Archive of Our Own

Wants & Needs

The evening is pleasant; the sort of warmth that late spring offers that makes those of a particular mindset begin to think wistful, romantic thoughts of midnight strolls through the town square, arm in arm with the person they treasure most. Essek Thelyss is not such a person, or so he tells himself as he glides down the street, a solitary figure amidst the few couples and one trio that stroll past him, laughter and pleasant conversation striking against the otherwise silent night. Each group looks cozy, happy and free in their starry-eyed gazes. 

He doesn’t begrudge them their revelry. He doesn’t. Such things are not meant for him; so he ignores the pang of jealousy in his chest as he passes by one of the couples, prevalent though it is. Even if he wanted such a thing- to walk arm-in-arm with a lover down the street, free and open and unburdened- he can’t have it; not with the life he leads. Not with… 

He shakes his head. It doesn’t bear thinking of now. Such a thing is impossible, and he’s made his peace with that. 

But making peace with something painful doesn’t always alleviate the hurt. 

Speeding up his pace, Essek hurries to his towers, tall and imposing at the edge of the city’s busiest quarter. The silence looms once he’s past the scattered group of people, leaving him with only his thoughts for company, and Essek knows tonight that company will be unwelcome. Entering his tower, Essek waits until the door is shut, locked, and the wards secured before he drops the levitation spell and heaves a heavy sigh. His left leg twinges in pain at the sudden weight it must carry, and Essek bites back a groan- too dignified even in isolation to let himself give in to the sudden, screeching pain. After removing his mantle and placing it in the closet, Essek limps to the kitchen where he intends to make tea and scrounge for a small supper, but as his mind wanders to the frustrations of the day his hands wander to the bottle of whiskey on the drink tray, and he tips it up to his lips before he has time to really process what he’s doing. 

The sting of the alcohol is a welcome contrast to the throbbing in his leg. 

Deciding that he’s not hungry, he makes his way upstairs to his study. The office is organized chaos: books fill the shelves from floor to ceiling with several more piles stacked up on a table, waiting to be cataloged and shelved. With a snap of his fingers the fireplace roars to life, brightening the room and offering a much needed warmth to it. Essek sits the bottle on a nearby table and stands, of two minds on what to do next. He hovers, though not literally, for several minutes, frozen in a state of exhaustion and indecision before finally limping out of the study and into his trance room. The closet therein is as large as the room itself, though it contains more books and components than it does clothing, of which there is no small amount either. 

Slowly, Essek changes out of his court attire and into a sleeveless tunic and woolen leggings, loose and breathable and light. Wandering back into the study, he downs another swig of whiskey, then slowly slides his way to the floor where he works through a series of exercises to stretch out his leg and soothe the aching muscles. It’s become meditative over the decades, the process of working his fingers over the muscles, massaging knotted up sections with magically chilled fingers to help with the ache. He stretches, bending until his chest is flush against his knee, hands clasping his heel as he counts away the seconds before sitting up and repeating the motion with his other leg. As he sits up he sighs, twisting his upper body, grunting softly as the bones pop, easing some of the stiffness he’s gathered up in his shoulders over the course of this highly stressful day. 

Once his leg has been worked through its routine and feels equally sore but relieved, Essek works his way back to his feet and rewards his efforts with another swig of whiskey. It’s contraband, technically- Empire goods such as this are not allowed in the Dynasty, and this whiskey is a tried and true drink of the most hearty of Empire citizens- or so he’s been told. Holding the bottle to his chest, Essek feels that same wistfulness strike him that he’d felt on his way home. That longing for another presence beside him, the pressure of a shoulder pressed against his. The weight of a hand on his good leg. The slip of wetted lips against his own. Closing his eyes, Essek shoves those thoughts out of his mind. It won’t do to succumb to such melancholy longing. His mind has other, more important things to keep it preoccupied, even if his heart is reluctant to let the matter go. 

Settling at the desk, Essek sets the bottle down with a touch more force than necessary. He glares at the bottle as if it were at fault, then turns his focus toward the stack of books looming over him. He has other projects he could work on- one in particular that he should be working on- but his mind is so weary and his heart just isn’t in it this evening. So, cataloging books it is. A menial, mindless task that will require enough focus to keep his mind occupied and away from certain, other thoughts, but not so trying as to require extreme care or aptitude. Grab a book. Note the title and author in his library catalog. Assign it to a section. Set it aside. Repeat. Simple. 

This process repeats itself about twenty times, with a few pauses to sigh wistfully and take a drink of alcohol mixed throughout. On the other side of the room the clock strikes nine. Essek stills, silently counting along with each musical chime of the clock that has been in his family for several hundred years. He’s always hated that clock, from its garish design to the reminder that each occurance of those damned chimes sounding off that another hour has come and gone, and he’s still no closer to his goal. Every hour that passes is an hour that he’s failed. That he’s let them down. 

When the last chime falls silent, Essek lifts the bottle to his lips once more, contemplating the notion of crawling into his bed and sleeping. He doesn’t sleep often, but there’s something about this evening that has dredged up every despairing feeling he usually keeps locked away, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to settle himself down enough to meditate. He considers the bottle in his hands. It will take far more than this to get him drunk, but a small part of him thinks maybe it might be best to drink himself into a stupor, passing out into a dreamless state of unconsciousness. 

He’s working through the pros and cons of such a reckless choice when he feels a tightening in his chest, a sort of pull and snap of a metaphysical thread within his consciousness that signals the teleportation circle in his laboratory has been activated. He hears the rush of energy that bursts forth from someone arriving on the circle in the rattle of glass bottles, and before he can fully process the information he is on the move, rushing with uneven steps down the hall and into the lab. 

When he enters, the sight before him is unexpected, heartbreaking, but so desperately needed and welcome. 

“Bren…” Essek breathes, taking in the sight of the immaculately dressed Volstrucker, a striking image in his red coat, the silver buttons and details glimmering in the dim light that is always activated in this room. It’s in that light that Essek sees the slump in shoulders that are meant to be pushed back, the way his head hangs when it’s been trained to raise high. He sees the deep set frown that is usually present, and he sees the bags under striking blue eyes that are far more hollow and sorrowful than usual. 

Bren steps out of the circle, which is covered by a thick, Dynasty style rug, and finally meets Essek’s eyes. 

“Hallo.” 

His voice is soft, low and gruff, and it’s only after Essek sets the bottle aside and steps closer that he can see the dried trail of tears that have streaked Bren’s pale, freckled face. Worry instantly drives its hooks into Essek’s gut and he rushes forward. 

“What happened?” He asks as he reaches Bren, hands outstretched, hovering over him but not quite touching as he scans for any sort of visible injury. “Are you hurt? Are you in danger?” 

A sharp, bitter laugh escapes Bren, but he catches it at the tail end and shifts it into a cough. “Nein,” he says, “Mir geht es gut.” He pauses, remembering himself, and switches to Common. “I am fine,” he repeats, though the words are dry and brittle like dead leaves that have fallen to the ground. “I just… wanted to see you.” 

