he swept his tail out. They fell silent almost immediately, bowing in the deepest respect. All suspicions were forgotten.

You see, de Witt? It’s going to be worth it. He squinted his eyes up towards the ceiling, finding that he was dizzy all of a sudden. It was, somehow, still very pleasant, though it made his heart beat faster with uncertainty.

You might have been here to see this.

🝰🝰🝰

All of this was, as he expected, not easy work, to find that he now ran so many aspects of even the nation itself upon his majority. Altos Diablos relied on so many of his father’s companies to keep itself up— mostly Adelco, for its oil, and the Western Defense Company, for its guns. The Devils of Orange-Nassau demanded most of his attention, however, with the constant skirmishes and fights breaking out everywhere and the Disciples already eagerly waiting for their chance to pounce. William suspected that Charles would have liked to take over the Devils, but it wasn’t as if he could ask.

At the very least Bentinck remained with him, commanding more respect and wealth from the public when he was at last made an Ally. As William expected, he had successfully subdued the devil, and had gained the ancient powers of the Earl of Portland. Most notably, he had grown two fangs in place of the teeth that had been pulled out.

Much to William’s annoyance, however, this meant more visits to a Hoerenkast, and more attention showered on Bentinck than on himself. This he too had expected, but who exactly was Bentinck’s handler, the friend always at his side, his patron and master? All the worse because the attention was superficial; he was only respected because of the devil within him, William could tell. All the hours they spent together meeting and advising the supposed followers in that humid, pious excuse for a whorehouse meant nothing to no one.

He asked Bentinck every day. “That was stupid, wasn’t it? How can you stand it? They’re all insufferable to talk to. I wish you were something else.”

And Bentinck was supposed to say, “Yes, I know.” and they would leave it at that, happy to forget about those dangerous four hours until the next day, when the time came again for both of them to stand there smiling like fools. Like everyone William had ever wanted dead.

But a few months into this ridiculous game, he received a different answer. Bentinck smiled at him and said, “Well, you know, it’s actually been getting quite interesting.”

“Is that so?” William flicked his tail dismissively to the side. “Or do you just enjoy listening to all these strangers’ sex lives? Pervert.”

“N-No, William, never that!” Bentinck laughed uneasily. “I’ve just been thinking...everything they tell me just blends together, it all seems the same when you look at it from afar and yet, it’s so unique to every person. You can count how many of my followers have suffered heartbreaks, and it doesn’t mean anything, but when you listen to them, you feel the tragedy of...so many people.” His eyes glittered as he walked, and William peered at his face.

He truly was so beautiful; did everyone else see it too? Or did they merely gaze upon the parts of his body he revealed to them (and there were many, thanks to the horrendous traditional clothing of the Allies); did they stare hungrily at his exposed neck and belly, leering at his heavy thighs, and wish he might soon allow them the honor of taking him as they wished? Wasn’t that what they were all there for?

“Don’t think for a second that they see it that way,” William hurried to say. “They don’t think of themselves as many, but one, and you be careful as they try to convince you of the same.”

“What do you mean? They all see each other in the Hoerenkast, they know they don’t come alone to see me.”

“But why? Why do they come see you?” William prodded.

“Because they believe in me,” Bentinck said. He still sounded confused. “I mean, I don’t. But they don’t know that.”

“Allies are only accepted nowadays because they’re hot.” William pressed his tail up to Bentinck’s chest. “They may have beaten a devil, but that doesn’t mean shit to the people anymore. If we, the Overlifers, of ancient noble blood, who defeated the devils in six challenges, were simply as attractive as everyone thinks you are—”

“But you are attractive, William,” Bentinck said. “Genuinely.”

“Me?” William stopped in his tracks.

He saw Bentinck pause beside him, then felt his hand in his own and let it practically drag him off the crosswalk. His tail twitched stiffly all the while.

