[ it doesn't register to him until a few minutes later that dimitri has left when he feels like he can have air in his lungs again. he could barely see him, anyway, after all the violence he unleashed on him in his rage.
sylvain takes huge, deep inhales of the air back into his lungs and stares at the darkness of the room, the ceiling barely visible in his pain. he's alive. dimitri didn't kill him. couldn't. or wouldn't. it reminds him of how some animals would save their prey for the long winter until they need to consume it during the leaner months. he feels oddly touched. saved, perhaps, out of some misplaced sense of sentimentality that the prince somehow remembered in his fury. as his enemy, and one who walks in red banners, general gautier thinks to himself: the prince is not invulnerable. this is a point of weakness i can exploit. i don't have to do anything, i just have to survive, and now i know i can hurt him, this is something i can bring back to hubert for us to ponder over and carry out more efficiently than i can ever do on my own. by now his men - some of them planted by the spymaster, he's pretty sure - must've sent a message to him already that the general has been taken hostage in exchange for his men. a noble gesture, but also, one that will cost hubert resources when the empire has so few of them, especially talented individuals who can lead, especially one with a crest and a relic weapon that can cleave battalions by themselves.
the pathetic boy in him is grieving. dimitri remembered me, the boy thinks. dimitri remembered me and felt something about it, and it wasn't his disappointment that kept him alive. it was something else.
and he dared not hope, but it was there: stubborn, persistent, traitorous. it coils around his guts and unwinds itself in the chambers of his heart to consider that there might be, still, something in there that he could rescue for himself. like sifting through sand in order to find ingots of gold, he felt brave and reckless and stupid and most of all, morally obliged, to hunt for his prince amongst the layers of beast and fur and blood.
but first.
he's alive.
sylvain rises, slowly, coughing out blood as he peels himself off the floor. he can move his limbs. nothing's broken, as far as he's concerned. his armour is killing him, and he has to deal with that: with dimitri's strength it's more of a hindrance than anything else, and if he removes it, perhaps he'll be more inclined to pity him considering he's not a threat anymore. (not like he's ever been - at least sylvain isn't foolish enough to say that for himself.) now that he knows he pities him, sylvain will exploit that for himself; not for the empire, but for himself and his selfish, greedy impulse to survive at any cost. he's done it in gautier. he's done it in conand tower. he'll do it here as well.
very, very slowly, he removes his armour and piles it on a heap on the side. he tries to stand up and stretch. the latter proves difficult, and he doesn't want to push himself, so he sighs and gives up, and gets on dimitri's bed, which smells musty and awful and he doesn't even know how he can withstand it; this coming from a man who've been sleeping from cot to cot wherever the empire drags its belly on the ground each time they make camp away from enbarr.
sylvain lies still on his bed. he touches his throat and feels each bruise, stinging on his skin and he thinks, he really is beautiful. dimitri had grown into his height, filled out his armour nicely and bulked up in his rage and strength. the kind of man he'd never had thought he'd grown into. even his hair, blond and drawn over his face like a wild mutt ... he's fond of it. if he cleaned up, he'd look good.
but what really stirs him is the fact that he probably hasn't looked at anyone the way he did earlier to sylvain in a very long time. he'd locked his door. he expected to come back to him. this isn't the first time sylvain's been with someone so persistent and bad for him it's almost laughable, but it is his first time having it be the prince of faerghus or what's left of him. and now he wears his colours on his skin, etched in his obsession and torment: faerghus blue and black making a necklace around his neck. it's the most committed someone's ever been with him, and is it any surprise that it was the same boy he'd fallen in love with in his youth? a torment that had consumed him so badly it unsettled him, made him feel like the ground beneath his feet has shifted to a degree that he can no longer be amongst the living because sylvain jose gautier never, doesn't, fall in love.
but he did. he did, and he did the most cowardly thing he can think of: he decided that he needed to do what's best for him, and left the only good thing in his life before he can ruin it utterly by existing. and in so doing, he damned himself. dimitri will be fine. there will be others to drag him out of this hell. but himself?
