Indistinguishable from Magic - Part Two

Dec 31, 2009 14:12



“How do you want to do this?” Brendon asks uncertainly once when they’re standing in the middle of his place. It’s small enough that they’re standing pretty close together, and Brendon’s prickling all over with awareness; up close, Spencer’s even prettier, smooth, perfect skin and the blue of his eyes impossibly clear.

Spencer peers around at the dingy little hut. There’s a dubious stench coming from - the entirety of the place, to be honest, but the source of it seems to be a boarded-up hole near the back, and Spencer resolves not to go near that place as far as possible. Still, this counts as a favour, and Spencer’s not one to be ungrateful; he asks, “What’s your name?” When he returns to the palace, he would suggest some form of employment for him.

Brendon doesn’t expect name-exchanging to be part of this transaction, for the lack of a better word, but then he doesn’t exactly know the proper etiquette for this anyway, so he shrugs. “I’m Brendon,” he offers.

When Spencer doesn’t reciprocate, just stands there staring at him, Brendon figures he must find it hard to initiate contact, so Brendon moves closer, slowly enough that Spencer can move away if he wanted to, but he doesn’t, just looks at him with those wide eyes, impossibly blue even in the dimness of the room, and Brendon feels heat coil in his stomach.

He presses slowly in, watching Spencer keenly but then Spencer’s mouth opens soundlessly on a tiny gasp, and Brendon drops his eyes to Spencer’s lip. Spencer feels Brendon’s gaze there like a caress, and he shivers a little, because what is Brendon thinking, standing so close, and his tongue comes out to lick his lips nervously, his pulse jumping erratically.

That’s apparently enough for Brendon, who makes a small sound in the back of his throat and then leans down to kiss Spencer, a warm-wet press of lips that has Spencer gasping, and Brendon takes swift advantage to slip his tongue into Spencer’s mouth, tracing against the seam of his lips scorching before delving in deep to sweep across Spencer’s mouth, tasting every bit of him; Spencer moans under the onslaught, eyelids fluttering, his arms coming up to rest against Brendon’s back. He’s never been kissed quite like this before, all fierce strength and dark want shot through with urgency.

Brendon pulls away slightly, breathless, and his eyes darken when he looks down on Spencer. Spencer swallows under his insistent gaze, before licking his lips again; they feel swollen and tender, and Spencer wonders for a moment at that before Brendon says, lowly, “Stop doing that,” like it pains him.

Spencer blinks; he didn’t even intend to - but his tongue slips out again, unconsciously, and Brendon groans faintly before fitting his mouth against Spencer’s again and kissing the breath out of him, long thorough licks of his tongue against the inside of Spencer’s cheeks until Spencer’s panting, doing his best to kiss Brendon back, fingers clenched in the coarse fabric of Brendon’s shirt.

When they come up for air again, Brendon’s saying, incoherently, “You have really blue eyes,” before touching his lips to the corner of Spencer’s mouth, trailing kisses up his left cheek, tonguing hotly behind his ear, and Spencer drops his head, lets Brendon have easier access.

“Yes, I do,” he says, attempting for sarcasm but it’s derailed when Brendon scrapes his teeth over that spot below Spencer’s ear that Spencer didn’t even know was sensitive, but is, god, and Spencer arches up; he tugs enough that Brendon’s shirt comes loose in his hands, and his hands slip under to touch Brendon’s bare skin, pulling a groan out of Brendon.

“Are there more obvious statements you want to make?” Spencer pants; when Brendon bites lightly at his jaw, he jerks, fingernails digging into the smooth skin in Brendon’s back, and Brendon shudders all over, pushing harder against Spencer.

“I meant they’re pretty,” Brendon murmurs, and Spencer feels himself flush even hotter, which is ridiculous because Brendon’s doing enough inappropriate things to him that a compliment is the least of his concerns, but Brendon says, faint awe in his voice, “You’re blushing,” and brings his mouth up from where he was licking at Spencer’s neck to kiss Spencer again, hard.

Heat flares all through Spencer, and his limbs feel sluggish and hot, like he’s burning up a little, and Spencer tries to fight the insane urge to press up against Brendon further even though he’s all but pinned against the wall by Brendon’s body, except he apparently moves, and then their hips are aligned up against each other in a wave of pressure, and Brendon moans right into Spencer’s mouth, a wet sound where his tongue pushes against Spencer’s, and Spencer’s breath catches right in his throat.

His arm comes up in a mindless slide up Brendon’s back, but midway his elbow catches something and flings it off the table in a small crash. Brendon doesn’t even register the noise, just continues devouring Spencer’s mouth, hands curling tight around Spencer’s waist, and Spencer takes the cue from Brendon and ignores it in favour of leaning into Brendon’s drugging kisses, rubbing a little against Brendon’s front for that delicious tension -

Except something stirs behind them, and then -

“Brendon?” Ryan says, annoyed. “Did you just make that noise -” A corner of the carpet unfolds before Ryan catches sight of the two of them pressed up against the wall and tries to curl back like that’ll undo his words. “Oh, shit.”

It takes a moment for Ryan’s voice to pierce through the dazed pleasure fogging Spencer’s brain, but when it does, Spencer tenses and pushes at Brendon. Brendon makes a displeased little noise and then does something with his tongue that sends heat rushing through his body that takes Spencer’s mind away for a while, before he remembers.

It’s difficult dragging his mouth away from Brendon’s but Spencer grits his teeth and does it anyway, deliberately not looking when Brendon touches a hand to his red, spit-slicked lips unsteadily.

