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Barnabas awoke in high spirits, thinking about the bite of Clive Rosfield’s sword. He’d felt pure ecstasy as it split him open, sharp and heavy and liberating. A pain he’d only known once before, a memory scarred deep across his heart. And afterwards, his blood had sung as he delivered Odin; the completion of his final, greatest task.
And his Eikon truly was gone, the spark of him dim and blotted. Some thin traces of power remained, but–
Barnabas startled bolt upright, a white-hot flash of agony moving from his ribs to his sternum. Shocked, he looked down, seeing bandages marked with a delicate smear of drying blood. They were wrapped neatly around his chest, eloquently secured. He ran his palm down the line of them, pulling his teeth back from his lips at the dull ache underneath.
In his many years of life, Barnabas Tharmr had been surprised only a few times. Once, at eighteen. Once more, at thirty nine. And now today, the day he should’ve been dead, but instead was very much alive.
He was sitting upright on a small bed, tucked between a partition and some kind of workbench. Footsteps echoed around the corner, and he tensed, noticing suddenly that his hands were pale gray and glowing faintly–
“You’re awake,” Clive Rosfield remarked, coming into sight.
Barnabas didn’t reply, but Clive didn’t seem to mind. He walked forward confidently, sunlight streaming over his fine features. For a while, the two of them were silent, each taking the other’s measure. Clive seemed interested in Barnabas’ health, the state of his wound. And for his part… Barnabas was… confused.
“Our healer does not know what to make of you,” Clive eventually informed him, nodding at his exposed arms.
Barnabas flexed his fingers, ignoring the blue glow tracing under his skin. It was merely the truth of him laid bare, the akashic purity that humanity had foolishly discarded. Without his glamour, he looked much like his kin. His pallor was stark gray, but he pulsed with life, aether slowly rippling under his features.
“I am as my liege wills,” Barnabas finally spoke, his voice rough from disuse.
“Even now, you remain loyal to him,” Clive frowned, crossing his arms.
Of course he was loyal. The Lord was a constant presence… a presence… A presence he could no longer feel. It was an absence yawning even wider than Odin, and even though the day was warm, Barnabas felt a coldness seep into his limbs.
Clive–Mythos leaned against the partition, his gaze discerning. The power that Barnabas had relinquished was obvious in his figure, obvious in the way he overflowed with aether. He was a man–no, he was not a man, he was a vessel–with the strength to topple regimes. A man who–
For a second, they locked eyes. And suddenly Barnabas could not think of his duty, or his liege. He could only think of the sharpness of Clive’s blade, the roaring inferno of Ifrit. He could only remember the expressions that flickered across Clive’s face as they fought: anger, disappointment, but also heat.
Barnabas was nearly overcome with an urge to lunge for Clive’s sword, to test himself again against the one person he knew to be his better.
“You’ll lose,” Clive Rosfield said, but his expression belied a challenge.
Tension hung between them, anticipation. The silence stretched, but surprisingly, it did not become uncomfortable. And eventually, it cooled to a simmer, and Barnabas took the opportunity to take his bearings.
He was sitting on a simple sickbed, nestled in some kind of Fallen ruin. He could tell that much from the ceramic, slowly degrading all around. Wooden construction supported it, well-made, but it still wouldn’t be able to withstand Odin’s true form. Barnabas was confident he’d be able to control himself once primed, darkness was as dear to him as his own heart–
Clive leaned forward, reaching out and putting a firm hand on his chest. Barnabas fought the contact, but Clive proved he was stronger, pushing and pushing until the back of Barnabas’ head hit the pillow. Laying down again was a relief on his battered ribs, though he refused to acknowledge it. He was far more preoccupied with Clive’s fingers, trying to remember the last time someone had truly wanted to touch him.
“Tarja believes the deadlands are draining away your excess aether. A few more weeks here, and I’m told you won’t be,” Clive gestured to his pale and glowing skin. “This way, any longer.”
Barnabas furrowed his brows. He was perfect as he was, exactly the way the Lord made him. Surely he could not be unmade so easily.
“If you desire defeat a second time,” Clive’s thumb rubbed over the bandages, spiderwebs of pain running through Barnabas’ bruises. “You may find it once you are well.”
He was not sick, so he could not become well. Barnabas tried to move, tried to sit up, but Clive’s arm didn't budge. If anything, he looked remarkably unimpressed. Silence fell between the two of them, Barnabas struggling to take in a deep breath. He had the vague impression that some of his bones were shattered, which was entirely impossible. Any wounds he sustained would naturally heal, the overflowing aether in his body–
Clive’s words snapped into abrupt clarity. Barnabas craned his neck, looking out the window. He saw the sky, slashed with bald mountaintops. The treeline was nowhere to be seen, just blackened earth, visible even from a considerable distance. The deadlands… he really was in the deadlands.
