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When All Is Said	By : beans Category: +. to F > Escaflowne Views: 2111 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Escaflowne, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
-- When All is Said --
Beans (beans@beans-etc.com)

Closing Remarks
In the waning day, the approaching dusk cooled the air of a what had been a particularly dry afternoon. Outside, the sun was beginning to dip below the clouds, pulling the evening through the small port window in a thin trail of pink and gold light over the floor. It danced theatrically along the middle of the room, and Shesta would have thought it very pretty if his mind hadn't been so deeply immersed by other things than the tinted rays.
It was late and a faint insistence of his stomach voiced his hunger outloud. He hadn't gone down for supper, unwilling to leave the solitude and silence of the of the bunk room. He didn't feel much like eating anyway. The other slayers had deserted the room earlier to join in on a late night of poker on the far opposite side of the barracks and Shesta knew they wouldn't be back for sometime, leaving him to himself in the empty room.
The blond was sullen and quiet, sitting alone on the single bunk below his own. Miguel's bed. A bed that Shesta had shared more than once; fully acquainted with the sink of the mattress, the cut of the slats, the weight of the blankets -- all as familiar and personal to him as his own.
On his lap, Shesta clutched the white feather pillow from the head of the bed securely in his arms, delicately smoothing the fabric over and over that held a worn impression of Miguel's body from the night before. He wondered where Miguel was now, and if he would even come in tonight. The blond slayer's gaze stared drawn and sunken over the bunk, his hands plaintively searching for Miguel's lingering warmth, fingering his sheets and smelling his nightshirt. It filled his senses, crystal and beautiful; reminiscent of the smell of the brunette's hair, the spice of his skin.
Days had passed since that morning Miguel had walked into the room, when Shesta had held him so close and spilt tears as Miguel had slept long in his arms. Even now it hurt still. Maybe now more so. The brunette soldier hadn't spoken a word about his experience that day since, and Shesta hadn't inquired -- he didn't want Miguel to tell him and he didn't want to know. Thinking about it was too painful.
The other boy had changed. Mindful and diligent in his duties again, once more regaining his focus and concentration in training and drills -- but sequestered now. Miguel went off alone often, Shesta didn't know where and was too hesitant to ever venture the question. He would have had liked to have thought things had gone back to the way they had been before. Albeit, for a while Miguel had almost appeared to have regained his attentiveness to the tender moments Shesta and he had used to share; still passing gentle touches, subtle affections when no one was looking, private and intimately personal.
Then last night, for a single split moment since the travesty in the bunk room days before, Shesta had dared to believe that things had never changed when Miguel had made a silent, but eager implication with a suggestive flash of his eyes. Taking the chance when the other's had all left the room, they'd locked the door and Miguel had taken the blond up in his arms and kissed him, as deep and as needing as he'd ever had, articulating desire so intense that it had vibrated through Shesta's chest and shook the tiny slayer to the core. Shesta had swelled, drowning in the boy's soft ministrations and kissing through Miguel's purity and ardor with exuberant devotion.
But somehow it had been different -- the brunette had probed further into Shesta's mouth blindly, insatiably; as if questing for something that he'd believed buried in the secret recesses of Shesta's taste, and his body language had spoken obvious rueful disappointment when whatever it had been searching for was discovered absent. For the rest of the night Miguel had seemed detached and almost uninterested. The disposition had hurt Shesta stingingly for a short time, but he'd forgiven the falter as they'd pursued, eventually forgetting entirely, lost in a sea of woven cotton blankets and the warm heat of Miguel's skin.
For one mere, indescribable second, everything had been perfect again. A momentary and fleeting perfection that had all completely floundered when Miguel had wounded with a final, callous offense: when amidst his rapture had dared to moan another name other than the blond's own. His beseech of their lord had risen on a single lusting breath while at the very height of their passion, and the nuance of Miguel's voice had driven home such an insult and shook Shesta so harshly as to be unforgivable.
He choked. Something in his chest tightened, ripping his insides apart and making his eyes sting and his shoulders quiver.
And it hurt so much. . .
Shesta's world was crumbling around him. Battered and broken in a single instant with one reeling blow by the one person who had been the very core foundations to begin with; who had reinforced the sturdy crystal walls that lay crumbled now, cracked and splintered at his feet. And Miguel didn't even realize it.
