KKM drabbles.
And yes, I am spamming your f-list. Apologies.
Written for techiegoat. Conrart/Yuuri, though mostly Conrart-centric.
Good Men
Conrart believes he's a good man. He never kills without need, he kisses his mother on the cheek, he cares for his brothers, and he serves his king without question. He's not a perfect man, he knows that, but he's as good as he can be. He has lapses of judgment, yes, and sometimes he hates things a little too much, and now and again he dreams of Julia, but he is, in most senses of the word, a good man.
The idea of his own pleasure is a foreign one to him. He was born to serve the demon empire, as his brothers were. Gwendal was born to the court, to sign papers and calculate taxes, and to keep the world's chaos on the side of order. Wolfram was born to the world, to seduce power with his charms and his wiles, and to then cut down everything stands in his way with sword and fire.
Conrart was born to serve as a soldier, through and through. To fight until he died, and to die fighting, and so that's what he'll do, when the time comes. He won't stop, and he won't question, and he certainly won't say 'want.'
Except sometimes, when Conrart's feeling particularly sharp, like he had years ago, before Julia died and Yuuri was born, Conrart does want. He dreams, and he wishes, and he wants, and he feels his body like earth and his blood like fire.
And so when Yuuri comes to him, black upon black upon black, bright-eyed and open-mouthed, Conrart wants, because Yuuri is Julia and Yuuri and so much more, formed into this perfect body that's a half-foot away. And when Yuuri kisses him, half a smile and half a touch, Conrart kisses back, and he doesn't think of Wolfram, or the country, or that Yuuri is his king, is his lord and his god and so much more. Conrart doesn't think, because Conrart wants, and for once, Conrart wants to be able to have what he wants.
Conrart thinks he's a good man, and maybe he is, but he's certainly not perfect. He never thought he was.
And the rest were written for x_saturnine, are you sensing a trend?
Celi will make things up to her boys, if it takes her entire life. Celi, baby!Wolfram, vaguely-disapproving!Gwendal, and the meaning of boyhood.
Skinned Knees
"His hands are dirty," Gwendal said, and he was already pulling a kerchief from his coat, bending down to catch Wolfram's little hands. Celi laughed into her hand, leant against Gwendal's shoulder.
"He's a child," she said, and she tucked a strand of Gwendal's hair behind his ear. He had his father's hair, as Conrart had his father's. Wolfram was the only one who looked like her, and she wanted to catch Wolfram up, dance him about the castle. "His hands should be dirty, and his knees should be skinned. Isn't that what little boys do?"
"Not in court," Gwendal said, ever disapproving, and Celi finger-combed his hair for another moment.
"No," she said, and she could not help her voice, for all that she didn't want Gwendal to fret. "I suppose not. You never were much of a boy, nor was Conrart."
"Mother," Wolfram said, and his hands were grabbing at her skirts. She scooped him up, and he pressed his face against her neck, breath hot.
"That," Celi said, and her voice was brighter, but brittle, "is why Wolfram will pick a father, so he can have his dirty hands and skinned knees."
Gwendal looked older every year, and his eyes looked older yet, and Celi hated herself for the way she'd taken her boys, and made them into men.
"He doesn't need a father," Gwendal said, and he was standing up, folding the handkerchief neatly. "Conrart and I can take care of him well enough."
"No," Celi said, and Wolfram was snuffling against her neck, little-boy hair tickling her cheek. "You'll be his brother, not his father. You're still a boy, you shouldn't raise your own brother."
"I'm not," Gwendal said, and he took Wolfram from her arms, and Wolfram's hands went about Gwendal's neck, and Wolfram's head lied against Gwendal's shoulder. "I'm not a boy, Mother."
Celi followed Gwendal to the courtroom where the suitors were waiting, standing before the throne in quiet twos and threes. Wolfram's eyes, nearly a green to match Gwendal's coat, were watching her, and Celi smiled at him, waved her fingers and caught his smile. She plucked Wolfram from Gwendal's shoulder when they neared the throne, and she set Wolfram upon her lap, wrapping her arms about him, leaning him back against her breast.
"Here, Wolfram, who will you have as a father?"
She could feel Gwendal standing behind the throne, and she knew that, in the end, she'd broken her family too much, made her sons grow too quickly, but somehow, she would make it right to them.
