DIYA + ISHMAEL // fucking bharquites
Who: Ishmael & Diya.
When: Last night and tonight.
Where: The Hold.
Rating & Warnings: PG-13?
"M'lord-"
Diya tilted the book down against his chest, one eyebrow arching at the servant peeking through the broad double doors. When he continued to stare and the girl only gawked back, he lifted a hand from the sheets to gesture impatiently at her. She flushed darkly.
"The King's party has been sighted, m'lord," she squeaked.
He shut the book with a snap, black eyes narrowing as he grinned. "Already? Good. Draw up a bath." The servant girl curtsied and left quickly - hopefully, Diya thought, to fetch the water. The young lord shut the book he held and set it aside, one hand ruffling through his hair before he climbed out of the bed. It was a massive thing, and far more comfortable than it ought to be. He'd be sad to give it back now that Ishmael had returned, though he was glad he had. It was strange staying in the Hold without the King's presence. He'd felt like an intruder since the moment he'd come to Tyrol, but with Ishmael gone he'd felt it even more acutely. The guards knew he didn't have the other man around to defend him. The looks they gave him said as much. And, more troubling: the Duchess remained.
Diya dressed lightly and loosely, wondering even as he fastened his belt whether it was even worth the trouble. Then again, Ishmael might want nothing more than to bury himself in that bed and sleep as soon as he walked in the door. He could hardly blame him, if that was the case. The ride from Tartessos was long and tiring. Two servants returned as he dressed to fill the bath in the other room with water that hissed and steamed when it hit the metal tub. Ishmael might want to sleep, or he might want to bathe. Diya smiled wryly to himself as he slumped back into bed, lounging against the cushions and picking up his book as he waited. Such a courteous whore, he could hear in that cunt's voice.
Cita, had it been a tiring ride. As he dismounted his horse, servants milling about to collect his luggage, Ishmael lingered in the stables a moment, unused to the feeling of standing on his own legs. He said quick 'goodnight's and 'get to bed's to his daughters and nodded curtly to Arman, then strode into the Hold, making for his chambers. People bowed and curtsied here and there and the king did his best to address each of them. All he really wanted was to get out of these filthy clothes and into his bed. Well, a bath might be prudent first.
"Thought I'd find you there," he said as he opened the door. His hair was all out of place, his clothes stained with mud. At least Diya was reading as he laid about; that had to count for something. Ishmael smiled wryly, then went to deposit the bags he carried on him onto his desk.
"Told you I would be, didn't I?" He flicked a page, then set the book face-down onto the sheets. Ishmael looked tired, travel-worn. It was odd to see him so dirty. Usually the man was clean to the point of neurosis. Now his pale skin was flecked with mud, his hair greasy from sweat and sun. "Look at you," he laughed, head tilting as he swung his legs out of bed. "Dirty like a proper Tartessian." He stood and rounded the bed to lean against one of the bedposts, watching the other man sort through his bags.
"How was it?"
"You did," Ishmael replied, distracted as he began to unpack. It was bad enough being so filthy. He couldn't stand being disorganized as well. Putting his books in their proper places on the shelf, the king glanced over his shoulder at Diya, finally hearing what he'd said. A month ago, he would have spat something cruel at the lordling. Now he just smiled a little. "Cita help me if that's true."
How was it. He had no interest in giving Diya details beyond what he'd said on the ledgers. That was family business. "The mermaids were quite beautiful in a terrifying sort of way. And we suffered no mishaps on the road."
Diya gave a soft hum in reply, thoroughly uninterested by the answers he got. Tired Ishmael was boring Ishmael, it seemed. More than usual. "I had the girls draw a bath for you. Thought you'd want one."
He combed his hands through his hair, pulling it back until he managed to tie it with a bit of string. The heat made him wish he kept it shorter. It was obnoxious, clinging to his cheeks and neck whenever the room grew too stuffy. "Or is this occasion two-hundred twenty-five of Ishmael rearranging his bookshelf? By publishing date this time, or author's birthday?"
"That was thoughtful of you," he said, his attention still far away as he mechanically put his books away, "Thank you." L... Lo... The king searched the shelves for the spot he needed.
