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The cowboy sits at the edge of the bed, a scowl painted over his usually stoic face. Beside him in the bed is his.. ‘partner’. He didn’t want to call him that. It felt wrong. It made him feel disgusting. Horrible. Rotten. Deacon was never devoted to anyone like he was to Edward and it made him feel vile and disgusting for even missing the touch of the other’s cold hands and his nails digging into his back.
He didn’t love Edward, really and truly. He hated the man, but it felt so wrong to think that way. He couldn’t think that way. This man was everything to him.
Did he hate him?
Red eyes trail to the sleeping figure next to him and he recalls everything that had ever happened between the two of them. Drinks, bonds, parties, everything. To Edward, Deacon was only his right hand man, a loyal dog despite every dreadful circumstance. Edward was the reason Deacon was known as the Sheriff. In more current terms that would mean Deacon had slept his way to his position.
It would mean that he targeted someone with power just to worm his way into his pants. That was the furthest thing from the truth, but it’s how everyone viewed it. Deacon knows that it’s the furthest thing from the truth, but he remains silent.
He can’t speak. He doesn’t do the speaking for himself. He doesn’t verbally defend himself if someone brings it up.
The sheriff sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s tired of this. He’s tired of feeling so disgusting and vile. He’s tired of being some loyal dog. He’s tired of being silent when it comes to Edward. Every single time he speaks up, he gets silenced again. And again. And again. Trying to speak up became futile with the more time he spent around Edward.
After the first while, this dreadful feeling he had when it came to being near Edward shifted into a desire. A want. He felt so empty when he was alone. He felt so alone and disgusting when those cold hands were nowhere near his body; just like how he’s feeling now.
Deacon feels disgusted now, and he feels vile. He knows that when Edward does run his rotten, pale and cold hands against him and digs his manicured nails into his back, he’ll forget it all, and he’ll beg for more. He’ll beg for that affection, that love. (It wasn’t love, Deacon knew all that much. If it was love, his drinks wouldn’t taste so wrong. If it was love, his touch wouldn’t hurt and it wouldn’t leave him feeling disgusted.
The fake affection was all that mattered to Deacon in this state. It made him stay. It made him long for the other. Every touch, every breath on his skin, it all made him stay. It all made him infatuated with Edward’s every move. It’s what kept him loyal.)
What was he thinking?
He honestly doesn’t remember.
The longer these smothering strings have a hold on the cowboy, the more he feels like he’s losing himself. Over all that time from all those years ago, Deacon lost the will and his want to hate Edward. He gets faint spells of it when he’s away from him for long periods of time, but the shining star doesn’t let him stay away for long anymore. Everytime that hatred builds up, Edward takes him for drinks.
“My treat,” He would say, and who’s Deacon to pass up a free drink?
The first time, he was skeptical. He drank anyways. The second, and the third time, he refused. He told Edward he wanted nothing to do with his drinks because they were spiked with something and he didn’t know what. Still, after a long back and forth, he drank. The pattern continued, though now he drank with less hesitation.
Every single drinking night would turn into a day of staying at Edward’s. He would refuse to let Deacon leave sometimes. For days on end, and that’s what made Deacon hungry. That’s what made him beg for his blood, a part of him just so he could keep living this sad and pathetic unlife.
The sheriff knew that was what Edward wanted.
Edward wanted someone with power under his nitty gritty strings. He needed someone who had physical power under his command; he needed someone loyal. The only way to ensure that Deacon remained loyal and devoted to the star was to bond him. Over, and over, and over. By now, Deacon was dependent. He needed Edward, but did Edward need him?
He’s broken from his thoughts when a glittering hand pokes a nail into his back.
“Lie down, Deacon. You need the rest.”
The sheriff glances at the sleepy kindred, that scowl never faltering. He felt compelled to listen, to lie down, but he remained sitting upwards. That hatred he held in his mind slowly began slipping from his mind, and that infatuated loyal dog feeling seeped in to replace it. Replace any feeling or idea that he was independent. It hurt that loyal dog feeling to not listen to his master, but he needed to stand his ground.
“No.”
“Deacon, lie down beside me.”
The command was firmer. Something he couldn’t resist. He needed to leave, he needed an excuse, anything to get away from Edward’s rotten hands, anything at all to have some freedom. That was the reality of it. But the more the shining star spoke, the more infatuated the cowboy seemed to become. It felt surreal. He wasn’t in control of his own body.
So he lies. He yawns as his head hits the pillow, and a pleased smile came upon the primogen’s face. Deacon was wrong to ever feel any sort of disdain towards Edward. It was wrong. He loved him, did he not? Edward loved Deacon, why would he ever hate him? The primogen was only looking out for him, and caring for him, like any good lover would.
Arms wrap tightly around the sheriff and they pull him close to an unmoving chest. Deacon feels an urge to bury his face in close to the star’s neck, to be as close as possible to make up for thinking such horrible things to begin with. The devotion devours his hatred slowly but surely, breaking it down as he can feel himself giving into the urge and slowly bringing his head to the other’s neck.
The manicured nails dig into his back like many times before. The possessive feeling makes Deacon feel so much more seen, secure, loyal. He is loved, and so he owed Edward his loyalty. Deacon takes great pleasure in being held such a way. It was only the artificial feeling speaking for him though.
His hatred is buried low. It’s sleeping, hibernating, and it waits for the next time that long period of time where he remains alone. It will come to surface again at the loss. He won’t give in the next time. He’d rather die again than remain under such tight ropes. He’d rather die again than be held like this for days on end, and he most certainly would rather die than be this close to Edward.
For now, the thrall relishes the hold and touch of his regent. He adores the affection, he soaks it up like a sponge does with soapy water.
He is happy.
He is loved.
He will never feel that disdain again. He is disappointed in himself for feeling that way, for he must remain devoted and loyal like a dog.