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It's 2018. Late 2018… Maybe. Probably. These days, it was hard to pinpoint what day it was exactly. You were on an island Pagan had purchased for his retirement from being the King of Kyrat. What with the constant sunshine and nice weather, it was hard to tell exactly what time of year it was.
Pagan had a calendar in the villa that he used to keep track of time (It went to the year 3000. Which you thought was ridiculous.). It wasn't needed, because while you were on an island in the middle of the ocean, it wasn't without the "necessities".
There were solar panels that were used to power the house, there were satellites that adorned the roof of the villa that could pick up stations halfway across the world, 4 swimming pools, a tennis and basketball court, and of course, Internet Access. Pagan couldn't live without access to Netflix, Prime, HBO GO, Hulu-... all of the subscription services. He had all of them.
Most days for Pagan are spent at the villa, enjoying one of the many activities he could while there.
As it stands, though, you were sitting on the edge of the sand at your favorite beach on the island. It had nice tide pools you enjoyed exploring when the option is made available to you. You were enjoying rereading one of your favorite books, one that Pagan had first introduced you to.
Today, you had been able to convince Pagan to come out with you, and while he was in the shade far away from the ocean's side… he was there. A nice steady presence behind you. He had a radio sitting beside him blaring music in order to be heard over the raging sound of the crashing waves.
The water laps up to your ankles and startles you from your book you had been engrossed in.
You had been sitting on the edge for hours, and the tide apparently had time to rise up to meet you. To be be fair, it was a good book. And Pagan's choice of music had really lulled you into a sense of bliss that left you ignorance of the passage of time.
You sigh, and lean back, your book now momentarily forgotten as you instead focused on the radio behind you and the waves crashing in front of you. It was playing ABBA, one of Pagan's favorite artists. You're not surprised about that, if you're being honest. He adored most music in the same sort of genre, the over the top ballads and upbeat songs being his go to jams. You suppose it did fit his drama queen personality, though.
You lay down against the sand, and your head lulls back in order to focus on getting a good look of Pagan from behind you in the shade tree that he often frequented these days.
For a man that bought a tropical island to spend his retirement on, he didn't really enjoy exploring the edges of the island, or the ruins of the former village, or the small mountain tops that littered the island, or even swimming.
No, he much more enjoyed sitting down in the shade reading through Vogue, a magazine he specifically had shipped to the island monthly. When he didn't have a new copy to peruse he often would pick up a book, but for now, being at the beginning of the month it was, it was time for his magazine.
Pagan had let his guard down on the island, no longer fearful of assassins around the corner, or an uprising in the shadows. He was just allowed to be himself.
The only other people on this island were a few farmers, chefs, repairmen, and cleaners who kept the island's villa and guesthouse up and running… and well, Gary. (You weren't sure Gary's exact job title, he just kind of did whatever Pagan wanted him to. He was deeply devoted to the former king.) There were shipments of whatever exotic item Pagan were craving, but for the most part you were incredibly self reliant.
You didn't have a care in the world on the island, it was bliss. While it was humid, you, unlike Pagan, enjoyed the island for what it was. You explored, and swam, and even had your own little garden by the house… Perhaps that's why he had picked the island, if he didn't himself enjoy the activities?
Pagan was still Pagan, though, somehow always able to tell when eyes were on him from years of being on the run. It was like he had a sixth sense for the thing. So, after a moment, his magazine slides down and he meets your eyes with a questioning look.
You're confident that if It weren't for the deafening noise of the ocean and ABBA drowning out any possible noise that he could make, he would perhaps teasingly ask what you were doing watching him, but as it stands he simply smirks, motions for you to take up the space beside him, and slides the magazine back up after a moment.
There was an empty seat beside him, across from the table where the radio sat. It was an over the top lawn chair, incredibly expensive and adorned in exotic metals in the frame with your name embroidered into the fabric covering the cushions. A set of seats fit for a king and his spouse.
You let out a chuckle at his overconfidence, knowing that he was now waiting for you to join him, but sure enough, after a few seconds you do stand up and make your way over. You couldn't deny, his company did sound preferable to the crashing waves and small sea creatures that had washed up on shore.
You wipe as much of the sand off your body as you can while you walk, and when you end up in front of Pagan you're left with two choices. As it stands, you could easily take the chair beside him, the one that he was motioning for you to take, but the area between his legs looks too tempting for you not to at the very least try.
It wasn't often he denied you anything you wanted, so you're fairly certain he won't push you away if you attempt to share the seat.
You lean down, sitting down at the space between his legs. When Pagan realizes what you're doing, the magazine slides up slightly to make room when you start to slide between his spread legs. You gently lay your back against his stomach and your head against the lower part of his chest. Your arms fall against his thighs where they surround you, essentially making makeshift arm rests.