He shoves Brendon firmly away in favour of saying disbelievingly, “Ryan?”

“Um,” Ryan says. “You have the wrong person?”

“You’re not a person, you’re a carpet, for god‘s sake!” Spencer yells, the sudden flood of relief at having found Ryan shifting rapidly into anger.

Both Brendon and Ryan flinch back at the sudden explosion, but Ryan recovers fast enough to say, albeit weakly, “You’re not supposed to swear, Spencer.”

“Damnation,” is Spencer’s retort. Brendon thinks that encapsulated their situation pretty well; he inches slowly away from them. “Okay, I’m just going to -” Brendon says, and leaves before either of them can answer.

*

“Just what do you have to say for yourself?” Spencer demands. “Why did you leave the palace without a word? And why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Ryan says slyly. “Or not, actually, I could ask you what you were doing kissing -”

“I was not -” Spencer splutters before stopping, because he was.

“Right, you weren’t, you were being kissed, pressed up against the wall,” Ryan corrects, and Spencer doesn’t need a recap of the events, okay. It’s still uncomfortably sharp in his mind, the way Brendon felt against him; his lips still feel over-sensitized, and the spot where Brendon bit earlier feels cool.

“It was a momentary lapse in judgment,” Spencer manages, and then blatantly changes the subject. “Thanks for leaving me all alone in the palace, by the way.”

Ryan has the grace to shift guiltily. “You shouldn’t have left,” he points out and continues, before Spencer can retort, “I’ve made progress, though - it’s really surprising what people say when they think no one’s around, save some household fixtures.”

“Well?” Spencer says impatiently when Ryan stops there.

“I know where the Cave of Wonders is,” Ryan says, and a large grin breaks out over Spencer’s face. “Fantastic,” he says. “Let’s go now, then; what are we waiting for?”

“We can go as soon as dawn breaks,” Ryan assures Spencer.

*

Brendon peers into the room cautiously after a moment, just to make sure it’s safe to enter. He’s never been very comfortable with overhearing fights.

“Tell me, Ryan, does this mean I can ride you home now?” he hears Spencer saying, a smirk in his voice, and suppresses the way his heart jumps at the memory of Spencer under him just minutes ago. He’s still tingling a little, skin prickling with awareness and he doesn’t look at Spencer when he enters the room, just in case.

He laughs, though, when he looks up and sees Ryan throwing himself over Spencer’s head in retaliation for Spencer’s remark. It’s a hilarious sight, watching Spencer try to dislodge the carpet and Ryan as determined to stay on, and abruptly Brendon starts laughing, feeling lighter than he has in a long while.

“Well then,” Spencer says in a dignified manner after he managed to extricate himself from Ryan’s devious grasp. “I guess I will most definitely be staying here for the night, since Ryan’s already here.” Spencer announces casually, not meeting Brendon’s eyes.

“Sure,” Brendon says, as lightly as he can. “You can take my bed; I’ll sleep on the floor tonight. There’re extra blankets,” he explains.

Ryan interrupts with unbridled glee in his voice, “That’s too much trouble, I’m sure. Both of you could share the bed; it’s pretty big,” and Brendon flushes, looking away from Spencer.

“Thank you.” Spencer says, ignoring Ryan pointedly. “Tomorrow we’ll be on our way to find this diamond in the rough thing, whatever it is, and we’ll be out of way.” Spencer still isn’t looking at Brendon.

Brendon tries to tamp down the disappointment that rises at Spencer’s words. “Of course,” he says dumbly. He doesn’t expect Spencer to just stay and - he doesn’t even know what comes after that.

“Oh,” Spencer says as though he just remembered something. He sounds intensely uncomfortable. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to reward you for your assistance when I return to the palace.”

“The palace?” Brendon repeats.

“Yes, the palace,” Spencer says, like it’s no big deal, and Brendon supposes it isn’t since Spencer apparently lives there.

“What are you, a lord or a relative of the king’s of something?” On the floor next to the bed, Ryan snorts. “Yeah, you could say that,” he mutters but Brendon’s not paying attention to him; Spencer is turning a little purple.

“What?” Spencer asks, narrowing his eyes like this is some kind of an elaborate joke. “I’m the prince,” he says slowly.

The colour drains out of Brendon’s face. “Oh,” he says, faintly; he takes a large step back. He kissed the prince. “You’re the prince?”

Spencer’s frowning. “What did you think I was, then?” Spencer demands, a little too indignantly; he resents that entirely unnecessary note of flabbergasted surprise in Brendon’s voice.

Brendon retorts defensively, “How was I supposed to know? What kind of a prince wanders around on the streets at night?”

“A prince who ran away from the palace?” Spencer fairly yells back, and Brendon thinks his landlady is going to have strong words with him in the morning for the ruckus he’s making at this hour in the night. There’s colour in Spencer’s cheeks, furious blooms, and Brendon finds himself remember how Spencer flushed the same way earlier when they were kissing, when he was kissing the prince, he thinks, horrified.

Could he be thrown in the stocks for that? Brendon doesn’t know. Spencer’s asking, “What the hell do you think I was doing?”

Brendon’s panicking enough over this entire incident that he doesn’t think before admitting, “Soliciting or something, I don’t know.”

“Soliciting ¬-” Spencer erupts, mouth dropping open.