“You know you are always welcome here,” Essek assures him, letting his hands fall to his sides. “How long can you stay?” 

Bren shrugs. “I have a few hours before I will be missed,” he says as he walks past Essek, straight for the bottle on the desk. He lifts it, smirking softly as he takes in the fact that Essek is drinking from the bottle he gave him, before he tilts it up to his lips to take a large swig. “I thought you said this wasn’t to your taste,” he teases, though the words are heavy, weighed down with whatever brought Bren to his home unexpectedly. 

“I was feeling sentimental,” Essek confesses, unashamed to tell the truth; Bren looks like he needs some small comforts this evening, and Essek is happy to give what he can. It’s not a stroll down the street hand in hand, but it’s what they have. 

A small, pleased sound slips from Bren as he replaces the bottle on the desk and turns to look at Essek. Throwing up a hand, his dancing lights fill the darkened spaces the candles in this room don’t reach, and Essek watches as Bren takes him in for several long moments. He does the same, committing as much of this to memory as possible. He studies Bren’s face, trying to piece together the anguish, exhaustion, and frustration he sees there. Though their circumstances are vastly different, looking at Bren sometimes makes Essek feel as if he were looking in a mirror. 

He watches as Bren’s gaze lowers. His brows cinch and his frown deepens further. “You are favoring your right leg,” Bren states plainly. 

Essek hadn’t even realized. He evens his weight on instinct. “It’s not been a very good day,” he says at length, covering the subject broadly, but it’s enough for Bren to nod in understanding. It often astounds Essek how often they need not exchange words in order to understand one another, like they’ve developed their own secret language in the spaces and silence between words. 

“Nor for me, either. It has been a… shit week, really.” 

“I’m sorry.” The words will never be enough to encompass the depth of how wretched Essek feels over Bren’s situation- over their situation- but he says them anyway. Despite their inefficiency, Bren clutches them close, appreciative of the offering regardless. 

“I know,” Bren says in reply. “But I don’t want to talk about… that. Not right now. Not when I come bearing what I hope to be good news.” 

Essek tilts his head toward Bren. “Is this good news why you look so handsome? Or is the good news that I get to see you so dressed so prettily?” 

A small smirk flashes over Bren’s lips, but just as soon as it blooms, it fades. Absently, Bren’s hands lift to smooth down the uniform jacket. His hands brush over the silver detailing of the Cerberus Assembly marking, and Essek bites the inside of his lip, the harsh reminder of who they are and more importantly what they are striking him like a blow to the stomach. 

“I was at a banquet,” Bren acknowledges, leaning against the desk, hands propping him up as he stares down at his polished black boots. “For some prominent Assembly members and supporters. There is… reason to celebrate.” 

“I see,” Essek replies, not bothering to ask what it is they are celebrating. As Shadowhand, it is his job to know, and he’s certain to have a report on his desk by morning from his operative on the ground. “Well, we are together now. That is cause for celebration in its own right.” 

Bren’s eyes meet his, and the soft wave of affection and longing he sees reflected in those sapphire blue eyes makes Essek’s heart surge with undisguised adoration. He knows the situation between them is tenuous, dangerous, ill-fated, but in moments such as this, none of that matters. Even if their relationship is made up of seconds, Essek will count each one as precious and more valuable than the most priceless gem; the most powerful of magic. 

“We are,” Bren agrees, and Essek watches as that look of affection shifts into one of pure mischief, which catches his distinct interest. Bren never fails to surprise him, and even though Essek never actually expects anything from their clandestine meetings save Bren’s safety and peace of mind, he can’t help but feel a sort of eager anticipation at what Bren is about to show him. “Though I think you might appreciate what I have brought you far more than just seeing me all- what did you say? ‘Dressed so prettily’?”

When he reaches into his pocket, there’s an instinctive guy reaction on Essek’s part to ready himself for an attack. In the years that he’s known Bren, he’s never done anything to warrant such suspicion, but as a Volstrucker and member of the Cerberus Assembly, Essek can’t help but dread the day the other shoe drops and Bren reveals this has all been a ruse. He doesn’t believe Bren will ever betray him, but the dread of such a thing becoming reality is enough to put Essek on edge, ashamed as he is for it. 

But he’d be a fool not to at least entertain the notion. 

He loves Bren; but he hasn’t gotten this far in life by being so blindly trusting. He knows Bren understands this. He knows Bren is just as on alert as him. The day when they can know for sure nothing will come between them cannot come soon enough in Essek’s opinion. 

The small vial held between Bren’s fingers elicits a look of confusion from Essek. The vial is only half full, and the liquid inside it is a strange translucent grey. When Bren moves, the liquid somehow moves smooth like air but sludges like a thick gel against the glass- a seeming impossibility. Bren holds it out between them for Essek to take. With great care, he holds out his hand, and Bren lays the vial in his palm. Before he can retreat, Essek’s fingers catch his, and they hold the vial between them in clasped hands. “What is it?” He asks, already mentally shuffling through possibilities and equations and component lists. 

Smirking, Bren slips his hand from Essek’s, taking care to let his fingers brush every inch of skin possible before gesturing lazily, “Have you expended all of your magical stores for the day?” 

“I have not.” 

“Then you should identify it yourself. I am no expert on such things; you will be able to understand it far better than if I tried to explain it.” 

Extremely curious, Essek nods, then uses his other hand to touch the pearl earring dangling from a silver chain at his right ear. He whispers the incantation and flicks his fingers in a quick, precise gesture that he knows Bren is watching with great admiration. But any thoughts of how Bren enjoys his handiwork with magic is instantly shoved aside as the magical means of the spell grips Essek’s consciousness and understanding begins to flow in in bits and pieces. 

Three things enter his mind in quick succession, the feeling like suddenly remembering a thing that has been alluding him all the while: 

• The essence is dunamantic in nature 

• The essence was extracted from a Beacon 

• The essence can be utilized and reconfigured for chronurgy manipulation

With a gasp, Essek clasps his hands around the vial, the most precious thing he’s ever held, and looks up at Bren with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Bren, despite the haunted eyes and exhausted countenance, is smiling. 

“Well?” 

“By the- how- my- Bren!” 

“Essek.” 

His hands, holding the vial in a death grip, clasp to his chest. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just given me?” He asks, breathless, eyes wild with excitement, with expectation. With hope. “Given us?” 

“So it is good then, ja?” 

“Good?!” Essek exclaims, “Bren, this is- I cannot even begin to explain the- the potential this provides! How was this accomplished? Come, please, tell me everything, I must know! I-“ he cuts himself off, stopping to look down at the vial with unmitigated awe. The weight of it, light in his hand but staggering in its potential stills him. He forces himself to stop, to let it sink in, just what he’s holding in his hands. “I can’t believe you did this…” he breathes quietly before looking up at Bren. “How did you do this? More importantly, how can I ever thank you for this?” 

