Fic: Before War
After all the talk on rare pairings I figure that I might as well go ahead and post this properly. It was originally meant to be the first half of a before and after fic, but I've been too busy to write and it stands well enough on its own. I'll get around to posting it to fanfiction.net and/or adultfanfiction.net eventually, but it still needs a shave and a haircut before I do that. This is my first KKM fic so my grasp of the characters is still a bit rough. Thanks to
poisonangel7 for commenting so nicely on my journal.
Here y'go:
Title: Before War
Pairing: Gunter/Conrart
Warning: Contains MANSECKS
Words: 1501
Conrart knocks on the door; Günter answers in his shirtsleeves, the charcoal silk bringing out a hardness in his eyes that is usually only visible when he holds a sword. He regards Conrart for a second- blue uniform coat unbuttoned, epaulettes askew- and gracefully steps to one side.
Günter’s room is surprisingly small and cluttered, books and paper and maps stacked on every available surface including the floor but excluding the bed, strange in comparison to the fanatical public neatness of the man and Conrart has to shift half a dozen massive tomes from the single armchair (Macoby’s Roses, Magical Beasts and How to Avoid Them) just so he can sit down. The leather creaks and Conrart sighs, watching as Günter stands next to the fireplace and uses weighted wooden stick to simulate the weight and heft of a sword.
Old fencing master.
Günter’s tutoring skills are about to be put to the test, because Conrart is going to war tomorrow.
On tiptoe Günter stands, arches his back, and holds the stick out front for balance in the pose know as ‘The Little Cat’. He allows himself to fall backwards onto his other hand and in one smooth movement pushes his feet up off the ground. No longer ‘The Little Cat’, Günter supports his entire weight on the palm of a single hand and he stretches his bare toes towards the ceiling and is now ‘The Splintered Tree’. Conrart blinks, narrows his eyes. It’s a trick that he’s never been able to master and frankly, though it looks impressive he doubts that it would be much use on a battlefield. Günter is poetry with a sword, hell with an axe and moves like a brolga dancing but Conrart can’t help but think that many of his teacher’s skills are purely academic in application; the best way to find out would be to see if Günter could ever win a fight to the death. Scratching his chin, he wonders if Günter has ever actually killed anyone.
The fire pops loudly; a spark jumps out and lands on Günter’s neck. He starts violently and promptly falls down. Conrart is up and by his old teacher’s side before he even thinks.
“I’m fine,” says Günter wearily, and gently but firmly pushes Conrart away and Conrart looks down at that warm hand pressing against his chest and sees a strange band of bruises about the wrist, formed like a bracelet.
Conrart averts his eyes and goes back to the armchair. Günter picks himself up and sets the weighted stick down in a rack beside the door. Since Conrart is in the only chair, Günter sits back down by the fire and feeds it a log or two and finally Conrart blurts, “I don’t want to die,” and is immediately shocked at himself for saying it out loud.
“I know,” replies Günter. A glowing ember tumbles out of the grate and he grabs it and throws it back into the fire. Childlike, he licks his fingers to cool them. “I’m supposed to mutter the traditional platitudes. ‘Be brave, you’re a citizen and solider of the Demon Kingdom. Have pride in serving the will of the Great One and the will of the Queen.’” His mouth twists. “I have tried,” he says quietly, “to talk Stoffel out of this. I have. I’ve done everything I could. Everything.”
“I know,” says Conrart, “I know.” Günter produces a comb and begins tugging it through his long hair. “What is…what’s the latest news from the front?”
There’s the briefest hesitation between strokes and Günter closes his eyes and he says, “I hope your house is in order before you leave tomorrow,” and Conrart emits a single, embittered bark of laughter.
“This isn’t fair.”
“No one is forcing any of you to go, Lord Weller,” and Conrart shakes his head again.
“It’s fight to stay or not fight and be made to leave. Demon Kingdom is my home. I have nowhere else to go. My life and my family are here. Everyone who has volunteered for this suicide mission is suffering from the same distinct lack of options.”
