#LOOK AT THE LITTLE BERET ON AZU’S

[starshapedpetals]

the mukami’s & their kitties 😭💞

[beatificallys]

after the war

after the war, everything sort of settles into place. there’s a home for everyone, some unexpected. lucien moves out of the palace, having retired from kingship, into a small house only a 10 minute walk from the palace. without his body, the king is unrecognisable. legend retells the story of king lucien as a mighty warrior, a man of strength and swiftness, able to protect his people against the evil threat, but no one will be able to guess that the man from all the mythology is the one standing in front of her now, a foot shorter than her when they used to be level in height a few months ago.

he regards her, smiling, warmth in his gaze. “thank you, commander.”

he’s back to his usual self. she’s nearly forgotten how he used to look like, so used to the manufactured body he had once he emerged from the woods. he’s nothing like the kings she used to serve before him. he makes her think, perhaps, there’s more to this business than meets the eye. thomas will be suspicious when she tells him this. he’s never known any other way to deal with a problem than to point a gun at it, but now that he’s her second in command, maybe there’s a way to change the way he sees things. there’s something hopeful in the air. the aura of change simmers in the atmosphere.

she bows. and she means it this time. azus will be sorry to have lost him as king.

just as she’s about to leave, though, balthazar steps forward. “go in first, luce. i need to speak with zoya.”

lucien obliges, casting a wondering gaze between balthazar and her, but drops it. the door shuts behind him.

balthazar’s hair is combed and parted neatly, and he wears blue, the colour of myrr. his uniform is perfectly pressed, immaculate. zoya looks at him and sees perfect balance.  

he clears his throat. i won’t be around here much, now that i’m the emissary. when i’m gone, i want security around the place doubled. check up on him regularly, make sure he’s okay, but don’t let him find out any of it. he doesn’t want the extra protection, doesn’t think he needs it, but extra security won’t hurt. do you understand me?

this is a man she cannot deal with. balthazar’s always been someone she can picture on the throne. with his cunning and intelligence, stealing the throne should be easy game, and sometimes, she wonders why he hasn’t done it yet. there’s great carefulness with every step he takes, an acute awareness of how things will play out. the repercussions of repercussions of repercussions. he’s bloodthirsty enough to do it as well. she’s seen him raze an entire field of fighters down unflinchingly. his eyes are eagle sharp, sometimes she thinks his foresight extends a month, a year, a decade into the future, but then she sees how they soften when he’s looking at lucien. how he’s always looking at lucien.

please keep him safe, he says. his eyes are steady.

zoya nods. of course.

i’ll be leaving for myrr in a week’s time. i trust you, he says. i don’t easily give that out.

i will make sure it is seen to, lord cortez.

he bristles. lord cortez. how funny. my father was called that.

we carry the weight of our fathers’ names.

not a very easy weight to bear. he turns away from her and his eyes survey the row of houses. zolnerowich, cortez, it’s all the same.

zoya narrows her eyes when she hears her father’s name.

how do you know?

it’s not a threat, balthazar says quietly. it’s just that when you’re in my position, you know some things. things that you didn’t even intend on finding out.

he gives her a smile and goes back into the house.

every word loaded with meaning. she might as well get used to it if he’s going to be the emissary. don’t trifle with balthazar cortez, or his best friend. she wishes she could let everyone know that to spare them unforgiving wrath.

zoya tugs on her beret and hoists herself up on the white stallion. she better start rounding up the best soldiers she knows. she whips the reins and the horse whinnies, click-clack-click, setting off toward the glowing, alabaster structure at the end of the road.

**

thomas squints at his cards. his pistol is slung across his waist, never too far out of reach. he’s got a shit hand, but it’s fine, carlisle doesn’t even know how to play the game well. he’s all confused and uninterested, dishing out the wrong cards and the wrong time. he’s even holding his cards badly. thomas can see his entire hand if he crooks his head a little bit to the side.

hey, it’s your turn. your time’s running up.

he sighs and drops his hand. thomas can see all his cards now. he lets out a groan. this game sucks.

lucien wipes a hand down his face: why are you putting me on house arrest again? not that i’m not enjoying this lovely game of… occus tabach?

tabachus. and they’re not my orders, thomas says, gathering the cards from lucien. ask my superior. you think i’d rather be cooped up at home with you than watch the races?

lucien rolls his eyes and gets up. lovely game and lovely company, how great.