For a second Shesta chastised himself lightly, heavy with guilt at conscientiously laying fault of his pain at Miguel's feet. Hooding his eyes, he frustratingly wiped the wet beads from the corner of his eyes with a palm and bit his tongue.
He was being so foolish. What right did he have to claim possession anyway -- there was no contract, no unwrittgreegreement. The two of them simply offered comfort to one another when it was asked for, provided solace upon each other's request. After all, where else could they go? They worked together to survive -- he was just Miguel's partner; his confidant; a warm mutual body to share at night.
A friend.
. . .That was all.
A small sound rose in his throat and threatened to voice the emotion swelling deep in his chest. Shesta buried his face in the cushion of the pillow, clutching it against his chest like a precious life preserver.
. . .everything got so small, how did I get so small. . .
He wanted someone to blame, to hurl boiling abuse at and this hurt that coiled in a pit inside him. He wanted to strike back at the strange new foreign taste that accosted Miguel's mouth now like some hostile invader; Shesta wanted to smother it -- this utmost betrayal that burned him black from the inside with red fire and stung him like cold shards of silver metal.
. . . But he couldn't bring himself to bare hatred for the captain. Ages of respect, admiration, and loyalty were quick in condemning Shesta's looming accusations, baring down upon this new spite that reared bitter and jealous with stern authority -- yet still somehow, he could do nothing but resent this haunt as if it were meant to be some cruel, personal unjustness.
Taking a deep breath, Shesta scooped the tangled blankets around him into his arms, burying his face in the fabric and trying to hold on to their sweet scents.
Never had he tried to suppress Miguel's longings before. The brunette was given right to his colorful fantasies like anyone was, but this was different. There had always a safety before, the security of knowing that it would only ever remain a muse; that there would never be a chance for it to be anything more -- and that assurance had used to make Shesta feel safe and warm and move his hands to hold Miguel closer as they'd sleep under his blankets.
But now it would never be the way it was. It would never be anything like before. Ever.
One single night had stolen away something enormously precious, staking claim and leaving its mark as some terribly cruel mock without even realizing it, and now everywhere his lord's remnants marred the brunette's flesh. In Miguel's mouth, on his hands, tangled in his hair. It was an utterly crushing feeling to be able to touch him and realize at the same time that Miguel wasn't even there; the feeling of being so intimately a part of him and all the while knowing Miguel was holding someone else. It shattered him.
From across the room, Shesta watched as the tinted sunlight danced and pirouette along the floor, crept towards the corner and then it was gone, the jovial little theater done for the night. He gave a tight squeeze of the woolen blanket wrapped in his fists, dampened in spots from his eyes.
He didn't have any choice. The roles had been firmly set from the beginning, duties determined, ranks awarded and withheld -- there was nothing he could change. This was his place, and for the first time, Shesta had never felt so helpless. He had no right to speak out; to accuse; to give reason. Only to comply.
He was Dilandau's second.
. . .And Miguel's.
He closed his teeth over his bottom lip, quivering from everything but the cold, then slowly laid down near the head of the bed and hugged his knees close to his chest as the room darkened with the fading rays of the dying sun. Shesta closed his eyes and pulled the blankets under his chin, cuddled in Miguel's warmth.
Miguel would come back. alwaalways did, after all. And he would take Shesta in his arms like he always would, and run silk fingers softly over his lashes, and whisper tender affections and assurances that were Shesta's and his alone -- but somehow, he knew Miguel wouldn't even be there. Not really. Not now.
Because when all was said and done, he knew he would still always be second.

- - - - -

Dilandau didn't know how late it was. He was shut in and removed from the pale colors of the twilight skyline outside the corridor, and the shower drummed out the shrill chimes of the clock, fighting for dominance in his ears and neglected the captain the passing of the time in his quarters. The walls closed in, dark, silent, and brooding; lining the room with an awkward stillness and lack of security that he was unaccustomed to experiencing within his own chambers.
He was hot and restless and sore, and the scalding water cratered against his skin and peeled it raw like a vicious storm of rain without the lightning to spear the sky. Steam rolled along the tiles and hung off the chrome faucet above. One of his hands braced out against the shower wall, splayed fingers numb and red, while Dilandau stood unmoving letting the water bead down his matted hair to cradle and line in his eyes, then watching glassily as it fell away and swirled down into the drain below his feet. In the next room, the lamp was turned high so he could see the cold glow from the bath.