Brendon stops abruptly, biting his lip hard because he didn’t mean to admit that. “I mean,” he continues hurriedly. “Not for money or anything, just - just a night’s shelter,” he finishes weakly, looking anywhere but Spencer.

Ryan starts laughing midway through this horribly absurd conversation.

A thought occurs to Spencer mid-splutter. “If you thought I was a - a hooker,” Spencer spits out, and Brendon tries to explain, “I didn’t think you were a hooker, I just -”

Spencer talks right over him. “And you brought me to your house, then - then earlier -” Spencer thinks back to how Brendon kissed him, urgent and hot and demanding, how Brendon pinned him against the wall and just took what he want from Spencer’s mouth, and Spencer let him - “Then you were - you were expecting - you scoundrel!”

Brendon flushes but doesn’t reply because essentially Spencer’s right. The earlier warmth from kissing Spencer is entirely gone now, and the edge in Spencer’s voice, furious and trembling, prods his conscience sharply.

Spencer glares at Brendon a moment longer before saying coldly, “Come on, Ryan. We’re leaving.” There’s anger burning through him, and underneath that a sick feeling of hurt, which is ridiculous, Spencer thinks, because he can’t possibly be hurt by some jerk who apparently thinks it’s okay to just bring anyone in off the streets and mess with their head. “I’m not staying here a moment longer.”

“It’s late,” Brendon says; he’s pale, but his voice is quiet and firm when he says, “You can leave in the morning, it’s not safe to walk on the streets right now,” and he flinches when Spencer says raggedly, “You mean against people who might take advantage of me?” but he doesn’t back down, and Ryan says quietly, “He’s right, Spencer.”

The night passes in an itchy, tense silence; none of them sleep very much. Brendon says softly after Ryan’s asleep, “Spencer,” but Spencer stills at his voice and doesn’t reply, pretending to be asleep even though both of them can hear his uneven breathing.

*

Stump crosses the palace irritably, walking down corridors in a furious burst of speed that has lamp holders and plants jumping out of his way fearfully, and several servants nearly being knocked down in his haste who started apologizing furiously instead. When he’s outside Wentz’s door, he stops to catch his breath, before rapping sharply on the door.

He’s ready to explode in a rant the moment the door opens, but he’s unprepared for Wentz to shout, carelessly, “Come in! It’s unlocked.” The stupidity of that decision assails Stump, who finds that the first thing he says to Wentz is, “Do you have an ounce of self-preservation in you at all? You can’t just go around leaving doors unlocked in some place you hardly know.”

He says it to Wentz’s back because Wentz is currently rummaging in a large rucksack on the table. “Ah, here it is,” Wentz exclaims, apparently not having taken in a single word of Stump’s tirade. There are sheaves of paper piled everywhere and more books Stump has ever seen outside of a bookshop. He turns around, and he’s holding some sort of strange metal contraption in his hand.

“It’s an portable telegraph,” Wentz says, proudly. Stump feels his eyebrow jump, because he never thought it was possible. Wentz reads his expression correctly, and admits, “Well, it would be, once I figure out how to, you know, get it to work without connecting it to all the wires.” His grin is self-deprecating, and Stump nearly finds himself thinking it charming before he remembers what he came here for.

“Look,” he starts, sternly, as Wentz starts moving around the room, humming a little, before - “What are you doing?”

Wentz stops in the middle of unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Oh, my apologies,” he says, apparently unconcerned about undressing in front of a practical stranger. “I just need to get this off, I hate wearing waistcoats. I had to wear it to look all respectable in front of the king, but here, there’s no way I’m keeping this on a second longer than I have to.” Wentz finishes, and then shucks the article of clothing entirely, throwing it haphazardly over the bed, and Stump frets a little over the creases that will form.

Still, he’s not Wentz’s valet. “I came here to clear up something.”

“Yeah?” Wentz replies. “What’s that?”

“Your motives for coming here, and threatening the king,” Stump says, sharply, punctuating his statement with a gesture.

“I wasn’t threatening him,” Wentz says, but any further response he has is stalled by the fact that he’s fiddling with the buttons on his shirt now, crisp white and nicely pressed in the exact way that Stump admires.

Stump flushes when he realizes he’s been staring at Wentz’s chest, and then some more when Wentz starts undoing the first button on his shirt, the one right at his collar.

“Are you unused to wearing a shirt too?” Stump asks pointedly, to cover the fact that he’s blushing slightly at Wentz’s entirely inappropriate familiarity.

Wentz looks up with a surprised air, like he forgot Stump is here, at all. His fingers hover around the second button, and thankfully stop there. Stump tries not to stare at the hollow in the base of Wentz’s throat, just a little hint of collarbone visible.

“So, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?” Wentz says. It takes Stump a moment to collect his thoughts.

“What are you planning?”

To his credit, Wentz doesn’t even pretend to misunderstand Stump. “I’m planning to help the king save his empire from the industrialists,” he says, slowly.

“Bullshit,” Stump retorts, colour rising in his cheeks at having resorted to vernacular. “You’re one of those Industrialists, whatever you say. What’s in it for you?”

“I told you, I’m a business man. The politics of the Industrial revolution hold no interest for me. I seek opportunities, and the Industrial revolution is the biggest opportunity of our lifetimes.” Wentz shrugs. “The king needs someone to help him navigate the murky waters of the Industrial revolution, and I happen to be the best person for that.”

Stump has no doubt Wentz is telling the truth, but at the same time he’s also certain that there’s a lot more Wentz isn’t saying, and deviously enough, the latter is a lot more important. “What about you, then? What do you need?”