he still walks with a limp. that’s a consequence from the war that he’s going to live with for the rest of his life. zoya told him he got it when a gigantic bannister fell from the ceiling as he was trying to save a group of soldiers. by all rights, it shoulda killed him. the impact of the fall woulda shattered his bones into a bajillion tiny pieces, if not for his body.

want some tea?

tea? thomas repeats with a grimace. you got any alcohol?

are you trying to get drunk on the job?

i was joking.

hmm.

nat woulda whooped my ass if i was serious.

lucien pours him the tea anyway. his true body’s real skinny, looking like it could break like a twig. he looks as delicate as bird bones. when zoya told thomas about the entire saga of family drama that spanned years and years, of the ass robert carlisle and his family, it was difficult trying to understand it. but as he’s spending more and more time with lucien, he’s beginning to. its in the way he moves. some people, they sit all loud n proud, like they wanna let u know they’ve got it. they’re in power. jeppity was a showboater, and thomas wonders how many girls have suffered at his whim, but this guy, no way. this guy stands curled into himself, withdrawing from the center of attention. there’s a peaceable smile etched on crookedly on his face as he lowers his head, letting his hair flop in front of his face. this, and all the stories of the extraordinary king who saved a country?

it’s difficult to reconcile. thomas doesn’t think he might ever understand. he grows quiet, takes a sip of tea.

lucien looks at him expectantly. how is it?

it’s leaves in hot water. how do you think it tastes?

it’s chamomile, lucien says archly, as if that’s supposed to mean something.

thomas shrugs. why’d you give up the title of king?

lucien startles like a mouse at the question. it’s not as great as it sounds, he says pensively. it requires a great deal of skill. it’s not a position that can just be passed down by virtue of bloodline. i’m not the man fit for the job. he pauses, sighs. too slow, too dumb, too tired. a year ago i couldn’t bear to say that it loud. i couldn’t accept that it’s just not the destiny for me, after all my father impressed upon me.

your father sounds like a downright villain.

lucien picks at his crooked finger. thomas wonders how he got it. not a villain, he says. he just did what the circumstance called for. how do you know zoya?

zoya? thomas laughs, his usual rattle. we were childhood friends, born and raised in kursick. i know her as nataliya. nat, before she became a new person.

and will you be staying here? in azus?

thomas takes another sip of the bland water. his scoundrel hands, bruised and chafed and knobbly, curl around the delicate china like a foreign thing.

i have no reason to. all my business is back in kursick.

are you sure? because something tells me zoya has saved a room for you here.

thomas’s lip curls in a grimace. yeah…

thomas, lucien says softly. he places a hand on thomas’s shoulder. his first instinct is to shove it off roughly and snap it him, tell him to fuck off, but the hand is feather light on him and there’s a great deal of gravity in the slight forward hunch of his posture. the hand keeps him rooted to the chair. i’ve learnt a lot in my term as king and i’ve had to make decisions i would never ever think of making. the most important thing i can offer to you, is how far a leap of faith can take you. be afraid, and yet push through the pain. there’s no use hiding behind the tried and tested, nothing will come out of that. be brave, even if you aren’t strong.

thomas sits in stunned silence. after a while, he opens his mouth to say something, but there are knocks on the door and lucien’s hand leaves his shoulder.

oh, they’re back, he says. you can finally watch the races now.

lucien opens the door to the emissary and nat. nat jerks her head behind her.

we’re off, thomas.

thomas stands, as if woken from a spell. he slides his pistol back in his belt slowly.

what’s up with him? she asks lucien, with a quizzical look on her face. cat got your tongue?

lucien smiles. he has to do some thinking. how are the races?

kukui is winning, the emissary replies. aven is down 1-0.

nataliya has warned thomas against this guy, for some reason, but thomas sees nothing dangerous in him. he looks plain and harmless, wearing a congenial smile. a blue broach is pinned at his chest.

snap, thomas says, tossing his head back in a carefree sort of way. i was betting all my money on them. now johnson’s gonna laugh so hard at me.

nataliya looks at him curiously, dark eyes searching, but he shoots her a wide grin that curls from ear to ear to banish her worries. it’s the same grin that he flashes behind a secret hand of cards, or in the seconds before a fight, or just before the moment his restless hands find something to pocket. needless to say, it has the opposite effect: there’s a new divot between her brows, but this time, he knows she doesn’t truly have to worry.

he’s finding his way. hopefully.

off we go. she jerks her head behind her. turning to lucien and lord cortez, she bows and allows herself to be dismissed. thomas doesn’t wanna look back at lucien, catch his gaze and feel the earnestness reflected in his pale eyes. he doesn’t feel like proving him right. so he follows nat out wordlessly, and without a backward glance, shuts the door behind him.

she’s readjusting the reins on the palace-issued stallion, top of its breed, making sure that everything is all ready and good to go. back in kursick, he never rode on anything that fancy. it was horses, rented cheaply out of the nearest stable, and they were dirty and ran out of breath quickly. this new one can go for miles without winding down.  

hey.

nataliya turns, shooting him a questioning look. she’s thinking about the look he shot her back in the house. she hasn’t forgotten.

she’s expecting an answer, but thomas says nothing, just wordlessly catches her jaw between his fingers and presses a rough kiss to her lips. they’re nearly the same height, it’s just that thomas is a tiny bit shorter than her, so there’s a slight upward tilt of his jaw. she pulls back, startled, wiping the saliva off with her shirtsleeves.

what was that for?

he grins. nothing. just missed you too much, that’s all.

she stares at him assessingly for a while, before turning away and sighing in a what do i do with you kind of way. she hoists herself up on the stallion. take the cart, thomas. i’ll ride.

second in command jumps into the cart and slouches in a corner. he kicks his boots up in the seat opposite him. the horse takes off, his head bumping against the headboard, and thomas looks at the sky and smiles.

**

once the two of them leave, they turn into awkward strangers, thoughts of will he won’t he thrumming in the air like they’re seventeen again.

balthazar takes the first step closer. lucien’s fingers are in a wrangled knot behind his back. it’s been half a year since he’s seen him, and half a year has done a lot to him. he’s tanner, of course due to the perpetual summer of myrr, and as a result, his hair’s lightened up and taken more brownish hue. it’s combed neatly behind his ears, so different from the when they first departed, when it was rough and tousled. lucien supposes there’s a certain decorum that needs to be maintained when one is the emissary of a kingdom. he supposes it must be an immense responsibility, trying to maintain political relations frequently drawn fraught from the continuous battle for food, water, land, resources. this must be why balthazar looks so clean cut and immaculate, not quite different, but just, unfamiliar.

lucien offers a nervous smile. long time no see.

balthazar laughs too. yes. how have you been?

just fine. i’ve been having such fun with thomas.

awkward pause. lucien clears his throat. his heart’s beating quite fast, for inexplicable reasons.

tea? he cuts in.

sure.

have a seat, it’ll only take a while.

lucien rushes into the kitchen, takes up the pot only to put it on the stove, and waits for it to boil. his hand clenches into a fist on the countertop. he can hardly find the right words to say to him after months of thinking about him and wishing he were beside him, collecting all of his thoughts so that he may pour them out to him on the day he finally returned, only to find that everything that has been pent up in his mind has funnelled down to an absolute speechlessness. he looks different. he looks… beautiful. golden brown and sharp-silhouetted, slender figured, brown eyes that weren’t extraordinary — they were an ordinary brown — except in the way that they seemed sharp and intelligent, unclouded and thrumming with a vitality. he hears footsteps behind him, and suppresses the immediate jolt of nervousness in his chest.

what brew is it? comes the voice.

chamomile, lucien replies.

oh. that’s nice. i love chamomile.

lucien doesn’t see him. he’s facing forward steadfastly, eyes trained on the pot, but his voice is calm and steady at his ear.

how was your time in myrr?

oh, it was, fine, balthazar says off-handedly, but it sounds like underlying his words is a stressful saga of power play and manipulation. lucien can only wonder. i met my mother again.

esmerelda.

balthazar makes a noise of assent. you know, for all that has happened, she’s an ordinary mother. she keeps pressurising me to find a girl, get married, continue the bloodline. she’s even been arranging blind dates for me, too. that’s one thing about mothers that doesn’t differ, whether you’re royal or not. incessant nagging.

a lump has evolved in lucien’s throat. met any girls you like?

no. not at all. they were nice, for sure, but well…

well?

not any ones i really liked enough.

relief floods lucien, though he’s still unsteady at the thought of balthazar, handsome and sharp and quick-witted, together with throngs of girls, fawning over him.

i’ve been speaking to thomas and zoya a lot now. they’re sort of my only company now that i can’t really travel out of the house while i’m recovering.

thomas, the voice says, considering. the new one. the second in command. he looks like trouble.

lucien shakes his head. he’s nice, i can tell, though he tries to put up a front.

silence, for a little while. the tea bubbles and broils.

how’s your recovery?

me? oh, it’s just fine. it’s not painful to walk, anymore.

and your hand?

lucien feels a warm hand on the small of his back, drawing reassuring circles with his thumb. his eyes squeeze shut.

oh, it’s getting better…

that’s good to hear… i’ve been worried about you.

balthazar’s hand comes up to curl around his stomach. lucien can feel him draw nearer, the warmth of his breath ghosting the shell of his ear, and the smell of citrus fills his nose. one hand rests on his navel, the other splayed across his chest as if sensing the nervous rhythm of lucien’s heart as it thumps lopsided against his delicate bones. balthazar sticks his nose in the crook of lucien’s neck and inhales.

luce. i’ve missed you.

lucien shudders. this what he’s been dreaming about, the unflappable and solid presence of balthazar pressed against him. warmth envelops him and his knees threaten to give way. his fingers are white-knuckled on the counter.

lucien’s entire body is coiled so tightly he can feel himself trembling. he doesn’t dare look up. he doesn’t want balthazar to see the look on his face and know, immediately, what lucien has been thinking about these past few months. his voice is scratchy.

i have too.

they stand around like that for a minute or two, soaking up each other’s presence, revelling in the fact that how, for this one moment, they aren’t faced with insurmountable obstacles or the threat of death, or how there isn’t an entire ocean separating them anymore. it’s just the two of them in the small kitchen, curled together in the shape of a single parenthesis. balthazar is warm, infinitely warm. he seems to radiate warmth. maybe his sun-soaked time in his home country has altered his body temperature.

balthazar’s lips drift over lucien’s ear, temple, cheek. the motion is languorous, a slow biding of time. lucien tilts his head back slightly so that balthazar’s lips land on his and they kiss, slow and deep, every moment feeling like everything come to fruition, all the loss and pain and sacrifice bearable, if only that this one thing might come out of it. balthazar’s mouth moves expertly, but lucien is too caught in a daze to consider this thought at a deeper level. his mind hones in on the point of contact where balthazar’s hand has slipped beneath the rough cotton of his shirt and is now tracing the planes on his stomach, fingers moving with such painful elegance lucien loses his mind for a little bit. he makes a noise which balthazar catches with his mouth and proceeds to suck on lucien’s bottom lip.

the hand roves deeper, following the faint trail of hair leading down to his navel and slipping beneath the hemline of his pants. lucien sucks in a sharp breath. balthazar works deftly, fingers long and elegant, knowing exactly where to touch to have lucien crying out only mere seconds later. he loses his balance and lands heavily back on balthazar. balthazar catches him. lucien’s cheeks burn.

i’m sorry, that was too fast —

balthazar kisses him quiet. it’s nothing.

let me do you, lucien insists.

it’s the inexperience. lucien doesn’t quite know what he’s doing, baz being the first one he’s ever done this sort of thing with before. his hand goes down balthazar’s pants, heart hammering against his chest, as he grabs on to him, warm and wet.

it’s okay if you don’t want to, balthazar says. lucien ignores him.

he repeats what balthazar did to him, although much clumsier and inexperienced than him, but with a determination to get it right. it takes a bit longer to get balthazar going, until there’s two spots of red burning on his cheekbones and he lets out a long-drawn sigh, body completely tense. his breaths grow shorter, and just before he comes, he puts a hand under lucien’s chin and tilts his face up. balthazar’s eyes are shining and his mouth parts, just so. his gaze is trained right on lucien. lucien’s breath hitches. he wishes he could suspend this moment in time, preserve it in amber, but then a second passes and warm wetness fills his hand.

the look on balthazar’s face knocks all the breath out of him. his face is rosy and glowing, eyes curled into crescents.

i love you, he whispers. tufts of brown hair come out of his carefully styled hairdo and flop down in front of his face. tentatively, lucien tucks one of them behind his ear. this is a different baz, not the calm, cool exterior he puts up in front of strangers. this one’s reserved just for him: quiet contentment, manifesting itself in the subdued glow of his eyes. learning balthazar cortez isn’t like trying to decipher the meaning of a painting, what with its loud expressions. it’s not about reading the splashes and tones of colour or the lines and shading. it’s quite like shutting your eyes and straining to hear something in the pin drop silence. it’s not something immediately evident, but its something that comes with practice and time.

eventually, between the both of them, there isn’t much center of gravity to go around anymore and both of them flop to the floor. by now, the kettle is shrieking bloody murder. lucien rests his head on baz’s chest.