Er. Wolfram. Gwendal. Incest, adultery, war, m-preg, and regicide. Lawlz. Theirs is a happy kingdom. Did I mention incest?
Son of Kings
Wolfram came to Gwendal with kitten-like mewls, bitter-eyed and jaded, mouth open and needed. Wolfram crawled into Gwendal's bed, shirt undone and pants hanging upon too-thin hips, and Gwendal felt his world shatter apart.
"Yuuri," Wolfram said, "and Conrart," and Wolfram's fingers were pulling at Gwendal's shirtsleeves, snapping the laces of Gwendal's pants. "Please," Wolfram panted, and Gwendal had never been able to say no to Wolfram, in all his life.
"Wolfram," Gwendal began, because Wolfram was his brother, and Wolfram was prone to fits, to tantrums and acting without thinking, and doing things that made the world dissolve into voices and touches and the manners of things brothers didn't do. "Wolfram."
"Please," Wolfram begged, and he was crawling further into Gwendal's lap, "please, Brother, please."
In all his years, Gwendal had never been able to say no to Wolfram.
x
The castle was large, and it was cold. It was silent as well, and Wolfram slipped through Gwendal's door more and more, rolling unto his stomach, groaning into Gwendal's pillows and Gwendal's skin.
"Please," Wolfram would beg, and, "faster, god, faster, I want--"
And Gwendal would never say no, because Wolfram was Wolfram, and Wolfram was the precious son of a precious nation. Gwendal would wrap his hands around Wolfram's thin waist, fingers digging into Wolfram's skin, and the bruises would grow, night by night, and day by day, and the feel of it.
"Brother," Wolfram would near purr into Gwendal's ear, and Gwendal would fuck him against a wall, or behind the tapestry of a hallway, Wolfram bitter-eyed and Gwendal guilt-lipped.
"Wolfram," Gwendal would say, and he would catch his fingers in the waist of Wolfram's pants, for he couldn't bring himself to touch Wolfram's hair. "Wolfram, you--"
And, "do you love me?" Wolfram would ask, desperate and needy and crawling further into Gwendal's arms, bucking harder against Gwendal's hand. "Do you love me, Brother? Do you--"
And Gwendal did, for Wolfram was the darling of Gwendal's world, and Gwendal wondered how many others Wolfram was fucking.
x
They fell into war in the late springtime, for the human nations were always pressing ever closer, and the king was too busy with his whores to look beyond his borders. Gunter took to the south, and Wolfram took more to Gwendal's rooms, and Gwendal took to his office, for he would hold his mother's nation together, if none others would do so.
"I," Wolfram panted, and he was straddling Gwendal's lap, hair dripping sweat into his face, "go south in the morning." His mouth pressed against Gwendal's chest, and Gwendal curled his hands over Wolfram's thighs, pressing his fingers inwards and upwards, and Wolfram's keen was hot against Gwendal's skin.
Gwendal fucked Wolfram, because Wolfram was the princeling who lead the men, and Wolfram would be their sacrifice, clad in silver and gold upon the battlefield. Wolfram twisted, and groaned, and said he was dying, dying, Brother, wouldn't he save him, and Gwendal wept, because he had never been able to save his brothers, not his first, nor his second.
Spring turned to summer, then the beginnings of autumn, and Wolfram returned, riding at the head of a tired company. Gunter sent messenger-birds, tilted scrawls of bloody words, and Gwendal stood at the door, watching the colors of blue and red ride into the courtyard.
"I," Wolfram said, and he was sitting on the edge of Gwendal's desk, tired-eyed and dusty. "That is, there is--"
Gwendal was no fool. He'd heard of the rumors, of Wolfram growing sicker and sicker, of Wolfram vomiting and eating less and vomiting all the more. Gwendal was no fool, and he turned away from Wolfram, looking through the window.
"Have you," Gwendal asked, "slept with His Majesty?"
"He," Wolfram said, and Gwendal wondered how he hadn't noticed, that Wolfram's vest was no longer closed, that there was a curve where there had been a thin waist. "He doesn't even look at me. He finds my brother a greater companion than his husband."
