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“It seems like the party will still be going for a while,” the priest says, with that eternal saintly smile adorning his lying lips.
“So it seems,” Edmond answers simply.
Chaldea didn’t have that many occasions to hold fancy dinners and balls. When Humanity was narrowed to a single, tiny point lost in Antarctica, the resources and energy of humans and servants alike were usually put toward more important matters than frivolities like those. So when they happened, everyone was letting loose. Or well, almost.
Avenger always felt more at home in the shadows, far from the warmth of people, far from the songs and the laughers. Hearing them dimly from afar suits him better.
The hallways are dark and the decorum of the moon outside shines her frigid light on them, and Edmond can’t help but notice idly how it makes Amakusa’s white hair glow as if wearing a halo.
He wonders how many followers of God Amakusa had unknowingly — or knowingly, draped in allure and manipulation — tempted as a young boy. A dashing, holy figure fighting for a rebel faith in his country. How many saw those long, silky hair, dreaming to put their hands into it, touching the untouchable, despite believing in a religion that would condemn them for such vile desires.
Edmond had forsaken God himself a long time ago when revenge became his whole ego. Yet, even he could understand the enticement.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Amakusa says.
He dares ask, swirling the wine in his glass before taking a sip. Wine as crimson as his suit and the blood he shed in his human life. He shifts ever so slightly on the windowsill they’re both sitting on, turning toward Edmond to flash another one of his eternal smiles. Falsely candid and curious, this one.
“When are you going back there?” Edmond says. Curt and cold, yet there is no bite to it. And maybe Amakusa feels it, because he doesn’t look offended in the slightest.
“Believe it or not, I much prefer the peace and quiet of a lone moon-viewing than extravagant parties.” Amakusa’s voice is meek and soft, with a fluttering chuckle hanging in the echoing hallway.
And Avenger believes it, yes. For as holy the devious, vengeful priest tries to be, he is not that. Not anymore. He too belongs to the shadows now.
“Besides,” the man kept going, “do you not enjoy my company?”
It's no more a question than an affirmation. A knowledge already established, barely hidden as something else
“Must you ask? What a terrible saint you are, seeking the company and approval of someone like me.” Edmond sneers with a vile smile of his own.
He does like Ruler, indeed. He did admit it to their master. How much the man captivated him with his insatiable greed disguised as acts of mercy. How much he wanted to scream his name in frustration every time he would try to hide his intent under pretenses. Amakusa was every bit as much a vengeful spirit as himself, and it was magnificent. Yet there was this holier-than-thou act of his, that would drive Edmond crazy every time.
There is nothing prettier than vengeance flirting with good intentions and a wish to save the World, all in one being. Unlike himself, who is vengeance incarnate for the sake of one man, one pitiful man who acted out of desperation and anger, with nothing else to claim in his name.
There is nothing prettier — and uglier — than Amakusa and his insufferable, egoistical martyr complex.
There is nothing prettier than the sight of those dark gold eyes looking at him with a molten gaze that doesn't match his innocent smile.
Amakusa doesn’t even bother answering him. Which is a surprise. He is the kind that likes to hear himself talk, that priest. Blabbering sermons about a God he probably doesn’t really believe in anymore. Spouting lies like they are truths, then swallowing them back, as if he wished to believe them himself. Edmond sometimes hoped he could stop him by stealing his breath away, forcing his lips against his instead of letting him talk. Not that he cared about Amakusa well being in itself.
If nothing else, it was more about the curiosity of seeing his holy composure undone. The satisfaction of having a glimpse of that terribly human ugliness inside him, behind all the pretty words and affable laughs. It was about Amakusa admitting his hypocrisy in a moment of weakness that only Edmond would witness. Uncaring about humans, yet striving to save Humanity.
Their glasses are almost empty now, and Edmond just now realizes his own fingers tangled in the softness of Amakusa’s long, tied hair, brushing them idly.
Amakusa doesn’t smile anymore, but something in his body language — turned enough to face him, hand resting on the windowsill close, so close to Edmond’s knee, and half-lidded eyes looking at him with the indolence of icons — all of this tell Edmond that maybe Amakusa wants the same thing. To be undone by someone who could see through him.
Or maybe it was another one of the priest's calculations. A way to get the King of the Cavern, the same way he must have claimed so many men and women throughout his life.
Yet somehow, Edmond doesn’t feel like it is the case. Yes, Amakusa lies and manipulates. Yes, he hides under the pretense of the love of God. But he's still an indefectible good man. A very bad one. Who wishes to bring salvation from the bottom of his damn heart, while being absolutely terrible at it.
So it’s with very little hesitation that Edmond drags the white strands of hair against his lips, leaving a soundless kiss on it.
Before he’s even done, there is a sudden rustle of clothes, almost deafening in the still silence of the hallway, as Amakusa moves toward him.
The sensation of silk locks disappears, immediately replaced by the warm feeling of Amakusa’s own lips.
The position is a bit awkward, Edmond’s upper body leaning backward under the force and surprise of the situation, supported by his arms behind him against the window ledge, while Amakusa is half-straddling him. His own hands on the Avenger’s legs to both support his own body and propel himself forward, following the movement.
Amakusa kisses the same way he lives his life, with an underlying passion and desperation, concealed under a composed and controlled mask. At first slow and chaste, but determined, before getting deeper and more passionate as Edmond allows himself to melt into the sensation.
It tastes like the wine they both drank, but nothing more.
It’s fine that way, Avenger thinks. It allows him to focus more on the way Amakusa feels against him, totally straddling him now, and one hand moving upward, following the line of his waistcoat until it settles against his neck.
And it makes Edmond realize. How much Amakusa wanted this. Even if he tries hiding it under a spur-of-the-moment thing. Because when the religious man deepens the kiss even more, breath heated, eyes closed and face flushed, the taste of alcohol disappears and is replaced by sin. Sin coiling like snakes inside both of them.
Avenger doesn’t mind it. He already made his peace with his own sins. He isn’t sure the same applies to the Ruler.
When it’s over, Amakusa backs away just enough so Edmond can see the face he’s making. A mischievous smile and a look slightly too dazed and devious. He looks satisfied, and the moonlight hitting him from the side softens his features even more than what they already are.
It’s probably the closest to a divine being a human ever looked like, Edmond notes.
“Aren’t you a holy man?” Edmond’s voice is hoarse, but his tone is light, matter-of-factly. He certainly is in no position to say anything.
He is no judge, after all.
“Didn’t you say so yourself? I am a terrible saint. I wasn't even canonized,” Amakusa chuckles.
They look at each other, with no more words than that. They aren’t needed. What just happened was both calculated and a total surprise, for both of them. Somehow, Edmond thinks it was simply meant to happen.
The priest gently runs his fingers against Edmond’s cheek, once, before removing his weight from him and getting up for good, ready to head back.
When Amakusa quickly leans down to get his glass back, he does so in a way that allows him one final tease, being close enough that Edmond can feel the ghost of a breath against his skin. He has half a mind to grab Amakusa by the collar, forcing him down into another kiss, but by the time Avenger formulates that idea in his mind, the other man is already walking away, back toward the party, with one last smile before disappearing behind a corner.
It’s only then that Edmond lets a laugh escape from his throat, toasting his last remaining sips of wine to the fake moon that was their witness.