Wentz stares at Stump for a long moment before answering, carefully, “I need the king’s endorsement, the legitimacy that it provides.”

“But -” This entire affair is very suspicious. Stump narrows his eyes. “How do you intend to go about getting that?”

Without warning, Wentz’s suddenly closer, pressing Stump back against the door, his hands on Stump’s wrists, exerting just enough force to prevent him from moving. Wentz’s eyes are serious and dark as he looks at Stump, before he leans in enough that Stump has a fleeting, horrified thought that Wentz’s going to kiss him.

“By getting close to the people around him, of course,” Wentz whispers into Stump’s ears, lips nearly touching the soft skin there. Stump shivers, entirely unwillingly; he tries to wrench himself out of Wentz’s hold but Wentz just tightens his grip casually like it’s no effort at all.

“You, Stump, seem to be trusted by the king.”

*

Wentz’s a businessman through and through. He dabbles a little in everything - he has contacts of people in the textiles business, cotton and silk and everything in between; agriculture, which explains his constant supply of fresh food; wine and horses and antiques and even, rumours go, a few timeshares in the illegal opium trade. He also writes, comparatively well, under a pseudonym, but compared to the salacious tidbits of information mentioned above, that’s the kind of inconsequential details that often slips past people’s scrutiny. He’s sharp enough to see trends before they happen, and shrewd enough to take swift advantage of them, and loose-limbered enough that he withdraws his investment after he reaps significant profits but right before it starts to sink.

First and foremost, though, he’s Pete Wentz. He does what he wants, when he wants. He has yet to assume a role out of responsibility; he hasn’t done it when his father told him in no equivocal terms to either follow in his footsteps and take over the family business, or pack his bags, and he doesn’t plan to make any exception.

*

The next morning is tense, with Brendon and Spencer not speaking an unnecessary word to each other. Spencer asks Brendon stiffly for a change of clothes, and Brendon averts his eyes when Spencer changes, the rustle of clothing skittering over his nerves; after Brendon changes, he turns to see Spencer staring intensely at the floor, red creeping up his neck.

The tension’s only a little alleviated when Ryan wakes up. He takes one look at them, and then says, unimpressed, “So we haven’t worked out our issues, have we?”

Spencer growls. “There are no issues to be worked out. Now can we leave?”

“Not yet,” Ryan says cheerfully, ignoring Spencer’s murderous expression. “Brendon,” he asks sweetly, and Brendon instantly knows he isn’t going to like this.

“What?” he says warily.

“Do you know the way to the Cave of Wonders?”

Brendon stares. He doesn’t know what he did to make Ryan think he has had any exposure to magic at all. “Uh, no?” he says.

“Of course you do,” Ryan says impatiently. “It’s that little pile of rocks just at the edge of the desert.”

It takes Brendon just a while to place it. The desert is to the south of the city; there isn’t a clear separation between city and desert, actually, with the buildings just seemingly jerking to a stop at the edge of the city, right before it touches the sand, and someone could stand right on the imaginary boundary, with one foot in the desert and one on gravel. The desert stretches as far as the eyes could see, though, and yellow sandy mountains rise up, blocking the horizon. For most people in the city, it’s just a sort of three-dimensional landscape painting.

“Yes,” Brendon says, not understanding. “If you know where the cave is, why are you asking me?” He chances a look at Spencer, who’s wearing a tight, pinched look but otherwise not reacting to the conversation.

“I know where it is, but not how to get there,” Ryan says in a tone of voice that implies it should be obvious.

“Ryan,” Spencer says, a warning sharp in his voice.

Ryan doesn’t back down. “You don’t want to get lost in the city, do you? This is the first time we’re even properly out the palace, and neither of us know which way is south, even, so unless you want to spend a week here, Brendon’s our best option.”

Spencer mutters something like that’s no option but Ryan just waits, implacably, until Spencer looks away and starts glaring fiercely at the wall, which Ryan apparently takes for agreement.

“Well, come on, then.” He beckons Brendon, who just follows both of them out his apartment in a disbelieving sort of confusion.

*

When Brendon leads them swiftly to the edge of the desert, he stops, pointing in the distance where a rocky outcrop stood, brown and dusty against the yellow spread of sand that takes up most of their view. “That’s the cave you’re talking about,” Brendon says, although he’s privately not certain that it’s the Cave of Wonders that Ryan’s talking about because from where he’s standing, it doesn’t look very wonderful.

“Great,” Spencer says tightly. He’s barely spoken on the way over, but a faint note of excitement enters his voice now, and for a moment Brendon wishes he could share this with him, because this seemed important to him, but he’s already ruined things, so Brendon swallows past the disappointment, and says lightly, “Well then, I’ll just be going now -”

“No,” Ryan interrupts. “Don’t you want to see what it looks like? You’ve never really seen anything magical before - well, before me, that is - aren’t you a little curious?”

Brendon is, but one look at Spencer’s face tells him that’s not a good idea. “Ryan,” Spencer says. “I’m sure Brendon has something else to do besides play tour guide.”

“Yeah,” Brendon agrees, a lump in his throat. “I should go.

“Okay,” Ryan says; the carpet shakes slightly, like Ryan’s shrugging; he sounds unconcerned when he says, “If that’s what you want. But if Brendon leaves, no one’s going to be able to get into the Cave of Wonders.”

There’s a dangerous silence before Spencer says, voice eerily controlled like he’s trying hare not to lose his temper, “What is that supposed to mean, Ryan?” His tone suggests Ryan better start explaining soon in the clearest words he knows.