"Then," Gwendal said, and he caught Wolfram's wrist, turned his hand about, "I shall take care of it. It's to be His Majesty's. You understand?" Wolfram's palm was sweaty, and tasted of dirt, and Gwendal kissed it, as he had kissed Wolfram's scrapes a hundred years ago.
"But Yuuri," Wolfram began, and Gwendal closed Wolfram's fingers about his palm.
"The country will fall," Gwendal said. "I won't lose my people to a fool king. The child will be His Majesty's, and an heir."
x
It was easy, to kill a demon king. Kings breathe like all others, and bleed like all others, and to slit a throat was a simple thing, when there is the pressing of reason and need.
"I," the king said, and he looked betrayed, confused eyes and bloody mouth.
"Your son," Gwendal said, and he cleaned the knife upon the king's clothes, red faintly shining upon black. "He will be a far better king."
Wolfram, Gwendal, Conrart. It is difficult to fix those broken. Pre-series, post-Julia, vague angst, not so vague incest, and a possessive Wolfram.
Fixing the Broken
Conrart often stands in the rain, head tilted back and eyes wide open. Gwendal and Wolfram watch from inside the castle, and at times Wolfram makes a muffled sound against the back of Gwendal's shirt, face pressed to Gwendal's body.
"I think," Wolfram says, one time, "that you should bring him in. He--"
Gwendal catches Wolfram's arms, holds them tight about him, and Wolfram's knuckles are white.
"Mother," Wolfram corrects himself, and Gwendal doesn't call Wolfram on the lie, "won't be happy, if he catches cold."
Gwendal sets Wolfram in his chair, Wolfram's eyes a little cold and his hands neatly folded in his lap, and takes the stairs to the closet doors outside. Conrart is still standing in the rain, and his clothes are soaked through, rain dripping from the wool and linen.
"The rain," Gwendal says, "won't bring her back."
It takes a long moment for Conrart to look at him, and when he does, the bandage over Conrart's forehead is watery-red, blood slipping thready down Conrart's face.
"I know that," Conrart says, and his voice is rough, and it takes Gwendal a moment to realize that in all these weeks, Conrart hasn't spoken once.
"Wolfram," Gwendal says, "is watching you. He's--" And Gwendal doesn't say worried, for Wolfram isn't worried, as such. Wolfram is possessive, as Wolfram has always been possessive, and it's not so much love as a twisted childish want that keeps Wolfram from letting go of Conrart, and from clutching Conrart at the same time.
"Are you sure," Conrart asks, "that it's me he's watching?" Conrart's mouth moves closer, and Gwendal unbuttons his coat, pulling it off to drape it over Conrart's head.
"Get inside," Gwendal says, "before you grow sick. We can't afford to lose you right now."
Conrart's smile is a little twisted, and it feels as though it wraps around Gwendal, just the way Wolfram's arms do, thin and wiry, and strong enough to kill.
x
"Weller," Wolfram says, "isn't eating again." Wolfram is sitting on the edge of Gwendal's desk, feet kicking the air, and Gwendal can't concentrate for the knocking of Wolfram's heels against the wood desk.
"Then he'll starve," Gwendal says dismissively, rubbing his eyes. A pair of small hands grab his fingers, twist, and Gwendal lets out a small grunt as Wolfram pulls his hands away from his face.
"Make him eat, Brother." Wolfram's face is close, his mouth a hairsbreadth from Gwendal, and Gwendal can't look from Wolfram's eyes. It's a lost cause, so Gwendal kisses Wolfram's mouth, then sets Wolfram's hands against the flat of the desk.
"Don't mess my papers," Gwendal says, and he leaves for Conrart's rooms, where he'll sit and stare and wait until Conrart gives in, as always, and begins to eat again.
x
"He won't touch me," Wolfram complains, and he is sitting on Gwendal's bed, cross-legged, turning one of Gwendal's knit toys over and over in his hands. Gwendal pauses in his knitting, then continues, catching the thread upon his fingers, and twisting it upon the needles.
"He hasn't touched you for years," Gwendal says thoughtlessly. The yarn is soft, but it's rubbing his skin raw on the underside of his fingers. "You always slap his hands away."
"That," Wolfram says, "isn't what I meant," and Wolfram's hands are upon Gwendal's knee, and his face is next to Gwendal's ear.