“You could kiss me,” Bren says with a smile that just barely reaches his eyes. He feels a pang of worry for Bren, but understands that he is not yet ready to speak of what else brought him here. So he plays along for now, knowing that Bren will talk when he’s ready. If he’s ready. Some things are too horrible for Bren to try and recount so Essek doesn’t press and instead tries to coax forth that light he knows is buried beneath all the pain and sorrow. 

“Kiss you?” Essek repeats with a huff. “Bren Ermendrud, for this I would ravish you!” 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Bren says, clasping his hands on Essek’s waist and pulling him close. “But I have been dying to kiss you since the moment I last left you, and-“

This time Bren is cut off, Essek’s lips pressed softly to his own. Essek feels the way every ounce of tension melts off Bren’s body at the touch as he leans into Essek who takes his time, kissing him thoroughly, keeping the press of his lips soft and light and gentle- all the things he knows Bren is deprived of when he is with his fellow Volstrucker in Rexxentrum. This here is his reprieve, and it is one Essek is happy to provide him. Eventually they break away, foreheads pressed together as they catch their breath. After a few moments, Bren shifts, leaning away from Essek long enough to catch his hands in Bren’s own, and he pushes, leading Essek into a half spin before tugging him close once more, Essek’s back to Bren’s chest. His hands slide down to wrap around Essek’s stomach as Essek cradles the vial before them in cupped palms. 

Resting his chin on Essek’s shoulder, Bren squeezes him close, then begins to explain. 

“You might be a little angry with me,” he starts. 

“I find, for as much effort as you put into it at times, I can never be angry with you for long, dearest.” 

A kiss is pressed to the crook of his neck, and then Bren continues. “Even so. I have known about this for some time. I am sorry I did not say anything sooner, but I worried it would result in nothing. I did not want to give you false hope.” 

The sentiment is hard to swallow; the fact that Bren had taken care not to get him excited about something that might not have been anything means more to him than he can express. After all the empty promises given to him by Ludinus, the fact that he even has this is a miracle. The fact that he has Bren is even more of a miracle, and though he will never admit this to Bren, if he were ever forced to choose between the two… he knows which miracle he would choose. 

It’s not the one that fits in the palm of his hand. 

Oblivious to this, Bren carries on. “About six months ago, Ludinus and Vess hired a halfling man out of Felderwin to run some experiments on the Beacon.”

“Felderwin?” 

“Ja,” Bren says, “A small town, southeast of Rexxentrum. It reminds me of ho-“ he cuts off there, a sharp exhale as a haunted memory from his past barges unbidden to the forefront of his mind. Essek hears the thick swallow, and drops one hand to his stomach where Bren’s arms are wound tight around him. Silently, he lets his hand rest over one of Bren’s, squeezing in silent comfort.  

Finally, Bren shakes the memory loose and slips from its claws. 

“Anyway,” he says shakily, “They wanted someone out of the way; someone smart but not… not with any social connections. Easier to… well…”

“Dispose of.” 

“Ja.” A beat passes as they let that understanding settle between them. Then, “Vess had been checking in on the man every couple weeks for progress. Of which there was little. Until three days ago.” 

“I see.” 

A number of questions begin to form in Essek’s mind. He keeps them quiet, knowing Bren will answer some of them as he continues his tale. 

“Vess couldn’t go last time; some emergency meeting or other. Ludinus was unavailable; Master Ikithon… could not be bothered. And I am… not quite as intense as Ast-” another pause. Another gulp. “As my compatriots. So I went to speak to him. And what I saw… it made me sick.” His grip on Essek tightens briefly. “The man looked wretched. Exhausted. Terrified. He… I showed up unexpectedly and he- I saw his son, Essek . He was just a small thing… maybe three? And Yeza- that is the man’s name… I pitied him. But I told him who I was and asked for an update. And he had this,” Bren nods toward the vial.

“And he asked if I knew whether the Assembly still needed him, or if they were finished with him and he could expect his payment soon. And I… he genuinely thought he was going to get out of this situation alive. And seeing that hope… seeing his son… I got so angry, because I knew the truth. And I told him… I said, ‘You are a fool if you think the Assembly is going to let you live with what you know.’”

Behind him, Bren shivers. Essek leans harder against him, turning his head to let his forehead rest against Bren’s cheek. A small comfort; a quiet reassurance. 

Sighing, Bren composes himself, and continues. “He… he just nodded. Accepted it. Said he was afraid that might be the case. And I… I don’t know why, Essek, but… I knelt down, and I looked at this man, and I saw him. And I asked him why he took the job. Did he even have a choice? He said he did… they’d offered him a large sum of money, which he desperately needs. He’s trying to save up to travel… to search for his wife. She died, so he believed, a few years ago in a goblin attack. But then he recently received a letter and some trinkets- things he knew his wife would have cared about… and he believes she is alive, but unable to come home. She has left hints of her whereabouts, and he wants to find her… so I made him a deal.” 

“What sort of deal?” Essek asks, breathless. 

“I told him to split the essence in half. I would keep one and would give the other to Vess. I would report that he had made significant progress but it was a time consuming one, and that he would need two months to get more for her, which should buy me plenty of time.” 

“Time for what?” Essek asks expectantly. 

“Time for me to steal four anti-scrying necklaces and scrounge up some money for him and his son to flee Felderwin.” 

It’s so like Bren, Essek thinks, and his heart swells with love for this man, who has caused so much pain; who has endured so much pain. Who takes those two truths and strives to do good where he can, risking his safety to atone for his sins. Essek admires him for it; wants to be worthy of his love and affection. It’s why he works as hard as he does now, strives to accomplish what he betrayed his country for, so perhaps one day history can be rewritten, and he and Bren can stand on the other side of a lifetime of misery and bad choices and know that they harnessed the greatest magic possible to fix it. Together. 

“Why four?” He asks, swallowing down everything else. He must temper his hope. 

“One for Yeza. One for his son. The other two are for us. For when the time comes. Someday.” 

Turning in Bren’s arms, Essek looks up at him, sees the love and hope and anticipation blazing bright blue before him. Someday, he thinks in agreement. Then a thought occurs, alarming him to the core. 

“Won’t they suspect? Four amulets go missing and then suddenly they cannot scry on this man?” 

Bren shakes his head. “Nein. No. Think about it, Essek. Do you really think Trent or Vess or Ludinus will sully themselves with disposing of this man? That is why they have me, and the others. I will volunteer to be the one to get rid of him. Make some claim about wanting to further prove my loyalty to the Empire. I have it figured out. I will give the necklaces to Yeza and his son. I will have to set fire to the apothecary, but I plan to have enough money to give him that he will be able to get by. I will steal bones from the local butcher’s and plant them in the building. Yeza and his son will be considered dead, and since you cannot scry on someone who has been rendered to ash, being unable to scry on them will further support their presumed death.” 

“And the fact that four amulets are still missing?” Essek presses. 

Bren shrugs. “There are ledgers that are kept of magical items in Ikithon’s office. I will alter it. I have gotten quite good at copying his handwriting.” 