“Oh, William, what is it?” Bentinck looked around before pushing William under an old shrine in between two close buildings. It was so small that William’s horns touched the low ceiling, and Bentinck had to kneel at the altar. “Look, sit here.”

William obeyed, realizing his face was hot. There was a sharp, familiar ache in his stomach, and he felt as if he could vomit. He kept repeating the question in his head.

Me? Me? Why me?

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. It hurt when tears began to form in his eyes, his head and heart pounding.

“William, please, just tell me what it is,” Bentinck pleaded. He brought his hand up to William’s face, causing his master to tense.

“I- I don’t—” His words sounded stupid and childish, even more so as he looked down at his hands, with painted nails and long, regal fingers. He was nearly nineteen. And yet he kept on with this repulsive little act of his, still crying like it was his father, or his mother, or de Witt, who stood in front of him and not his dear Bentinck.

“I don’t w-want to be beautiful,” he confessed in a near sob. His words came out like they always did, and his face burned further with shame. He turned away. A man with a destiny like his own wouldn’t have said such a thing, or, if he had, he would have explained why, without tears, without fright. But he was suddenly aware of his incapacity here, as a boy who had tried to flee from fate, an undeserving coward as he wept.

“Oh...” Bentinck drew his hand away, much to William’s relief. “I’m sorry.”

William looked up and saw how his friend looked at him. At times he mourned the clear blue eyes he had loved so much, replaced by a dark, messy imitation of them, but he still saw the same love and admiration there, the willingness of Bentinck to die for him. He still saw how Bentinck had, notably, not taken anything back.

“Am- am I like her?” he asked with some effort, trying to speak through his gasps. “Am I pretty like- like my mother?” Every word escaped his mind; he said only what could come out.

“What- of course not!” Bentinck shook his head in astonishment. “You’re lovely in a way no one else is. But you don’t have to hear that from me.”

No. I heard it from him.

How could Bentinck say such a thing and mean it? Had he paid any attention to William at all throughout the years?

More importantly, how could William still care? It had always managed to stir some pride from his father when followers and strangers alike would praise him for his magnificent horns and bejeweled tail. It was a sign of the approval of the devils, who had chosen such beautiful leaders in their place. Should he not be so pleased that his Ally agreed with them?

He bowed his head. “Thank you.” He supposed he could not be ungrateful.

It was vexing to him that he should not have felt the pride that his new rival did, praised and desired all throughout the nation. Everywhere he turned there was some advertisement on the streets for the services of Charles Stewart, that face grinning boldly back at him and ordering him to get vaccinated, start smoking today, find love online, listen, listen, listen— he hadn’t realized it before, but Charles ran as much of Altos Diablos as William now did, and he looked the part, too.

The only whispers that he had heard against Charles thus far had been that he had no Ally at his side, and therefore no validity before the devils. At least William had that going for him; the suspicion surrounding him and his past seemed to quiet down whenever anyone mentioned Bentinck. After all, the Master had allowed it, the devil lord had been defeated, and surely it must have all been for a reason.

William always had to hide his smile when reading such things. He truly had thought of everything.

Still, he knew Charles was not one to easily give up what he knew to be his. The fool thought he ruled alone now, no need to worry about William, which was made all the more clear to him when he received his first invitation to the ancestral home of the Disciples, a little after he had turned twenty.

Too easy. William tossed the letter over to Bentinck, sitting across from him at the table like he had so many times before. This time, however, it was just the two of them.

“What could he want?” Bentinck narrowed his eyes as he read through the letter. “An Eastern Kingdom celebration. Seems a bit on the nose to invite you.”

“It’s the worst kingdom,” William said. “It’s such a jarring transition. But,” he added with a slight shrug, “I’ll go nonetheless. You do realize what this means, right?”

“They’re letting a snake in the garden,” Bentinck said, his eyes glinting.

“Exactly. We do have to play nice this time, though.” William got up, walking over to his friend and leaning over to see the letter again. “We’ll just listen in on what we can. As far as they know, I’m still on their side. They’ll tell me what I want to hear if I act like they want me to act.”