"What?" He'd hardly rearranged them two-hundred and twenty-four times in the past and he wasn't rearranging them now. Faintly annoyed, Ishmael's tone soured when he put the next book away. "I am tired, Diya, and my books require my attention more than you do right now."
"I was asking a question, not asking for your attention," Diya drawled, more annoyed than he let on. "People do it sometimes when they're trying to make conversation." He'd gone too far already, he suspected, so he pushed up from where he leaned against the bedpost and rounded the bed. His book lay against the sheets, face-down, and he plucked it up and shut it with a snap.
"Should I come back later?" He was irritated. He'd been happy to see Ishmael back and the man was more interested in alphabetizing his bookshelf than speaking to him. Expected behavior, maybe, but not welcome.
He put the next book in place with a clap, then took a deep breath before facing Diya. He'd been 7 days on the road or in inns, trying to smooth things over with his children. His eldest had made it abundantly clear that from now on nothing would go smoothly with him. If Arman and Katrin didn't start plotting together to collect his head and the crown that rested upon it, Ishmael would be very surprised. He was tired. He didn't want to be teased when, for the first time in days, he was allowing himself to relax.
"If you think it best. If not, stay in the bed and read your book. Silently."
Ishmael couldn't control his own children, so now he deigned to treat him like one? "No, thanks," he replied with a sour smile. Tired or not, what had he done? Be there to welcome him back as he said he would, had a bath readied for him. He would've sucked him off then and there if the man asked him to, but instead he was told to be silent. He tucked the book under his arm and gave a little bow, black eyes cold.
Diya turned and left without waiting for a dismissal. Ishmael could be angry at him for it all he liked. Treating him as if this was all his fault was stupidity. He'd told the children, yes, but mere days before Ishmael had been about to tell them himself. He doubted it made very much difference to them. It was the situation they were angry about, not the messenger, and he'd leave Tyrol before he took any blame for that. They were equal there, and blameless besides. "Fucking Bharquites," he muttered to himself, taking the stairs to his tower in twos.
~~~~~~~~time warp~~~~~~~~
Ishmael kept his own company for a day. He'd needed it, and for more reasons than his children and Diya and the situation that had arisen between his children and Diya. A day of rest had done him good. No meetings, no books, no letter-writing. Being so alone had let him clear some of the clutter from his head. That night, he bathed again and dressed himself in simple clothes, then started toward the tower that Diya stayed in.
A guard moved forward to knock for him, but Ishmael politely dismissed him. He doubted Diya was waiting on the other side to run him through with his own sword. The king knocked and waited, his hands clasped behind his back. Perhaps the lordling wasn't even in.
The knock on the door made him choke, shoulders jerking as Diya hastily took the bottle from his lips and let out a series of wet coughs. He half-turned to glare at the door. Who the hell...? The guards rarely knocked. They disliked him enough to simply barge in and inform him when he was wanted somewhere. More often than not, they smirked. He wiped his mouth with his wrist and pushed his chair back from his writing desk, steps slightly unsteady as he made his way to the door.
"What do you--" The door opened to reveal Ishmael, and the irritation fell away from his expression, replaced by surprise. "...want," he finished in a mumble. Oh. So he wasn't cross with him now? He looked the other man over, wary, then gave a twitch of his mouth and stepped aside. "Didn't expect to see you here." Usually, he went to Ishmael's chambers, not the other way around. Why hadn't he just sent for him?
Ishmael entered the room, his hands still locked together, but didn't say anything until the door was shut behind him. "I owe you an apology," he said frankly, "It seemed rude to demand you go to the trouble of leaving your rooms to hear it." The king looked around Diya's chambers. Much smaller than his own, but it pleased him that they appeared almost as comfortable.
Turning to the side, then nervously pivoting again to face Medellos, Ishmael said, "I'm sorry. I took out the effects of the trip on you." He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but no. That was all he could think to say. Ishmael pursed his lips together and waited for a response.
