Me And The Devil

They're my favourite telenova honestly

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"Well, fancy meeting you here."

The main hall is quiet at night. Not for long, of course, just a moment between the midnight's fall and just before the sunrise, when the room gets so eerily quiet Dushan thinks he could count the mice around the corners just by the sound of them. The fireplace is the only light inside, he squints at its gleam with slightly blurry eyes before slumping down a and finding Dorian's worried gaze.

"Fancy indeed," Dushan echoes, eyes following the slope of the mage's shoulders, buried beneath the fur — it's one of those robes he managed to salvage from home, he knows it just by the shape.

From the Trevelyan house, that is. Something about the way the fibers cling to Dorian's slightly sweat-damp skin, how he shivers barely noticeably, something about that makes Dushan's guts ache, dull and weary. He gets up from the throne with some unexpected effort and crosses the distance to the chamber's door, pulling Dorian into a hug.

"Why are you up?" his lips find the left temple, his fingers find the back of his neck, pulling the heavy head into a cautious embrace.

Dorian, unusually cold palms hidden beneath the fabric, wraps his arms around his middle in return. Stands like that for a few seconds, chest to chest, beat to beat, breathing shallow and just a bit too fast.

"Couldn't sleep without you."

There's an unspoken implication that something woke him, one of those heavy night terrors that leave him panicked and gasping for air. Dushan kisses his temple again and hears a quiet chuckle muted by the layers of fabric. "You look terrible like that, you know?"

Dushan pulls away slightly, arching a brow. "Like what?"

Dorian breaks the embrace, taking a few steps aside and slumping down on the throne — legs thrown over the armrest, arms folded over the chest. He bounces a foot in the air, eyes finding the fire Dushan was staring daggers into minutes ago. "Like this. Like a ghost of an emperor looming over his lost kingdom. Was afraid that if I look at you for too long you'll start turning green."

Dushan snorts and makes a scary face, letting the anchor shine and light his frame. Dorian rolls his eyes to that, idly bumping his heel into the golden binding. "Oh shut up."

He doesn't see the painful vince, Dushan makes sure of that, grabbing him and turning him in his seat like the mage weighs nothing. Dorian yelps, almost offended, as Dushan kneels down in front of him. A brief eye contact — the Inquisitor marvels at the sight of him against the starry skies, and then lets his own head fall, burying his face into the robe, into the tense thighs. I'm tired, he wants to confess. I'm so tired and I can't keep my eyes shut for more than mere seconds no matter how close I hold you.

Dorian doesn't really need him to spell it out, does he. Dorian runs his fingers through his thinning out hair and whispers gentle words Dushan can't yet understand.

"Amatus, come back to bed."

"Marry me."

The silence rings. Dushan doesn't lift his head, not until Dorian lifts it up for him, hands squeezing his cheeks in a deadly grip.

"Have you gone mad on me?"

They stare and stare at each other, Dorian's sheer panic against Dushan's stone calm. He palms at his forehead, grips his cheeks again, something hysterical in his posture. "No, really, you impossible bastard, have you lost your mind?"

Dushan's stoic expression turns to amusement, as he finds a wrist to kiss. "I'm on my knees already, I can beg."

Dorian huffs. Dorian puffs, one hand flying up to cover his mouth, the other pushing Dushan away with a force he doesn't really mean. The Inquisitor sits back willingly, looking up open and offering, eyes squinted in loving humour.

Dorian shakes his head. "Absolutely I will not."

And weak, awed curses follow, as he stares down at the man at his feet.

Dushan leans forward again and pulls one bare, frozen foot into his own lap. Kisses the knee, does the same with the other. There are hands in his hair, still feverishly pushing him away without any real strength to them, lips whispering something inaudible and "get up, get up before anyone sees you, matula" as they grow trembling and unsure. Dushan hugs his legs, like he's afraid Dorian will set off running, and looks up, face suddenly stern.

"I've done many things wrong and I will do much more. But I want to do this, this, right, while time remains."

The anchor burns, his eyes burn, as the hall grows green in color. His own panic rises as he speaks urgently.

"Whatever you want, however you will have me. But when the Herald dies I want him to bring your name to the grave, Dorian Pavus. I'm no Trevelyan. I'm no Inquisitor. I'm but a man devoted to you and I want to go as one."

