Work Text:
Sometimes the worst kind of memory is the press of Athos’ body against him. Other times it’s his hands—not just because he hates Athos and wishes that he could have felt the bastard die in his, but because he also feels Athos looking at him.
Like he’s admiring his work.
When he dresses in the morning Beloc tries not to look too closely at what’s been done to him, all of Athos’ deliberate wounds that are no longer wounds, wrapping around his wrists like chains (bands of raised, white skin rubbed raw from struggling) or hanging like a cloak off his back (raised lines crossing over each other like a woven cloth). On his throat is a broken line of a scar from Before, when a man who thought he could do something with Beloc’s blood forced him to his knees and sliced him with a knife. If he hadn’t turned his head at just the right time, he wouldn’t have lived long enough for the skin to scar. (This was before Beloc learned to be careful with his magic. Then, it was just a warning about what could happen if he wasn’t careful—his mother demanding, Do you know what they’ll do to you? before smacking him, then grabbing his shoulders as if afraid that someone would somehow appear in their kitchen to give a demonstration of what they’ll do to you. Then it actually happened. It was a lesson, and he was lucky enough to survive to learn it. Some lessons couldn’t be survived: After, Beloc would realise how lucky he was again.) And another scar from Before: the deep lines running up the bottom half of his left leg, from where he fell through the rotting floor of a mostly abandoned building that he’d followed some cat into. How often was it that he saw an animal that size? His father, while he washed the gaping wound where a nail tore through Beloc’s scrawny calf, said that he was fucking lucky that he was so small, and skinny for his age, because otherwise he’d have fallen through the whole floor, and no one would have found him. He’d have decade, and no one would have even known where to look.
Athos never touched those scars. He really didn’t care about Beloc’s life outside the palace or who Beloc was before he was Athos’. Except, of course, when he made Beloc talk about it, while he was on his knees trying to keep the gasp out of his voice while Athos whipped him, or while Athos ran a cold hand across Beloc’s face, or the sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh; while his hands wrapped around parts of Beloc that no one should be touched while being forced to talk about their younger brother—although Beloc isn’t going to let himself think about that.
Not now; not ever again, if he can help it.
He steps away from where he was standing, as if he can step away from the memory. As if he can step away from Athos, like he couldn’t at the time.
Once, he thought that Athos didn’t care what happened to him at all. When he realised that Athos wouldn’t just execute him, Beloc figured that Athos was just waiting until he got bored and killed him. Or until he went too far and Beloc just died. A few times Beloc thought he wouldn’t be able to come back from how hurt he was, but he had it in his head that if he let himself die then Athos would take his brother as his next plaything, and so he clung on.
Beloc swallows, rubbing his throat. It’s over now. Forever. If Athos came back now, Beloc would be strong enough to kill him.
Although Athos won’t, because he’s dead.
He reaches for his shirt, pulling it over his head, and he’s buttoning up his jacket when he feels something draw him. Somewhere, he knows that he’s wanted, and it’s a not unfamiliar feeling. His stomach sinks. He turns toward the door, not because he’s forced to but because compared to that draw, that pull, everything about his quarters and even the fresh light streaming through the windows—the birds singing for the first time, the bright sky—everything loses its shape and colour, except for the direction that he’s being drawn to.
If Beloc ever looks out through his own window, or up to the sky, and is for a moment jerked out of his own thoughts into the present so that he can stare at how the light falls on the stone palace, or how the snow melts in rivulets on the street, then that’s nothing compared to how the throne room looks now. The sight of Holland Vosijk here, where Athos once sat, is not beautiful, just like it is not a relief, because neither of those words carry weight in his presence. Some tension leaves Beloc’s body as he draws closer to his king, the summons that Holland drew him in with lifting.
When Holland looks to Beloc, Beloc bows, then drops to one knee. (It never feels natural anymore, and he’s too aware of how he holds himself after the number of times that Athos ordered him to kneel like this. And then stand, and bow, and drop to his knee again. And grovel.)
“Your majesty,” Beloc says, pushing at the memories of Athos, although they don’t move.
A pause, then Holland says, “Rise, Beloc.”
Beloc obeys. He thinks it’s of his own will, but he remembers the searing pain when Holland lay a hand over his left eye. It’s a pain that was only ever matched by being bound.
Stupid. You wanted this.
It was Athos that pointed out that Beloc bears some resemblance to Holland—both stand taller than the average Maktahn man, both with dark hair. Now that colour has returned, the difference in their colouring is more obvious. But both have a black left eye, although the darkness in Beloc’s pours down his face while Holland’s sits clean and controlled.
“You summoned me,” Beloc prompts. Holland doesn’t speak much, but the silence as Holland studies him feels wrong. He doesn’t like being studied like that, especially not when the memory of Athos is so fresh that it’s like he’s standing here.
He thinks he can feel Athos wrap an arm around his shoulder, tracing the brand on his chest.
“Is something wrong?” Holland asks.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Beloc says. “You have use of me?”
“Yes,” Holland says, carefully. “It may be a lot to ask of you.”
“I’ll do it,” Beloc says automatically.
“Very well,” Holland says. “I trust you.”
If he wanted to bind you, would you let him?
Beloc tries to ignore the thought. Yes. He would. Holland gave him his freedom. It’s right that Beloc return it.
“How did you know,” Beloc suddenly asks, “that I wasn’t too ruined for this?” His hand hovers over his left eye, then touches the lines on his face.
Holland considers. “You pledged your loyalty to me. I thought you deserved to prove it.”
“So you gave me that chance.”
Holland nods.
“I won’t disappoint you,” Beloc says, thinking of how he could have burned from the inside out when Holland poured his magic into Beloc.
“It’s what you’re owed,” Holland says, and Beloc remembers that it was not just he who was bound. A sudden rush of warmth burns through him as he listens to Holland outline what it is that the king needs of his Antari. He’s pretty sure he’d do anything for this man, and he’s mostly sure that it isn’t because Holland is probably the only person in the world who sees more in him than just the ways that Athos changed him.