This must’ve been Cidolfus' sanctuary, he realized. Or else its replacement. He’d ensured the original was destroyed–a mere whisper in Hugo Kupka’s ear enough to do the deed. Barnabas tried to remember why he’d done it, what he’d been so angry about, what he’d hope to achieve. And a large part of him resisted his own culpability, insisting it was all Ultima’s will.
But Ultima–
But the Lord–
Barnabas closed his eyes, feeling nothing but embers where his emotions had once blazed white-hot. When he opened them again, he saw Clive shifting, pulling something out of his salaciously tight top. Rosarians and their leather…
The thought was enough distraction, and Barnabas focused on the thing between Clive’s fingers. It was an oddly familiar sight, a cigarillo. Clive twisted it back and forth, then walked around the partition. He returned with a lit candle, touching the cigarillo to the flame and taking a brief inhale.
Clive tried and failed to smother a cough, setting down the candlestick and waving the smoke out of his face. Barnabas caught a whiff of the heavy smell, immediately tasting it on his tongue. It was instantly recognizable, the same as the cigarillos Cidolfus had gotten hooked on in Kanver.
After another smothered half-cough, Clive walked back over to the bed. He looked contemplative. It was a strangely soft expression on his handsome face, the hard lines and sharp edges of a warrior smoothed out. Smoke drifted upwards, lending him a kind of hazy shadow against the light of the sun.
Suddenly, he held out the cigarillo. Barnabas paused for a moment, then took it, inhaling until his ribs protested the sting. The tobacco tasted just as he expected, and he savored it before exhaling.
“How long did you know Cid?” Clive asked quietly, leaning against the partition again.
“A very long time,” Barnabas replied.
He handed back the cigarillo, and Clive took it carefully. He inhaled too much, coughing despite himself. The act was so reminiscent of Cidolfus’ first try that Barnabas almost smiled, unfamiliar nostalgia gripping him tight. But he didn’t expand on his answer, and his newfound companion didn’t pry.
“What do you think he would do with you, in my position?” Clive gave up and let the cigarillo dangle between his fingers, burning slowly in the air.
“Nothing kind,” Barnabas replied after a while. The thought alone stirred uncomfortable feelings.
“I think you underestimate him,” Clive handed the cigarillo back over.
“I have taken his measure,” Barnabas inhaled, deeper this time, even though it pained his ribs.
He hadn’t meant to insinuate anything, but by the expression on Clive’s face, he accidentally had. Understanding drew between them, a kind of shared memory passing back and forth.
“I see… You as well, then,” Clive’s tone was surprisingly… wistful.
Surprised–and yet entirely unsurprised, knowing Cidolfus–Barnabas watched Clive Rosfield carefully. He was deep in his own memories, but his blue eyes were surprisingly clear in the smoke and the sunlight. And in an instant they snapped down to Barnabas, something igniting deep in their depths.
Clive snatched the cigarillo from Barnabas’ lips, tucking it between his own teeth and straddling the bed in one smooth motion.
“This is one of his you know,” Clive remarked around the cigarillo, his firm thighs on either side of Barnabas’ hips. “I’ve been saving it.”
“I hope the occasion is to your satisfaction,” Barnabas replied in a monotone.
Above him, Clive laughed around the cigarillo, the sound surprisingly light. He removed it from his mouth, pressing it in back between Barnabas’ parted lips. Obligingly, Barnabas sucked in a breath, feeling the sting of the tobacco. But before he could exhale, Clive yanked it free and kissed him.
Clive’s lips tasted like smoke, like the tang of the cigarillo wrapper. It was overwhelmingly nostalgic, and it deepened as their mouths opened and their tongues tangled together.
Throughout his long life, Barnabas had spent a great deal of time thinking, and he had never once regretted it. When he was young, he thought about his mother’s teachings. When he grew into a man, he thought about his conquest, about the change he could enact. Then later, he thought about how to be of service. About how best to do the tasks set before him.
But today, he found himself rather tired of scheming. So he kissed Clive Rosfield instead, blowing smoke out his nose when his lungs protested the feel of it. At the same time, he reached up, grabbing Clive’s hips and yanking their groins together. The motion sent a wave of pain through his injuries, but that only made his pleasure sweeter, the sting and the softness of Clive’s lips blurring into a melange of sensation.
On the bedside, the cigarillo smoldered.