“Nothing more than just a boy,” Bentinck said.

“Yes. And then we can spring.” William flicked his tail to the side, dismissing the thought. “But not right now.”

The home of the rival Overlifer was hidden far outside of the city, lying in the distance between New Amsterdam and the smaller towns surrounding it. William could have nearly fallen asleep on the drive there, staring lazily out the window and watching the buildings become fewer and farther apart, expanses of both field and forest spreading out before him. He thought the sunset had never been easier to see.

“Hans,” he said. “You’ve been to Grand Cabaret before, right?”

Bentinck shut off his phone and looked up. “Yes.”

William glanced warily up ahead at his driver before mumbling, “Does the sun set like this over there?”

Bentinck smiled out the window. “Well, it’s been a while. I think it does, but it's nothing special, you just have to live somewhere that isn’t terrible.”

“Ha!” William barked out a laugh. “New Amsterdam is awful.”

The house they stopped in front of looked more like a manor to William, and when they called it ancestral he could see what they meant. The gate that was open to them was curved near the top in the shape of Eastern horns, the small statues greeting them resembling proud lions with exceptionally long tails much like his own. The house itself had clearly been remodeled with new features over the decades, though not very smoothly, William thought. The modern windows stood out like quills on a hedgehog against the original architecture meant to mimic the dark palaces of devil rulers.

“We did it better, didn’t we?” he mused out loud, and Bentinck snorted.

“What, the house? I think so. Why do they need it to be so big?”

“That’s Easterners for you,” William said. He turned towards Bentinck and observed his friend, dressed so splendidly in traditional Eastern clothing. For once his body was covered, hidden under the layers of the justaucorps and waistcoat. Even the boots made it all the way up his thighs. It was William who exposed more; rather than wearing the expected breeches and stockings, he had thrown the coat over his usual clothes. It was more obvious when he was sitting, for his coat would ride up and reveal the length of his shorts, but it was better than pretending like he cared about the transition into Eastern Kingdom. That was for Disciples.

At the very least, he had tied a glittering Eastern mask over his eyes, an incessantly tight but necessary presence to hide his Over-marks rather than the makeup Bentinck always liked to wear. And, just to be safe, he had brought one of his feathered beaver hats with him, to shadow his face under the light of the candles.

“You look like a mess,” Bentinck remarked as they both stepped out of the car. “Like you were just working out before you got ready.”

“That’s the intended effect,” William said. “Do you want them thinking that I believe their whole little cause is valid?”

“Well, you might do a better job of fooling them.” Bentinck paused just as they were about to go up the steps, right behind William. “James will be here, won’t he?”

“James?” William shrugged. “Probably.” Seeing the look on Bentinck’s face, he added, “But, you know, you don’t...have to go in if you don’t want to.” It was an offer he hated to make, for if Bentinck accepted he would have to face Charles and the Disciples alone; he, who was still only on his first life! But the view he’d had years ago, of that lovely boy leaning over his father with tears streaking his beautiful face, his hair matted with blood, was not easily forgotten.

“It’s fine,” Bentinck said at length, shaking himself like a displeased spirit. “I was just asking. I mean, he killed your father too, and you’re still going in.”

Ah, that he did. Last time he had seen James, there’d been blood falling from his horns, staining his teeth that he revealed in a triumphant grin. How perfectly pristine he would now appear.

“Yeah, well, who knows when we'll have another chance,” William said. “Come on.” He took Bentinck’s arm, and the two of them walked inside.

They were greeted by a sleek black dog running up to them, barking with its tail wagging fiercely. William sprung back behind Bentinck, only for the dog to jump up on its hind legs and, in a mess of dark ribbons flying from its body, revealed its more humanoid form to them. It was a dwaallicht spirit, one that William realized he recognized.

“The Duke of Monmouth,” he said out loud. “You’re still here.”