He tried to keep the shock out of his expression. Ishmael, apologizing? Unheard of. He hadn't heard one since that night at the creek, and even that had been a forced, grudging thing. Diya's mouth parted, then closed again. Did he truly feel badly about it? He'd been cross, yes, but he'd expected that they'd both pretend it hadn't happened and continue about their business. "Thanks."
Stepping around his chair, he took the bottle from his desk and held it out. "Thirsty? M'sister sent it. Would've been better if she'd sent it with you, but I can't imagine she knew..." He shrugged loosely, thoughts already wandering. "Don't worry about it. The thing. The other night. I expect you were tired." He pushed the bottle into Ishmael's hands and flopped back onto his bed, grinning when he bounced. Not as good as the King's bed, but good enough. "What else did you come up here for, hm?" he asked slyly, resting loosely on his elbows.
Oh, good, Diya was drunk. Well, rather more drunk than usual. Ishmael expected that would tilt the scales one way or the other as to how his apology would be received. Easy enough. When Medellos thanked him, then shoved the wine into his hands, his eyebrows raised. He stared at Diya incredulously for a moment, then took a short pull from the bottle. It was a bit sour, but not in a bad way. After swallowing, Ishmael nodded. "I was very tired."
He smiled. "Why do you even try to flirt when you're this drunk?" He said it fondly, but... well, why did he? Why did he drink so much on his own in the first place? For a moment, Ishmael was concerned. He stood at the foot of the bed, struggling to keep his smile in place.
"Because if I told you straight out to suck my cock you'd call me crude," he replied, still smirking. The glint of the bottle caught his eyes, and he held his hand out, beckoning. "Here, give it back."
He wasn't really that drunk, besides. Or he didn't feel like he was. He'd been writing a letter to his sister and had begun to drink whenever he couldn't think of what to say. Wine was helpful that way, though he'd quickly lost track of exactly how much he'd been drinking versus how much he should've been writing. "I was..." Diya motioned impatiently to the desk. "Writing. To my sister."
"I'm used to your crudeness." Ishmael sat on the edge of the bed and passed the bottle to Diya. He didn't need to drink more, not now, but the king was still the guilty party. He couldn't begrudge him his own wine in his own bedroom.
He took Diya's right hand in both of his, raising it almost to his chest. With his thumbs, he started to massage the lordling's palm. He looked over to the desk and squinted. Were his eyes going or was that a letter consisting of little more than, 'Dear Sister'? How fitting. He'd gotten drunk to write an address.
"Yes. Well." He let his hand go and leaned in to kiss Diya, drunk though he may be. Ishmael pulled away to hover over him, keeping them almost nose to nose. "I came to say that I'm happy I've returned."
His expression clouded in puzzlement when Ishmael took his hand. What was he doing? Some gesture of affection? When he rubbed at his palm, gently, massaging, Diya let out a faintly surprised grunt. That felt good.
"I--" The kiss cut him off, and he sucked at Ishmael's lower lip as the man drew away. He tasted like wine. Or was it his own mouth that did? Either way. His black eyes flicked up to meet Ishmael's, clouded and bloodshot with wine, and he smiled. "Mm. So am I." He leaned his head up to kiss him again, then slumped back and took a tug from the bottle. It gave a soft pop when he took his mouth away and swallowed, licking away the dark drop at the corner of his lips. "Don't have to fear for my life anymore. Or my wine. Did you know they tried to tell me- tried to tell me no? Went down to the kitchens for some a few nights ago. Told me I was drunk and to go back to bed. No one here--..." He lost his train of thought and settled for kissing Ishmael again, slowly.
It was easy to sink into the bed, even if it wasn't quite so soft as his own. Ishmael returned all of Diya's kisses, a hand cupping his neck. Scooting forward, he awkwardly kicked off his boots and flung them aside so that he could lie beside the other man. Rubbing Diya's jawbone with his thumb as he spoke, Ishmael did his best to look as if he was actually trying to understand his babbling. After a sentence or two, he laughed and said, "What?" and was answered with more nonsense, then another kiss.
A sour, alcohol-laced kiss, but he was used to that. And Diya did know what he was doing. A moment later, looking dazed, Ishmael pulled back. "Fear for your life? Surely you can fend off Initiate Flowers." What had Diya meant? Had Katrin threatened him?