Ryan stops joking. “Remember, I told you we need a key to the Cave of Wonders -”

“And what, Brendon has it?” Spencer turns on Brendon. “Hand it over, I’ll buy it off you or something.” Brendon rears back in surprise, because he thinks he’ll know if he possesses a key to what’s apparently a very powerful magical object.

“What?” Brendon says. Spencer’s eyes narrow but Ryan stops him before he can say anything.

“Brendon doesn’t have the key,” Ryan says. “Brendon is the key.”

*

Except nothing happens when Brendon approaches the cave, Spencer and Ryan trailing behind in case they diluted his presence or something. Ryan makes him circle the cave three times before he says, resignedly, “Well.”

Spencer just snorts, because he hasn’t believed, not even for a second, that Brendon is the key to the source of all magic. Brendon ignores Spencer, staring at the cave dubiously.

“I don’t understand - I’m never wrong,” Ryan says in frustration.

“There’s always a first time for everything,” Spencer says pointedly. He’s decidedly displeased about standing around in the desert while Ryan thinks, because the desert is hot and he’s sweating and Brendon’s shirt is apparently thin enough that it turns nearly transparent and clings when it’s wet. Spencer studiously avoids looking at Brendon.

“Brendon,” Ryan says; it sounds like a last-ditch attempt. “Walk into the cave,” he orders, and Brendon stares, because there isn’t an opening, and Ryan just asked him to walk right into solid rock.

“Uh,” Brendon says. He looks quickly at Spencer; surely he won’t let Ryan do this. Even a scathing remark about how Brendon is obviously not the diamond in the rough will be preferable to sustaining a concussion. “I don’t think -” but Spencer isn’t saying anything, just looking at the cave with a sort of despairing fascination, like it held all of his dreams and wishes, and Brendon grits his teeth and steps forward.

Nothing happens, of course, except the ringing impact of Brendon’s kneecaps against unyielding stone, and it’s loud enough that Spencer feels it like a slap of disappointment. Brendon stumbles back, hands held over his knees uselessly, embarrassment on his face, and Spencer is irrationally angry even though he tells himself that he didn’t expect Brendon to succeed anyway.

Still, it feels like something incredibly precious is denied him and the caught, inexplicably betrayed look on Brendon’s face just makes it worse. “I knew it,” he says vindictively, “I knew this was too good to be true.”

Ryan says, “Maybe -”

“Brendon’s already walked into a cave made of rock, Ryan. What else do you need to prove that he just isn’t who we need?”

The words come out meanly and Brendon flinches; he moves away from Spencer, shoulders hunching in. Spencer spares a moment to regret his words, but he doesn’t take them back; he’s leaving empty-handed, after all, and now he has to return to the palace to contemplate the Industrialist problem, and he will most likely have to endure Wentz’s company while he does it. He has no time to think about strangers he meet in the cities, who, in addition to being generally unremarkable, also mistook him for a hooker.

Spencer can hold a grudge like no other, Ryan has grumbled more than once. Brendon’s still there, sitting against the entrance of the cave when Spencer climbs onto Ryan and flies away without looking back.

*

Gerard’s been a genie for a long time, long enough that he can’t remember anymore, but time takes on new - or no - meaning when it approaches infinity, anyway. He can’t quite recall what he was before he became a genie; with every passing day, it seems as though he’s always just been.

Sometimes he thinks he’s maybe used to be an artist, a normal one without having everything he draws come to life (that is how he grant wishes, after all) - but while that’s very handy for a genie, it’s a little alarming for a human painter, he expects. He would never be able to paint sunsets or ferocious jaw-snapping crocodiles or giant mutant robots, which would be a pity, because those are some of Gerard’s favourite things to draw. He likes to think he had a family once, but he hopes the manner of his disappearance did not cause them too much grief.

Perpetual existence twists memories differently; at the turn of every century, he finds he remembers more of the next than the last, images of wars and conflict and festivals and marriages all blurring the lines of time’s narrative, but one frame tends to stand out, frozen in time.

He remembers - one of the clearest things he remember - a century ago, the look of a young man who stumbled his way to his cave, then known as the Wishing Cave, in a despair. He didn’t say anything, just sat against the rocky outcrop, while the stars looked out at his wish, laid bare across the sands for all to see.

It was a girl, of course, it always was, but this young man’s grief rang truer than many lovelorn men who had rushed to him for easy relief, and Gerard felt a burst of warmth tingle at his fingertips, and then let himself blow out the cave in a gust of wind that drew a line through the sand straight to the girl, waiting at the edge of the desert for him. The young man’s eyes - Frank, Gerard learnt, watching, on the breathless whispers of the girl - widened in disbelief, before they clutched together in the kind of desperate relief that stem from an intimate knowledge of death. Centuries of solitude have sharpened his perspective.

As he walked back, there’s new tension about his shoulders and there it rested, for the next century till this very day. This is what Gerard is considering, a little furrow between his brows, when he steps to the edge of the cave for the illusion of some fresh air and sees Brendon curled up in the sand.

“Um,” he says, and then takes a precautionary step back when Brendon scrambles up, eyes wide and bruised. Something about him reminds Gerard of that boy he saw, once upon a time ago, and he brings Brendon back with him into the cave on instinct, before remember belatedly that mortals couldn’t enter -

But Brendon follows him over the threshold easily enough, and Gerard blinks a bit, looking like a peculiar owl before he shrugs and leads Brendon down where no one except him has stepped for millennia.

