abraxaslogs | [ OPEN ] the fate of the game is moving my way.

Between the everyday duties and distractions each of them is necessarily caught up in, it's some time before Rhy can make good on his promise to visit Ronan in his room again. He's seen glimpses of the other man over the last couple of days, though they always kept missing each other somehow, and Rhy is only barely above sprinting down the hallway because he saw a flash of Ronan's coat disappearing around a corner.

In the meantime, he's been spending his days practicing diligently, now that the magic has actually started responding to him. He offers his services at the infirmary -- though it's less an offer and more an informal apprenticeship when one of the healers finally allows him to help out. He reads in the gardens, trying to pick up as much about Thornean culture and history as he can. Occasionally, he trains in the yard, just to keep himself moving, though all swordsmanship Rhy knows is ceremonial at best. Bored of the castle, he's also gone out to the city below a few times, mingling with the locals, realizing he doesn't... have any money of his own. A problem for later. (Rhy's never worked a day in his life.)

Eventually, the stars align. It's only been a handful of days, but to Rhy, it feels like weeks since he spent that pleasant morning in Ronan's bed. They meet briefly at breakfast, and when Rhy inquires if Ronan will be free to share a drink in the afternoon, he gets a response that makes his heart sing.

Rhy shows up with a full bottle of brandy, alongside the customary bottle of wine. He can be very charming when he wants to be, and someone in the kitchen apparently agrees.

If he had a single functioning brain cell, Ronan might've thought twice about allowing Rhy back into his orbit. He's more or less remedied the matter with Kylo, but the shadow of a bruise fading around his throat is a daily reminder of his transgression. Just because the score is settled doesn't mean he's actually been forgiven, and risking another misstep is downright stupid.

But Ronan is an idiot, after all, greeting Rhy with a crooked little smile as he opens the door. He's suffering from the kind of butterflies he associates with his high school years, nerves and excitement in equal parts. He's decidedly not charming, only unnaturally beautiful, so all he's got to say is a bashful, "Hey."

Cute.

"Hello," Rhy returns with amused politeness, fighting a smirk of his own.

He sweeps in as soon as Ronan steps aside to let him, his wine-red half cloak billowing behind him. Since he'd figured out how to pester the various castle staff for clothing, Rhy's acquired a decent collection -- not nearly as lavish or tailored as he's used to, but it'll do. He often wears reds and golds, Arnesian colors, with splashes of whites or blacks, but even if he isn't wearing his signature colors, Rhy hates being dressed blandly. No all black for him, thanks.

Once the drinks are set down, Rhy turns with a flourish, immediately reaching out to Ronan meaning to grab him by the waist and pull him close.

"You look even more splendid than you did this morning. Tell me: how have you managed to grow more beautiful in a mere handful of hours?"

"Absence something something fonder or whatever," Ronan replies wryly, though his cheeks grow several shades pinker. He coils his arms around Rhy and draws him close, starved for contact after all those days apart. Something in Ronan's heart feels more settled with Rhy pressed up close to his chest, proximity making all the difference between contentment and the lack of it.

As for beauty, Ronan is so consistently shocked by Rhy's that it feels like he grows more beautiful minute by minute. But he can't think of any way to say so without sounding corny as hell, so he simply takes Rhy by the chin and kisses him. It's a kiss that's naked in its longing, slow and savoring after his days of fasting, yet it's not nearly enough to sate his appetite.

He has to take small portions today. Even denying himself satisfaction might not be good enough. Elsewhere in the castle, he knows, Kylo can feel the desire radiating from him. Kylo also knows, without a doubt, the target of that desire. Ronan has to be careful not to fall victim to Rhy's thrall again and give himself away without permission.

So the kiss is shorter than he wants it to be. When it breaks, he touches his forehead to Rhy's and warns, "Just drinks today. For real."

Rhy laughs, low and easy, letting Ronan gather him up against his chest and sliding his arms to lock his fingers around the small of Ronan's back as they kiss. It is slow and sensual, tasting of longing and lust, and Rhy cannot be blamed for looking a little taken aback when they part and Ronan insists on just drinks.