"Think it was the other way around. Fending. She was a right cunt." He curled a hand in Ishmael's hair, pushing it this way and that as his eyes grew distant. "Oh, and speaking and- of, speaking--" Diya scowled and sighed. What was he saying? "Fuck. Oh, yes-- Flowers said she called your sister one. A cunt. Thought you'd like that."
It was only that the girl's writing had continued that convinced him she hadn't been beheaded. And why not? She had a very pretty head, he supposed. Stunning, actually, but the knowledge of where that pretty head had been left him disinterested. Diya smiled at the thumb brushing his jaw, glancing down to it, then back up to the King. "Did you know I stayed celibate the whole time you were away? Not one whore, not one. You can blame your bed for that, not my morals." Diya laughed loudly. "No, not my morals. Who would believe I have them? No, I don't- I don't fear for my life. Not really. As long as you're here. If you weren't, then, maybe..." He drew a finger along Ishmael's cheek, eyes narrowing as he became lost in his own thoughts. "I'm not welcome. Except by you."
A cunt? His grey-blue eyes widened in disbelief. Katrin must like this one. Flowers was beautiful in a cold, artificial way. If she weren't an Initiate, Ishmael might have suspected her as an Other. "Usually my sister isn't fond of people who tell her the truth..."
He was used to wading through Diya's speech when he got like this. The hand randomly mussing his hair made Ishmael look a bit like a miserable cat, but the other man's slurring didn't bother him. He'd make sure to not sleep anywhere near him tonight. It wouldn't do to wake up with a sympathy hangover.
"Celibate," the king laughed lightly, "It's forgoing sex for a week, Diya, not a moral trial." He couldn't argue with the last part, though, not really. Lusine had even soured on him. "My opinion is the only one that matters." It was a joke, but how he wished he believed it.
"That's what I thought," Diya said loudly, finger tapping once against Ishmael's cheekbone before he dropped his hand entirely and struggled to roll towards the nightstand, where his bottle sat nearly empty. "Thought she'd, you know, take her head off or... it's a pretty head, though." When the bottle proved too far away he slumped back against the bed with a deep sigh.
"Moral trial. Is it not? It is for me. Can't say I didn't abuse your bath, though." He raked a hand through his hair, black eyes drooping. "Yes. 'Spose it is. I like yours." He smiled sleepily. "Are you going to fuck me or not?" His smile tilted crookedly. "Oh, crude again, sorry. Make love to me, your Grace." Another pause, and he curled a hand in Ishmael's hair again. "She really liked it? The comb?"
Was he going to finish that? For a moment, Ishmael wanted to laugh. Diya was the most committed drunk he had ever met. He seemed determined to drink himself to death and yet he had such a high opinion of himself. Well. Everyone had their own way of self-destructing. Leaning over Diya, Ishmael grabbed the bottle and took a gulp.
At that, he did laugh. "I can't say that my bath minds." Tossing the bottle back, the king drained it then winced. Didn't they have anything better than this? "There. Now your rambling won't be so painful to listen to," he teased, setting the bottle down on the nightstand before kissing Diya. "She liked it very much. Almost as soon as I gave it to her she was fussing with where to fix it.
And for Cita's sake," Ishmael muttered lowly, "Don't ever say that phrase again."
"Should I be Biblical?" Diya's smirk widened, and he leaned up to kiss Ishmael again before purring, "Lie with me." Seconds later he was giggling, then laughing as he fell back, grin wide and unabashed. Truth be told, he wasn't really sure if he was up for fucking. He was... well, he was a bit drunk. His face felt flushed, his stomach warm.
"Good." Fussing with it? She had liked it, then. He wondered wistfully what she'd have said to him if he'd gone with Ishmael. 'Found a wife yet?' Yes, that, probably. "I'm going to keep rambling until you give me something to stop my mouth with," he warned, smiling lazily. After a moment's consideration, he pushed at Ishmael's chest with one hand and went for his belt with the other, fingertips wandering. "And look at this," Diya breathed, "I think I've found just the thing."