“But of course,” Monmouth said, bowing low. “And you! I know you. You’re the one who makes the army its guns.” He spoke seriously, but he was smiling, his tail wagging so hard now it moved the whole of his hips with it. His floppy ears perked up over his black curls, some of which fell over his pure white eyes. It was a startling contrast.

“It’s been that way since the First World War,” William said. He backed away as the dog stepped closer. Now here was someone with too much showing, even under the length of the black dress he wore. “And- and now our guns will help them stop the Disciples, if it ever comes to that.”

“Aw, that’s right, you’re boring now,” Monmouth said. He sighed and lifted his arm towards the ceiling. “I don’t know why Daddy wanted to see you here, but come, it’s right this way!” With that, he threw the ribbons upwards and hoisted himself high above William, swinging his body gracefully in the air.

William looked around, taking in the sight of the corridor they had entered through. They had tapestries on the wall, too, displaying Eastern devil ancestors, though he didn’t know if they were hung up for the event or simply a constant reminder of the glorious past. He did know that he hated it.

“What are you waiting for?” Bentinck asked beside him.

“Me?” William turned his head. “I’m just looking at Monmouth’s ass.”

Bentinck snorted, and the two of them followed the spirit into the next room, which turned out to be a salon with walls like blood and only candles to light it up. William felt his throat begin to tickle, but he swallowed hard and instead glared up at the painted lion on the ceiling. There was someone here he did not want to see.

There, lying on the sofa near the back of the room, was Charles Stewart himself, wearing a grand Eastern dress with what appeared to be strings of pearls hanging off the skirt. The deep blue matched that of his tattoos, which were shown so plainly on his uncovered shoulders and neck. But it was his eyes that stood out against all else, the brilliant gold even brighter than the yellow heels he wore or the rings on his horns.

He was speaking to three dwaallicht spirits before he looked up and saw William and Bentinck. He smiled and beckoned them to come closer with his tail, taking a long drag from his cigarette as he did so.

“You boys came after all!” he greeted them. “William, dear, how are you? I heard about your father’s passing. Let me tell you, we all feel his loss here. I won’t tell you what we’re feeling, but we are.”

By the stars, does he never stop talking? William cleared his throat. “Well, we felt things, too. Good evening, Mijnheer—”

“Oh, no need for titles,” Charles said with a flick of his tail. “At least not for you.” Turning to Bentinck, he said, “Ah, Ally Bentinck, I’ve heard much about you! You aren’t as impressive as I thought you would be, with all the talk I’ve heard. But an Ally...is always welcome in this house.” He curled his lip back into something that landed in between a snarl and a wide, toothy grin.

Bentinck bowed his head. “Thank you.” He was polite, but William could see the irritation burning in his gaze, just as Charles could surely see it.

“Do you want to smoke with me, William? Come, sit down!” Charles sat up, making room for William beside him. “Pay no mind to the spirits, they know everything the public doesn’t.”

“I, um- I still don’t smoke,” William said. In fact, he could already feel his throat closing in on him, his breaths becoming shorter. Charles wasn’t the only person here with a burning cigarette.

“But you drink, yes? Come, it’ll help you loosen up before the dancing starts!” Charles took William’s hand, the tattoos there as vibrant as they were on the day he had first seen them.

William stiffened, but let himself be pulled down by Charles, his tail twitching with apprehension. The spirits around them both leaned in closer, sniffing the air as if the scent of a Westerner offended them, and Charles laughed, waving them away.

“Go, now, bother the arriving guests! Save for you, Nell; here, kiss this for me.” He held another cigarette out to a spirit who resembled an upright spaniel, and she kissed the tip of it before scurrying away. Charles handed the newly-lit cigarette to Bentinck, who laughed nervously.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t—”

“What, you boys are among friends here, have something to relax!” Charles smiled down at William, taking off his hat to pat the space between his horns. “I hope you like tequila.”