he does not belong to the empire. he doesn't belong to gautier. not his kingdom, not anymore. but he can belong to someone who would take the time to ponder in his grief whether he's worth killing. he can't remember when was the last time he'd felt something, but he certainly feels something worth sinking his fingers into like the way he did to dimitri's wound earlier. this, whatever this is, this horrible thing that they have - yes. it's worth something. it's worth lingering on. he doesn't even care that he's filthy. he just cares about the fact he's been betrayed.
nobody certainly provides the kind of intimacy dimitri in his rage does.
and the way he towers over him -
- sylvain slips his hand inside his pants. bites his lower lip as he massages the front of his cock thinking of his prince.
his hand around his neck.
fuck.
it's fine, isn't it? he's not going to come back, dimitri doesn't care, and if he changes his mind and kills him when he returns, then who cares if he does it after he's thoroughly disrespected the prince in his mind? because that's what he's doing right now, thinking about how the prince can put his strength to better use, thinking about how low and filthy that is, thinking about how unbearable it was to touch him and kiss him and whisper sweet nothings in his ear during their childhood because he's so - he's so - unattainable - and here he is now, scum of the earth, nobody would ever mistake him for a prince at all. that's bearable. that's attractive, because now, they're the same. they're equals. dimitri is nothing more than a beast and sylvain is a horrible man and he will deign to be devoured by this beast.
he spits on his palm and starts stroking his cock furiously to the thought of dimitri. small mercies that he probably isn't going to live this til tomorrow, but god. he can feel something, like this, if he thinks of him, and it wouldn't be such a bad way to die. he can remember what it's like, a glimmer of it, being in love. and isn't that great, isn't that fantastic, how warm they kept each other back then, childish and foolish the way they carried out their affairs in private, dimitri blushing as he tells him, i'll teach you how to kiss, here's how you jerk me off, watch me, your highness - and thinking of saying all of those words to the beast right now, undressing for him as he opens his mouth and sinks his teeth onto his skin. like this, sylvain would say. fuck me. eat me alive. i'm yours. i'm yours. i'm -
when dimitri comes back the unmistakeable scent of sex will hang hot and heavy in his room and sylvain wouldn't even bother putting his clothes back on. his slick is visible all over his bare thighs, and he falls asleep like that on his bed - naked, not a care in the world if dimitri would snap his neck then and there for the outrage. fuck him. fuck him, really. ]
no subject
sylvain takes huge, deep inhales of the air back into his lungs and stares at the darkness of the room, the ceiling barely visible in his pain. he's alive. dimitri didn't kill him. couldn't. or wouldn't. it reminds him of how some animals would save their prey for the long winter until they need to consume it during the leaner months. he feels oddly touched. saved, perhaps, out of some misplaced sense of sentimentality that the prince somehow remembered in his fury. as his enemy, and one who walks in red banners, general gautier thinks to himself: the prince is not invulnerable. this is a point of weakness i can exploit. i don't have to do anything, i just have to survive, and now i know i can hurt him, this is something i can bring back to hubert for us to ponder over and carry out more efficiently than i can ever do on my own. by now his men - some of them planted by the spymaster, he's pretty sure - must've sent a message to him already that the general has been taken hostage in exchange for his men. a noble gesture, but also, one that will cost hubert resources when the empire has so few of them, especially talented individuals who can lead, especially one with a crest and a relic weapon that can cleave battalions by themselves.
the pathetic boy in him is grieving. dimitri remembered me, the boy thinks. dimitri remembered me and felt something about it, and it wasn't his disappointment that kept him alive. it was something else.
and he dared not hope, but it was there: stubborn, persistent, traitorous. it coils around his guts and unwinds itself in the chambers of his heart to consider that there might be, still, something in there that he could rescue for himself. like sifting through sand in order to find ingots of gold, he felt brave and reckless and stupid and most of all, morally obliged, to hunt for his prince amongst the layers of beast and fur and blood.
but first.
he's alive.
sylvain rises, slowly, coughing out blood as he peels himself off the floor. he can move his limbs. nothing's broken, as far as he's concerned. his armour is killing him, and he has to deal with that: with dimitri's strength it's more of a hindrance than anything else, and if he removes it, perhaps he'll be more inclined to pity him considering he's not a threat anymore. (not like he's ever been - at least sylvain isn't foolish enough to say that for himself.) now that he knows he pities him, sylvain will exploit that for himself; not for the empire, but for himself and his selfish, greedy impulse to survive at any cost. he's done it in gautier. he's done it in conand tower. he'll do it here as well.