It still feels dangerous, but Essek knows that there will be no arguing with Bren on this. His mind is made up, desperate to do something good. He can see potential flaws in the plan, but he hopes that with the essence he has been given, perhaps they can be gone before there are any repercussions. 

With a sigh, Essek lifts himself up on his toes and presses a kiss to the corner of Bren’s mouth. “You have given that man hope, my darling,” he breathes, “And you have given us hope this night, too.” He leans back, lifting the vial between them. “You do not fully understand the depths of potentially I hold in my hands now.” 

“Which is why it’s in your hands,” Bren says with a false tone of lightness, “But understand I cannot guarantee more. I wish I could. Yeza agreed to give me what he could, but he only understands the alchemical aspect of this, not the arcane. He confessed to me that what he managed to extract was pure luck, and he’s not certain the process can be repeated. Not that we’re going to tell Vess that.” 

“Even so,” Essek breathes, “He has gotten us one step closer. It is something, and I am glad for it. If you can have him write down any notes of his process, I can try to replicate it.”

“I sometimes forget you can be an optimist,” Bren remarks humorously. “It’s endearing.” 

Rolling his eyes, Essek turns and begins to open up a secret panel on his desk. “How can I not be optimistic,” he asks as he pulls out a small box with an arcane lock embedded on it. He dismisses the enchantment and opens it up, placing the vial inside for safe keeping. “When I have such a bright future to work toward?” He closes the box, resets the lock, and places it back in the secret compartment. When he is finished, he turns, stepping back into Bren’s space, loving the way Bren automatically folds him into his arms. Essek lifts his hands, silently asking permission to touch. At Bren’s nod, he lets them rest on Bren’s chest. “I cannot emphasize enough how incredible this is. The potential it holds. Not just for our goals, but for Dunamancy itself. Bren, I- I really will never be able to repay you for this.” 

Bren shakes his head. “This isn’t transactional, Essek. So much of our lives are… but not this. Not us. You owe me nothing.” 

“I know,” he agrees, “And yet…” he pauses, knowing it is futile. He can’t repay Bren for this, except by doing what, up until now, has been deemed impossible. They both know this goal is a lofty, futile, foolish one. But it is also necessary. And what is necessary, is possible (1). Essek believes that as fundamentally as he believes in Bren. As he believes in them. 

Essek sighs, wishing he had the eloquence to express such a sentiment satisfactorily. “You have made me so happy, Bren- this night and every night I am able to see you. But a part of me cannot help but worry that I am getting more out of this than you are.”

“You know that’s not true,” Bren insists with a slight huff of annoyance, “There are no strings attached between us, Essek. Not in this. Not in any way.” 

The levity of that truth hits Essek hard, and he might have staggered were it not for Bren’s arms around him. “No,” he says as the realization of that truth floors him. Even as this arrangement had started with a mutual desire for something great, a shared goal and an agreement to help one another see it to fruition by whatever means possible, there have never been conditions between them. The only thing either of them has demanded of the other is honesty and trust. 

“No there aren’t,” he agrees, breathless. “Save the one that binds your heart to mine.” 

Bren’s expression crumbles. “Essek,” he breathes, voice broken and small, like flecks of shattered glass. His eyes are wet again, and though he is a few inches taller than Essek, he seems so small in this moment. 

“Will you tell me what happened, Bren,” he asks again softly, not commanding, but caring. He knows Bren knows he need not answer. But still Essek asks, and waits. “Only if you want to, mind. But if you do, know that I will help you. Not out of duty or obligation; but out of love.” 

Even with the assurance, Bren hesitates. “Essek.” His name is hoarse, ragged on Bren’s lips, a soft prayer from a man who does not pray. 

Gently, he lifts a hand to brush some of the stray hairs that have fallen out of the strap holding his hair back. Bren shivers at the touch, leaning into it like a man starved. It takes several long moments for Bren to meet Essek’s gaze, and when he finally does, the look he wears is full of shame; guilt. Essek’s heart breaks between one beat and the next as he imagines the multitude of ways Bren might have been hurt this time. He knows he doesn’t even know the half of it, and if Bren didn’t look so forlorn and small, Essek might press, but he doesn’t want to make Bren relive unpleasant memories for his own satisfaction. So he waits in silence, and will accept whatever Bren chooses to share. 

Finally, with a trembling hand, Bren lifts his hand to the buttons of his high collar uniform. He slips the buttons through the eyeholes, baring his neck to Essek, who has to force himself not to scream. Two fading bruises, on either side of Bren’s neck. They’re faded, a sickly green-yellow color, the one on the left still bearing the imprint of blunt teeth marks. 

“When?” He asks softly. 

“Three days ago,” Bren sighs. Essek recalls suddenly what else Bren said happened three days ago. Oh. “Everyone was… excited. And Astrid and Wulf were… well. Astrid and Wulf. And I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to turn them down that wouldn’t rouse their suspicion. So…” he lets the rest hang there, like a noose ready for him to slip over his head. 

“Bren…” 

“I’m sorry, Essek.” 

“No,” Essek says sharply, voice soft but cutting in its ferocity. “You need never excuse, justify, or apologize for this.” 

“I know,” Bren says quietly, unable to meet Essek’s eyes. “But even still.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Essek asks softly, “Or would you rather rest? I know you sleep better here, and I enjoy holding you while you do.” Slowly, with caution lest it be unwanted, Essek reaches up and lightly touches the bruise he suspects Astrid left on Bren’s throat. A thought strikes him, like lightning against sand, and he meets Bren’s gaze, “Or would you like me to cover their marks with my own?” 

The shiver that rakes across Bren’s body is answer enough, but Essek doesn’t move until Bren nods and says, “Please.” 

“Will you come to bed, then? I will take care of you.” 

“Ja,” he whispers, “Yes.” 

Letting his hands fall, he finds Bren’s hands, interlacing them together before lifting them to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to Bren’s knuckles. He feels the tremble that grips Bren; hear the sharp exhale of relief. Glancing up, Essek takes in Bren’s expression: the despair, the hope, the hunger. 

“Come with me.” 

He steps around Bren, keeping one hand clasped in his, to guide him toward his sleeping quarters. As he walks, Bren remarks, “Your leg-” 

“Is fine,” Essek cuts him off gently. “I promise I will tell you if it is not.” 

“Alright,” Bren agrees as he moves toward the familiar space of Essek’s chambers. 

There is no bed, not in the traditional sense. Though drow can and do sleep on occasion, the need is indeed rare, and though some drow with money to burn create elaborate bedrooms in addition to their own trance rooms, sometimes for their own use or for the use of a guest, Essek has no such accommodations. Until Bren, he rarely had anyone over, his brother being the only real exception. But being a man of fine taste and luxury, Essek has taken pains to make his room comfortable, especially now that he has a human to sometimes share the space with him for brief periods of time. The mattress is in the corner, large enough for the two of them. A sheer gauzy fabric hangs from the ceiling, obfuscating the space when drawn close together. There are several pillows at the corner that is pressed up against the wall, as well as three large blankets- one purple, one black, and one orange.The shelf above contains a few candles, a book, and a small porcelain cat figurine. A gift from Bren, the second time they’d fallen into bed together a couple years back. 

