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Rook’s contract comes due. It only takes ten minutes.
The vial that Viago hands him is half-filled with clear liquid, and the only inkling that Rook has that the contents are not water is the syrupy texture clinging to the sides of the glass and the way Lucanis shivers next to him.
“It will taste sweet,” Viago explains. His voice is calm, but Rook watches the way his face remains stubbornly passive, distancing himself from the mark. “You will have ten minutes before the effects become apparent.”
Rook contemplates the vial. The serving is enough for one shallow sip. From their earlier discussions, he knows what to expect. There had been negotiations, first, but over the course of the past five years the terms for their contract has changed from the span of decades to a meager handful of months. Even now, he can hear the singing, feel it itching like a monster trapped beneath the surface of his skin.
Lucanis isn’t speaking, but Rook feels the weight of his presence at his side like a bonfire’s calming warmth. His hand is settled lightly on the small of Rook’s back, simply holding him, and that eases the mind-numbing sensation of the Blight’s corruption, at least for the moment.
Rook uncaps the vial with the pad of his thumb, catching the cork with his spare hand. He has a brief moment to catch the wafting scent of sweet floral notes in the air. He has a flicker of time to wonder if it is worth it. Ten minutes feels like enough time to say goodbye until he is standing at the precipice of its last moments. And yet it will be ten minutes where his mind remains as his own, and he can lay peacefully with the man he loves above all else.
He tips his head back and drinks the contents to the dredges, and it tastes like liquid sugar and nothing more. It is so unlike the foul concoction that he drank on his Joining that he recaps the vial with a soft huff of laughter.
Lucanis moves his hand from the small of Rook’s back to the nape of his neck, a silent query, and Rook leans into the touch with a faint smile.
“Tastes much better than the Joining,” he explains. Lucanis doesn’t smile, but the softness in his eyes makes Rook want to melt all the same. He hands the vial to Viago, and in a wordless exchange of glances that feels like a lifetime's worth of appreciation and mutual respect, the Crow leaves them alone.
Rook hardly notices when the door closes behind Viago. He is already leaning back against the headboard, pulling Lucanis with him. He can feel the tremor in Lucanis’s shoulders as they shuffle into a familiar embrace, Lucanis resting his cheek against Rook’s chest, just above his heart. Five years worth of nights they have laid like this, entangled in one another, and yet Rook feels like a giddy schoolboy with a crush to feel the warmth of Lucanis wrapped around him.
“I do not know what to say,” Lucanis finally croaks out. Rook soothes a hand through his feather-soft hair, but it does nothing to ease the faint tremor in Lucanis’s body. He doesn’t try to wiggle out of Rook’s embrace, but Rook is far too aware that there is adrenaline raging through his veins, clashing in spectacular ruination with the anticipatory grief.
“I do,” Rook says quietly. “I planned up this whole speech and practiced it in the mirror.”
Lucanis doesn’t laugh. “You are not afraid of your death.”
“I am when I know that you are,” Rook admits. Now Lucanis tilts his head to look at him, eyes shining black in the dim light of their bedroom. The past few weeks have been unbearable to Rook’s senses; when his every instinctual urge demands he seeks the comforting suffocation of the Deep Roads, Lucanis has adapted their room into a safe haven. The windows are carefully blacked out of light with thick, densely-knitted curtains, and the low embers of the fireplace are just enough to make out the pained downturn of Lucanis’s mouth.
“I cannot bear to see you in pain,” he says tightly.
“It’s quieter,” Rook murmurs. “It hasn’t been quiet in so long…”
Lucanis hitches a breath, and he has to look away to steady his breathing, blinking harshly against tears. When Rook reaches out to run his fingertip along the line of his jaw, Lucanis squeezes his eyes shut and turns into the touch, tensing as another tremor wrecks through him.