Fade to blowjoback.
When: Last night and tonight.
Where: The Hold.
Rating & Warnings: PG-13?
"M'lord-"
Diya tilted the book down against his chest, one eyebrow arching at the servant peeking through the broad double doors. When he continued to stare and the girl only gawked back, he lifted a hand from the sheets to gesture impatiently at her. She flushed darkly.
"The King's party has been sighted, m'lord," she squeaked.
He shut the book with a snap, black eyes narrowing as he grinned. "Already? Good. Draw up a bath." The servant girl curtsied and left quickly - hopefully, Diya thought, to fetch the water. The young lord shut the book he held and set it aside, one hand ruffling through his hair before he climbed out of the bed. It was a massive thing, and far more comfortable than it ought to be. He'd be sad to give it back now that Ishmael had returned, though he was glad he had. It was strange staying in the Hold without the King's presence. He'd felt like an intruder since the moment he'd come to Tyrol, but with Ishmael gone he'd felt it even more acutely. The guards knew he didn't have the other man around to defend him. The looks they gave him said as much. And, more troubling: the Duchess remained.
Diya dressed lightly and loosely, wondering even as he fastened his belt whether it was even worth the trouble. Then again, Ishmael might want nothing more than to bury himself in that bed and sleep as soon as he walked in the door. He could hardly blame him, if that was the case. The ride from Tartessos was long and tiring. Two servants returned as he dressed to fill the bath in the other room with water that hissed and steamed when it hit the metal tub. Ishmael might want to sleep, or he might want to bathe. Diya smiled wryly to himself as he slumped back into bed, lounging against the cushions and picking up his book as he waited. Such a courteous whore, he could hear in that cunt's voice.
Cita, had it been a tiring ride. As he dismounted his horse, servants milling about to collect his luggage, Ishmael lingered in the stables a moment, unused to the feeling of standing on his own legs. He said quick 'goodnight's and 'get to bed's to his daughters and nodded curtly to Arman, then strode into the Hold, making for his chambers. People bowed and curtsied here and there and the king did his best to address each of them. All he really wanted was to get out of these filthy clothes and into his bed. Well, a bath might be prudent first.
"Thought I'd find you there," he said as he opened the door. His hair was all out of place, his clothes stained with mud. At least Diya was reading as he laid about; that had to count for something. Ishmael smiled wryly, then went to deposit the bags he carried on him onto his desk.
"Told you I would be, didn't I?" He flicked a page, then set the book face-down onto the sheets. Ishmael looked tired, travel-worn. It was odd to see him so dirty. Usually the man was clean to the point of neurosis. Now his pale skin was flecked with mud, his hair greasy from sweat and sun. "Look at you," he laughed, head tilting as he swung his legs out of bed. "Dirty like a proper Tartessian." He stood and rounded the bed to lean against one of the bedposts, watching the other man sort through his bags.
"How was it?"
"You did," Ishmael replied, distracted as he began to unpack. It was bad enough being so filthy. He couldn't stand being disorganized as well. Putting his books in their proper places on the shelf, the king glanced over his shoulder at Diya, finally hearing what he'd said. A month ago, he would have spat something cruel at the lordling. Now he just smiled a little. "Cita help me if that's true."
How was it. He had no interest in giving Diya details beyond what he'd said on the ledgers. That was family business. "The mermaids were quite beautiful in a terrifying sort of way. And we suffered no mishaps on the road."
Diya gave a soft hum in reply, thoroughly uninterested by the answers he got. Tired Ishmael was boring Ishmael, it seemed. More than usual. "I had the girls draw a bath for you. Thought you'd want one."
He combed his hands through his hair, pulling it back until he managed to tie it with a bit of string. The heat made him wish he kept it shorter. It was obnoxious, clinging to his cheeks and neck whenever the room grew too stuffy. "Or is this occasion two-hundred twenty-five of Ishmael rearranging his bookshelf? By publishing date this time, or author's birthday?"
"That was thoughtful of you," he said, his attention still far away as he mechanically put his books away, "Thank you." L... Lo... The king searched the shelves for the spot he needed.