*

The weeks before the ball run loud and raggedly busy, with preparations beginning long before the sun rises - for the servants, at least - and ending only after nightfall. Spencer wakes up an hour earlier to participate in long discussions with the king and Stump, running through the expected guest list and revising their marketing pitch, the story about potential investment opportunities that is sure to grab the attention of any discerning businessman.

Spencer spends the lead-up in a high-tension mode and snaps at Ryan almost constantly. Ryan knows Spencer well enough to give as good as he gets, though, so when Spencer chews him out for allegedly tripping him on his way out to pass a very important document to the king, Ryan just observes calmly, “You’re really stressed, aren’t you?”

Spencer replies, sarcasm dripping from his words, “Oh, is that what this frazzled feeling is?”

Ryan ignores Spencer’s remark. “Is the ball the only thing you’re worried about?” Spencer stills in the process of buttoning his waistcoat and then replies as evenly as he can, “What else would I be stressed out?” His voice dares Ryan to say anything more.

Ryan wisely refrains from commenting further. It’s been three weeks, and they haven’t heard from Brendon at all, not since they left him outside the Cave of Wonders. Spencer still remembers the dejection written all over Brendon’s crouching form, how it mirrored his, and how he just couldn’t see it for another second.

He told himself that the genie plan obviously hasn’t worked, and it’s time to give up that idea completely. Princes know when to leave a losing battle, the king said once; retreat does not mean defeat. So Spencer throws himself into studying books on steam power and electricity, and doesn’t think of Brendon and his fiercely proud eyes and the wide curve of his mouth when he laughs and the way despair sat heavily on his shoulders.

*

“Wow,” Brendon says, like he’s uncertain if it’s a good wow or a bad one. “Wow,” he says again, staring around Gerard’s place. Gerard ignores him, returning instead to his painting; he’s in the middle of a really great, elaborate fresco on the apocalypse, which isn’t going to be happening for another couple of millennia, whatever the humans say, but he likes to get started on things early.

Besides, his place isn’t that unkempt - considering he’s lived here for thousands of years. Maybe more; he lost track after awhile, and the human system of chronology really leaves a lot to be desired, what with skipping dates and leaping years and shifting systems mid-century entirely.

“I can’t see the floor,” Brendon says, a sort of horrified respect in his voice. “Is there a floor?”

“Maybe.” Gerard can’t really remember. These things slip past him sometimes. He used to live in a lamp, probably some silly, impractical idea spun by some beleaguered mother telling her children bedtime stories, so he thinks the cave is an improvement, and his cleanliness - or lack thereof - should not be held against him. “So,” he says, distractedly. “What are your three wishes?”

“What?”

Gerard frowns, but Brendon can’t tell if it’s at his painting or what Brendon said. “Don’t you know? This is the Cave of Wonders.”

“Ryan said that once or twice, but I didn’t really understand him.” Brendon admits.

“Ah,” Gerard nods fondly. “As baffling as ever then, Ryan. I drew him into existence, you know,” he informs Brendon with a paternal kind of pride.

“I see.” Brendon does not see. It takes Gerard a while to realize that Brendon’s silence is confused and not preoccupied.

“Yes, the three wishes you are due -” Gerard puts his brush down and faces Brendon. “Well, most people get one, and they never realize they’ve made it, or who grants it, you know, but since you’re the diamond in the rough - not that I know for sure, because no one does, it’s your essence, but I presume from the fact that you can actually walk in here - you get two more.”

Brendon is starting to understand where Ryan gets his mannerisms from. “So,” Brendon asks uncertainly. “I get three wishes?”

Gerard beams. “Yes!”

“Anything?” At Gerard’s nod, Brendon thinks hard. A lot of things flit through his mind: a better apartment with enough space that his family could move in; a baby grand piano that polished notes that sound clear, resonant notes; enough money to catch the next carriage to London and enroll in a university there. More thoughts crowd his mind, some serious, some frivolous and some just extended flights of fancies; Brendon seriously considers wishing for a star, a genuine star plucked from the sky, for about five seconds, before deciding that it would probably spontaneously combust and take the rest of the world around with it.

Then, inevitably, it seems, he thinks of Spencer, away in the palace where he’s probably being attended by an army of servants and discussing politics with the king and never thinking of Brendon for half a moment. He shouldn’t even be considering it, using a wish on someone he’s only met for a day, Brendon thinks.

Gerard looks at him shrewdly. “If it’s difficult to decide - very few people really know what they want, after all,” he says gently, “you could think about it awhile.”

“Yeah,” Brendon swallows; this limitless offer stretches his mind far wider than it’s used to, taunts him with the possibility of so much more, only the universe on a platter. “That’ll be good.”

Gerard nods understandingly, before a gleam enters his eyes. “Meanwhile, though, we can’t have you dressed like this.” He drops the rounded brush he was using to paint in rivers of blood swallowing the desecrated land, and picks up a smaller, flatter one. “Here, stand up.”

“What are you doing?” Brendon eyes Gerard. Gerard doesn’t sound like he hears Brendon at all, looking up and down Brendon as he would a sculpture, all the while mumbling under his breath. “Uh, look, it’s really alright -”

“I know, I can turn you into a vampire!” Gerard says this like it’s a genuine possibility he’s actually consider, and Brendon takes a precautionary step back from Gerard and his magical paintbrush, just in case he’s serious.