The burning sensation in his throat after a few sour shots wasn’t enough to stop his intermittent coughing, which he tried to stifle for the sake of the conversation going on around him. He had always hated to cause a whole room to go silent, either with pity or annoyance. Bentinck, to his credit, tried to stand some distance away as he smoked, keeping a wary eye on his master. At least he would be alert when William wasn’t.

“Oh, William, did you want to see my brother? He’s leading the dance tonight!” Charles got up, and William had no choice but to follow. Dimly, he began to feel his heartbeat pound with the music in the other room, and he tried to swallow down the dread he felt.

The ballroom was dark when they entered, darker, even, than the salon had been, but William still saw the figure standing in the center, so proud under the gaze of the statues of devils against the wall. He couldn’t hold back another cough, glowering at the candles surrounding him.

The figure turned around. William recognized the tall horns in an instant, the hostile blue eyes that flicked from Charles to Bentinck to finally land on William.

“Snake-heart,” Bentinck hissed beside him.

Charles thankfully walked ahead of them, lifting his tail to stop the guests behind him. He approached his brother with more caution than William thought was possible for him. Both the music and chatter fell silent as he did so, so that his heels were the only sound echoing throughout the room.

“You have the honor to stand beside me,” he began, “as we welcome the Eastern Kingdom. Centuries ago our ancestors would have been marching onto these earthly lands to guide us as they did the previous years, when the flowers bloom once more and young animals rise to replace the old. Now they have chosen me in their place, far above those pretenders we call Allies.”

Sorry. William tapped his tail lightly against Bentinck’s hand.

“Do you accept this honor?” Charles held his hand out towards James, who bent over to place a kiss upon it. It lasted too long.

“I do.” It was hard to believe that William had ever heard the same voice shrieking at him.

Traditionally this was followed by the Overlifer lifting their dancing partner up and kissing them, as their partner was meant to also be their spouse, but it was well-known that Charles was not yet married. At the very least, William thought, he had not given this honor to the lower spirits he was known to sleep with and had instead chosen the brother who, as of now, looked like he would become the next Overlifer once Charles died.

Not if I kill him first. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bentinck holding his hand over his chest, perhaps unconsciously. I promise, Hans. He won’t see it coming.

Charles placed a kiss on James’ cheek, and so the dance began. William, of course, joined with Bentinck, though he couldn’t keep his eyes away from the pair of brothers. James wore a dress, too, green to go with Charles’ blue, but it didn’t suit him nearly as well.

“You’re a little unsteady,” Bentinck murmured. The dance was rather too energetic for William, who was just now starting to realize that he had no idea where to put his tail as he dashed around Bentinck.

“Oh, yeah? You can drink, too, y’know. By the stars.” William shook himself, his face burning with embarrassment.

Charles, meanwhile, seemed to dazzle everyone present, his tail swaying along with his dress as he shifted his hips in James’ grasp. He was laughing when, at the end of the first song, he withdrew to dance with his spirits, in particular the spaniel he had called Nell. James watched his brother for a moment before suddenly turning towards the doors and rushing through them.

“What’s got him so agitated?” William wondered out loud.

“Does it matter?” Bentinck said. “He’s gone now.”

William managed to make it through three more songs before his coughing began to drown out the music, the shudders that ran through him causing him to cling onto Bentinck for support. The rasping of his breath was audible even if he kept his mouth shut.

“Alright, come on...” Bentinck looked around before leading William out the door with him.

“S-Sorry,” William hacked out. Had this all been intentional on Charles’ part? To weaken him further? Were they going to try to kill him tonight after all? They didn’t have a reason to believe he had received his six lives.

Unless the mask tipped them off. Fuck. He looked up with wide eyes, realizing that a young girl was running down the corridor past them, wearing a dress quite similar to the one on James. She glanced up at William for a moment before running up the stairs behind them.

“They’ve got kids here?” he spat once she was gone.

“She looked rather tall,” Bentinck said. “You think she’s one of James’ brats?”