Clive nipped Barnabas’ lip, grinding down at the same time. The contact between them was heady, and Barnabas flexed his fingers, shifting to squeeze Clive’s leather-clad ass. The flesh there was pleasant under his hands, eminently kneadable, and Clive moaned into his mouth.
Barnabas’ blood moved south, exhilaration igniting over his skin. At some point, Clive’s hands tangled in his hair, tugging on the strands as Clive sucked on his tongue. Their chests pressed together, pecs and bandages and leather fighting for space. The contact felt good, even as blotted as it was.
Inhaling deeply through his nose, Barnabas slipped his fingertips under the waistband of Clive’s leathers. It was a tight fit, but he managed to slide down to the knuckle. The skin there was deliciously smooth, and he squeezed, a pleased rumble slipping from his throat. Clive answered with a purr of his own, grinding down urgently.
Barnabas could suddenly feel Clive’s erection–eager, wasn’t he? But then again, his own trousers were growing tighter…
Chuckling to himself, he slid his hands forward, thumbs flicking at the ties of Clive’s leathers. They came undone surprisingly easily, and Clive lifted his hips with a breathy sound. Barnabas swallowed it, leaning up to continue devouring his mouth.
Clive broke away, pulling Barnabas’ hair to force him back down. But he relished the sting, watching as Clive straightened up and retrieved the cigarillo, taking a slow, slow drag.
Impatient–so much so that he surprised even himself–Barnabas busied his hands by pulling open the leathers before him, reaching inside to cup the turgid flesh within. The skin of Clive’s cock was velvet smooth, and he smeared a drop of wetness at the tip.
Not to be outdone, Clive clamped the cigarillo back between his teeth, canting his hips. Then he reached down and snapped the lacing of Barnabas’ trousers, tearing the seams of the cloth open. Any indignation was lost in a cloud of tobacco, Clive exhaling out of the corners of his mouth.
Smiling despite himself, Barnabas reacted. He dragged Clive’s hand forward by the wrist, spitting into his open palm. Then he did the same to his own hand, wetting it crudely. Satisfied at his handiwork, he shifted, wrapping his fingers around Clive’s erection. A little bit of coaxing to get the angle, and Clive reached for him in turn, the two of them stroking each other in parallel.
It wasn’t a fight, and yet it was a competition, both of them eager for it. Pleasure fizzled hot down Barnabas’ veins, his body coming alive. Clive’s hand was perfectly rough–even with his spit–and it dragged him rapidly into a full erection. Smoke thickened in the air, filling his lungs with every aborted breath. He could feel it going to his head, like static under his skin.
Though he tried, he could not outpace Clive, their hands moving faster at the same time. Everything they gave, the other took, even their breathing synchronizing. It was an odd feeling, but it excited Barnabas like nothing else. And suddenly, a clarity came over him. The pain, the friction, the pleasure–he wanted it all.
Inhaling deeply, ignoring the way his ribs screamed in protest, Barnabas lost himself in the sensations. He thumbed over Clive’s leaking cockhead, twisting his wrist and snarling. Clive snarled back, squeezing his erection tight. It shouldn’t have felt good, but it did, and he felt his breath caught.
Unconsciously, Barnabas lifted his back and neck off the bed, muscles clenching. The action sent a fresh pain through the wound on his chest, but he ignored it, kneading Clive’s ass with his free hand. Clive’s eyes flashed, and he reached down, shoving the cigarillo back between Barnabas’ lips. He sucked on it greedily, drinking down the familiar taste.
The aether under his skin pulsed, shining brighter than the sunlight. The blue glow cut through the smoke, illuminating the soft pout of Clive’s lips, the tilt of his brows. The two of them hurtled towards orgasm together, egging each other on with huffs and sharp looks. Barnabas tasted victory approaching, knowing he need only hold himself back for an extra second.
Clive Rosfield was thinking much the same, gritting his teeth and leaning down. He grabbed a fistfull of Barnabas’ hair again, tilting his chin and exposing his neck. Barnabas returned fire by kneading Clive’s ass, his fingers pressing into the seam between his cheeks. The blow proved a wise one, Clive arching attractively in the air, leaning into the touch.
Barnabas could not help but think about bending him over, about grinding his erection between his asscheeks and hearing him beg–
He came with a loud groan, pleasure and arousal and smoke washing over him in a blinding wave. Clive followed him a split-second later, come splashing down onto his bandages. They squeezed each other through the aftershocks, Barnabas holding tight to Clive’s ass.
As he slowly came down, Barnabas felt like he was seeing the world clearly for the first time in a very long time.
The world Cidolfus used to describe, all those years ago in Kanver.
And maybe… Maybe he didn’t mind staying there a while.