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Occtis paces the room he is staying in—there is little else for him to do in the nighttime hours since he no longer needs sleep. Rest, perhaps, but his mind races too much this evening for even that. Blood and ghosts spill out across his mind. Viscera and shadows bloom behind his eyelids. It was too much for Occtis, no matter how much he deserved it.
And—by fate and family—did he deserve it.
Thaisha tries to accept him, but he sees the struggle within her. She knows the nature of his being is wrong, an abomination to the natural order.
“There has always been something wrong with you.”
Bolaire, Professor Mag’Nesson, Vaelus. They see him as some sort of miracle; something astounding.
“His family have always been nightmares.”
“A guide into whatever it is that FUCKING KILLS EVERYTHING that ever matters to me!”
Occtis pauses. Remembers the sneer he saw when he awoke from Death. Remembers how that sneer turned into anger... Justified anger.
Perhaps he could do something for the knight—anything. It would never be enough but perhaps it can offer both of them a small reprieve of grief and guilt.
Before he can cower away from the fleeting proposition, Occtis moves from his room to find Sir Julien’s. The night is silent, the others having found peace in their rests. A peace Occtis will never know again. One he hopes he is not interrupting when he knocks on Julien’s door.
There are footsteps from the other side which in turn become the sigh of hinges. There, in the soft lamplight, stands Sir Julien Davinos. His curled hair is tousled in a way that is not wholly flattering, and his eyes, red-rimmed from either tears or spirits, are quick to become guarded daggers upon Occtis.
“Leave.”
“W- wait. Please,” Occtis whispers, “Please.”
“You think because you beg, you deserve my patience? You deserve nothing.”
“This isn’t about me,” comes with a shake of his head. “Please, just– just let me in. For a moment.” Occtis glances down the hall, before looking at Julien.
There’s a moment that Julien considers ignoring his request, Occtis knows it—sees it—but with a sigh half way between resignation and disgust, Julien relents, stepping aside just enough to let Occtis scurry in.
There’s not much in the room, not that Occtis is expecting anything more to be there. An inn—though of higher quality than what he’d stayed in with Thaisha—has very little personality. But there’s small things that speak of the room’s occupant: the bottle of liquor beside the bed, the neat placement of armor and weapons, and the reverent placement of the demi-gauntlet that belonged to General Raimond Davinos. Things that speak to Occtis but he cannot permit himself to listen. It is not his place to know Sir Julien Davinos in such a manner.
“What is it? Speak. Quickly.”
Occtis turns then, wringing his gloved hands as he realizes just what he’s doing. He feels the weight of those green eyes heavy upon his shoulders.
“I– I want to,” Occtis looks away and brings his hand to his cravat. “I can’t give you what you really want. But, I figured... Well, you– you probably want to… not think. About what’s happened. Because of my family.” Because of me.
A tug and the cravat is undone. Nothing on Julien’s face changes. Why would it? Occtis’ hands move to the fasteners of his vest. One by one, he releases them. Takes off his vest, then his gloves. Julien’s face is still cold, but there’s the smallest hint of curiosity... Or suspicion—the two are bedmates, after all.
“I, hah, I have no idea what I’m doing. But, I thought that since, well. Since this is my family’s fault,” my fault, “that you could… take out your emotions. On me.”
Silence, deafening silence. And then a chuckle, low and short and cruel. “And what would you have me do?”
Occtis looks up at those deep green eyes again. “An-anything you’d want. I’ve– I’ve heard that you… pay for servi—”
“Shut up,” Julien growls, his hand quickly taking hold of Occtis’ throat. There’s pressure, but Occtis doesn’t need to breathe. Though even if he did, there doesn’t seem to be enough pressure to suffocate him. It's a warning. One that Occtis should heed. Would have, were he alive. He’s not.
It's a struggle, getting the words out beneath Julien's grip. “You don't need to pay me.”
Julien tightens his hold and Occtis gasps, not because he needs the air but because his body still remembers needing air. He's only been dead for a few days now. Not even a week. There's a lot to remember and a lot to learn.
His rambling thoughts are stopped short, however, by Julien's lips on his. Julien’s kiss is well-practiced—skilled, even. And warm. Occtis tries to keep up, pressing back against the knight. Occtis doesn't know if he’s succeeding, but Julien isn’t stopping and that has to mean something. Right?
Julien, despite his lanky build, is strong. Or, at least, strong enough to manhandle Occtis. Distracted by fevered lips, Occtis doesn't realize Julien has moved them until he’s pinned against the wall. The mental clarity slips out of his fingers in the briefest moment as Julien’s tongue ignites Occtis from the inside. Occtis is losing his mind. Julien kisses him as if he is the one that doesn’t need air. Occtis can hardly keep up with the older man, but that’s okay. This, whatever it’s becoming, is for Julien, for the man to take what he wants from Occtis.
