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Tristen didn’t want to be forgiven.
Forgiveness was for people who deserved it—earned it? He couldn’t tell anymore, only that he kept not looking at Callum, not glancing sideways when they occupied the same room, always accidentally or so it seemed. Callum never got up and departed when that happened because of course he didn’t. He probably enjoyed Tristen’s discomfort and feelings of not-guilt, probably rolled them around on his tongue and tasted their relative sweetness or bitterness or what the fuck ever.
The only one who would look at Callum, who would talk to Callum at all, was Parisa. She did so gloatingly at times, at others openly frank. She had won; he had lost. He had shown strength when weakness was what everyone preferred—or maybe not weakness so much as vulnerability.
There had to be a reason, out of all of them, that Tristan had fucked as many of the six as Parisa. Tristen understood he was vulnerability incarnate.
Anyway.
With Libby gone (for now) life went on in the Society’s walls, with study and lectures and theories and books—seemingly endless books. Life, but suspended too, because Nico wasn’t loud anymore, not banging around or sparring with Reina like he used too. Parisa was quieter too, even more watchful than before if possible. Callum alone seemed more present than ever, as though intentionally reminding them all of himself: the one whom they had chosen to kill.
And Tristen had picked Callum because, well, who else? Callum was as close to the devil as they had. And as well as the empath claimed to know people, to feel them inside and out, he clearly didn’t, given that he had mistaken a need for reassurance as a need for strength.
At least Tristen wasn’t afraid of him anymore. Fear was only of the unknown and now, finally, Tristen knew exactly what Callum was: not as smart as he thought.
-
It was weeks before they were alone together.
Tristen entered the library and found Callum there, not studying obviously but rather drinking while looking through some text in Ancient Greek—a language which Tristen did not think Callum actually read. He glanced up perfunctorily at Tristen’s entrance, though Tristen knew he felt them all coming a mile away.
What must it be like, to feel everyone and not feel yourself? Was it lonely?
“I’m not lonely,” Callum said irritably.
It was the first emotion besides smugness and mock-deference he had displayed since Libby’s disappearance (Tristen wouldn’t call it a death because it wasn’t, and not because Nico wouldn’t permit it to be—though, of them all, Nico was probably the one who could have altered the reality of the universe by sheer force of will).
Tristen could have left the library then. Probably he should have, because whatever Callum was up to now—or ever—likely wasn’t good.
Instead of leaving, Tristen stepped forward. His footsteps were soft on the oriental carpet as he walked towards the sideboard to pour himself some wine—no, liquor. He didn’t need magical empathy to feel Callum shift in his seat, interest perked if only slightly.
“What’s this then?” Callum asked, feigning boredom but clearly not well enough that he expected Tristen to believe it. “Coming to call a fake truce? You know I won’t buy it.”
“No,” Tristen said, and walked over to sit in the leather armchair beside him. “I’m not sorry. And I don’t want your forgiveness.”
“Good. Because you don’t have it.”
“Fine.”
“And never will.”
“Okay.”
“Ever.”
Tristen raised his eyebrows and took a sip of his drink—acknowledging Callum’s attempt at humor without actually giving in to it.
But maybe it was a good thing, them meeting here like this. Maybe they could talk like before, prior to the night with the knife and the perverse magic. Maybe they could be friends again, and Tristen warmed embarrassingly at the nostalgia of that.
“You don’t really want it back though,” Callum said lazily. “I mean, go ahead and lie to yourself. But you don’t.”
Tristen held his glass on the arm of the chair. The condensation radiated outward on the leather like a darkening halo. He exhaled.
“Oh yeah? And what do I want, then?”
“People to want you.” Callum smiled slightly. “What everyone wants.”
“Not Reina.”
“You just don’t know who Reina wants to want her.” He spoke cautiously, as though treading lightly into a renewed form of casualness. “For some people, it’s amorphous and vast. Parisa, for example: she wants everyone to want her all the time. A greedy one. Nico wants just a few, intensely and unknowingly, like the craving for some particular drug. He’s an idiot, by the way.”
Tristen didn’t much care about Nico. “And you?”
Callum gave him a wry look. “Do you think that choosing me to die means you get to psychoanalyze me?”