"I meant," Wolfram says, and Gwendal closes his eyes, because he doesn't want to hear this, because he's known it all these years, while he's been turning a blind eye and a deaf ear. "I meant, that he's not fucking me anymore."
"And what do you want?" Gwendal asks, and the needles are slipping from his fingers, stitches lost to the fall.
"I want you," and Wolfram's voice sounds shaky in Gwendal's ear, "to fix it. Fix him."
"I can't," Gwendal begins to say, but Wolfram's all but crawling into Gwendal's lap, desperate eyes that look like their mother's when she cries, and Conrart's when it rains.
"Fix him," Wolfram says, and his arms are snaking about Gwendal's neck, and he's kneeling over Gwendal's lap, bending his head over Gwendal's. "Fix him."
Gwendal lets his hands land upon Wolfram's shirt, the fabric rubbing against his raw skin, and he lets his head rest against Wolfram's thin chest, where Wolfram's boy-heart thuds madly.
Fix me.
And, finally, more incest. And angst. Er. Conrart, Wolfram, and the burning at the end.
Ashes, Ashes
Wolfram's wrists were thin, and easy to loop the silk about, a twist and a pull and knots that trailed against Wolfram's skin.
Conrart pulled the knots all the tighter, and Wolfram made a small sound in the back of his throat, eyelids fluttering.
"Gwendal," Conrart began, and Wolfram's neck shifted, a swallow.
"Won't notice," Wolfram said, voice tight, and the candles in the room guttered, casting strange shadows upon the bed.
"Wouldn't," Conrart corrected, mouth against Wolfram's neck, and Wolfram gave a little cry, sharp and broken.
"He wouldn't," Conrart said, "have seen this," and he traced words upon Wolfram's skin, traced lies into Wolfram's body, "even if he would've seen the end."
"And you?" Wolfram asked, and his hands were clenching, white knuckles and strained wrists. Conrart kissed below Wolfram's ear, pressed his cheek against Wolfram's.
"I won't," Conrart said, "have you see the end."
"Wouldn't," Wolfram corrected, body hot beneath Conrart's, and the world burnt in flame.
Written for techiegoat. Conrart/Yuuri, though mostly Conrart-centric.
Good Men
Conrart believes he's a good man. He never kills without need, he kisses his mother on the cheek, he cares for his brothers, and he serves his king without question. He's not a perfect man, he knows that, but he's as good as he can be. He has lapses of judgment, yes, and sometimes he hates things a little too much, and now and again he dreams of Julia, but he is, in most senses of the word, a good man.
The idea of his own pleasure is a foreign one to him. He was born to serve the demon empire, as his brothers were. Gwendal was born to the court, to sign papers and calculate taxes, and to keep the world's chaos on the side of order. Wolfram was born to the world, to seduce power with his charms and his wiles, and to then cut down everything stands in his way with sword and fire.
Conrart was born to serve as a soldier, through and through. To fight until he died, and to die fighting, and so that's what he'll do, when the time comes. He won't stop, and he won't question, and he certainly won't say 'want.'
Except sometimes, when Conrart's feeling particularly sharp, like he had years ago, before Julia died and Yuuri was born, Conrart does want. He dreams, and he wishes, and he wants, and he feels his body like earth and his blood like fire.
And so when Yuuri comes to him, black upon black upon black, bright-eyed and open-mouthed, Conrart wants, because Yuuri is Julia and Yuuri and so much more, formed into this perfect body that's a half-foot away. And when Yuuri kisses him, half a smile and half a touch, Conrart kisses back, and he doesn't think of Wolfram, or the country, or that Yuuri is his king, is his lord and his god and so much more. Conrart doesn't think, because Conrart wants, and for once, Conrart wants to be able to have what he wants.
Conrart thinks he's a good man, and maybe he is, but he's certainly not perfect. He never thought he was.
And the rest were written for x_saturnine, are you sensing a trend?
Celi will make things up to her boys, if it takes her entire life. Celi, baby!Wolfram, vaguely-disapproving!Gwendal, and the meaning of boyhood.
Skinned Knees
"His hands are dirty," Gwendal said, and he was already pulling a kerchief from his coat, bending down to catch Wolfram's little hands. Celi laughed into her hand, leant against Gwendal's shoulder.