He slowly moistened his lips, breathing thinly through his teeth in a muddled sort of sobriety and wincing at the warm water as it poured over the fresh, swollen cuts on the back of his hands and white knuckles. Outside in the empty sitting room, the mirror mounted on the far wall hung shattered and cracked; shards of glass lay strewn across the floor glinting in the soft hue of lamp light, neglected. The first chambermaid by would clean it up the next morning.
CRACK.
His finger twitched. The albino had spent a long time just staring, tracing the hollow eyed reflection that had stared back across from him as a warm, heavy breath had whispered illicit words on the back of his neck. He'd lashed out once, and a long crack had snaked across the glass, marring the ivory frame in the mirror and splintering each perfect mimicry. Then retreat; silence; watching the beautiful blood colored eyes. But then a moment later he'd felt soft seeking hands brush his skin, holding him in the dark, and he'd retaliated once more; throwing his full force behind the sudden adrenaline rush with ferocious instinct. The sound of the shattering glass rang in his ears and stung almost as much as the malice of his bloodied knuckles.
. . .perfect crystal tinkling to the floor. . .tiny little shards of diamond. . .
It streaked fresh and brilliant in the back of his lids once again now when he closed his eyes, and fluttered along the tips of the hairs on his skin. He caught a breath between his teeth but didn't blink. If shutting his eyes made him see it then Dilandau had no wish to close his eyes in the wake of that night.
He hadn't been able to move. The door had slid closed after Miguel and Dilandau had not pulled away for a long time; bracing back against the door frame as if to keep himself merely standing like some wretched, defenseless cripple. It had felt like hours, and he'd still heard the echo of Miguel's footsteps outside in the corridor.
Not till to the softer sound of a maid's steps and the rustle of feminine skirts had the captain moved and opened the door; pulling her in and throwing charm and discreetness to the wind to work deftly on the laces of the bodice before the door had even shut behind them. He didn't even remember if she'd fought -- just falling back on the bed and releasing his bottled up frustration and shot nerves in a fit of blind desperation, hard, vicious, and long; wanting to get rid of that terrible coveting that still burned insatiably into his skull; trying to clean every trace of Miguel out of him.
Days had passed since then. The bed had been set with fresh linen after being stripped and sent with the wash, but now he found the texture of the sheets uncomfortable, feeling pressed under the weight of the counterpane. The private shower in his own quarters had been long tended to, and he bathed more frequently than he slept, obsessively even. Incessant with the water and ivory white soap, Dilandau found himself enduring the scalding heat like he couldn't get rid of the dirt beneath his nails and the soil from his hair; an adamant chore now, as if suddenly noticing the dirt and grime around him everywhere. He picked and scraped at the pinches of filth lining the cracks and crevices of the shower tiles relentlessly, until his finger was sore and callused and his nail had been worn down to the skin.
He curled unconsciously more into the rain of the shower, eyes drawn and unfocused in steam so thick he couldn't see to even reach out in front of him. The sound of the hot water filled and bubbled in his head. Spiraling in the flood, something soft and whispering touched him in invasion, spurring little feather memories and recounts that lapsed over and over again on the rim of his mind and leaving a constant tick below his eye that refused to subside.
. . .snap snap snap. . .
Somewhere beyond the water there might have been the sound of someone outside his quarters, a soft knock at the door, perhaps a voice of concern to the earlier noise from his rooms. Dilandau's finger twitched sharply at the muffled noise but he didn't move, and eventually the sound sunk back and was smothered beneath the roar of the shower.
It was a threat against him in such a way: the close, confined proximities to everyone else around you all the time that came with residence on a ship like the Vione. It gave people an easy chance to get to know a person well. Dilandau's progressive restlessness had not gone unnoticed, he knew -- there were glances, suspicions; timid, subtle queries and concerns that stirred now, but fortunately Dilandau had a knack of retaining enough menace in his tone to defend against questions.