“I — ” Lucanis starts, then abruptly stops. He opens his eyes to watch Rook, his brow creased with desperation. He looks starved, his gaze roaming hungrily over every feature of Rook’s expression, taking it all in. Rook watches him, too, content to gently thumb away a traitorous tear that escapes the corner of Lucanis’s eye and trickles down his cheek.
He cannot keep track of the time, but Rook feels warm and sated, the Blight’s song lulled to a soft murmur in the back of his mind.
“I had hoped,” Lucanis finally says, “that the end of the Blight would cure you, too.”
Now it’s Rook’s turn to blink back tears. “I would have liked that.”
“You are not in pain,” Lucanis whispers, and now he’s crying in earnest, his hand coming up to wrap gently around Rook’s wrist, thumb pressed to the pulsepoint. His touch is grounding, and Rook manages a watery smile in return.
“I only feel warm,” he says. His voice is rough, but Lucanis hardly seems to care, his gaze alight with a swell of relief that leaves Rook’s breathing staggering. He shifts his weight to get closer, pressing his face to the warmth of Rook’s neck. He kisses the soft spot beneath Rook’s ear with such a tenderness that Rook can only let out a shaking sigh, sinking into the feeling of peace that envelops him.
For a long moment, they simmer in the warmth of their embrace, Lucanis nosing at the curve of Rook’s jaw as if they are merely curled up for a late morning lie-in, postponing his priorities as First Talon along with Rook’s self-imposed research schedule. The edges of the room dim into blurry shadow, slowly, until Rook is only aware of the way Lucanis presses his fingers to Rook’s wrist to keep checking his pulse.
“I think,” Rook finally says, faintly. “It’s not much longer.”
Lucanis stiffens. “I know.”
“I love you, okay?”
“Okay,” he whispers. Rook feels the way he swallows harshly, but his fingers are too clumsy to keep running through Lucanis’s soft dark hair the way his Crow likes. He settles for clasping his hand over the back of his neck instead, holding him steady. Lucanis still has his face tucked against Rook’s throat, breathing him in, and Rook can hardly feel the dampness on the collar of his shirt from silently shed tears.
“I love you,” Lucanis says. His voice is so small and tender, and Rook closes his eyes. The sound of his voice is a guiding light in the darkness. “I have given you my heart, Rook. You will take it with you wherever you go.”
“Romantic,” Rook teases. It’s a mere mumble of breath, but Lucanis kisses his jawline anyway.
“Only with you,” he admits. There’s a faint tremble in his voice, but he soothes away the prick of worry in Rook’s mind with another affectionate kiss to his jaw. “I love you, Rook.”
Lucanis waits for a heartbeat. Then another.
He still has his fingers pressed to Rook’s wrist, testing the thready resistance of his pulse. He is too afraid to pull back and see Rook’s face. When they are embracing one another like this, then he can soothe himself into thinking that this is merely another late morning, and the day will dawn with Rook’s sleepy mumbling and morning-breath kisses.
Lying like this, they have lifetimes ahead of them.
Spite remains a flickering light in the back of his mind, wavering between indignation and fury, but he waits just as much as Lucanis does. The both of them linger, breathless and soundless, in the moment where Rook sighs out in a quiet breath, then nothing more.
The room feels oppressive, weighing down on him like the weight of a mountain. In his pursuit to guard Rook from a grisly death in the Deep Roads, perhaps Lucanis has doomed himself to that very fate. It is the only explanation that satisfies the cause of this vice-grip of pain rattling through his very core, wave after agonizing wave tearing through him like a knife. He has never battled this sort of torturous sensation before; Caterina and Zara Renata have never been able to deal this sort of crippling death-blow to him before.
Perhaps because it’s a blow from Rook, who has never raised his hand in an attempt to hurt him. He doesn’t want to hurt you, Spite had once sneered, how rare. Everyone else does.
“Rook?” Lucanis whispers. His face is still ducked low to the familiar curve of Rook’s neck. He cannot pull away, not yet. He just needs…
Rook is quiet. Lucanis closes his eyes.
He just needs one more minute.