"He's a child," she said, and she tucked a strand of Gwendal's hair behind his ear. He had his father's hair, as Conrart had his father's. Wolfram was the only one who looked like her, and she wanted to catch Wolfram up, dance him about the castle. "His hands should be dirty, and his knees should be skinned. Isn't that what little boys do?"
"Not in court," Gwendal said, ever disapproving, and Celi finger-combed his hair for another moment.
"No," she said, and she could not help her voice, for all that she didn't want Gwendal to fret. "I suppose not. You never were much of a boy, nor was Conrart."
"Mother," Wolfram said, and his hands were grabbing at her skirts. She scooped him up, and he pressed his face against her neck, breath hot.
"That," Celi said, and her voice was brighter, but brittle, "is why Wolfram will pick a father, so he can have his dirty hands and skinned knees."
Gwendal looked older every year, and his eyes looked older yet, and Celi hated herself for the way she'd taken her boys, and made them into men.
"He doesn't need a father," Gwendal said, and he was standing up, folding the handkerchief neatly. "Conrart and I can take care of him well enough."
"No," Celi said, and Wolfram was snuffling against her neck, little-boy hair tickling her cheek. "You'll be his brother, not his father. You're still a boy, you shouldn't raise your own brother."
"I'm not," Gwendal said, and he took Wolfram from her arms, and Wolfram's hands went about Gwendal's neck, and Wolfram's head lied against Gwendal's shoulder. "I'm not a boy, Mother."
Celi followed Gwendal to the courtroom where the suitors were waiting, standing before the throne in quiet twos and threes. Wolfram's eyes, nearly a green to match Gwendal's coat, were watching her, and Celi smiled at him, waved her fingers and caught his smile. She plucked Wolfram from Gwendal's shoulder when they neared the throne, and she set Wolfram upon her lap, wrapping her arms about him, leaning him back against her breast.
"Here, Wolfram, who will you have as a father?"
She could feel Gwendal standing behind the throne, and she knew that, in the end, she'd broken her family too much, made her sons grow too quickly, but somehow, she would make it right to them.
Er. Wolfram. Gwendal. Incest, adultery, war, m-preg, and regicide. Lawlz. Theirs is a happy kingdom. Did I mention incest?
Son of Kings
Wolfram came to Gwendal with kitten-like mewls, bitter-eyed and jaded, mouth open and needed. Wolfram crawled into Gwendal's bed, shirt undone and pants hanging upon too-thin hips, and Gwendal felt his world shatter apart.
"Yuuri," Wolfram said, "and Conrart," and Wolfram's fingers were pulling at Gwendal's shirtsleeves, snapping the laces of Gwendal's pants. "Please," Wolfram panted, and Gwendal had never been able to say no to Wolfram, in all his life.
"Wolfram," Gwendal began, because Wolfram was his brother, and Wolfram was prone to fits, to tantrums and acting without thinking, and doing things that made the world dissolve into voices and touches and the manners of things brothers didn't do. "Wolfram."
"Please," Wolfram begged, and he was crawling further into Gwendal's lap, "please, Brother, please."
In all his years, Gwendal had never been able to say no to Wolfram.
x
The castle was large, and it was cold. It was silent as well, and Wolfram slipped through Gwendal's door more and more, rolling unto his stomach, groaning into Gwendal's pillows and Gwendal's skin.
"Please," Wolfram would beg, and, "faster, god, faster, I want--"
And Gwendal would never say no, because Wolfram was Wolfram, and Wolfram was the precious son of a precious nation. Gwendal would wrap his hands around Wolfram's thin waist, fingers digging into Wolfram's skin, and the bruises would grow, night by night, and day by day, and the feel of it.
"Brother," Wolfram would near purr into Gwendal's ear, and Gwendal would fuck him against a wall, or behind the tapestry of a hallway, Wolfram bitter-eyed and Gwendal guilt-lipped.