Others, however, he simply avoided. He realized the alarming attention he was attracting from even the withdrawn Fanelian commander, and it was easier to sidestep than confront while under the Strategos' scrutiny. Folken had met his eye the first time with his usual drawn, placid expression, though held it for a mere moment longer than usual; appraising the new twitch in the captain's hands, the edginess in his stride. It was as if he'd been sizing him up to burrow deep for whatever Dilandau was not telling him; to carve out the truth of the atrocious sodomy committed behind the blind eye of his command.
Thankfully, Folken had been given other matters to intrude in recently. Word had been delivered -- something about an attack on one of the imperial mines commissioned in the secluded south here in Asturia. Van. They'd changed course, and the Dragonslayer captain had been given grant to send out teams in determination to catch wind of the bastard Dragon and pin a tail on its movements again.
Both the revival of the pursuit and the impending conquest of Freid had helped ground Dilandau once more. He found a desperately sought distraction in the intensified drills and training; spending the days engrossing his priorities to the upcoming battle and turning his attention back to passions of steel blades and flame red metal, like it should be. Anything to take his mind off the haunts of soft caresses and warm, urgent lips that sucked the breath dry from his lungs.
'Was it really that awful?'
He marveled at the question and the unfairness of it. How dare he. Dilandau had never felt so livid with humiliation.
Such an impossible breach of grant and privilege, and Miguel had toyed the feat with the ease and bearing of a spoiled, self-indulging child. Without so much as a word he'd picked the captain apart from the inside out; had seen him helpless, made him vulnerable to the merest touch -- and now Dilandau felt unwelcome in his own skin, unconsciously labeled a traitor by his own body.
The pouring water hurt, hammering down against his head to cut down between his shoulders and curl towards his ankles, once and again stumbling upon hints of lingering soreness that had been believed past and gone -- humbling aortiortifying remembrances that still branded his shaken pride. It seemed almost like some sick, shameful revenge for the bruises Dilandau had forced Miguel himself to sport days earlier. Tokens of disgrace and tarnish, from the tender irritations to the deep rose colored bruises at the base of his neck and under his jaw that seemed to incessantly itch. They tattooed his milky complexion unlike anything he'd ever received as keepsake from any whore, and every now and then his hand jerked up to scratch at the skin in a relentless fashion, like a mongrel at a tick, until the flesh was raw and his fingers were twitchy and darted back and forth by his side.
. . .snap snap snap. . .
He brushed his bare chest lightly without thinking, trailing the beads of water that rolled over his skin and fluttering at the spot below his neck, bare and empty; still feeling the need to blindly fumble for the missing object in a detached sort of way that had once taken up the space. It hadn't even occurred to him that it was gone until the day after, and now he constantly found himself noticing the absence of the feather weight around his neck, an awareness that wouldn't have been so acutely prominent had he simply misplaced it.
It troubled him -- not particularly the loss itself, it could be replaced -- but taken back by Miguel's boldness. Dilandau didn't even remember the slayer stealing the small souvenir, at the time too distracted by the tiny tremulous shocks and spiraling white sensation to have note the thieving.
Sometime during that night, he realized suddenly, he'd managed to lose himself to the touch. Miguel's touch. The realization came daunting and unprecedented as Dilandau stared through the glistening silver veil of wet bangs that hung in front of his unblinking eyes.
Garnet irises constricted tight, and a convulsive shudder shook Dilandau's frame from head to toe. Soft, suckling whispers licked his ear and something seemed to cradle him in the water, feathery finger tips that wrapped him in heat, gentle and careful as if handling delicate crystal glass. He could still feel the red hot burn of the path Miguel's touch had traced, like looking at a detailed map of the soldier's exploration and pinpointing where he had conquest and marked as his own.
. . .SNAP.
Something in him felt sick and for a moment Dilandau thought he was going to retch. He braced against the wall and closed his eyes for a short moment, fisting his hands and rocking back and forth tediously on the balls of his feet under the rain, trying to clean off the trace of Miguel's hot skin.
There was a long protracted silence that hung as thick as the steam around his head. He couldn't hear the water. All that echoed in his ears suddenly was his own thin breathing, each breath a labor and effort to draw up from his lungs.
Everything had changed, and yet somehow, everything was still the same. Still there. Just different. A different glance now; shorter, less subtle, almost as if those monstrous blue eyes dared to flaunt the right of such an frightfully informal and intimate expression. As if the brunette felt too comfortable to look at him whenever he pleased, like he could see below Dilandau's skin and was remembering fondly his handiwork. It was a terrifying new vanity Miguel seemed to bare like a child with a precious secret which was their's to hold and keep, complete with an almost giddy thrill and covert smile that reflected only in his eyes but never dared reach the corners of his mouth.
Dilandau's finger twitched against the wall again and his eyelids flickered behind locks of silver hair that hung wet in his face. He grimaced and set his jaw, turning his focus to the forthcoming chase, his thoughts to linger on the rush of the kill; the shape of a weapon; the smell of smoking melef metal and charred soil underfoot. More important things required his attention in a battle than to tread on haunts and regrettable memories. Regret was not allowed. Regret was a distraction and a weak link, and a weak link would break the chain and get someone hurt.
. . .Gatty drops his shoulder when he lunges. . .
warm skin
. . .Dallet pivots to slow on the heel. . .
gentle, urgent hands
. . .Shesta charges on the wrong foot. . .
lips softly grazing his neck
. . .Guimel has a weak upward fence. . .
a small, tremulous moan
. . .Miguel always drags on his left. . .
jolts of new, horrifying sensation
Miguel always drags on his left.
Dilandau drew in a thin breath and held it as he clung to the shower tiles, finding it suddenly hard to stand. He shivered once more and bit his lip until the taste of a bead of blood blossomed against his tongue, and he stared down at the floor, his eyes stinging and blurred, his fingers raw, and his back aching from the torrent spray that lashed and cut down his skin. He hadn't noticed the water become so cold.
Focus on the chase, the fight, the kill. Turn his attention back to things important and away from this crude obscenity forever brazen on his lips; wash the wound with blood, finish what water could not.
Things were no different -- Miguel remained the subordinate and Dilandau the lord; the captain commanded authority and obedience and it would be given -- but always still, somewhere behind the rapt, daunting blue gaze, the memory would still burn.
Because when all was said and done, he knew that it would never be enough.

- - - - -

A small draft swept over the floors, cooled from outside. There was a lull of activity from the landing bay below. The anchorage stood empty for a time, barely voiced with the steady hum of electrical equipment and creak of the metal scaffolding that echoed high in the rafters, dancing amid the line of silent navy melef units that hung in queue alongside the narrow catwalk. Miguel's chest rose and fell in unsteady tandem, his nose fresh with the smell of steel and black oil.
He stiffened, a flush rising in his cheeks, and breathing shallow with fluttering breaths that rose in a spiraling swell of heat. Warmth; a sharp, punctuated intake of air; then a hot shudder and release as almost immediately the heat and sensation began to ebb.
Miguel loosened and leaned back, gaining back his breath and letting the warm tingle relax and fade. He was still for a long time, sweating and panting lightly. There was the faint sound of the docking team returning to mull about from the deck below, registering as only a slight enough threat to hush his harsh breathing -- the crewrcelrcely ascended these long catwalks that spanned the hanger bay, and he'd hear them come before they noticed him there.
The weak breeze ticklast ast his open jacket that hung down around his shoulders. Moistening his lips, he breathed deep and stared drawn over the railings to the open bay doors below, traces of the darkened horizon dusting a layer of gold over the passing landscape far beneath the ship. You didn't get skies like this in Zaibach. There was always too much dust and smog.
His eyes fluttered a brief second as the brunette slayer ran his tongue slowly along the back of his teeth and the walls of his mouth, questing for some lingering hint of flavor that might still remain in the corners. Miguel could still taste the night.
He smiled. Dilandau had been smoking again. . . Hypocrite.
Pulling his open jacket up around himself a little, he leaned his head back against the cool railing of the catwalk, silent among the rows of Alseides suspended from their supports overhead. It was comforting to have them encircled around him, sheltering and protective like family, immersed in r mar massive shadows. He sat still for a long time, oblivious to their ominous countenance and dwarfed by the looming, flame-red giant standing at attention behind him at the head of the line, practically close enough to touch. Broiling heat seemed to pulse from inside the crimson shell. It warmed his arms and radiated against the back of his neck.
Absently, Miguel brushed a finger along his lip and drew in a feathered breath. He closed his eyes and behind his lids he could still recall the feeling of facing that gaze straight on, the experience of cobalt meeting garnet. Ice and fire. It was massive, exhilarating -- like someone had knocked the ground out from beneath his feet and sent him hurtling down on a wild free fall.