Gerard is serious, apparently. “A vampire’s great! You have the skin, and the hair for it, and your eyes will be so intense, with a bit of liner -”

“Uh, I don’t think that’s a wise lifestyle choice.”

Gerard’s face drops. “It isn’t? Why not?” Gerard doesn’t get that at all. Vampires are pale and drink blood and have fangs, and they’re dark and dangerous and would kill you as much as look at you. Gerard loves vampires. In fact, the only creature better than a vampire is -

He brightens visibly. “I can draw you a dragon instead? You know, as your mount, instead of a horse or something? I can make him breathe fire,” he adds, like that’s the final, irresistible offer.

Brendon does think about this for a moment, because a dragon will actually get him to London easily enough. “No,” he declines regretfully. He has to stop making impulse decisions, like inviting strangers to his apartment in the middle of the night; it never turns out well. “If you want, just -” Brendon says. “Make me look normal?”

“If you’re sure,” Gerard says, doubt in his voice. He takes a while to draw, eyes sharpening in concentration, brush dipping, it seems, into every fold and crevice of Brendon’s skin through his clothes. The paint - the consistency is similar, but the properties decidedly not - stays cool and heavy on his skin for a bare second before dissipating thinly; soon enough, a sleeve appears, a tiny line of blue stitching into the seams efficiently; next, a broad sweep of white that starts at his waist and pours downward into the breezy loose folds of his pants, with excess paint collecting at the base to create the extra material that puff around his ankles; more touches of the brush to his collar, his wrist, his waist, and with a final flourish, Gerard’s finally, after what seem like mere minutes or hours or days.

There’s a mirror against the wall, suddenly, and Brendon looks involuntarily, because he doesn’t feel any different, but he doesn’t recognize the person staring back at him.

“Oh,” he says, almost to himself; “Thank you,” he says to Gerard.

“Wait,” Gerard says, just as Brendon turns away from the mirror. “You need something,” he says, frowning.

“Here,” Gerard says, and Brendon turns to see him holding a smaller version of his paintbrush. Gerard’s hands come up dangerously close to his face, and Brendon swallows, leans back so the tip of the brush isn’t close to poking his eye out.

“Uh, Gerard -” Brendon tries, warily, but Gerard’s already starting, brush moving swiftly, adeptly over Brendon’s face.

“Don’t argue with me,” Gerard says reprovingly as he touches the feather-soft tip of the brush to Brendon’s face, and starts drawing smoothly under his eye. He starts humming softly to himself as he draws, and Brendon tries his best not to fidget

When it’s done, Brendon turns instantly to the mirror to assess the damage, but it’s already gone. Gerard bustles around washing his brushes with a stream of water that falls from precisely nowhere; when he’s done, he hands Brendon what looks like a pendant in the shape of a star casually, saying, “This will take you to your heart’s desire. Just wish upon it,” and Gerard’s pressing a small, glowing star into his palm. “You’ve already spent far too long here,” he continues quickly, hurrying Brendon towards the stairs leading him to the entrance of the cave.

“You’re welcome, you look fantastic, I’ll see you soon, don’t worry,” he says quickly as they walk up the few steps to the awaiting daylight.

Gerard slaps his hand when Brendon surreptitiously tries to feel around the edge of his eyes where it’s dry and a little heavy, and then pushes Brendon out of the cave, saying a little vaguely, “Uh, by the way, time works strangely in the cave, so -”

*

The ball is already in full swing when Wentz shows up, outlandishly dressed as usual with a purple waistcoat and a bright green, intricately tied cravat that Spencer thinks probably took his valet ten minutes to do. Around his neck hangs an exquisite chain of burnished steel, and his hat, a loud shade of burgundy is outrageously rimmed with ostrich feathers, furling spiritedly.

“Ah, Mr. Wentz,” the king says exuberantly. The early success of the ball - people mingling, a satisfying bustle, no less than ten couples enjoying themselves on the dance floor, no mishaps of unfortunate incidents - has put him in quite a jovial mood. “What do you think?”

“An unparalleled event, my king,” Wentz says smoothly, fingers loosely curled around his glass, half-full with amber liquid. “Quite the rousing affair, I must say. Great wine too - may I compliment you on the excellent vintage.”

Spencer’s surprised to find Wentz sharp-witted and with a capacity for wry irony that Ryan will appreciate, he thinks. Even with his dislike of the man, Spencer must admit Wentz is an accomplished conversationist, immediately putting the king at ease, even making him laugh on a couple of occasions.

After an appropriate interval, Wentz excuses himself, doffing his hat at them with an exaggerated flourish before moving through the room effortlessly; the other Industrialists in the room welcomed him to their conversations with an almost embarrassing eagerness, all but falling over themselves in their haste to accommodate him.

“Mr. Wentz is quite a character,” the king says approvingly. The meaning behind the words is not lost on Spencer, who swallows, thinking of the considerable implications.

“Yes,” Spencer’s forced to agree. “He has considerable talents, to be sure, but as to his suitability for the court,” Spencer begins, but the king’s quiet words stop him.

“There are other ways to secure an alliance, and some more secure than others.” The king pauses, before he claps a hand on Spencer’s shoulder heavily. “Mr. Wentz is an extraordinary man. One could do a lot worse, for himself and the kingdom.”

It takes a moment for the full implication to hit him. Spencer looks at the king in shock; the option of marriage has never occurred to him before. “Father,” he starts.

