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Merlane has the same eyes. Gieve had noticed this immediately the very first time they met.
Not in colour, but in the almost cold, emotionless way he stares people down, an intimidating aura that drives people to avoid direct eye-contact oozes off his lanky frame like something tangible. He has an unforgiving tongue along with exceptional archery skills – quiet like a morbid shadow most of the time but is capable of lashing out sharply like a whip when he needs to make his point across.
Of course, after a few months of working together and getting to know each other more (though it has mostly been one-sided conversations with the wandering minstrel doing most of the talking), Gieve discovers that that’s merely how the young leader of Zott Clan normally behaves. There is neither true malice nor actual hostility behind his seemingly callous words; his sharp tongue is a good match for Gieve’s honeyed teasing expressions, and before either of them have realized it, playful exchanges have turned into something more.
Merlane’s kisses are always hesitant, if he ever initiates any kind of intimacy in the first place, but in the weeks of growing used to this new but pleasant development in their relationship, Merlane grows bolder, his mouth dominating over Gieve’s in a series of aggressive kisses that threaten to steal his breath away and possessive fingers marking the musician’s ivory skin with half-moon impressions. The strange, pale rose colour of Merlane’s irises – a few shades lighter than his bright red hair – is mesmerizing as they gradually darken with desire barely concealed by the anticipation running along his body.
They have the same eyes, but Merlane is much kinder. Even in silence enveloped by the opaque darkness of the night, the lantern that provides the only source of light in the chamber having flickered out some hours ago, Merlane’s protective embrace around his naked waist under the blanket is a wordless promise to stay by his side.
Gieve remembers the empty coldness on the other side of the bed in the middle of the night all those years ago, the gentle scent of expensive floral perfume a lingering reminder of what has happened and what will never be.
He’s the son of a well-to-do family – not a nobleman for certain, but wealthy enough that, two to three times a week, he was able to spend the amount Gieve demanded for a private reception in the brothel the young performer grew up in and worked for. A young master who was perhaps one or two years younger than Gieve.
It’s strange that, every time Gieve tries to recall him – a smile, a touch, a word, anything – all he can conjure up in his mind are those apathetic eyes before their last farewell and earnest promises whispered in between the sheets.
“Gieve, is there something on your mind?” Merlane’s brows dip into a slight frown, a hand reaching out to brush away stray locks of violet hair in a gentle gesture.
Who would take pity on him – a foolish romantic who had wasted his youth holding onto promises that the other man had never intend to keep?
In exchange for a broken heart, he receives freedom.
Gieve looks up from the clasped hands resting in his lap, ready to break the awkward silence with a joke, yet the words are stuck in his throat.
They have the same eyes, but…
Merlane is different.
Gieve is certain of this – has never been more certain about anything in his life before – and so he replies, “It’s nothing, Merlane. Nothing at all.”