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Cicero watched the Listener as they worked, sweat brimming their forehead and saliva filling his mouth. He swallowed, the listener made him nervous, as they always did.
For years, it was only him and the Night Mother, his only ambition to care for her. Everything he did, it was for Mother.
He always kept his ears open, his mind clear, in hopes that one day the Night Mother’s voice would bestow itself upon him. That one day he would be named Listener, as it was always meant to be.
His Mothers voice never came to him and instead blessed the ears of someone else. Someone he didn't even know, and someone who’d up until that day, barely believed in the Mothers existence.
Blasphemy is what it was! Oh, to not believe in the Night mother. To not soak up her every undead movement. To think that someone, who had not devoted their life to the Night Mother but instead to violence, was named Listener.
Of course, poor Cicero was rather upset, though he could not show it. He trusted the Night Mother and knew that they were chosen for a reason. He just couldn't understand why it hadn't been him. The childish thoughts embarrassed Cicero, for who was he to doubt his Mother? That did not mean he could get rid of them for good, however.
What he truly thought of the Listener embarrassed him even more, because he found that despite the jealousy, he was rather fond of them. Serial killers be damned, they had a gentle look in their eyes, the warmest smile. They stood up for him when that blonde haired harlot Astrid would get snippy. No one else in the Dark Brotherhood had shown him, even a sliver of that same affection.
He watched as the Listener patched themselves up. From what he could tell, their assigned contract fought back a bit harder than they had intended. Because the Listener was such a skilled assassin , they usually took contracts out with a few swings, but it seems this one was brave. Oh, if he had been there.
They wiped the stray blood off their gut, tending to a stab wound. Cicero almost wished he had been the knife that plunged into their scarred flesh. What he would give to be so close to the Listener. So deep inside them, seeing and touching their every organ. Binding their relationship together in a way no one else but the two of them would understand.
Cicero’s fingers danced over the sheath that rested on his hip, containing the knife that hadn’t seen the light of day in a while. He itched to bring it out, to take it to the Listeners throat and press down till it drew blood. The Listener wouldn’t be upset or afraid, no, they would like it. Then afterwards, he would oh so tenderly bandage them up, telling silly jokes and peppering kisses to their goosebump ridden skin.
-
Calloused fingers ran up and down the dirty sword, feeling the blade caress your skin and threatening to puncture it. The Listener scraped off some dry blood with their fingernail, unsure if it was the target’s or theirs.
They could see Cicero watching them from across the room, and they smiled softly. The Listener liked their Brothers and Sisters fairly well, but Cicero had quickly become their favorite. However, it seemed no one else in the sanctuary shared the same sentiment.
At first they thought he was quite pathetic. Giving up his sanity and life in order to tend to a false god. It was soon revealed that their judgments were the only thing to be false, because the Night Mother truly was real.
Cicero was the Mothers Keeper, and being the Listener made him their Keeper by default. They liked it when he referred to himself as your keeper, because it was true. In turn, they were his Listener. The thought of being anything of his sent shivers up their spine.
Even though they knew Cicero was a nut, there was something about his foolish personality that charmed them. They saw how often he itched to unsheathe his knife. They knew he wanted it so bad he couldn’t stand it.
-
It was a game of cat and mouse between the two of you. One the hunter and the other the prey. They were never sure which was which.
Sometimes the Listener would catch him just after he’d finished tending to the Night Mother. The lavender oils he used on her would still be embedded in his skin. They would laugh, kissing his hand and watching him get red in the face. Neither of them said anything, but they both were silently aware of the hunger they had for one another.
Other nights when they would sluggishly walk into the sanctuary, tired and beat up, he would scramble to their bed. Getting on his knees to patch them up and babbling fretfully.
“Tsk tsk, do not worry dear Listener! Cicero will take care of you,” he would coo. “Yes, your Keeper is here! Always.”
-
Then came the night when the little game ended. The cat caught the mouse, and sunk its sharp teeth deep in the rodent's fur.
A kiss, gentle and tender, was shared between the two of them. Both out of practice and clumsy. Cicero laughed when they pulled away, singing a bit under his breath.
When they hastily took the blade from his hip, the whimper that left his lips was not one of fear, but desperation. The Listener rested their head against his neck, eyes fluttering shut.
“Cicero,” they whispered. “You’re…okay with this?”
“Oh yes, my dearest Listener. I’m not sure if I’ve wanted anything more.”
Lifting their head up, the Listener pressed the blade to his neck. Being so gentle as they pricked his skin, though they knew he wouldn’t mind if they’d been rougher.
They brought their lips to his neck, placing feather light kisses to his skin, and once they brought their lips to his tiny wound, they accepted a part of him in themselves.
The Listener wiped the blood, his blood, off their lips. They welcomed the familiar metallic taste. They could almost feel his blood running through their veins and mixing with theirs. They never wanted to feel anything else.
Cicero smiled and took them into his arms, twirling them around and dancing for a bit. How could it be? That laughter incarnate stood in the face of the jokester themselves?
-
Humble Cicero lives to serve, and serve he shall. For the Keeper and the Listener will both serve each other, and give the other all they have.
What happens when there’s nothing left?