Julien’s heat is no longer contained to Occtis’ mouth. His hands trail fire across Occtis’ chilled skin. The way his mouth and tongue lave down Occtis’ jaw and throat is almost enough to erase the knowledge that he died just a few nights ago, if only for a moment.
Julien’s fervent application of sensual knowledge draws quiet noises from Occtis. Gasps and moans—unbidden from the young man—seemingly spurring Julien to take more. He latches to the side of Occtis’s throat and Occtis feels the change in pressure. Open mouthed kisses turning to a persistent tug at his skin. Julien is sucking, trying to leave a mark.
Occtis, fighting through a haze of fantasy where he carries a collection of Julien's marks, manages to mewl out a few words, “W-on't work, n-no blood flow.”
Occtis’ mewling turns to a deep moan as Julien's lips are replaced by his teeth. A frustrated growl radiates through Occtis, past his skin and muscles to settle into his bones. A memory that will last longer than this tryst.
Another burst of pressure from Julien's teeth, perhaps with a disappointing hope of making Occtis bleed, before Occtis is being kissed again. And again. And again.
The way Julien works him over, Occtis feels the heat spread throughout all of him. He presses himself against the knight, wondering if he feels it too.
Julien draws back from the kisses, panting slightly, his hands on Occtis' waist, thumbing the closures of his pants. Occtis struggles to focus, his head filled with too many things: a blazing fire in dark green eyes, the stolen heat coursing through something not-quite-dead, heady thoughts of bruises and bites, blood, sweat, and something more. Occtis’ false breath is heavy, empty chest heaving as he waits for Julien's next move.
“I am not going to fuck a Tachonis,” Julien hisses as he spits on Occtis. Most of it lands on his lips, though some splattered onto his cheek. It's degrading how much Occtis takes, how much more he wants of what Julien is giving him. He licks his lips, gathering and spreading Julien's saliva across them.
“I'm not a Tachonis anymore. I'm not anyone anymore.”
There's an imperceptible dilation of Julien's eyes. Or, it should have been imperceptible. But Occtis sees it, just as Julien curses and kisses him again.
Once more, Occtis is left trying to catch up to Julien. The kiss, while not all too different to before, is now paired with Julien’s hands working through the fastens on his pants. It's all so much, and Occtis is just trying to make it good for Julien. He hopes he’s succeeding.
“Oh fuck,” Occtis gasps, a pleasant and unbearable heat encasing his erection. Julien’s hand is calloused, he'd felt it before beneath his shirt, but this is something entirely different. New.
Then suddenly gone.
Occtis' gaze fixes on Julien undoing his own pants with one hand, the other wiping away at his mouth. His hair spills over his shoulder, and Occtis wants to bury his hands into those curls and bring Julien back to him. He doesn't, he could never, but he can't help the flex of his fingers.
Julien lifts his eyes from his palm to Occtis. How can such a heated look freeze him more than Death? He doesn’t have an answer. He might have tried to think about it, but Julien caused all his thoughts to halt with a single word: “Spit.”
Occtis is pinned to a wall, Julien Davinos in front of him, both of them disheveled. And the knight has told him—commanded him—to spit into his palm.
“I will not tell you a third time, boy. Spit.”
He spits. It's inelegant, but it pleases Julien. Occtis can almost convince himself that he pleases Julien.
He is ready to accept the roiling of shame and guilt from such a thought, but they don't come to him. Instead, it's heat—Julien’s heat, more consuming than ever.
The knight takes both of them into his spit-slicked hand and jerks them off. It's an advancement from the few times Occtis had practiced masturbation, but it never felt so intense. Is that because he’s dead? Or was it always like this with someone else? He groans, from the thoughts or pleasure, Occtis doesn't know and won't question. His head rolls to the side, and Julien does not hesitate to sink his teeth into Occtis' shoulder once more.
“Oh st-stars, Julien,” Occtis grips at the knight's shoulders. His body begins to tighten. He's never lasted long on his own, and this is so, so different. So good.
A gasp, a shudder.
Julien doesn't stop. He bucks against Occtis’ spent cock, stroking it in time. It's maddening, and Occtis craves more.
It's not long before Julien bites down harder, hard enough that Occtis can feel his ragged breath. And then fire.
Warm spend coats the both of them, but Occtis is overcome with every place Julien ignites across his skin.
It's after a heart beat or an hour that Julien releases Occtis' shoulder and steps back, tucking himself away. Occtis slouches against the wall, unsure and unsteady. His eyes dance around again, however all he sees is Julien this time. The plush lips, the sheen of sweat at his temples, the wet smear near his crotch. His eyes, a mossy agate now that the hard glare has returned.
Julien shoves the bundle of Occtis' clothes into his stupefied arms. He opens the door and cocks his head.
“Get out of here, boy.”
Occtis nods, and scurries back to the safety of his room. Within the rented sanctum, Occtis draws his fingers over the indentations left on him and shivers. Maybe all he'll get are the memories of this night. But maybe… Maybe there will be a chance for more.