Tristen raised his eyebrows. “Do you want people to want you?”
Callum hummed a little, and finished his drink. “Worse than Parisa.” The ice clicked against his teeth. “But I don’t make it happen, do I?”
Tristen smiled grimly. “She doesn’t induce people to suicide.”
Callum stood. For a moment, Tristen thought he would leave. But then he paused to turn back. His chin was raised slightly, as though defiant.
“Me on my knees.” His voice was calm, cool. “Is that what you want, Tristen? Me on my knees begging you for forgiveness?”
Tristen stiffened as heat crept up to his face. Callum took a step closer to Tristen’s legs, about an inch apart, and nudged them wider. He reached for Tristen’s glass and finished the drink in a swallow then set it on the side table.
“After all this time, do you think I can’t feel you?” Callum tilted his head to the side, blonde hair tilting. “Really?”
“I think you can.” Tristen’s mouth was dry. He wished Callum hadn’t finished his drink.
Callum dropped to his knees, one then the other. He rested there, one hand on either of Tristen’s thighs—Tristen had worn khakis today, and a crisp white button down shirt.
“Is this where I should be?” Callum’s voice was softer now, and there was a theatrical edge to his tone. He set his elbows on Tristen’s thighs and brought his hands together in the mockery of praying hands. “‘Please, please Tristen…’” He begged in falsetto. “‘Please forgive me for not wanting to die. For almost choosing my life over yours.’”
Tristen wanted to move, sort of, but was prevented by the idea of just what Callum would see if he shifted only a little—which wasn’t his fault, really, but the reaction of any sane man to having someone as pretty as Callum kneeling between their legs.
“Ask for it,” Callum said, and he’d dropped his taunting hands.
“What?” Tristen’s voice was hoarse and his throat tight. “An apology?”
Callum’s smile was just withheld. “What you want.” His hands traveled lightly, fingers exploratory: crawling over Tristen’s shirt, picking at the buttons; his belt, at the brass buckle; the zipper of his slacks.
Shakily, Tristen reached out to touch Callum’s jaw. He lifted the chin, mildly surprised by the intensity in Callum’s eyes. He remembered what Parisa had said about Callum recently, and,
“Fine then. Suck me off.” His voice sounded abrupt, like someone else’s. “Go ahead.”
He expected his words to startle Callum back to his usual taunting apathy. But Callum didn’t laugh, or mock, or even speak. Instead, horrifically, his delicate fingers began to work. They undid Tristen’s buckle then the button and zipper to his slacks. Tristen might have stopped it, if he could have found the will to move or even to breathe instead of staring with wide-eyed terror as Callum felt him through his underwear—he was very hard—then lower his mouth and—
Tristen’s breath hitched as his head tilted back, and he only didn’t gasp because he was trying not to. He knew, intellectually, that it couldn’t be just the feel of a tongue against his dick but Callum’s specifically. But he couldn’t really think straight and now Callum was licking again, and again, the fabric growing wet with saliva and—God yes, pre-cum. But when he actually reached for the waistband of Tristen’s jeans, Tristen managed to—
“Wait,” he choked, reaching down and grabbing Callum’s wrist. “This isn’t…”
Callum’s look was a flicker of animosity.
“But you like it,” Callum said soothingly. “You want it more than… Anything else I’ve felt from you.”
“That’s not fair.” Tristen tightened his grip on Callum’s wrist. “Don’t use your abilities against me.”
Callum smiled like a cat. “And who’s here to play fair?”
Then he was on Tristen again, and this time Tristen didn’t manage to swallow his groan as Callum took him in his mouth. He probably could have come right then, but managed not to.
“No,” he said roughly, and set two hands against Callum’s shoulders to shove him back. Callum grimaced. Tristen asked,
“Just—tell me. What do you want?”
“Me?” Callum smiled bright. “I want nothing.”
“I don’t think so.” Tristen first thought to tread lightly, that he shouldn’t say things that were irreversible. But then he said, “Parisa said,”
Callum growled, and tried to stand. Tristen kept him in place by the shoulders.
“Parisa said,” he said. “That she thinks you want to be wanted, but knows it’s impossible because you’re just… emotionless, barren. A sociopath—her words!