“Maybe. We—” William cut himself off with another cough. “We could maybe follow her. And kill her, if you want. To- to get back at James.”

“My feud is not with his family,” Bentinck said in a lower voice.

Unfortunately, in the salon was the beast himself, James, lounging around like a pleased, lazy cat. He seemed much more talkative here than he had been with Charles, waving his arms about as he recounted some story to his fellow Disciples, who sat around him like fussing hens. This time, there was only one spirit here, lying weightlessly on the chandelier above. He appeared mostly human save for his small antlers and tall ears, like those of a rabbit.

“That’s a Prostitute of the West,” Bentinck remarked. “The Earl of Rochester. I think that spaniel was one, too.”

“So Charles has legends here.” William was tempted to step outside again. “Good to know.”

James looked up at the doorway, his eyes widening slightly to see them there. The Disciples all seemed to tense as he stood, setting his wine glass down and nearly knocking it over with his lashing tail.

“I was wondering when you would come to speak to me, little prince,” he said to William.

“I- I—” William stifled a cough with his sleeve. “I didn’t know that you would be here. We can leave, if you like—”

“No, stay a while, I know it’s unbearable out there,” James said, smiling cautiously, “with my brother. I couldn’t stand it, either.” His eyes lit up when he glanced at Bentinck. “My, you have grown. Quite a bit more than your friend has.”

If you knew who you were talking to—! William glared up at him, and Bentinck bowed his head slightly. He kept his mouth shut, much to William’s relief.

“But it seems William here has a far better story to tell.” James came up behind them as he spoke, lightly pushing them forward with his tail. “Tell me, boy, how did you kill your father? We all know you did it here, you know. A spirit? Such a plain lie to those of us who know how true power is established in this world.” He shut the door behind him, and William backed away, pressing closer to Bentinck.

“It’s none of your business,” he said, swallowing. He realized the heat in his face had traveled to his neck, his hair beginning to stick to his cheeks with sweat. He had drank too much too quickly.

“Forgive me. I’m curious, that’s all.” James sat back down, motioning out at the small, circular table in front of him. “You two look exhausted. I know I was after just one dance. I can’t imagine how thirsty you must be after four.”

And this will make it better? William wanted to ask. It was a stupid question, because he knew he was going to accept again. He hadn’t realized how much his throat had missed the pain of every swallow, bracing itself for when his father would be there, too. But it was better this time, without the dread.

I won’t have to know anything about this. I can just forget these clowns tomorrow if I start now.

Besides, Bentinck would be here. He sat down and forced a smile on his face, nodding over at James.

“Yeah, well, some more of that tequila would be nice.”

He was on his fifth shot of the night when he started to forget to squeeze the lime into his mouth, and on his seventh when he noticed that Charles had come in. He poured something out for Bentinck, laughing and patting the Ally’s shoulder, urging him to go on, loosen up, William would be safe. Charles was right here, he would be watching.

William couldn’t find it in himself to protest. He tossed his head back and fanned at his face with his hat, trying to focus on what James was telling the guests. His voice, ringing hard with authority, sent an inexplicable spark of fear through William. He drew his coat closer to his chest.

“Now, William, tell us, we’ve been waiting!” That was Charles. “However did you kill an Overlifer on his sixth life?”

“Me?” William downed yet another shot, then let the glass fall to the table with a groan. “Fucking...I don’t know. It was Bentinck.”

“Bentinck?” Charles repeated. “He wasn’t even an Ally.”

“You flatter me, sir.” Already William could hear the drinks in Bentinck’s voice as well.

“Tell me, you little brat, what’s your secret?” James sat beside him, squeezing the tip of William’s tail. It had fallen limp beside him. “Did you kill him in his sleep? When you lay beside him?”

Ugh. He couldn’t help but lift his leg up and kick out against James, who sat so close that William could smell both the iron and alcohol in his breath. He lay back on the sofa, covering his face with his hat, and he felt James tugging at his tail again.