"Wolfram," Gwendal would say, and he would catch his fingers in the waist of Wolfram's pants, for he couldn't bring himself to touch Wolfram's hair. "Wolfram, you--"
And, "do you love me?" Wolfram would ask, desperate and needy and crawling further into Gwendal's arms, bucking harder against Gwendal's hand. "Do you love me, Brother? Do you--"
And Gwendal did, for Wolfram was the darling of Gwendal's world, and Gwendal wondered how many others Wolfram was fucking.
x
They fell into war in the late springtime, for the human nations were always pressing ever closer, and the king was too busy with his whores to look beyond his borders. Gunter took to the south, and Wolfram took more to Gwendal's rooms, and Gwendal took to his office, for he would hold his mother's nation together, if none others would do so.
"I," Wolfram panted, and he was straddling Gwendal's lap, hair dripping sweat into his face, "go south in the morning." His mouth pressed against Gwendal's chest, and Gwendal curled his hands over Wolfram's thighs, pressing his fingers inwards and upwards, and Wolfram's keen was hot against Gwendal's skin.
Gwendal fucked Wolfram, because Wolfram was the princeling who lead the men, and Wolfram would be their sacrifice, clad in silver and gold upon the battlefield. Wolfram twisted, and groaned, and said he was dying, dying, Brother, wouldn't he save him, and Gwendal wept, because he had never been able to save his brothers, not his first, nor his second.
Spring turned to summer, then the beginnings of autumn, and Wolfram returned, riding at the head of a tired company. Gunter sent messenger-birds, tilted scrawls of bloody words, and Gwendal stood at the door, watching the colors of blue and red ride into the courtyard.
"I," Wolfram said, and he was sitting on the edge of Gwendal's desk, tired-eyed and dusty. "That is, there is--"
Gwendal was no fool. He'd heard of the rumors, of Wolfram growing sicker and sicker, of Wolfram vomiting and eating less and vomiting all the more. Gwendal was no fool, and he turned away from Wolfram, looking through the window.
"Have you," Gwendal asked, "slept with His Majesty?"
"He," Wolfram said, and Gwendal wondered how he hadn't noticed, that Wolfram's vest was no longer closed, that there was a curve where there had been a thin waist. "He doesn't even look at me. He finds my brother a greater companion than his husband."
"Then," Gwendal said, and he caught Wolfram's wrist, turned his hand about, "I shall take care of it. It's to be His Majesty's. You understand?" Wolfram's palm was sweaty, and tasted of dirt, and Gwendal kissed it, as he had kissed Wolfram's scrapes a hundred years ago.
"But Yuuri," Wolfram began, and Gwendal closed Wolfram's fingers about his palm.
"The country will fall," Gwendal said. "I won't lose my people to a fool king. The child will be His Majesty's, and an heir."
x
It was easy, to kill a demon king. Kings breathe like all others, and bleed like all others, and to slit a throat was a simple thing, when there is the pressing of reason and need.
"I," the king said, and he looked betrayed, confused eyes and bloody mouth.
"Your son," Gwendal said, and he cleaned the knife upon the king's clothes, red faintly shining upon black. "He will be a far better king."
Wolfram, Gwendal, Conrart. It is difficult to fix those broken. Pre-series, post-Julia, vague angst, not so vague incest, and a possessive Wolfram.
Fixing the Broken
Conrart often stands in the rain, head tilted back and eyes wide open. Gwendal and Wolfram watch from inside the castle, and at times Wolfram makes a muffled sound against the back of Gwendal's shirt, face pressed to Gwendal's body.
"I think," Wolfram says, one time, "that you should bring him in. He--"
Gwendal catches Wolfram's arms, holds them tight about him, and Wolfram's knuckles are white.
"Mother," Wolfram corrects himself, and Gwendal doesn't call Wolfram on the lie, "won't be happy, if he catches cold."
Gwendal sets Wolfram in his chair, Wolfram's eyes a little cold and his hands neatly folded in his lap, and takes the stairs to the closet doors outside. Conrart is still standing in the rain, and his clothes are soaked through, rain dripping from the wool and linen.
"The rain," Gwendal says, "won't bring her back."
It takes a long moment for Conrart to look at him, and when he does, the bandage over Conrart's forehead is watery-red, blood slipping thready down Conrart's face.
"I know that," Conrart says, and his voice is rough, and it takes Gwendal a moment to realize that in all these weeks, Conrart hasn't spoken once.
