Chapter Six #4
Just like that, Tsuri all but rewrote a vast chapter of Declan’s early life. Added footnotes, context, and citations. The existence of it shifted, tucked the knowledge close where it may one day silence the dull thudding hurt of centuries.
Nae threaded her fingers through Tsuri’s. She didn’t speak up, just as Antonio didn’t. Each of them there, however, Antonio’s arm all the more solid with the further settling against Declan’s bony frame.
Tsuri and Declan, with their braver bonds.
“I didn’t know,” Declan said after a beat. “We were simply sent the refusal.”
“I wasn’t informed until after. If I had known they were going to, I would have told you.”
Declan had always known the family interfered. Tsuri’s strong reaction to the change in plans, however, was new information. He wouldn’t think about it. He needed his breathing steady, not a void-cursed existential crisis.
“I’m fairly sure any comment I make about their meddling could be considered treason. And you told yourself true in the end. Better suited and braver than you and I, the both of them.”
A flicker of sun on a polished chrome surface, pleased and warm.
The right thing to say. The truth, too. Braver, and more caring than anyone Declan knew.
Antonio had faced Everil to help Bo, assisted Aisling even while telling her to fuck off, and stood firm here, in Faerie, a place where he’d been a pet, and put his arm around a sluagh to make a point. To stand by Declan.
“Much braver, in my case,” Tsuri said. Their lips quirked in a hesitant sideways smile. “I think Nae and I can make time to conclude our errand. I’d like my next visit here to be for catching up with a friend. And, hopefully, making a new one?”
Their nervous glance in Antonio’s direction was hard to miss.
“Sure,” Antonio answered. “I’ll bet we have tons in common.”
“You might be surprised,” Nae murmured, a smile curled in her words and on her lips, cheek pressed to Tsuri’s arm. They made a distressingly beautiful picture, with her autumnal tumble of hair and dark skin against Tsuri’s bright feathers.
Declan and Tsuri may have made a similarly distressingly pretty image themselves, had the Monarchs held their tongues. Riotous colors and song, beauty incarnate, and the black-and-white harsh, stark lines of death, just there at the elbow.
He would rather have that raptor figure tucked in against an insistently alive blaze of humanity who spoke of black or blue ink, unphased when death gave an answer.
Rust, leather, and sunbaked earth appealed far more than… Declan couldn’t quite remember. Not there, with Nae’s quiet smile and Antonio’s fear somewhat quieted. Whatever he’d perceived Tsuri’s magic as centuries ago, he knew it hadn’t affected him as Antonio’s did.
“Next time,” Declan agreed, allowing himself the pleasure of leaning against Antonio.
Soon Nae and Tsuri would go to the library, and Antonio would drop his arm.
Declan wanted to take as much as he could until that moment came.
“Antonio and I have our own business to attend to. It was good speaking with you both.”
Perfectly on cue, Florian’s presence rang through the family wards. The wisp, while a frequent visitor even outside of his duties, didn’t generally drop by for fun save for his occasional poker games with Robin.
From Aisling’s pointed glance at Declan as she led the seelie away, she had the same thought as he: Florian brought news, and more likely than not, it was of Calloway.
Declan should have been exhausted.
The rush of the day hadn’t ended with Tsuri and Nae. Nor with Florian’s confirmation that Calloway knew about the bond and intended to go to the Council. That news had meant battle plans with Mother, interrupted by Everil and Bo’s arrival.
Uncomfortable and stilted, with Bo speaking of the Council in the way only he could, voids and stars alike bless his vocabulary. By the time the curse had been lifted, and the pair departed, it was evening, and Antonio agreed to spend another night.
‘Time’ in Faerie had little meaning, but there was still that distinct feeling of night and day. Sluagh in particular were sensitive to those rhythms. They had to be.
Finally, the necessity of rearranging Declan’s room, with his bed kindly pulling itself in two, meant Antonio had a place to sleep.
Sleep. It was what Declan should have been doing. What Antonio was doing, mere inches away.
And it was bloody unbearable.
Declan, tucked against the wall, stared at the human, like the nightmare creature he was. He ought not. It was a betrayal. Antonio didn’t want fae, and he certainly wouldn’t desire something like Declan, even if he did.
The memory of his body burned.
Seared as Antonio’s hands had on the ridge of Declan’s spine.
The twitch of Antonio’s cock against his stomach.
The weight of his arm, steady and grounding, haunted Declan.
The entirety of the day, when he ought to have thought solely about meetings and future talks he’d been preoccupied by how right it felt to be held like that.