The king holds up a hand. “It is ultimately your choice, of course. I only ask that you consider all alternatives.” Spencer is left with a sinking feeling as his father walks away.

Of course, he thinks. Marriage. That would be the best solution; Spencer waves down a servant as he passes and downs the glass of wine in one shot, grimacing as it leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

*

Ryan barely catches Brendon as he stumbles out of the cave as though through a wall of molasses. The world spills thickly around him for a moment before it rights itself, and the colours and sounds of the world outside the Cave of Wonders hit Brendon properly in all their full sharpness.

“Brendon?” Ryan exclaims, sharp with panic. “Are you - you’ve been gone for there for days, seriously, and were you down there - I was terrified -”

Brendon rights himself, and then blinks. It’s dark, nearly nightfall, and he’d entered the cave in the morning. It can’t have been that long. “It’s been days?”

“You have to hurry,” Ryan urges. “The king just suggested marriage to Spencer,” and Brendon grips the star, nearly forgotten in his hand, tighter, at those words.

“What does that have to do with me?”

Ryan flaps agitatedly at him. “You have to go to the ball and convince Spencer not to do it, obviously!”

“I can’t,” Brendon says, backing away from Ryan. He has a plan, he knows what he wants to do. “I can’t, I’m leaving, I’m going to London,” he says, because this is what he has wanted since he was a child but the words come out as though he’s only reciting lines.

“What?” Ryan huffs. “Now? How are you going to get there? Are you insane?”

Maybe, Brendon thinks; he clenches his hand tight around the star, ignoring the edges poking insistently into him; he wishes hard until there’s a roaring wind in his ear drowning Ryan’s words, until the star’s burning hotly in the heart of his palm, the ground falling away below him.

*

Tom’s bustling around in Spencer’s room after Spencer leaves for the ball, folding the discarded pile of clothes and clearing the dresser. He murmurs thanks absentminded when the cupboard opens itself for the clothes to fly in, neatly folding themselves through the air.

When he turns, Jon’s standing quietly behind him. Tom frowns; the ball began half an hour ago, and Spencer already left, so Jon should have gone with him.

“Jon? Why are you still here?”

Jon shrugs. “I wasn’t invited to the ball.” The flat expressionless tone he uses elicits a rush of sympathy in Tom; no matter how Spencer felt about Jon, he doesn’t deserve to be shunned like this. “Well - I don’t think you want to go anyway,” Tom offers; Jon looks him, and Tom feels himself flushing. “It’s not as fun as it sounds, I promise you. Just a lot of uptight members of the aristocracy mingling and discussing the weather.”

He’s just about finished clearing up Spencer’s room, and he starts towards the door when it strikes him that as boring as the ball may be, Jon might be lonely here all by himself too.

“Would you like me to stay with you?” Tom asks a little uncertainly. Jon looks at him long enough that he blushes, averting his eye. Jon’s the prince consort, after all; there’s no reason for him to resort to the company of a servant.

But Jon says, just as Tom gets ready to slip away, “If you will - if you don’t mind,” and Tom feels warmth spread inexplicably through him like the first time he tried ale and it burned soothingly down his throat.

*

Wentz has never met anyone like Stump before. He finds it utterly ridiculous how dedicated and intense the man is, like all he lives for is the well-being of the kingdom and his unwavering loyalty to the king, and Wentz almost finds himself envying him for his focus; he’s made a business out of dalliances with various businesses, and it’s certainly made him wildly successful, but sometimes he wonders what it’ll be like to tether himself to one thing and just work at it steadily.

Of course, being Wentz, on the heels of that thought comes the idea that he wants to see what it takes to break Stump’s concentration.

The facts that Stump is positively fetching when he reddens in irritation and that Wentz spends nights dwelling on how Stump felt under his hands are what drive Wentz to seek out Stump when he catches sight of him across the ballroom.

*

“Stump!”

Stump groans, and immediately starts walking in the opposite direction, but Wentz slinks through the crowd and corners him against a wall.

“Stump,” Wentz grins, all teeth. “You look dashing tonight.”

Stump rolls his eyes even as he feels his cheeks heat slightly. The memory of their last encounter together is vivid, and if Stump’s honest, an oft-reviewed one, since Stump occasionally thinks about the way Wentz felt pressed up along his front.

“You’re quite ridiculous,” he informs Wentz, ignoring his sudden breathlessness. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to -” He’s been hoping to pass the night without interacting with Wentz whatsoever; the last time he checked - more accurately, the last ten times he checked, but Stump was just being cautious - Wentz was over talking intently to Spencer.

“Dance?” Wentz supplies, cheerfully. Stump’s opening his mouth to tell him in no uncertain terms that he does not dance when Wentz’s tugging him none too gently into his arms, and melting into the thong of couple in the middle of ballroom.

“What are you doing?” Stump hisses, as he tries to extricate himself. This is embarrassing; he will not be seen fraternizing with the enemy, damn it, but Wentz refuses to let go of him.

“You don’t want to cause a scene on the dance floor now, do you?” Wentz asks, completely rhetorically, and then drops Stump in a flamboyant dip as he tries to answer, effectively destroying Stump’s attempt at protesting.

“Let go of me at once, you - you swine,” Stump gasps, but Wentz just grins harder, and says, “Can’t hear you over the crowd, darling,” and Stump blushes hotly at the imprudent endearment. Wentz’s standing closer than necessary, and his arm’s firm and strong around Stump’s waist, and Stump tries not to think about the many sets of eyes that could be on them right now.

[Part Three]

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