"What?" He'd hardly rearranged them two-hundred and twenty-four times in the past and he wasn't rearranging them now. Faintly annoyed, Ishmael's tone soured when he put the next book away. "I am tired, Diya, and my books require my attention more than you do right now."
"I was asking a question, not asking for your attention," Diya drawled, more annoyed than he let on. "People do it sometimes when they're trying to make conversation." He'd gone too far already, he suspected, so he pushed up from where he leaned against the bedpost and rounded the bed. His book lay against the sheets, face-down, and he plucked it up and shut it with a snap.
"Should I come back later?" He was irritated. He'd been happy to see Ishmael back and the man was more interested in alphabetizing his bookshelf than speaking to him. Expected behavior, maybe, but not welcome.
He put the next book in place with a clap, then took a deep breath before facing Diya. He'd been 7 days on the road or in inns, trying to smooth things over with his children. His eldest had made it abundantly clear that from now on nothing would go smoothly with him. If Arman and Katrin didn't start plotting together to collect his head and the crown that rested upon it, Ishmael would be very surprised. He was tired. He didn't want to be teased when, for the first time in days, he was allowing himself to relax.
"If you think it best. If not, stay in the bed and read your book. Silently."
Ishmael couldn't control his own children, so now he deigned to treat him like one? "No, thanks," he replied with a sour smile. Tired or not, what had he done? Be there to welcome him back as he said he would, had a bath readied for him. He would've sucked him off then and there if the man asked him to, but instead he was told to be silent. He tucked the book under his arm and gave a little bow, black eyes cold.
Diya turned and left without waiting for a dismissal. Ishmael could be angry at him for it all he liked. Treating him as if this was all his fault was stupidity. He'd told the children, yes, but mere days before Ishmael had been about to tell them himself. He doubted it made very much difference to them. It was the situation they were angry about, not the messenger, and he'd leave Tyrol before he took any blame for that. They were equal there, and blameless besides. "Fucking Bharquites," he muttered to himself, taking the stairs to his tower in twos.
~~~~~~~~time warp~~~~~~~~
Ishmael kept his own company for a day. He'd needed it, and for more reasons than his children and Diya and the situation that had arisen between his children and Diya. A day of rest had done him good. No meetings, no books, no letter-writing. Being so alone had let him clear some of the clutter from his head. That night, he bathed again and dressed himself in simple clothes, then started toward the tower that Diya stayed in.
A guard moved forward to knock for him, but Ishmael politely dismissed him. He doubted Diya was waiting on the other side to run him through with his own sword. The king knocked and waited, his hands clasped behind his back. Perhaps the lordling wasn't even in.
The knock on the door made him choke, shoulders jerking as Diya hastily took the bottle from his lips and let out a series of wet coughs. He half-turned to glare at the door. Who the hell...? The guards rarely knocked. They disliked him enough to simply barge in and inform him when he was wanted somewhere. More often than not, they smirked. He wiped his mouth with his wrist and pushed his chair back from his writing desk, steps slightly unsteady as he made his way to the door.
"What do you--" The door opened to reveal Ishmael, and the irritation fell away from his expression, replaced by surprise. "...want," he finished in a mumble. Oh. So he wasn't cross with him now? He looked the other man over, wary, then gave a twitch of his mouth and stepped aside. "Didn't expect to see you here." Usually, he went to Ishmael's chambers, not the other way around. Why hadn't he just sent for him?
Ishmael entered the room, his hands still locked together, but didn't say anything until the door was shut behind him. "I owe you an apology," he said frankly, "It seemed rude to demand you go to the trouble of leaving your rooms to hear it." The king looked around Diya's chambers. Much smaller than his own, but it pleased him that they appeared almost as comfortable.
Turning to the side, then nervously pivoting again to face Medellos, Ishmael said, "I'm sorry. I took out the effects of the trip on you." He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but no. That was all he could think to say. Ishmael pursed his lips together and waited for a response.