“Don’t be that way, kid,” James said. William was suddenly aware of a pressing heat against his whole body, heavy breaths landing on his neck, and he looked up to see that James had crawled on top of him, leaning in like a wolf to a rabbit burrow.

“Oh,” William said faintly. “Bentinck.” He closed his legs, taking his tail in his hands to coil it protectively around his body. Was now a good time to excuse himself to go to the bathroom? He thought he was about to piss himself here, right under James.

“He was on you, yes?” James asked. “He was on you and then you bowed your head, waited until he leaned in—” He brought his head closer, so that his bare neck was hovering right over William’s lips. “And then you sprang up and impaled his throat with these Western horns of yours. Didn’t you?” He began to stroke at William’s horns, and William backed away, kicking out at him again.

“Fuck off,” he muttered through heavy breaths. “I-I’ll do the same to you.”

James’ eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t get a chance to reply as the shadow of Bentinck fell over them both. William looked up, seeing his Ally’s unfocused gaze narrow down on him in suspicion.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Ah, Bentinck!” James beamed at him. “What are you drinking now? I have something new for you to try. Leave William to rest for now, he’s not doing so well.” His eyes flashed as he grinned back at William, adjusting the hat back over his eyes with his tail.

William had no reason to complain. He tilted his head back to try to sleep, however unwise he thought it might be. He didn’t know if a few minutes or a few hours had passed when he finally began to drift off, but by then he heard a commotion in the outside world, with all its painfully burning candles and jeering voices, like a chorus of hyenas. He groaned before throwing off the hat.

He should have been violently startled to see Bentinck laughing, his face flushed as he dropped to his knees, surrounded by about a dozen of the Disciple men. But he could only blink, sitting up with a yawn and looking at Charles for an answer.

“Awake now?” Charles was laughing too. “Your friend is much more amusing when he’s drunk.”

“Is he? I’ve...never seen him that way.” William rubbed at his eyes. He saw Bentinck open his mouth wide for the first man that pulled his pants down. Just like any other Ally, after all.

Just like every other time. Was this truly what his father had liked to see of him? It was pathetic, so nauseating, in fact, he couldn’t imagine why anyone would have ever wanted to lay their hands on him in such a state. He knew then that he was among the most disgusting people on the planet.

And Bentinck was no exception. He closed his eyes as he took Disciple after Disciple, his choked gasps and gulps eliciting more laughter from his audience. He was quite a mess, William noted with revulsion, with his face covered in semen as well as his own saliva. Here he thought his Ally would have more dignity, like they all pretended to.

James seemed drunk enough as well, at least enough to sit back on the sofa and lift his dress, pulling Bentinck in by his hair. He flung a leg over the Ally’s shoulders and began to thrust his hips upwards into his mouth. He was rougher than all the previous men, slamming Bentinck’s face down each time, so that he gagged on the length. Still, he kept his head obediently in place, merely grunting as James pulled at his hair; certainly no one here could have guessed what had once happened between the two, not even Bentinck himself.

“How impressive!” Charles cried. “William, have you seen this before? You ever fuck this one?”

“I'd rather die,” William said honestly, which was met with more laughter. He couldn't understand it; why anyone would ever voluntarily do this to themselves was beyond him.

Truly evil. Well, even if Bentinck had temporarily abandoned his mission, William had not. For this humiliation, James would pay extra.

At length James pulled Bentinck off of him and aimed down his throat as he came. Bentinck was panting, trying to swallow through the surely dreadful flavor, and James poured what William now realized was some kind of vodka into a shot glass. He held it up to Bentinck’s lips, cooing at him like one would do so at a child unwilling to take their medicine. But Bentinck drank eagerly, leaving a mess of his drool on the glass as he drew his head back.

“Now, let William have his turn! It's his Ally!” Charles nudged William in the shoulder, and Bentinck turned to him, humming playfully as he crawled over to him.