'One. Night.'
Something swelled deep in his chest, a sort of fluttering sensation and tightness that made him bite his tongue between his teeth and breath quickly. He blinked hard, then slowly reached a hand inside his coat and and carefully withdrew something from the breast pocket. It glinted in the lights of the hanger, dancing like jewels before his eyes.
Cradling it in his hands, Miguel stared at the silver dog tag with an airy, almost intrigued expression, as if seeing his new acquisition for the first time. He brushed his thumb over the tiny engravings enunciating the rank, the name; respected and denote with distinguished pride.
Albatou, Dilandau.
Miguel's fingers ran the length of the silver chain, handling it as if it were made of glass, delicate and fragile to his touch. The face was cool under his fingers -- it had been such an acute sensation the first time he'd felt it, the brilliant contrast of warm flesh and the small thumb width of cold pressed between them, a hot brand tattooing his skin. It stayed curled in the inside pocket of his uniform where no one would stray upon it, and when Miguel was alone he would take it out and simply hold it in his hands, entrapped by the sight of the stolen souvenir. Even during his clandestine rendezvous with the sweet, blond second-in-command, Miguel would keep it out of sight when he'd undress; for some reason feeling the need to hide his treasure from Shesta.
He brushed cinnamon bangs lightly away from his eyes, paused, then reached around his head and unfastened his own chain that hurounround his neck. Miguel examined the two tags with a contemplative expression and held them adjacent, comparing the two; the inscriptions, the cut, the heaviness of the metal discs. For the first time since that night, while he held the two tags side by side, Miguel found himself surprised by his own daring. He gazed at stolen artifact he held: the captain's possession, engraved with his name. It was like Miguel was holding the young man's soul in his hands. It wound nd hnd his fingers and fell over his open palm like strands of fine silver had for one solitary night, tinkling softly like glass and singing gentle, soothing melodies in his ears.
A piercing shiver raced his skin and he closed his eyes as it brought him back to sink deep in tepid waters where it was hard to breathe. Miguel's fingers curled tightly around the dog tag, cold to the touch.
Breathe.
It was a shockingly imperative command, as if he were in danger of it slipping his mind; completely lost of natural, instinctive action as memory overcame consciousness. The feeling of the ivory frame wrapped around him, the electric shock of the thin lips pressed to his mouth. The heated memory of mapping the skin, the tips of his fingers feeding him the delicate curves and contours of Dilandau's slim figure spurred a feeling so incredibly ethereal, of which no rush of wine or adrenaline could possibly compare.
He'd never experienced something so remarkable as the feeling of holding Dilandau in his arms. Not a dream, but solid. Real. Drowning Miguel in reeling, immaculate sensation, surrounded in only Dilandau and the dark. His body had almost seized, coming to grips with the convulsive reality of what he had been actually being allowed privilege to, and with a single brush of the captain's skin, air had abandoned him. It had been like his lungs had stopped working -- and so he'd kissed him hard, deep, sharing Dilandau's mouth; in vital need to take a share of the breath that was so short to him.
Just breathe.
Miguel's fingers tightened quickly on the silver disc clenched in his hand. For a second the anchorage walls seemed to blur and the brunette closed his eyes, his mouth hovering upon a hairline breath that hung timidly at bay.
Touch. Hold. Brilliant sensations that had blinded him in the dark, as rapt and new like a day-old infant taking a first breath of air. The slayer had found a soft spot on the albino's neck just above his shoulder, and when he'd probed gently Dilandau had breathed in fast and seemed to have braced against Miguel on weak knees. The single movement had been the foremost and acute shock. Timidness had fled beneath the exhilarating pressure of the older boy clinging to him and Miguel had swelled, enthused at his power to have coerced quivering, beautiful little moans from the soft lips that rose like a gentle crescendo.
He'd wanted to share it with him. To share with Dilandau his rapture and splendor and let him feel the ecstasy of that night as Miguel had. He'd wanted to make Dilandau love him at that moment the way the slayer loved him, and it had stung him where beneais lis lord's acquiescence he'd seen shame. Revulsion, to Miguel, to his touch -- even fear. Miguel had been gentle and caring for the captain; attempting to ease him, trying to make him enjoy it, torn between his elation and somberness whenever he'd felt Dilandau weakly recoil as if the brunette had wounded him.