He tried to keep the shock out of his expression. Ishmael, apologizing? Unheard of. He hadn't heard one since that night at the creek, and even that had been a forced, grudging thing. Diya's mouth parted, then closed again. Did he truly feel badly about it? He'd been cross, yes, but he'd expected that they'd both pretend it hadn't happened and continue about their business. "Thanks."
Stepping around his chair, he took the bottle from his desk and held it out. "Thirsty? M'sister sent it. Would've been better if she'd sent it with you, but I can't imagine she knew..." He shrugged loosely, thoughts already wandering. "Don't worry about it. The thing. The other night. I expect you were tired." He pushed the bottle into Ishmael's hands and flopped back onto his bed, grinning when he bounced. Not as good as the King's bed, but good enough. "What else did you come up here for, hm?" he asked slyly, resting loosely on his elbows.
Oh, good, Diya was drunk. Well, rather more drunk than usual. Ishmael expected that would tilt the scales one way or the other as to how his apology would be received. Easy enough. When Medellos thanked him, then shoved the wine into his hands, his eyebrows raised. He stared at Diya incredulously for a moment, then took a short pull from the bottle. It was a bit sour, but not in a bad way. After swallowing, Ishmael nodded. "I was very tired."
He smiled. "Why do you even try to flirt when you're this drunk?" He said it fondly, but... well, why did he? Why did he drink so much on his own in the first place? For a moment, Ishmael was concerned. He stood at the foot of the bed, struggling to keep his smile in place.
"Because if I told you straight out to suck my cock you'd call me crude," he replied, still smirking. The glint of the bottle caught his eyes, and he held his hand out, beckoning. "Here, give it back."
He wasn't really that drunk, besides. Or he didn't feel like he was. He'd been writing a letter to his sister and had begun to drink whenever he couldn't think of what to say. Wine was helpful that way, though he'd quickly lost track of exactly how much he'd been drinking versus how much he should've been writing. "I was..." Diya motioned impatiently to the desk. "Writing. To my sister."
"I'm used to your crudeness." Ishmael sat on the edge of the bed and passed the bottle to Diya. He didn't need to drink more, not now, but the king was still the guilty party. He couldn't begrudge him his own wine in his own bedroom.
He took Diya's right hand in both of his, raising it almost to his chest. With his thumbs, he started to massage the lordling's palm. He looked over to the desk and squinted. Were his eyes going or was that a letter consisting of little more than, 'Dear Sister'? How fitting. He'd gotten drunk to write an address.
"Yes. Well." He let his hand go and leaned in to kiss Diya, drunk though he may be. Ishmael pulled away to hover over him, keeping them almost nose to nose. "I came to say that I'm happy I've returned."
His expression clouded in puzzlement when Ishmael took his hand. What was he doing? Some gesture of affection? When he rubbed at his palm, gently, massaging, Diya let out a faintly surprised grunt. That felt good.
"I--" The kiss cut him off, and he sucked at Ishmael's lower lip as the man drew away. He tasted like wine. Or was it his own mouth that did? Either way. His black eyes flicked up to meet Ishmael's, clouded and bloodshot with wine, and he smiled. "Mm. So am I." He leaned his head up to kiss him again, then slumped back and took a tug from the bottle. It gave a soft pop when he took his mouth away and swallowed, licking away the dark drop at the corner of his lips. "Don't have to fear for my life anymore. Or my wine. Did you know they tried to tell me- tried to tell me no? Went down to the kitchens for some a few nights ago. Told me I was drunk and to go back to bed. No one here--..." He lost his train of thought and settled for kissing Ishmael again, slowly.
It was easy to sink into the bed, even if it wasn't quite so soft as his own. Ishmael returned all of Diya's kisses, a hand cupping his neck. Scooting forward, he awkwardly kicked off his boots and flung them aside so that he could lie beside the other man. Rubbing Diya's jawbone with his thumb as he spoke, Ishmael did his best to look as if he was actually trying to understand his babbling. After a sentence or two, he laughed and said, "What?" and was answered with more nonsense, then another kiss.
A sour, alcohol-laced kiss, but he was used to that. And Diya did know what he was doing. A moment later, looking dazed, Ishmael pulled back. "Fear for your life? Surely you can fend off Initiate Flowers." What had Diya meant? Had Katrin threatened him?