Did he even know what he was doing at this point? William was tempted to tell him, but he found that he truly couldn't speak when he opened his mouth, unable to even slur a sentence out. His mind seemed forever frozen in time. So he simply shut his eyes and shook his head, trying to push Bentinck away.

“Oh, go on, you'll be the last one!” Charles urged him. He placed his hand on William's shoulder, only for William to frantically bat him away. He could hear his own quick, shallow breaths, too much over everything else.

Charles paused, blinking with an unreadable expression on his face before he leaned in, though taking care that not an inch of his tail touched William. “Are you alright?” he asked.

William shook his head again. He regretted it upon seeing Charles smile at him with pity, lightly stroking at one of his horns.

“Drink a little more,” Charles said. “It always works for me.” Raising his voice, he asked, “Oh, did you want to try a stuntman shot beforehand? We don’t even have to use salt if you don’t want to— we’ve got heroin here! Would that work?”

Heroin? William blinked, keeping his gaze on the ceiling, where Rochester stared back down at him.

Yes, he remembered taking that once. Or rather, he remembered not remembering, when he had simply lay back on the bed and stared to the side, having felt nothing when usually there was terror, disgust. Perhaps he could have even said that he was happy, finally enjoying what was done to him, as an Overlifer should have. Something so powerful that even drinking could not have induced such a mindless, easy state, where the whole world was suddenly tolerable...it deserved his respect. No, he deserved this. He deserved to take it all.

“Fuck, really?” He smiled ruefully at Charles. “Alright, Hanni, hold on...”

“You’re makin’ me wait too long,” Bentinck almost whined, much to William’s amusement. But he shuffled to the side, resting his head back on the sofa and watching William lean over the table to pour himself another shot. Charles pushed a torn piece of aluminum foil towards him with his tail.

Right, he had to snort it. William bowed his head over the powder, holding one nostril shut before inhaling sharply. He sprung back up with a cough, his hands shakily reaching out to take the shot glass. He threw his head back and let out another gasp as the tequila burned down his throat.

“And of course we cannot forget...” James took him around the neck and William looked up, hardly having a moment to protest before the lime held over his face was squeezed into his eye. He hissed and dug his nails into James’ arm. As soon as he was free, he fell back on the sofa, feeling something drip down his face. But he was laughing too much now to care.

Oh, shit—! He looked down through his teary eyes, seeing blood falling to his hands. Blood from his nose, no doubt. It stained his coat as he sat up. He let out a sigh and shoved it off, pulling his shorts down next and bringing Bentinck closer with his tail.

William didn’t know why he was moaning so loud, so often, when he hardly even felt Bentinck’s touch on him, merely an oppressive dampness in between his legs. He stared up at the ceiling, gripping onto the sofa, trying not to let the nausea win, but the lights were no help, and yet neither was the darkness when he closed his eyes. Still, he laughed breathily in between his moans, wiggling his hips just to hear the approval of the Disciples around him. It only made him sicker.

“Ferocity,” he huffed out. He could taste his own blood near the back of his throat. It was the best thing he had ever swallowed. His eyes rolled back; he might have reached an orgasm, but it added nothing to the moment.

When Bentinck was done, he crawled on top of William and kissed him. William brought him closer and returned the kiss, just to taste his own semen for once, and to make sure Bentinck could taste his blood, as well. It seemed to please the Ally, for he pulled away to swallow.

William made up his mind in that moment. “I’m going to fuck you when we get home.”

“I’m all yours,” Bentinck replied.

William glanced up at Charles, who was the only one who had not said anything after William had taken the shot. He twitched his tail, then ran out the door as soon as William began to retch, his stomach heaving desperately. The beginnings of the vomit in his throat burned more than anything else.

He was a repulsive little boy, but a beautiful one now.

#NEXT ONE WILL BE THE LAST ONE THO TRUST ME #AND THEN I WILL BE FREE #william iii (six lives won't make you happy)#six lives won't make you happy

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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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