“There is one other option you haven’t considered.”
“Oh?”
Günter sets down the comb and begins to braid his hair. “I can smuggle you, your fighters and their families away, hide you in the Christ province until the war is over. All you have to do is to march to a certain location. My soldiers will escort you.”
“You’re already arranged for this to happen?”
“The arrangements are in place should you wish to use them,” Günter corrects gently.
“Thank you, Lord von Christ,” Conrart says and he means it, he truly does. “But we’re fighting for our place here. We’re fighting for our homes. Running away will only destroy that.”
“Somehow I knew you would say that,” and Günter yawns. “Conrart, forgive me. I am tired.”
“May I stay here tonight?”
Pause. Then, “If it pleases you.”
Conrart takes off his boots as Günter stands and starts dousing the candles in the wall sconces, one by one. Günter has long and bony feet, while Conrart’s are relatively short and quite broad. There is hair on his calves and chest as well as under his arms and around his genitals. Every time he undresses it’s a reminder of his human father. A full-blooded Demon has hair between their legs and no more besides that on brow and scalp. He drapes his jacket over the back of the chair and his trousers and shirt as well. He thinks of borrowing something to sleep in but decides against it, and gets into bed quite naked.
Sliding between the sheets, Conrart is delighted to find them warm and pleasant. Some thoughtful maid has slipped a stone hot water bottle down where his feet are. He’s the son of the Queen but he’s not immune from prejudice. The servants ignore him and von Geigenhuber spits foully whenever he walks past and Conrart’s own little brother Wolfram seethes hate from his every pores.
He rolls onto his side to watch Günter undressing.
Günter is beautiful. There is no argument against that and his lovely cream skin shows the patterns of bruises up and down his back marvellous well. They are quickly hidden from view by a sleeping shirt but the bruises around his wrists still show and when Günter turns around he knows that Conrart has seen them all.
“I have tried,” says Günter with a peculiar brittleness in his violet eyes, “to talk Stoffel out of this madness by any means.”
Stoffel is a man who delights in power over others.
Günter extinguishes the last of the candles, and the room is lit only by the red glow of the fire. Conrart shuffles over to give room on the mattress and Günter slides into bed and they stare at each other.
Günter is the first to move.
It’s a bruising kiss, a bitter, rough bruising kiss, a kiss with more tongue than tenderness and Conrart returns the kiss with interest. He knows that Günter has views, certain beliefs on love and sex before marriage and he supposes that would have made things doubly worse for him, lying down with Stoffel as he had.
“I received word today,” says the older man, “that three more of my students have died on the front. They were in the wrong place. Literally, the wrong place. They were deployed to a beach because of a cartographer’s error and there wasn’t even anything there worth fighting for; no towns, no forts, no grain silos, nothing but sand dunes and a pig farm. They landed on the beach with the rest of their unit and when they sent for transport out Stoffel told Raven and I,” and Günter swallows, tries to hold the tears, “Stoffel told Raven and I, ‘they’re there, they might as well stay.’ And they died. They all of them died.”
Conrart reaches out, presses Günter into the mattress and scrambles on top of him. The teacher is warm, smells clean and delicious and Conrart is hungry.
Günter may have views on sex and marriage but they are irrelevant beside the urgent need to get the taste of Stoffel out of his mouth. He bites Conrart’s shoulders so hard the younger man can’t tell if it is sweat running down his chest or blood and for his part, he twists Günter’s arm above his head and does pretty much what he wants to do. It’s an ugly coupling, an ugly, vicious coupling but it goes some way to filling the deep-seated emptiness inside the both of them. At the end Conrart says not Günter’s name but Julia’s, and he is immediately ashamed.
“I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.”
“I mean it. I really am sorry.”
In reply, Günter presses a gentle kiss to Conrart’s temple. The old teacher cradles his former pupil in his arms and together they lie, waiting for the morning and the war.