He draws away slightly, mostly just to be able to see Ronan without having to look up too far. The faintest crease has appeared between Rhy's shapely brows.

"If something the matter?"

"There's something I should've told you."

Maybe Rhy can already guess. Part of it, at least. Ronan cups his cheek, watching the worry make its way across those beautiful features, doing his best to soothe them away with a caress.

"It's... a lot. You might wanna sit down and crack open a bottle first."

Rhy sighs. "Very well."

He doesn't have to be convinced to drink. He'd only hoped the occasion and the atmosphere of said drinking would be happier this time.

As it seems they'll need something stronger than the wine, Rhy goes for the brandy, popping open the bottle. Ronan had provided cups last time; this time, Rhy doesn't bother. He just sits on the edge of the bed and drinks, the sharpness of the strong liquor hitting his tongue too sobering to start.

His free hand waves vaguely at Ronan, a habitual sort of gesture, a wordless go on, then.

In truth, he doesn't know what Ronan is about to say. Best to get it out in the open before his imagination takes the self-doubt and runs with it.

Ronan doesn't sit, his body itching to move and work out some of his nerves while he struggles to figure out just how to go about explaining everything. He fidgets with his leather bracelets and looks anywhere other than Rhy while he talks, because if starts to see distress halfway through a sentence, he might abort the entire mission.

"Kylo's not just some roommate I'm hooking up with," he begins, hot shame already twisting itself up in his gut. "He's not even my boyfriend. He's..."

This is one of those things that's going to get lost in translation, isn't it? Rhy probably grew up with a whole different set of myths and folktales. He'll probably get just as lost as he was when Ronan brought up his Catholic guilt.

"You ever heard of a deal with the Devil? Mephistopheles? Rumpelstiltskin?"

Kylo. Rhy's shoulders tense. Is that the issue? Perhaps Ronan promised himself to Kylo and then failed to tell Rhy that they were-- well, clearly not exclusive, considering the baths, but perhaps Kylo preferred to be involved.

Before he can ask, already trying to think of ways to make this work, Ronan continues. And derails Rhy's thoughts completely with... utter nonsense.

Rhy stares at him blankly.

"I've heard of a devil. Not the rest."

"Whatever," Ronan sighs, heaving a big shrug. "It doesn't matter. I guess what I'm getting at is..."

Despite his best efforts, his gaze creeps back to Rhy. This is going to sound bad. How could it not? He doesn't have his father's talent for weaving stories of horror into poetry. He doesn't know any way to say it other than just saying it.

"Kylo made a pact with me. He's my master."

At least Rhy doesn't exactly look distressed-- mostly just subtly confused, uncertain. His usually expressive face has shuttered, his grip on the bottle tight where he rests it on his knee.

"I do not follow."

He says this gently, almost apologetically, trying not to let the tension bleed through to his tone.

"What kind of pact?"

Ronan gestures a little abracadabra jazzhands when he answers, "Magic."

Given Rhy's confusion, he's thinking he should have just skipped this whole part. Maybe he could've gotten away with making it sound like a BDSM thing. But it's starting to feel important, considering how much he really likes Rhy, that the truth is understood as best it can be.

"I serve him," Ronan continues, finally taking a seat beside Rhy. "I belong to him. Like a really sexy houseplant that gives him stuff."

Magic, Ronan says, as if it explains everything. It only adds more questions.

Rhy's lips press together, the furrow between his brows growing deeper. He understands the urge to be flippant but doesn't laugh, stuck in that thoughtful, concerned expression as Ronan joins him on the edge of the bed. Rhy hands him the bottle.

"Did you choose to serve him?"

Ronan takes a swig from the bottle and immediately passes it back. Rhy needs it more than he does. The concern on his face is too much to bear and Ronan would really love to get to the part where he's smiling again.

The trouble is, of course, Rhy's misunderstanding him.

"I didn't just choose it," Ronan says. "I'm the one who made the offer."