Disgusting, to take advantage of that bond-induced need. Pathetic. Grasping. Desperate.
And still, Declan couldn’t help imagining what if. Just touching hands settled something deep, hungry. The press of his side…
No.
Just, no.
It took half a thought for Declan to leave the room.
Nowhere far, just next door. Antonio’s room, invading despite his previous determination not to.
Declan never had claimed a strong sense of self control, not when there was something he craved within reach, promising to fill his veins with euphoria if only he did it right.
The man trusted Declan, of all monsters, to protect him. Which he would. Declan had sworn it twice, and would a third time without hesitation.
Did it count as betrayal? If one lusted over someone who trusted them, desired to the point of hiding away in the other’s room, ass to the floor, cheek against their empty mattress?
Voids knew Declan couldn’t say.
No, Declan was too busy burying his face in sheets that still felt like soft leather on sunbaked skin, copper spreading over his tongue. Too distracted by the curl of his own fingers under his boxers, the touch soft instead of work-rough around his cock.
Antonio, his face pressed to Declan’s neck, arms wrapped around him with abandon, fingers seeking bare skin. Smiling with furious hostility, chin up, protective heat curled through more than just contact, facing things that terrified him, treating–
No. To think of that moment, Antonio’s stalwart loyalty, would be a betrayal.
Instead: pointed, blunt teeth pressed to warm brown skin, that yielded to the slightest of pressure. Gentle indents. And would he moan, if Declan scraped them lower? Tasted his collarbone with a run of tongue, toyed with a nipple against the flat of his teeth or curve of claws?
Hard hunger when pushed against the stairs, back flat, Declan pressed flush, moving him. Could have moved more, slid hands down to solid thighs. Squeezing. Claws not drawing blood, when they went to lift him.
Rough fingers that found every bump and dip of spine under pulled-tight skin, seeking the line of ribs and, maybe, possibly, turning eager. Hands stained dark with oil stroked skin unused to the attention.
Better not to think too long on how it’d twisted, molten, the pretense of being cared about, the not-lie of being sought after, as if the spirit of it were true, not just the words. Safer to sink into fantasy, hand moving with all the desperate need that’d built over the day.
Antonio’s head against the wall, hard muscles and knees spread and spread and spread, hooked over sharp cut hip bones.
Air rich with “Declan” and “Murderpunk” and “pin you against–” but he wouldn’t because Declan pinned him first. Pinned, with Antonio’s hands hard at his slight shoulders, in his hair, pulling tight, all while the man asked for more.
More of dangerous teeth nipping lovely skin red, then redder. More of Declan’s cock buried deep, their bond singing almost as beautifully as Antonio’s groans whenever Declan slid in just right.
Antonio on his knees. Mouth fucked open and wet and eyes glazed with want for more.
Spread out on a bed. Declan taking him, taking while being taken, holding him down by dark, messy curls, lips slick and uncoordinated, broken with gasps, fucking himself down on Antonio’s cock. Fucking and being fucked, strong hands on Declan’s ass or hair or arm, the sounds of them loud. Obscene.
Velvet heat and Murderpunk and ink spilling over tanned hide, marking it, sinking into every hidden part, losing itself to the new form with every drop.
Declan came with a muffled groan, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
Still curled there, a hand twisted in his own hair, pulled tight, other hand still taking, moving, a mess of skin and spent pleasure until Declan was little more than a thin, shivering thing with too many pictures behind his eyelids and the taste of leather at the back of his throat.
Slow, self-indulgent kisses. Spent passion giving way to a languid embrace.
Moments meant for someone else. Impossible desires.
Stupid. Stupid and crude and Declan regretted nothing. Better this, panting against the side of Antonio’s bed, alone with the floor cold under him, than staring at the man’s back with longing and concern until Antonio woke up.
There were things to do. Such as sleep. Stop having these thoughts. Be grateful that Antonio slept still, unable to feel Declan’s selfishness through their bond. Brace himself for centuries of this.
Declan never had been all that talented at becoming less attached.
Compartmentalization came easier. A half thought to clean himself. The drape of Faerie-weave. An allowance to shiver until he started to feel the weight of exhaustion, quiet in that cloud of white space, skin once more twinging with discomfort. Distance.
When Declan returned to his room–their room–he did so soundlessly. Antonio, his back still to Declan, slept on.
There were wisps to dissuade. Councils to sit at. Worlds to change. And at the root of it all, there was Antonio. And Declan who, at last, wasn’t alone. He could have that. Declan clung to the thought as he fell to the black of slumber. No matter what else, he could have that.
They simply needed to survive whatever the next day dragged to their doorstep.