"Think it was the other way around. Fending. She was a right cunt." He curled a hand in Ishmael's hair, pushing it this way and that as his eyes grew distant. "Oh, and speaking and- of, speaking--" Diya scowled and sighed. What was he saying? "Fuck. Oh, yes-- Flowers said she called your sister one. A cunt. Thought you'd like that."
It was only that the girl's writing had continued that convinced him she hadn't been beheaded. And why not? She had a very pretty head, he supposed. Stunning, actually, but the knowledge of where that pretty head had been left him disinterested. Diya smiled at the thumb brushing his jaw, glancing down to it, then back up to the King. "Did you know I stayed celibate the whole time you were away? Not one whore, not one. You can blame your bed for that, not my morals." Diya laughed loudly. "No, not my morals. Who would believe I have them? No, I don't- I don't fear for my life. Not really. As long as you're here. If you weren't, then, maybe..." He drew a finger along Ishmael's cheek, eyes narrowing as he became lost in his own thoughts. "I'm not welcome. Except by you."
A cunt? His grey-blue eyes widened in disbelief. Katrin must like this one. Flowers was beautiful in a cold, artificial way. If she weren't an Initiate, Ishmael might have suspected her as an Other. "Usually my sister isn't fond of people who tell her the truth..."
He was used to wading through Diya's speech when he got like this. The hand randomly mussing his hair made Ishmael look a bit like a miserable cat, but the other man's slurring didn't bother him. He'd make sure to not sleep anywhere near him tonight. It wouldn't do to wake up with a sympathy hangover.
"Celibate," the king laughed lightly, "It's forgoing sex for a week, Diya, not a moral trial." He couldn't argue with the last part, though, not really. Lusine had even soured on him. "My opinion is the only one that matters." It was a joke, but how he wished he believed it.
"That's what I thought," Diya said loudly, finger tapping once against Ishmael's cheekbone before he dropped his hand entirely and struggled to roll towards the nightstand, where his bottle sat nearly empty. "Thought she'd, you know, take her head off or... it's a pretty head, though." When the bottle proved too far away he slumped back against the bed with a deep sigh.
"Moral trial. Is it not? It is for me. Can't say I didn't abuse your bath, though." He raked a hand through his hair, black eyes drooping. "Yes. 'Spose it is. I like yours." He smiled sleepily. "Are you going to fuck me or not?" His smile tilted crookedly. "Oh, crude again, sorry. Make love to me, your Grace." Another pause, and he curled a hand in Ishmael's hair again. "She really liked it? The comb?"
Was he going to finish that? For a moment, Ishmael wanted to laugh. Diya was the most committed drunk he had ever met. He seemed determined to drink himself to death and yet he had such a high opinion of himself. Well. Everyone had their own way of self-destructing. Leaning over Diya, Ishmael grabbed the bottle and took a gulp.
At that, he did laugh. "I can't say that my bath minds." Tossing the bottle back, the king drained it then winced. Didn't they have anything better than this? "There. Now your rambling won't be so painful to listen to," he teased, setting the bottle down on the nightstand before kissing Diya. "She liked it very much. Almost as soon as I gave it to her she was fussing with where to fix it.
And for Cita's sake," Ishmael muttered lowly, "Don't ever say that phrase again."
"Should I be Biblical?" Diya's smirk widened, and he leaned up to kiss Ishmael again before purring, "Lie with me." Seconds later he was giggling, then laughing as he fell back, grin wide and unabashed. Truth be told, he wasn't really sure if he was up for fucking. He was... well, he was a bit drunk. His face felt flushed, his stomach warm.
"Good." Fussing with it? She had liked it, then. He wondered wistfully what she'd have said to him if he'd gone with Ishmael. 'Found a wife yet?' Yes, that, probably. "I'm going to keep rambling until you give me something to stop my mouth with," he warned, smiling lazily. After a moment's consideration, he pushed at Ishmael's chest with one hand and went for his belt with the other, fingertips wandering. "And look at this," Diya breathed, "I think I've found just the thing."
Fade to blowjoback.