He takes the bottle automatically, lifting it partway to drink on habit before deciding to wait. Rhy sets it on his knee again, fingers curled around the neck, and turns to look at Ronan fully. His golden eyes search Ronan's face when he answers, some instinctive part of him trying to make sure, as if he can just tell. Of course, all he has to go on are Ronan's words.

He'd asked. Ronan, insisting he does not lie, had answered.

Rhy lifts the bottle finally, takes a drink, and leans over to set it on the nightstand. Some of the tension across his shoulders has eased.

"If it is an arrangement between you and him that you've asked for, it's not something I should be concerned about."

There is a question wrapped not-so-subtly in that statement: Should I?

"Well..."

Things have gotten so much more complicated since the Dimming. Ronan had been so happy with his situation, so pleased with his devoted protector. He'd wanted for nothing.

Then the Singularity started going dark and Ronan got hungry.

He leans closer, until his chin nearly comes to rest on Rhy's shoulder. "I violated the agreement," he confesses, "when I gave myself to you."

There's no need to get into the details of the consequences. They're not exactly a secret, but they're also not Rhy's business. Kylo and Ronan have settled it between them, except for the next part, which is entirely Rhy's choice to make.

Ronan continues, "It's alright with him if you want to be with me again. But, um..." And this is embarrassing. It's not a demand that sounds natural coming from his mouth, at least not to his own ears. He can feel his face growing hot before he gets the words out.

"He says you have to beg him."

The warmth radiates off Ronan's body in the sliver of space between them, his breath against Rhy's cheek. Rhy can't see most of his face, largely hidden in the closeness, but Ronan might see Rhy's jaw tighten. His fingers itch for the bottle, but he's stupidly set it back down. Instead, they curl in fists against his own thighs.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

And then, with a sudden jerk away from Ronan so he can stare at him with full bewilderment:

"Beg him?!"

Ronan leans back again, putting his weight on one arm as he regards Rhy without an ounce of surprise at the indignation. Rhy had never struck him as the begging type — which is probably why that was Kylo's requirement.

"Or we could just be friends," he says, "and you can forget all that stuff I said."

Which he's wishing he'd just skipped over. He could have led with this and avoided a whole weird thing, like he avoided a whole weird thing the other day by not mentioning Kylo at all.

"I didn't tell you because I didn't know I needed to. I'm not supposed to tell anyone about him and I didn't think he'd care. It seemed like it'd be better to just not freak you out like I'm freaking you out right now."

"You didn't know you needed to, but it broke the terms of your pact?"

Rhy sounds agitated, but not quite accusatory. Frustrated, like he's trying to figure out what he isn't getting.

"That hardly seems fair."

"It was my mistake," Ronan says. Let there be no doubt about that. "I should have asked him."

It would be so much easier to explain if Rhy shared any of his cultural touchstones. Every comparison he can think to make is one that will probably confuse Rhy further. Why did he bother?

"It doesn't matter. That part's done. I just wanted you to know I'm not turning you down because of anything you did."

"I... appreciate you telling me," Rhy says slowly, clearly still processing. What exactly is the magic binding them, he wonders. The pact. There is a discomfort that prickles inside his throat, and Rhy swallows it down, taking a purposeful breath.

"And you get no choice in this matter?"

Ronan puffs out a breath. He's not sure where he's losing Rhy on this. Maybe it's one of those things that's impossible to understand until it happens firsthand.

"I made my choice," he corrects. "Seven months ago, when I offered him the deal."

"I think it would help me to understand if you explain the deal," Rhy suggests carefully. He's not sure if Ronan is willing to do that.

"I don't want to do anything that would hurt you. Even accidentally. I need to understand the rules."

"You won't hurt me," Ronan assures him, reaching out to lay a soothing hand on Rhy's thigh. "Listen, none of this is anything to worry about. But if you really want to know what you are or aren't allowed to do with me, Kylo's the one you gotta ask."

Rhy's hand rests on top of Ronan's. He holds that electric blue gaze, beseeching.

"Ronan. I am asking what you want."

backdated to mid-jan.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject