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Daryl fumbles with the lightswitch to his office sleepily.
It's late at night, later than anybody should be headed to their office, but then again, he isn't 'anybody', is he?
No, and under the mask of the night, it doesn't matter in the slightest who he is, nobody will see him. It's good that they won't; sneaking into his office to pour a lonesome cup of the whiskey hidden in his desk's bottom left drawer for himself is a pitiful thing. Kings aren't necessarily of the pitiful type, or, at least, not in public.
But he's a pitiful thing to himself. Beyond the 'Third King' title, all Daryl is is some strawberry-blonde, half-recognizable, pretty boy in a lavish box, a place he's only earned through slick, honeyed words and a polite smile.
It's been weeks since the G4 Political Summit and it's ensuing drama.
In public, Daryl would tell anyone that that he's relieved the conflict has been resolved with. . . well, as minimal damages as possible, considering the scope of the attacks. Of course he would be, he was one of the damn hostages aboard Project Tír na nÓg!
But on nights like this, nights that ended days upon days of doing paperwork and making phone calls, he feels this selfish, strange wish that he could revisit the moment and revisit his heroism- it was the first time he'd felt proper useful in years of wearing a crown.
He doesn't do too much anymore. Mostly, unlike his kingly companions, he finds himself like a figurehead or a toy poodle; he smiles for the photos and utters a charming word or two when faced with the press, but is otherwise a pretty paperweight. He signs documents and reads legal discussions, running over them with a fine tooth comb and the lawbooks of Illyria. He sits beside Ky and Leo with a dignified look in his eye, just to say upwards of two words in their discussion.
He wears a crown, but only in the metaphorical sense; Daryl is the third and final, least important King of Illyria.
He stifles a yawn, finally reaching the switch in the dark of his office. For all the time he spends in there, you might think that he would know where on the wall it sits.
In his plum, velvet bathrobe and loose, black satin pants, Daryl knows he looks like a mess. His hair is probably disheveled and his eyes definitely indicate his exhaustion. But again, it's a single drink in his own, private company; a sad, lamenting moment that he'll sleep off and regret in the morning.
The lights flicker on with a regality that would only serve the *third* king, illuminating his ornate office in all of its formal glory. He's got a pearl-colored wallpaper on each of the walls in his room, which, under the lamplight, glows with a golden luster. The floors are a series of sleek, black tiles that have a faint sparkle if you squint just right. Against the walls, there are carved, wooden bookshelves holding all the tomes and dusty dictionaries Daryl's practically committed to memory against his will. Parallel to the door, there's a beautiful, large windowpane frosted artificially to give the look of expansive wealth.
And, of course, at the center of the room, there's a beautiful piece of woodcarving splendor: a tall, smooth pine desk with dogwoods engraved along the edges that should have been rigid. It's where he lives for most of his day, seated with his back to the elegant window, arms sprawled out over stacks of endless papers that seem to respawn on his desk in an infinite loop.
However, tonight, there's something more- a handsome man with loose, shaggy ivory locks, deep blue skin, and strange-looking spectacles shaped like X's sits atop his desk chair, perched peacefully with his legs out on the desk. He's barefoot, unsurprisingly, with a small, crystal cup in his hand, one Daryl immediately recognizes as one of the few whiskey glasses he has hidden in his office.
He catches Daryl's eye before taking a sip of the whiskey. "Ah," he says calmly, as if the sight should be normal to behold, "I didn't expect to see you so late."
"Chaos," Daryl greets somewhat bitterly- because yes, of course Chaos has found him- but not fully unhappy as he should be. The man wasn't safe, to be sure, but hardly felt dangerous.
It was hard to fear a man who had so willing let himself be kissed and held as if it were a new experience entirely.
"You're sitting at my desk." Daryl states. It's obvious, but still bears saying.
Chaos grins, swallowing another drink. "Wanna know how I got in?" He cheekily points behind himself without looking, straight at the frosted windowpane that Daryl can now see is cracked just so.
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." Daryl hums. "You have the power to go anywhere in the world, but you still choose to do things the hard way."
"It's something like good manners, don'cha think?" Chaos waves a hand. "I tried to knock but you weren't home, so at least give me some credit."
"You're still breaking and entering, technically."
"It's not the worst I've done."
"So it doesn't matter?"
Chaos chuckles, wagging a finger at Daryl. "Would you be bothered if you spilt a drop of ink on a black rug?"
Giving him a level stare, Daryl carefully closes the door to his office, careful not to make a sound. Chaos watches him with detectable amusement.
"Will you tell me why you're here of all places, at least? Or is that detail just. . . another droplet of ink to you?" Daryl asks.
This gets Chaos to smirk. "That's why I've come, y'see. You've got a way with words."
"I've been told."
"It's an awfully convincing way."
"They do say I'm diplomatic."
"Do they say they think about you more and more every day too?" Chaos raises an eye.
Daryl's brows furrow in confusion. "That's. . ."
"That's a no, right?" Chaos' tone and whole demeanor is different from the G4. He's more casual and laid-back. He knows he's not in any real danger here, or rather, that Daryl is one of the few on the Earth that wouldn't immediately reach for a gun. It's made him sort of pleasant, less cocky and more carefree.
"That's a no." Daryl parrots.
Chaos shrugs, holding out his whiskey glass to Daryl. "I'd thought you'd be more popular than that. Whiskey?"
"It's mine, so I don't think you can offer it to me in any meaningful way." Daryl rolls his eyes, though it's playful if nothing else.
"Suit yourself."
Daryl's nails dig into his arms. The brown, bitter liquid sitting in the bottom of Chaos' cup is what he came here for, but he'll be damned if he needs permission to drink it. Chaos, by any and all laws of nature, shouldn't even be here in this moment! His hands shouldn't be around the neck of the crystalline whiskey bottle and his lips shouldn't leave red imprints all along the rim of his glass- no, Daryl's glass.
"You can't be here. I'm guessing you're smart enough to figure that out, though." Daryl mutters, taking a step towards the desk.
"You think I'm smart?"
Daryl sighs. "I might have, but it's just plain idiotic to go to my office in the middle of the night and drink my liquor when I help lead a country and there's not one you're not wanted dead in."
"I missed you." says Chaos, plainly, as if it should have been obvious.
"You. . . *missed* me? Me?" Daryl gestures to himself for emphasis.
"I mean what I said just now, you're an interesting man, O Third King. You've got this funny way of staying in the brain. My brain." Chaos snaps his fingers.
Daryl's eyes dart from the cracked window to Chaos and then back again. "So you've broken both into my office and my alcohol supply?"
"So hung up on the alcohol, I swear. . ." Chaos sits up somewhat straighter and clears his throat. "If you must know, I was looking for you. Figured you'd have to come in here at some point in the next few hours. Then, I saw the bottom left drawer of your desk was locked and I wondered what was in there, so I picked it. I'm a curious guy, sue me."
"And why were you looking for me? Is something the matter?" Daryl stands before Chaos now, arms crossed authoritatively.
"Daryl, Daryl, Daryl. . ." Chaos sighs, shaking his head pitifully. "I've just told you- I wanted to see you. I missed you."
Daryl squints in confusion. "That's a hell of a risk to take, Chaos. If I were anyone else, I'd have you clapped in irons."
"Well, you said it yourself, if you were *anyone else*. But *you* won't do anything like that because, on a certain level, I think you missed me too." Chaos smirks. "No, I know you missed me too, didn't you?"
"You're presumptuous tonight. Is it the whiskey?"
"I hold my liquor well, almost as well as you do."
"How'd you figure that out?"
"You just told me." Chaos states. "With your eyes looking that exhausted, you basically screamed how badly you craved another drink, meaning you've got quite the tolerance down."
"I'm not an addict. Leo's the one you're pointing fingers at. Why'd you think I kept my booze under lock and key?"
"I didn't say you were. I just said you clearly came in here for something, the whiskey, and your face practically showed me the rest of your hand. You're here more frequently than you'd like, drinking by yourself in the office because the other kings- let's be honest, they wouldn't understand all this."
Daryl slowly puts out a hand to touch the tabletop of his desk. "You're a mentalist?"
"Or maybe I just understand you like they don't."
"Is that right?" Daryl taps the tabletop playfully. "You forget where we are and who we are. What would an idealist terrorist have in common with a king?"
"We both like whiskey." Chaos takes a swig of the drink, tempting Daryl to ask for his own glass. "That's a conversation point. And, y'know, there's the whole thing about us wanting something here."
"So that's how it is." Daryl reaches for Chaos' whiskey cup and swallows whatever remains of the stuff, tossing the cup back without remorse, "I won't pretend you don't understand me more than most people or that you haven't seen me in a light foreign to even my fellow monarchs. I won't pretend that I disliked our previous meeting. I won't pretend I don't like where this is headed."
"Thought so."
"But I can't pretend like this is safe in any respect. I mean, you could have been caught and thrown us both into jeopardy. Your reputation is not the only one at risk here. Whether I miss you or not isn't the question, it's whether I *can* miss you."
"And can you?" Chaos asks. His voice is drenched in pity- it's sickening.
"I don't know."
"Neither do I, Daryl. We're at the helm of the ship, but we don't know where it's headed. You're too worried about where we'll end up to notice how exciting and thrilling the adventure is." Chaos pours a small amount of whiskey back into his cup, but instead of drinking it himself, he holds it out to Daryl.
The latter takes it, practically draining the damn thing.
"Thing is, regardless of our end location, our crew will only ever see you as their captain, never as a person or friend. Me, though? I've seen you for who you really are and it's beautiful." Chaos continues. Daryl licks the whiskey from his lips.
"So then, what do you propose we do? My schedule is quite full, not really enough time for a good scandal in-between paperwork and seminars."
"Are you busy now?" Chaos pauses for a moment, face screwed up. "Actually, don't answer that. I know you aren't."
Daryl finds himself sitting down on his desk, legs swept off to the side. Somehow, he's never sat here, not in all of his years leading Illyria.
Chaos slowly puts his hand to Daryl's. "So, how about that drink you wanted? Right here, right now?"
Daryl eyes the empty cup hungrily and then, looks back up to Chaos. "Forget the drink. I think I've found something worse."
He catches the way Chaos' eyebrows raise, about to retort that no, he wasn't worse and it was honestly assumptuous to say such a thing, so he decides to just slide across the tabletop first, drawing close enough to derail his thoughts.
"I'd forgotten how beautiful you look up close." Chaos slowly breathes, looking fully pleased.
"Do you really think that?"
"I think so much more than that. You're clever, quick-witted-"
Daryl leans in and places a single, thankful kiss to Chaos' chapped lips. There's nothing much too it; it's chaste, short, sweet, and whisky flavored.
He pulls away tenderly, keeping close enough distance to Chaos' face that he can feel his breath. Then, against his lips, just as short as the kiss had been, he says aloud, "You can't make a scene here."
They fall together again like clockwork; Chaos' arm finds Daryl's waist, Daryl's lips find the corner of Chaos' mouth. There's a spark there, a well-intentioned display of nervous affection.
"You can't let yourself be caught." Daryl adds after the second kiss.
"What are we talking about?" Chaos looks up at Daryl with a stranded look in his eyes, maybe knowing but maybe oblivious.
Another short kiss.
"Us. This." Daryl whispers. "We're good at concocting schemes, the two of us."
Chaos chuckles. "And what exactly is *this* then, to you?"
"The same it is to you, for better or worse."