You half expect him to simply move the magazine up to your head and use it as a sort of stand, as he has done before when you've interrupted his reading by doing similar feats. He especially did it when you were back on Kyrat, where his task had to do more with life and death rather than whatever Vogue was featuring this month. He throws the magazine to the side table, and tangles a hand into your hair, beginning to stroke the strands.
You push gently up into his hand, nuzzling back into his chest with a satisfied smile. Now this, this, was nice. Pagan normally only gave intimacy when it was first initiated, he rarely reached out. He was normally a reserved person, and before you had moved to the island he enjoyed showing his affection in other ways. Mostly monetarily, but his kind words did also hold a sort of reverence for only you.
Pagan can't help teasing you though, always finding a way to do so when at all possible. As it was, with you pushing back into his hand with contentedness, it wasn't hard for him to find something to point out. "Needy." He breathed, but the word was spoken with such fondness that he carried with him in nearly every breath.
He would never readily admit it, but you knew he liked it when he felt needed. Wanted. Before, when he was king, he had hundreds of people constantly reaffirming him. You tried to fill in where you could, and you're sure he understood exactly what you were doing. If he did, he didn't comment on it.
***
You're half asleep when the noise of the radio's static alerts you. You jerk against Pagan's body at the sudden change, surprised. It's cut out from Dancing Queen to a sort of alert noise that's taken the place of ABBA's voices.
Pagan's hand stops it's careful and calculated strokes, and he offers a glare to the radio. "What?" He grumbles, seemingly to the object as though it would answer him back.
As it is, you make no move to get up in order to inspect the radio, but instead watch it with confusion. Perhaps it had somehow switched stations to something else? Maybe it lost signal?
It beeps again and a voice starts speaking, sounding panicked when it does so.
"There has been a nuclear attack on United States soil," You hear what sounds like the person shuffling papers.
You move forward, sitting on the edge of the seat now with bated breath. The lazy afternoon turning into the most stress you've had in years.
The voice starts up again after a moment. It doesn't sound any less nervous than it had previously. "It appears to been a direct retaliation from North Korea as a recent change in policy-"
The radio cuts out, and static takes it's place. You stare at it for a moment, your eyes widened with disbelief.
You had known about the rising nuclear threat of the other countries, but you never thought it would come to this. Sure, there would be alerts on the radio occasionally interrupting the stream of music that Pagan had playing, but… they were never like this. Never this severe.
You look at Pagan now, unsure of how to react to news of one of the biggest countries in the world being nuked. Millions other casualties, what with the tech that existed nowadays. There would undoubtedly be retaliation from the United States as well, thereby creating more death. Destruction.
Eventually, Pagan's arm reaches forward and he switches the radio over to the CD that he had in the device, and ABBA once again overtakes the noise of the waves in the background. He was never without his contingencies.
"Well, that's unfortunate." Pagan says, his voice not sounding the least bit sorry or worried. "A real shame." He says, reaching forward as to pick the Vogue magazine he had dropped when you plopped down into his lap.
You reach over to the radio and turn it down, but not off. He would complain if you turned it off entirely.
"Pagan." You say, your voice patient.
Still, he doesn't look up at you, he offers nothing but a simple hum in response, dismissively.
Your eyes narrow at him now, and while you want to take the magazine away and throw as far into the ocean as you can at his blasé attitude to all of this, you restrain yourself to moving a single finger over to his magazine and gently sliding it down, until his eyes meet yours again with a roll that doesn't go missed by you.
He looks entirely unimpressed. "It wasn't my fault, why are you looking at me like that, darling?" Pagan asks, his voice sounding almost annoyed. "I can't control what other countries do, hell, I can't even control what Kyrat does anymore-"
"Pagan," You start, effectively cutting him off, a sigh being unable to hold itself in. "We should still talk about what this means." You say, and after nothing but a raise of his eyebrow in question, you continue. "I mean, they are undoubtedly going to retaliate, and that means that most of the rest of the world is fucked."
Pagan, once again rolls his eyes. You want to hurt him. (Not really, but, still… He's being an asshole.)
His tone is still unworried when he speaks. "It won't reach us here, we're in the middle of nowhere." He assures you, but it's said like someone might talk to a child. As if it's obvious. "And, God-forbid if they drop one close enough for fallout to reach us, we'll simply move to the underground shelter. It has food and water enough for 30 people for another 30 years, the same as the one in Kyrat that Ajay is undoubtedly occupying currently..." He chuckles, and shrugs. "Hell, I believe the one here has it's own set of swimming pools as well, among other things."
He moves a hand to your shoulder and pats it softly. "We'll be fine." And with that, he has the magazine back up. A hand blindly reaches out and the radio is back to the volume it was before.
You believed him when he said you would be fine. The rest of the world might be going to shit, but here, on the island in the middle of nowhere, Pagan's retirement would not be interrupted. He couldn't save the world, society may be collapsing around him, but he could protect what was important to him. His world.
...Pagan never was without his contingencies.