very, very slowly, he removes his armour and piles it on a heap on the side. he tries to stand up and stretch. the latter proves difficult, and he doesn't want to push himself, so he sighs and gives up, and gets on dimitri's bed, which smells musty and awful and he doesn't even know how he can withstand it; this coming from a man who've been sleeping from cot to cot wherever the empire drags its belly on the ground each time they make camp away from enbarr.
sylvain lies still on his bed. he touches his throat and feels each bruise, stinging on his skin and he thinks, he really is beautiful. dimitri had grown into his height, filled out his armour nicely and bulked up in his rage and strength. the kind of man he'd never had thought he'd grown into. even his hair, blond and drawn over his face like a wild mutt ... he's fond of it. if he cleaned up, he'd look good.
but what really stirs him is the fact that he probably hasn't looked at anyone the way he did earlier to sylvain in a very long time. he'd locked his door. he expected to come back to him. this isn't the first time sylvain's been with someone so persistent and bad for him it's almost laughable, but it is his first time having it be the prince of faerghus or what's left of him. and now he wears his colours on his skin, etched in his obsession and torment: faerghus blue and black making a necklace around his neck. it's the most committed someone's ever been with him, and is it any surprise that it was the same boy he'd fallen in love with in his youth? a torment that had consumed him so badly it unsettled him, made him feel like the ground beneath his feet has shifted to a degree that he can no longer be amongst the living because sylvain jose gautier never, doesn't, fall in love.
but he did. he did, and he did the most cowardly thing he can think of: he decided that he needed to do what's best for him, and left the only good thing in his life before he can ruin it utterly by existing. and in so doing, he damned himself. dimitri will be fine. there will be others to drag him out of this hell. but himself?
he does not belong to the empire. he doesn't belong to gautier. not his kingdom, not anymore. but he can belong to someone who would take the time to ponder in his grief whether he's worth killing. he can't remember when was the last time he'd felt something, but he certainly feels something worth sinking his fingers into like the way he did to dimitri's wound earlier. this, whatever this is, this horrible thing that they have - yes. it's worth something. it's worth lingering on. he doesn't even care that he's filthy. he just cares about the fact he's been betrayed.
nobody certainly provides the kind of intimacy dimitri in his rage does.
and the way he towers over him -
- sylvain slips his hand inside his pants. bites his lower lip as he massages the front of his cock thinking of his prince.
his hand around his neck.
fuck.
it's fine, isn't it? he's not going to come back, dimitri doesn't care, and if he changes his mind and kills him when he returns, then who cares if he does it after he's thoroughly disrespected the prince in his mind? because that's what he's doing right now, thinking about how the prince can put his strength to better use, thinking about how low and filthy that is, thinking about how unbearable it was to touch him and kiss him and whisper sweet nothings in his ear during their childhood because he's so - he's so - unattainable - and here he is now, scum of the earth, nobody would ever mistake him for a prince at all. that's bearable. that's attractive, because now, they're the same. they're equals. dimitri is nothing more than a beast and sylvain is a horrible man and he will deign to be devoured by this beast.
he spits on his palm and starts stroking his cock furiously to the thought of dimitri. small mercies that he probably isn't going to live this til tomorrow, but god. he can feel something, like this, if he thinks of him, and it wouldn't be such a bad way to die. he can remember what it's like, a glimmer of it, being in love. and isn't that great, isn't that fantastic, how warm they kept each other back then, childish and foolish the way they carried out their affairs in private, dimitri blushing as he tells him, i'll teach you how to kiss, here's how you jerk me off, watch me, your highness - and thinking of saying all of those words to the beast right now, undressing for him as he opens his mouth and sinks his teeth onto his skin. like this, sylvain would say. fuck me. eat me alive. i'm yours. i'm yours. i'm -
when dimitri comes back the unmistakeable scent of sex will hang hot and heavy in his room and sylvain wouldn't even bother putting his clothes back on. his slick is visible all over his bare thighs, and he falls asleep like that on his bed - naked, not a care in the world if dimitri would snap his neck then and there for the outrage. fuck him. fuck him, really. ]