Heavily, Bren sits on the edge of the mattress, grunting as he lowers himself near to the ground. With care, Essek kneels before him, reaching out to begin slipping off Bren’s boots. As he does so, Bren reaches up and continues to unbutton the jacket until it falls open and reveals the simple black undershirt. He slides the coat off, then holds it in his hands, looking at it intently for a long, silent moment. Essek leans back from where he has removed and set aside both boots. 

“Bren?” He asks softly, lifting one hand to rest on Bren’s knee. With a huff, Bren wads the jacket up and chucks it across the room, a frustrated snarl curling his lip up. Reaching out for Essek, he pulls him up onto his knees, wrapping his lanky arms around the drow’s slender shoulders, clutching him close in a tight, nearly suffocating embrace. Wordlessly, Essek slips his arms around Bren’s waist, his own touch much gentler. “What is it, my love?” 

He hears the sniffle just as he feels the wetness of tears soak into the fabric of his tunic. “I’m sorry,” Bren murmurs shakily, “I just… I hate this, Essek.” 

The anguish in Bren’s voice rips Essek in two. One part of him wants to take Bren into his arms and protect him and never let anything hurt him ever again; the other part wants to teleport to the Ikithon estate and not leave until every soul in that house is ripped to shreds and the walls and carpets are stained red. He finds a compromise that does not satisfy either side, but it is all he can offer in this moment. “I know, Bren,” he whispers, “I am sorry you must endure this. I am sorry we are not further along in our plan. But you are strong, and you are good. And we will find our escape one day; this is swear to you.” 

“I know we will,” Bren agrees, sitting up. Essek begins to release him, but Bren catches his hands, holding them in his own, thumbs trailing over the small, soft knuckles of Essek’s hands. “I’m sorry,” he sighs, releasing Essek’s hand long enough to wipe his eyes before clutching his hand once more. “It is not so bad as I am making it out to be. It was just sex. And it is not as if I didn’t enjoy it… but…” 

“But you do not feel the same as you once did,” Essek says softly, understanding. He knows Bren has had a longstanding relationship with his fellow classmates, Astrid and Aedwulf. He knows they are important to Bren, far more than Bren has ever really said outright. He knows Bren worries for them, aches for them, cares for them, wishes he could make them understand that his wants and needs have changed. 

“No,” Bren agrees, “I do not. I… I love them both still,” he admits, and though Essek thinks the admission should hurt, it does not. It only saddens him. “But we came together because we needed each other. We were all each other had.” He sighs, then looks at Essek. “But then… I met you. And suddenly… nothing made sense anymore and it was the best feeling. And when I asked you to go to bed with me that first time…and every time since… it has never been because I needed you. It’s always been because I want you. And… maybe it is truly not so different, but it is to me. I needed them to survive; I want you because… well, because of a great many reasons.” 

Essek gives him a soft smile, eyes wet with tears. 

Bren continues, “The way I feel for you, compared to what I feel… felt… feel for my… for them. I will always love them… but I am not the man they knew. I haven’t been for a long time, and I don’t want to be him ever again. I hardly even think to answer to that name sometimes, I feel so distant from it. And yet I cannot let it be suspected that anything has changed. I need to answer to Bren. I need to continue to carry out Master Ikithon’s orders. I… need to crawl into bed with two people I should desire more than anything, and yet when they put their hands and mouths on me all I want is to be here with you instead.” 

He lets out a sound of frustration, letting his head drop. “And I am so tired, Essek. I don’t know how much longer I can keep up this charade. Watching them tonight, celebrating this advancement in their plans, knowing that poor halfling man is on borrowed time, knowing what wretched, vile things Master Ikithon has done…is doing… feeling these fucking marks on my skin… I had to leave. I wanted you; I couldn’t wait another moment.” 

Tears slip down Essek’s cheeks as he squeezes Bren’s hands. Lowering his head, he presses a kiss to Bren, then rests his forehead against him. “My dearest love,” he breathes, “What can I do?” 

Slowly, Bren sits up. Essek sits back with him, studying him with sharp eyes for any sign of any further distress. After a moment of consideration, Bren huffs, the sound very nearly a laugh without any humor behind it. “I want to ask you to fuck me,” he says softly, “And I think I do want that… but first… will you just lie with me? Just for a minute?” 

“For as long as you wish,” Essek responds simply. Biting back a groan as his leg protests, he stands. There have been times when Bren has visited and Essek has been near tears due to the pain; those nights Bren takes Essek to bed, rubs salve into the aching muscles, tells Essek old Zemnian fairy tales to distract him. Kisses every inch of skin that aches until Essek begins to ache in much more pleasurable ways. Tonight however, is for Bren. And Bren’s aches and pains are not so easily remedied. Settling onto the bed, propped up against the pillows, Essek waits for Bren to scoot back. He does, settling on his side to face Essek. There’s a moment of hesitation, then Bren reaches out, and together they press flush, chest to chest, arms around one another. Bren’s arm squeezes around Essek’s small waist, keeping him pressed against Bren’s body. Esseks hand rests gently on Bren’s chest, not crossing over him in any way. He knows Bren dislikes feeling trapped; hates the sensation of there being no escape. Slight as he is, he’s still broader than Essek and could easily shove him away if it came down to it, but Essek does not want to do anything to make such a move necessary. 

They lay there in quiet solace for several minutes, Bren’s eyes closed and Essek watching him intently. Eventually, Bren’s eyes open, and he lets out a soft breath when he sees Essek’s violet gaze looking back at him. 

“I love you,” he whispers in the stillness of the night, the words heavy and broken, but so earnest in their sincerity.

“And I love you.” 

Bren shifts, and suddenly looks very unsure. Essek says nothing, simply waiting. Finally, Bren speaks, voice soft and so uncertain that it steals Essek’s breath when he asks, “Would you hold me?” 

“Are you certain?” 

A pause. Then, “Yes.” 

“Come here.” 

Curling up against him, Bren presses his face into the crook of Essek’s shoulder. Essek feels his whole body tense for a moment as he lets his hand come to rest on his back, then as quickly as that tension built it releases, and Bren melts into the embrace with a weary sigh.  

“Alright?” Essek asks softly, letting his fingers trail gently over him. When he reaches a little lower, Bren flinches, a soft sort of giggle escaping him. 

“Not there,” he requests. “Tickles.” 

“I’ll have to remember that,” Essek threatens, glad that he can make Bren smile, even for a moment. 

They lie together for several more minutes in relative silence before Bren shifts and murmurs, “Essek?” 

“Yes, Bren?” 

“…Will you tell me?” 

Essek doesn’t have to ask what he means. The request has been made by both of them numerous times over the past couple years when the need for reassurance becomes so great as to be stifling. 

“Of course, my love,” he breathes, adjusting his hold on Bren, stil light so that he doesn’t ever feel trapped by Essek’s hold. He clears his throat and begins to speak the thing they both have committed to their memory and imprinted onto their hearts. 

“We will go back,” he begins softly, like a lullaby, “You will wear the guise of a younger Bren Aldric Ermendrud and I will don the guise of a young Eadwulf. We will enter your home and explain everything to your parents. I will take them ahead of you to Tal’Dorei, to Emon. You will stay behind and deposit two bodies in the house, then set an illusion, and wait invisibly from afar and watch as three children walk up to the house and set it ablaze. You will hear the screams of your parents, who will be safe with me, and you will know it worked. 

“You will meet us in Emon, where I will secure a place of residence for them and provide them with gems and coin. Once you arrive you will tell them to stay there, start a new life, and wait for us. In a decade, they are to come to the town square every day at sunset until they see a man with auburn hair and a drow walking hand in hand toward them.”

“What next?” Bren asks softly, tearfully. 

“Then we travel to Rosohna,” Essek says, “We will find my younger self and explain everything to him. He will be interested but skeptical, and so we will provide him with enough information on chronurgy advancement so as to make him believe us. You will give him a letter that he is not to open. We will tell him that he is not to trust the Assembly, and to not give them the Beacon. We will tell him to wait a few years, then secretly reach out to a young man in the Assembly- Bren Ermendrud. My younger self will give your younger self the letter, which will explain everything we have done. Then when the time is right, the two of us will abscond from our respective positions and find your parents in Emon, and we will all be together.” 

By the end, his own eyes are wet with tears, overflowing down his cheeks with the hope and anticipation of the day that their plan becomes more than just whispered words of reassurance between them. He has such hope for it, that it can do nothing but succeed. It has to succeed. 

“It will work,” Bren whispers softly, the period at the end of the sentence. 

“Of course it will work,” Essek agrees.

Lifting his head to meet Essek’s gaze, Bren gives him a watery half-smile. “I cannot wait for you to meet them,” he breathes as he shifts, pressing his forehead to Essek’s, sharing the same air, the same hope that keeps them both from drowning in despair. “I can’t wait to finally be with you, Essek Thelyss.” 

“Nor can I,” Essek replies, “I have never wanted anything more, than to run away with you, Bren Ermendrud.” 

The look in Bren’s eyes is full of some emotion that Essek can’t quite read, bright and burning and desperate and hopeful, and in the next breath Bren surges forward, searing his lips to Essek’s, knocking the drow into his back as Bren clambers over him, kissing him with a hunger that Essek matches in earnest. His hands cup Bren’s cheeks, where the stubble from a long day has begun to grow in, and it scratches against his fingers as he caresses his lover’s face. He feels the way Bren shifts, straddling Essek’s thighs as he kisses him, pressing him into the mattress with his weight. 

“Soon,” Bren swears against Essek’s lips, “Please say it will be soon, Essek.” 

“Soon,” Essek lies. They both know there is no real way of knowing when (if…) Essek will reach the breakthrough they need to make their goal possible. At the beginning of this whole thing they’d discussed in depth the fact that it could take years, decades even, to accomplish such a lofty endeavor. And yet, the promise, the lie, of soon, is what keeps them going. One hour at a time. One day. One week. Each visit, short as they often are, is a balm to their broken and weary souls, and though they both know it’s a lie- the only lie either of them willingly tell the other- it’s one that keeps the small spark of hope alive in their chests. “I promise, Bren. It will be soon. Before you know it.” 

Maybe if they promise it enough times, it will one day prove true. 

He feels Bren nod against him, then his lips are back on Essek’s, kissing him with a fierce and hungry desperation that belies just how horrible he’s felt the past few days. Essek knows these moments are a balm for Bren, as they are for him as well. So he wraps his arms around his lover and holds him close, opening his mouth against the press of Bren’s tongue, moaning softly as Bren kisses him harder. Their mouths slide together, slick with spit as they tease and let teeth scrape over bottom lips to the soft sound of gasps and sighs. Essek feels his cock grow stiff and shifts, grinding up against Bren who breaks their kiss with heavy gasping breaths to gaze down at Essek. 

“What you said earlier,” he begins before grabbing the hem of his shirt and yanking it off, throwing it somewhere behind him before capturing Essek’s lips once more. 

“I said several things,” Essek whispers in the scant moments between breaths where Bren’s lips aren’t seared to his. “Be specific.” 

“My neck,” Bren specifies, pulling back so Essek can see the two large hickeys blemishing his skin. A searing shot of rage and jealousy spirals through Essek, and he pushes Bren back, forcing him to sit upright. Essek follows him up, still straddled by Bren, but at a better angle to slip his fingers into Bren’s hair, tugging him down until Essek’s mouth can latch onto his lover’s throat. He isn’t angry with Bren. No, he’s angry at Astrid and Wulf for putting marks on Bren’s skin when Essek must take care not to do so. “I want to think of you when I see these tomorrow; please.” 

“Of course,” Essek obliges. He starts on the right, where he’s certain Eadwulf sucked far too hard and for far too long. In contrast, Essek is gentle, placing soft kisses against the still tender flesh. He nips at the skin lightly, careful of his fangs as he lets them scrape over delicate skin. Bren gasps at the feeling, head falling back and to the side to allow him better access to the spot. Essek takes his time, softly teasing the fading bruise, interspersing the softest kisses between flicks of his tongue and scrapes of his teeth. Before he can do any lasting damage he switches sides, latching his mouth onto the bruise Astrid’s attentions formed, letting his own teeth settle into the imprint of hers against his skin, pressing down just enough to pull a gasp from Bren’s throat. 

“Schiesse,” he exhales, clutching Essek closer, hips grinding down as Essek covers Bren’s neck with his own unseen markings. Essek didn’t put these marks on Bren’s flesh, but he’ll be damned if Bren doesn’t think of anything but Essek when he next sees them. Bren chokes on a sob, his movements becoming more and more erratic as Essek laves Astrid’s mark with his tongue, kissing away the memory of her clawing at Bren in her typical bruising roughness, replacing it with something warm and loving Bren can carry with him for a few days more. 

“I’m close,” Bren chokes out, and Essek stills his movement, sliding his hands down to catch Bren’s waist and drawing his thrusts to a stop. 

“Not like this,” Essek murmurs against his neck, kissing one mark and then the next before leaning back. “I’m not letting you just spill in your trousers like this. You deserve a proper seeing to.” 

Bren groans, and Essek knows him well enough by now to know that sound is equally a groan of annoyance and acceptance. 

“You wanted me to fuck you, you said,” Essek reminds him softly, letting his fingers trail through Bren’s hair as he whispers into that adorably rounded ear. “Is that still what you want?” 

“Ja.” 

“And if you change your mind? At any time for any reason?” 

“Aufhören.” (2)

“Good,” Essek says, then asks, “How much time do we have?” 

Bren shrugs. With an annoyed huff, Essek pokes his ribs softly, causing Bren to jump. “An hour or so,” Bren answers quickly. “I snuck out. No one noticed. Left a note saying I was taking a walk. I do it enough so they won’t worry.” 

“Very well. I assume you do not want me over you?” 

“Nein.” 

Essek nods. Bren doesn’t like having someone over him; doesn’t like feeling trapped. It breaks Essek’s heart to think of everything that he’s been through to leave him that way, that they cannot even be intimate without such a precaution. He doesn’t blame Bren- Bren is faultless in Essek’s eyes, though he knows if he ever said that aloud Bren would vehemently disagree. Essek has no interest in starting that argument. 

“Then arrange yourself how you want. Do you want to prepare yourself, or shall I?” 

“You.” 

Essek kisses him. “I love you.” 

“Ich liebe dich,” Bren says, then slides off Essek and flips onto his back, dragging a pillow over to prop up under his hips before shimmying out of his trousers quickly. 

With an affectionate smile, Essek moves off the bed and fetches a small vial of oil. As he returns he takes a moment to admire Bren, who is watching him with equal intensity and desire. Kneeling on the bed, Essek rests one hand on Bren’s knee, leaning forward to press a kiss there before pushing, and Bren lets his legs fall open. 

Making himself comfortable, Essek pours some oil on his hands, then presses one finger inside. His other hand wraps around Bren’s cock, and the sound that bursts from the human’s throat is pitiful, needy and full of relief from the touch. “Oh, fuck!” 

“In time,” Essek says softly, moving his fingers methodically and slowly. He knows he’s driving Bren mad; he enjoys driving Bren mad. He enjoys hearing Bren be loud, vocal in his pleasure, and he knows how to make those noises spill from Bren’s lips with expertise. “We have an hour, and I intend to use every minute of it. Can you keep time for me?” He knows Bren can; but he likes to hear Bren acknowledge his talents. 

“Ja,” Bren murmurs, half distracted as his hips jerk in pleasure. 

“Thank you, my darling.” 

He continues on, opening Bren up slowly, stretching him open with one finger for several long minutes before slipping in a second one. Bren writhes at the feeling, enough that Essek has to release his cock and press his hand to Bren’s hips- not enough to make him feel pinned down, but enough to ease the movements. “Easy, love. I have you.” 

“Wish you would have me,” Bren huffs. “Bitte, Essek!” 

“Patience,” he soothes, curling his fingers inside Bren, relishing the soft cry he gives out in response. “We don’t want to rush a good thing, now do we?” 

Bren’s only response is to grip the sheets in his fingers, whimpering as Essek continues to stretch him open. Essek continues to take his time, slow, methodic strokes of his fingers leaving Bren a wrecked, whimpering mess. He eventually slips in a third finger and Bren lets out a small sob. Once again, Essek lets his other hand wrap around Bren’s cock, slick with oil and pre-come. Bren’s head flops to the side, a gasp escaping him.

 “Essek, please.” 

A soft laugh slips from Essek. Carefully he slips his fingers from him. “Yes, alright,” Essek remarks, not willing to push Bren further than this. This is steering too close to Bren begging, and Essek refuses to ever actually make Bren beg for him. He knows all too well that Bren knows what it means to really beg, to plead with honest, true, and broken desperation.

Impatience is one thing, and he knows this is what Bren is exhibiting now. But to beg? Bren will never have to beg Essek for anything. 

 “Tell me what you want.” 

Bren sucks in a breath. “On your back.” 

With a flick of his wrist and a whisper, Essek prestidigitations the oil from his hands and slips his pants off. Making himself comfortable against the pile of pillows, he watches as Bren shifts, pressing a kiss to his bad leg, then straddles him. 

“Alright?” Bren asks. 

“Perfect,” Essek nods. “Now come here.” 

With a soft smile, Bren lines himself up and sinks down slowly onto Essek’s cock. He hisses in pleasure as he settles over Essek, whose own head drops back against the pillows as he’s buried to the hilt inside his lover. Reaching out, Essek’s hands grip Bren’s thighs, squeezing softly before they’re caught in Bren’s grasp. Peeking one eye open, Essek watches as Bren lifts his hands to his lips, kissing one then the other. Tugging, Essek pulls Bren’s hands down and repeats the gesture. Bren’s jaw slackens, eyes glazing over with something deep and profound before he lifts himself up, then presses back down. 

His hands fall to brace himself against the mattress as he rises and falls in slow, languid movements. One of Essek’s hands grasps his waist, the other lifting to cup Bren’s face, thumb brushing delicately over his cheek. Bren turns his head and begins laving soft, open mouth kisses against the palm of Essek’s hand as he fucks himself nice and slow on Essek’s cock. Essek’s hand flexes and a soft gasp slips from his lips as he watches the beautifully obscene show above him. He looks at their hands, entwined against the rough scratch of Bren’s scruff, feels the wet velvet of his tongue. His cock is buried deep inside the warmth of Bren’s body, filling him with pleasure and comfort and love, and when Bren’s gaze meets him as he moves, he finally sees a glimmer of light in the stormcloud blue of his lover’s eyes. 

“Oh, my dearest love,” Essek sighs, words breathless as they fall out between them, “You are everything.” 

He feels Bren’s grip on his fingers tighten in reply. Feels the stutter in the rhythm of their fucking, and knows his words have pierced deep; they have struck the secret place in Bren’s heart where he desires above all else to be worthy of this, and though Essek too often feels unworthy of having such a pure and shattering devotion offered to him, he sees the sentiment returned in Bren’s burning gaze, in the way Bren chokes out his name, a sob. 

“Essek…” 

“I am going to give you everything your heart desires,” Essek declares, voice a choked, wrecked whisper. Using the hold on Bren’s head, he tugs- gently- always gently- and as Bren shifts to lean down, Essek moves, propping himself up on one elbow to press their foreheads together. Bren’s pace stutters from the new angle; quickens. “I swear to you, my love. I will not fail you.” 

He’s made such a promise before, and they both have felt the heaviness behind the empty words. They both know there is no guarantee Essek can do what they’ve set out to accomplish. But tonight, something shifts. Tonight when Essek swears, the words hold weight. They feel real; possible. Bren seems to sense this too, and a sob escapes him as he pushes closer, knocking Essek back against the pillows and buries his face into Essek’s neck, thrusting his hips with increasingly frantic momentum. 

“You could never fail me,” Bren whispers, breath hot against Essek’s skin. 

A choked sob escapes Essek and he feels a deep set tightening in his core. “Bren,” he gasps, “I’m-“ 

“Me too,” Bren murmurs. “Bitte, Essek. Fuck me.” 

Essek, unable to deny Bren anything he wants, does. He slams his hips upward, meeting Bren on a downward motion, and they both groan at how good it feels to move together like this; to be in sync so thoroughly with one another. They move together, panting against each other’s mouths as they fuck, Essek’s hand falling from Bren’s waist to once more grasp his cock, smearing the stream of precome over him to slick him up, pumping his hand in a matching tempo to their thrusts. Bren whimpers against him, Essek’s name a benediction on bruised and swollen lips. Tilting his head, Essek once again presses a kiss to the mark Astrid left, tender and loving and everything it hadn’t been three days ago. 

At that, Bren stiffens and comes, coating Essek’s chest with his spend. The feeling, the understanding that Bren has taken his pleasure, that Essek has brought him even a moment of respite is enough to send him tumbling over the edge, and he spills himself within Bren with a soft gasp of his lover’s name. 

This moment, the immediate aftermath, is probably Essek’s favorite part of their couplings. The way Bren lets out one long, satisfied sigh. The way he slumps in exhaustion over Essek, pressing their chests together and smearing the stickiness of his come between them. The soft, disbelieving laugh that slips from him, more a huff of air than anything. The way Bren doesn’t pull away until Essek is so soft it barely takes a shift of movement for him to slip out of Bren entirely. The way Bren only lifts his head just enough to press his lips to Essek’s- it’s quite literally a press, just his lips against Essek’s for a long, lingering moment, before he finally, reluctantly, sits up. 

Essek looks up at the man he adores more than anything. Looks at his mussed hair, the swollen lips. The smear of come on his chest. The two bruises on his neck, now attributable to Essek rather than Bren’s Empire lovers. Essek takes pride in that; Essek will leave no trace of his love and adoration for Bren on the man’s flesh, but he has the satisfaction of knowing that when Bren sees those marks on his skin tomorrow morning, it will inspire a small smile rather than a grimace. He will think of sharp fangs and not blunt canines. He will think of delicate, butter-soft caresses and not the large calloused scratchings of human hands. 

Bren will think of Essek, just as Essek will think of him. 

Blinking, Essek glances up and meets Bren’s curious gaze. “Alright?” Bren asks.

“Perfect,” Essek answers, as if there could ever be another possible response in the moments following their coupling. “Just admiring you.” 

“You’re much prettier,” Bren remarks plainly before casting prestidigitation on them both. 

“I can look at myself whenever I wish,” Essek huffs as Bren flops down beside Essek, curling into him and letting himself be held. “So forgive me for wanting to take in as much of you as I can.” 

“I don’t hear a denial about you being prettier,” he murmurs from where he’s curled up against Essek. 

“Why bother denying something we both know to be true?” Essek teases, flinching when Bren pokes him in the ribs. “You knew I was a little vain when you fell into my bed,” he points out. 

“A little?” Bren teases. Essek leans back and bops him on the nose, relishing the way it scrunches up from the touch. 

“Watch it, Thelyss,” he teases, then lifts his head up to steal a kiss. They stay there for some time, exchanging lazy kisses and whispering softly to one another. They don’t speak of anything important; they don’t discuss the war or the Assembly or the promise between them or the sword hanging over their heads if their fraternizing is ever discovered. Instead they speak of the future, a vague unknown that might be a part of this world or a new timeline altogether. They speak of Bren’s desire to teach, of Essek’s desire to grow a garden and plant roses and Xhorsian Greyblooms side by side. They talk about a cabin in the country- and though they don’t mention that there will be an identical cabin just across the street for Bren’s parents, the understanding is there between them. They talk about how the cabin will be small and cozy and overcrowded with at least four cats- they even have names picked out, two for each of them: Frumpkin II and Kiki for Bren; Luna and Dagen for Essek. 

(Essek remembers with heart-shattering fondness how he’d absently mentioned wanting a cat named Dagen, about a year into their tryst. When Bren had asked about the name, Essek had blushed and said it was after his favorite poet. Bren had looked at him for a long, thoughtful moment, and then said, for the first time, “I love you.”) 

Eventually, Bren sighs. It’s a sigh Essek knows all too well, and he tries not to let his disappointment show. 

“I need to go.” 

“I know,” Essek acknowledges. 

Bren doesn’t move. “I don’t want to.” 

“I know.” 

Slowly, Bren sits up. His hand falls to Essek’s leg, squeezing with tender care, then he stands up. Essek doesn’t move for several moments, instead watching as Bren gathers their clothes from the floor. He drops Essek’s onto the mattress, then begins to pull on his things with deliberate slowness. Once his trousers are on and buttoned, Essek sits up, and begins redressing as well. Slipping into the other room, Bren uses Essek’s comb and mirror to fix his hair, then splashes his face with water from the basin. 

Essek waits, watching him with an intent gaze, not wanting to miss a moment of Bren. He’ll be without him soon enough, so he must drink his fill now; it’s never enough, and the taste he got tonight will only make his thirst grow in the coming days when he knows he cannot have him by his side. 

One day, he promises himself. One day there will be a cabin in the country with cats and a garden and Bren’s mother’s apple tarts fattening him up. There will be magic experiments that go into the wee hours of the morning, and strolls to the market, arm in arm. He will be the one to make others jealous, to make others pine for what he has: a love so bright and true and strong that nothing can ever come between them. 

One day. 

They walk hand in hand back to the lab. It’s not the midnight stroll of lovers on the street, but it’s theirs and Essek cherishes it all the same. They both stand in the transportation circle, a mockery of the fact that they can feasibly go anywhere, but they cannot yet do so together. Their hands ache from how tight they’re holding the others, but neither loosens their grip. 

“Will you be alright?” Essek asks. 

“No,” Bren sighs, then amends, for Essek’s sake, “Well… well enough, I suppose.”

“Thank you again for what you gave me. I do not know what will come of it, but I have great hope.” 

Bren nods. “If Yeza can make more between now and…” he lets the words hang, then continues, “Or if he can write down the process- I will get it to you.”

“That reminds me,” Essek says, releasing Bren’s hands to move to one of the component shelves. He pulls out a large tome, opening it to reveal it to be a false book in which several small satchels sit. He plucks one bag from the book, replaces it, then returns to Bren. “For Yeza.” 

Taking the bag, Bren feels the weight of a large sum of money. At his questioning glance, Essek shrugs, “For his journey to find his wife. It is the least I can do for what he has given us.” 

“You don’t have to-“ Essek cuts him off with a kiss. 

“I want to,” he says emphatically. “We are in this together, you and I. You are risking much to get him and his son to safety; let me provide what aid I can from here.” 

Bren presses their foreheads together. “I love you so much, Essek Thelyss.” 

Essek smiles, letting the words wash over him like the sun on a holy day. “And I love you, Bren Ermendrud. More than anything.” 

Below them, the clock strikes midnight. 

They kiss, one last, lingering press of lips before Bren wrenches himself away with a stifled sob. Essek steps back too, knowing if he doesn’t do so now, he won’t be able to do it at all. He wants to stay with Bren. He knows Bren needs to go. 

“To the past,” Bren says in their long standing farewell. 

“To the future,” Essek replies tearfully. 

“Together,” they say in unison. 

As the final chime of the clock sounds, Bren disappears.