"Wolfram," Gwendal says, "is watching you. He's--" And Gwendal doesn't say worried, for Wolfram isn't worried, as such. Wolfram is possessive, as Wolfram has always been possessive, and it's not so much love as a twisted childish want that keeps Wolfram from letting go of Conrart, and from clutching Conrart at the same time.
"Are you sure," Conrart asks, "that it's me he's watching?" Conrart's mouth moves closer, and Gwendal unbuttons his coat, pulling it off to drape it over Conrart's head.
"Get inside," Gwendal says, "before you grow sick. We can't afford to lose you right now."
Conrart's smile is a little twisted, and it feels as though it wraps around Gwendal, just the way Wolfram's arms do, thin and wiry, and strong enough to kill.
x
"Weller," Wolfram says, "isn't eating again." Wolfram is sitting on the edge of Gwendal's desk, feet kicking the air, and Gwendal can't concentrate for the knocking of Wolfram's heels against the wood desk.
"Then he'll starve," Gwendal says dismissively, rubbing his eyes. A pair of small hands grab his fingers, twist, and Gwendal lets out a small grunt as Wolfram pulls his hands away from his face.
"Make him eat, Brother." Wolfram's face is close, his mouth a hairsbreadth from Gwendal, and Gwendal can't look from Wolfram's eyes. It's a lost cause, so Gwendal kisses Wolfram's mouth, then sets Wolfram's hands against the flat of the desk.
"Don't mess my papers," Gwendal says, and he leaves for Conrart's rooms, where he'll sit and stare and wait until Conrart gives in, as always, and begins to eat again.
x
"He won't touch me," Wolfram complains, and he is sitting on Gwendal's bed, cross-legged, turning one of Gwendal's knit toys over and over in his hands. Gwendal pauses in his knitting, then continues, catching the thread upon his fingers, and twisting it upon the needles.
"He hasn't touched you for years," Gwendal says thoughtlessly. The yarn is soft, but it's rubbing his skin raw on the underside of his fingers. "You always slap his hands away."
"That," Wolfram says, "isn't what I meant," and Wolfram's hands are upon Gwendal's knee, and his face is next to Gwendal's ear.
"I meant," Wolfram says, and Gwendal closes his eyes, because he doesn't want to hear this, because he's known it all these years, while he's been turning a blind eye and a deaf ear. "I meant, that he's not fucking me anymore."
"And what do you want?" Gwendal asks, and the needles are slipping from his fingers, stitches lost to the fall.
"I want you," and Wolfram's voice sounds shaky in Gwendal's ear, "to fix it. Fix him."
"I can't," Gwendal begins to say, but Wolfram's all but crawling into Gwendal's lap, desperate eyes that look like their mother's when she cries, and Conrart's when it rains.
"Fix him," Wolfram says, and his arms are snaking about Gwendal's neck, and he's kneeling over Gwendal's lap, bending his head over Gwendal's. "Fix him."
Gwendal lets his hands land upon Wolfram's shirt, the fabric rubbing against his raw skin, and he lets his head rest against Wolfram's thin chest, where Wolfram's boy-heart thuds madly.
Fix me.
And, finally, more incest. And angst. Er. Conrart, Wolfram, and the burning at the end.
Ashes, Ashes
Wolfram's wrists were thin, and easy to loop the silk about, a twist and a pull and knots that trailed against Wolfram's skin.
Conrart pulled the knots all the tighter, and Wolfram made a small sound in the back of his throat, eyelids fluttering.
"Gwendal," Conrart began, and Wolfram's neck shifted, a swallow.
"Won't notice," Wolfram said, voice tight, and the candles in the room guttered, casting strange shadows upon the bed.
"Wouldn't," Conrart corrected, mouth against Wolfram's neck, and Wolfram gave a little cry, sharp and broken.
"He wouldn't," Conrart said, "have seen this," and he traced words upon Wolfram's skin, traced lies into Wolfram's body, "even if he would've seen the end."
"And you?" Wolfram asked, and his hands were clenching, white knuckles and strained wrists. Conrart kissed below Wolfram's ear, pressed his cheek against Wolfram's.
"I won't," Conrart said, "have you see the end."
"Wouldn't," Wolfram corrected, body hot beneath Conrart's, and the world burnt in flame.