Only once -- afterwards, when tired and worn, Miguel had simply held Dilandau under the blankets, gazing down on his face like a treasure as the albino had laid motionless, almost sated. Miguel had kissed him slow and with tender gentleness like the nurturing of an infant -- and amidst jaded reluctance, lips had eased and coaxed his own, mapping his mouth in an unmistakable fluttering embrace. In need of security and protection, a safe hold. There had been no implied affection behind it -- but still -- not a flinch. Not a grimace. Just a soft, pleading quest shaping over his lips that had felt like a child groping for the reassuring hand of a parent; something to hold on to.
Miguel had just laid with him with his hands trailing feathery upon his chest, turning down to stare at the silver obtrusion revealed against the white skin when his fingers had brushed the cool metal. He'd wanted to remember the exact moment. To carry a piece of it. The memory branded his palm now like cold, molten fire, and made his hands tremble and a gaudy thrill trace a tremulous finger up his spine.
Miguel's fist slackened suddenly, and as his hold gave way the dog tag slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor of the catwalk. The sound rang in his ears and bucked him forwards, and the breath he'd been tortuously holding in without even knowing it exploded in an overwhelming gasp that echoed in between the railings and walls, threatening to ripple the elegant drapes of purple that caped the crimson red giant towering behind him.
He took a moment to settle again. As Miguel sat back he could feel his heart still drumming out a rapid chorus against his chest, excited at the brief surge of adrenaline. He held a hand upon his left side, drumming his finger lightly in time with the rhythmic tempo. It seemed foreign to him, like the beat had changed -- as so many things. Food had a different taste now; the air a different smell; even the weight of the clothes on his body felt new and strange. Like everything else. Different now.
He remembered the sound of Dilandau's heart. Miguel had counted the pulse, felt it beat beneath his hand as his own did now, following the quiver of each breath as they had rippled all the way down his arms. It had left him with a sharp, grinding ache that pulsed through his blood and clung inside to the walls like a wonderful drug, and left his body to beg and weep for more. Miguel had had a taste of it, in his mouth and against his skin. He didn't want it anymore.
He needed it now.
Tentatively, the slayer drew the fallen dog tag into his hand again and held it with vibrant reminiscence. He ran his finger tips over the face and coiled the chain around his hand, drawing over the curved cut and engraved characters as if he were crafting the tiny disc of metal straight from the forge himself.
Watch but no touch; crave but never take. Fundamental rules.
But this was his now -- a part of the captain he could keep for his own. Something he could touch whenever he wanted. It kept him alive and his feet anchored to the ground, while he slept, while he ate, while he danced in line through training and daily schedule day in and day out, and sustaining him until he could curl late in bed and await his lord's return. Miguel would hold him under the blankets, sheltered from the cold by only the bare heat of Dilandau's body beside him, and brush a strand of stray silver from the closed eyes while he'd watch him sleep. That night, and every night after that, and leaving Miguel to dream even when he was awake.
Every night he stayed.
'No more of this crazy shit, Miguel,'
A final blow. It had been as pleading as it had meant to be cold and abrasive, intended in every way to malign whatever last remaining aspiration the slayer had still dared cling to in the wake of that night. Something inside urged him to resent, but he didn't, the swift cruelty and spite striking within him a cord as harsh as the captain's authority itself; something to respect and to see for what it was, and never would Miguel speak a word against him for it . Bleed to avoid a scar, wound in order to spare the pain -- because that was Dilandau Albatou's way.
He loved him. He'd always love him.
But not in the way Miguel wanted.
The noise in lower hanger dulled to a monotone hum and hung in the air while gas lamps were lit and lines of overhead bay lamps buzzed to life in the dwindling daylight like an dying ember in the fire. Cradling the back of his head between the bars of the railing, Miguel closed his eyes, caressed by the breeze that passed in the anchorage doors and warmed by the heat resonating from the looming red giant behind him. He breathed the evening air, curling into the monstrous shadow.
His fingers molded around the silver token, glittering in the shadows; protected in his hands, reverenced by his eyes, and to be embraced and fostered like another prevailing mouth of air; just to keep him breathing.
Because when all was said and done, he knew it would last him through another night.
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When All Is Said