There are tears, Dushan can't see them gleaming in the dark but Dorian chokes on his breaths like he can't find his voice or any air around them. He hits his shoulder last time, then slides down to the ground until there's nothing but his limbs and chest and the oh so familiar smell of his oils as he grips Dushan so hard that neither of them can breathe now.

Merely a whisper, "You cannot say such things. It's cruel."

Dushan nods and kisses his lips pressed together in a salty line.

"I know. I am."

"You're not," comes out as a louder cry.

"Now you're talking nonsense."

"The whole castle just heard you pledge allegiance to my father's name. Don't nonsense me."

"I did no such thing. I asked you to marry me."

"And I told you I won't."

"No trouble," Dushan says contently, leaning against the base of the throne. "I will ask you again."

70s

Elias laughs and the sound of it isn't unkind. Jon isn't sure why he expects it to be. It's somewhat pleasant, actually, to see his shoulders shake undone, forehead pressed to the roof of the car.

"Did I say something wrong?"

Elias waves him off and straightens up with a smile that gets his face all crinkled up. It's a lot of fine lines, a lot more under the unforgiving streetlights than what Jon is used to. It makes him seem more articulated, somehow. Less of a, what is it that Sasha keeps calling him, Walt Disney's frozen head?

"Not at all. You are one peculiar man, Jonathan."

Jon, he wants to correct, but doesn't know if it's appropriate — they're not really on the first name basis, are they. Elias is, sure. Was, from the very start, but the "Elias" in question never actually slips past Jon's head. So, instead, he finds the logo on the bumper very noteworthy.

"Cadillac," Elias suggests and now Jon scoffs himself.

"Are you showing off?"

Elias bops his head in a touché kind of way and scratches at his brow with a thumb carefully stuck away from the burning cigarette. "You looked like you were about to ask."

"It's just my face."

"Oh, I know."

Jon buries his freezing fingers into the coat's pockets and joins him, pressing a hip to the cold metal. Elias offers his portsigar in that sickeningly polite manner of his and Jon grabs a smoke for himself without thinking it through, mainly because he feels awkward standing empty handed. Something about them and the deserted Tesco parking lot does feel extremely inappropriate, now that he thinks about it with a cold cleared head.

Elias squints at his scrambling. "Are you uncomfortable?"

As he pockets for his lighter, Jon actually contemplates his answer. Elias doesn't rush, but does, however, mirror his stance so they end up face-to-face.

"No, I suppose," Jon clicks the wheel and takes a drag. "Are you uncomfortable?"

Cranks his head a bit and tries to roll something on his tongue along with the smoke. "Do I make you uncomfortable, Elias?"

He looks at him then, really looks at him, so prolonged and heated Jon feels like he might break sweat. But then the gaze slips somewhere above his shoulder and Elias smiles to himself as if remembering a joke.

"Somewhat, yes."

"Unfortunate."

"Not at all."

When Elias reaches out to him after a moment of silence, Jon isn't really surprised. He's not good at this but god knows he isn't entirely lost in clues, not when it comes to someone as blunt as Elias. It leaves him soured, really, the momentary rush of anxiety and disappointment. He takes a deep breath, preparing to say his best collected good-byes.

Elias runs his fingers gently along his clenched fist, so much so that Jon trails off with a stupidly hanging mouth. The nails, somewhat long and polished, scrape his dry skin up the sleeve and slip to the underside, following the veins with just their pointy tips. Jon makes a noise he's terrified to hear as his hand opens involuntarily. Elias holds it like he has held Jon's hand a million times before, like he watched it weather through the years just alongside his own, like he pressed kisses and whispered prayers into his palms. He holds it like he knows it, turning it over towards the dimm light above them.

Jon stares at his own clipper laying now cradled. Elias points a finger, connects the moles on his wrist and draws a thoughtful line to the cheap plastic, eventually tracing the pixelated design. The eye stares back at them.

"Let me drive you home, Jon."

Jon can't breathe for some reason.

"Wha..."

"You seem tired."

Mutual distaste so strong they awkwardly made out in the supply closet for 20 minutes

Innovators

"you were a "you were...

wonderful everything"

experience"