Tristen took a breath. “So… So anyone who knows you well enough to want you in the way that you want wouldn’t want you at all.”
“Well,” Callum said distastefully. “That’s pleasant.”
“But Callum…” Tristen kept him in place. “I want you. Sometimes. At least right now.”
Callum’s resistance tempered. His gaze had dropped, ostensibly to Tristen’s dick, which was still quite hard. Tristen leaned closer, and lowered his mouth to near Callum’s ear. This Parisa hadn’t told him, he just had a certain idea of what Callum might want.
“I want to fuck you.”
Callum shivered beneath his hands, his body hot under the fabric of his shirt.
Tristen said, “I want to…”
And this was all supposition, because how the fuck did Tristen know what Callum really wanted? But Parisa’s hints had been strong and he was too far gone now to turn back anyway.
“Callum, I want to set you in a collar and keep you in a cage. I want to save you from everyone, especially yourself.”
Callum leaned his head forward, pausing inches before the flat of Tristen’s chest.
“I could keep you there,” Tristen continued in a murmur, realizing this was working. He said a hand in his hair. “You’d never have to worry about being unwanted or unloved again.” His voice was very soft. “Because you’d be wholly and completely mine.”
Callum pressed his forehead against Tristen’s chest and Tristen threaded a hand through blonde hair, stroking. He was still hard, and now could feel Callum’s own erection pressing against his thigh. So Tristen pulled him closer, stroking his hair and leaning forward to arch over him, his breath against Callum’s ear.
“Let me have you,” he murmured.
Callum shuddered, pressing himself against Tristen’s leg. He moved slightly, as though to relieve the tension. Tristen touched him and Callum groaned, his erection pushing against Tristen’s hand.
Tristen stroked a few times, enough to feel him leaking. Then he took his hand away. Callum groaned, this time in frustration so Tristen, thinking this was very Parisa, said softly,
“Go ahead.”
Callum didn’t move, his breath coming quick, so Tristen leaned forward to kiss just below his ear. Callum hesitated until Tristen licked then bit down, not too hard but hard enough, and Callum hissed and began moving, rocking his hips. So Tristen reached back and grabbed the back of Callum’s hair, yanking it hard to reveal the bare column of his throat. Callum’s breath hitched as Tristen’s teeth skimmed his skin, tongue leaving a wet trail and Callum whimpered, hips moving erratically. When he came it was a broken moan, and he attempted to press his face into Tristen’s chest as though to hide. Tristen let him, his hands buying deeper in his hair.
Almost instantly, Tristen could feel Callum straightening and probably trying to heal his pride. But that wasn’t right. Tristen took him by the back of the hair and forced their eyes to meet. Callum spoke first though.
“Are you happy?” His voice had a nasty edge. “Does my debasement please you?”
Tristen felt his mouth quirk. Then he leaned forward and pressed his mouth against Callum’s. Releasing his hair, he moved his hand to the back of his sweat-slicked neck and slipped his tongue between his lips.
No response. Tristen almost pulled back and then, suddenly, Callum responded hungrily, shockingly greedy for someone who had just spent himself.
“Fuck me,” he murmured against Tristen’s lips, which sent a harsh thrill of its own.
“Why?” He had to know.
Tristen felt Callum smile. Suddenly, jarringly, Tristen wondered if Callum had learned the lesson from Parisa’s not-suicide all too well: that people wanted not strength but weakness, desperation, for others to want them just about like Callum seemed to want Tristen right now.
But if this was an act, maybe Tristen didn’t care. Maybe he wanted to act too.
“Because,” Callum murmured. “You’re the only one who sees me and still wants me.”
“So you're saying that I was right.”
“About some things.”
“The collar?”
Callum’s eyes flickered, his tongue dancing lazily alongside Tristen’s. After a pause he said, “If you like.”
Tristen deepened the kiss then pulled abruptly back to gage Callum’s reaction. If it was a performance it was flawless: Callum’s face flushed, his pupils blown wide. And Tristen wondered: so what if it was a lie? Did he really care? He wanted this so badly he ached, which of course Callum must have felt too.
So while trying to get his pants done back up Tristen struggled to his feet. Callum watched then, rising rather too elegantly, asked,
“My room or yours?”