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I was told that my existence meant nothing.
Yet, you looked at me as if I was still that same gentle child.
...
Why.
The chamber tasted of iron and rain, a scent that clung to the air like a second skin. The sprinklers continued their onslaught of wet torture, soaking their clothes right through, gaining an uncomfortable grunt from Alipede, whose hands were unfortunately cuffed, and pinned to the cement pillar behind above his head. He could feel the closeness of a body, unwanted. The shackles biting into his skin with every tremor of his breath. He doesn't want to appear afraid— he knew what that would lead to.
But, his condition was still very real. Raw— in every possible way. He was still irrevocably blind. A fact he's long since come to terms with, however, without his sight and with his life on the line against an opponent far stronger than he's ever faced off against— the trickle started.
For now, it's presence was unknown.
But, soon it will come to fruition.
"Brat," His words spill out through gritted teeth, a harsh exhale leaving him, "You must think you're so damn clever." His words roll off his tongue, mocking the young man with a thinly veiled promise of continued violence. "Didn't your elders tell you not to play with your food?" He teased, teeth gritting as he baits the young man into killing him.
Unbeknownst that the 'elder' he speaks of was right in front of him.
Because, as worthy as he is of the title 'Disciple', Alipede would rather die than ever admit that he lost. Especially not against a lowly 'D-Rank.' It appears that he fished for the right reaction, because he feels the subtle grip on his wrists tighten ever so slightly. He hears the small shift in tense breathing that would've gone unnoticed by any sightly individual.
"Stop playing with your food, Kim Soongu." Alipede remarked through a strained tone. "Kill me." It's what he wants. It's what he thinks he deserves.
On the contrary, Pietro’s hands tremble with the memory of a thousand lessons learned and unlearned in equal measure. His intellect has been the blade that sliced through centuries of knowledge, reshaping his world with quiet precision. "I won't." Forcing a calm tone. But, underneath, the shred of his humanity levels with him.
"No?" Why? Is what Alipede wants to ask. But, he can't bring himself to do it. He hides his frustration behind a tense chuckle. "Then you're naive."
Naive? Pietro doesn't know if he'd label it that, but he takes it in stride. He stands with his body taut, the weight of his duty coiling in his chest as his callous hand stays with a firm grip against those pale wrists. His own ruby eyes raking over Alipede with cut precision, whose own crimson gaze flickers around the air— but, Pietro knows Alipede knew where his face was. Eyes that swirl with untold stories. A tainted path that swore down even the most mentally guarded individuals. Yet, Alipede survived.
'Is that all he's known?' Pietro's thoughts kick up an indescribable emotion of; Empathy.
Now was not the time or circumstance to be empathising with the enemy. But, he can't help it. Not when he sees himself in those eyes that gaze back with an intensity that could melt the most precise facades. Survival is all Alipede knew. The weak died, the strong lived; Your average cliche trope. But the truth was just that— the strong always came out on top, and with his condition? It's no wonder Alipede fought tooth and nail just to even be considered. A sliver of acknowledgement is all he asked for, and not even that was given to him so freely.
"You're thinking too much. I don't need your pity." Alipede broke the silence with his words. He knew what Pietro was thinking— he heard the way his breathing deepened. And it pissed him off to no end.
"It's not pity-"
"Don't lie to me."
Another breath of silence.
That trickle from before? It's pace is starting to quicken, for now, Pietro remains unaware of it. The raging emotion that harbours beneath Alipede's facade. Fear.
"If it's not pity, then what is it, hm?" Could this young man be... no. He couldn't possibly be wielding such strong humanly sentiment. He didn't— couldn't accept that Pietro was holding such sickening feelings toward him. A part of himself held back from finding out the answer.
The other part?
The other part unveiled itself to Pietro's eyes. Crimson met ruby head on, yet Pietro saw the slight twitch of pale fingers. 'His arms are growing tired.' He notes subconsciously. He saw the way Alipede's feet shifted, boots pressing into stray pebbles, and his torso squirming ever so slightly closer to him. What was he seeking? His crimson eyes led Pietro to believe that even whilst Alipede tried to hide his subtlety— his need for connection was undeniably true.
As for Alipede? He felt his back press flush against the cold, wet surface of the pillar behind him. Offering little comfort in the moment. The sprinklers were now merely trickles as their supply ran dry. Now the scent of heady water and a musk that was not his own drew him in. Curse his sensitivity.
He notes Pietro was standing much closer than before. Even underneath the cover of the water, he could hear the rustling of clothes, and with the water off, his hearing was clear. He felt a small breeze brush against his face— He's moving closer.
"Don't." Alipede grits out, but no longer is he trying to fight. The trickle drains faster now. He doesn't want to get close. Doesn't want to lower the guards that he's so used to having.
He won't. He can't.
"I told you to get away." He bites out, but his voice tinges with a frustrated trepidation, as he waits for the other shoe to drop. But, when it doesn't? His mind has already made the connection that Pietro was making a fool out of him. "Don't mock me." His words strain themselves through a wall of barely concealed anger.
The way he sees it; Pietro wasn't attacking him like he should, because he sees Alipede as weak. That all he is, all he's considered to be is simply blind. That the skills he's mastered were being taken as a joke, because he doesn't have what Pietro has.
But, Pietro, in all account's, does not see Alipede as anything less than who he is within this moment. "I'm not." Simple. His tone was calm as always.
He knows Alipede is strong. Who wouldn't?
"Then attack me."
A pause.
"No." Pietro's response was to be expected.
Alipede scoffs, "Coward." His tone is bitter.
Pietro could agree. He's a coward. Why not strike the blind man and get it over with? Because his hand moves before he can stop it. Because his breathing grows shallow and he's sure Alipede can pick up the small thumps of his heart against his ribcage. His callous palm comes up to feel his pale skin, but with a steady gaze, he watches intently as Alipede flinches from his hand. His hand lingers in the air. The moment stretches, a fragile thread between two fates that refuse to sever. "It's okay." Pietro lowers his voice to a calming whisper, hoping that his words could reconcile some semblance of... comfort.
Pietro's way of gently taking it slow contradicted everyone that Alipede has ever met. Why won't he just... take it? Just do what everyone else has already done, and get it over with? He hates that he can't figure this man out, that unlike the selfish souls who have come and gone- taken or tried to take- Pietro just won't do it. He's not persuading him into it. The trickle slowly ebbs into a steady stream, and this time, Pietro catches it.
Alipede refuses to move. Refuses to answer. He's not stubborn- "You're scared." Pietro states, not to mock him, but to reassure. To make the atmosphere less emotionally charged. God knows what Alipede experienced. Pietro wasn't him, so he wouldn't know. "I'm not." Alipede bit back in defense.
"Can I touch you, then?" Pietro asked, contemplating. Waiting for an answer.
The steady stream whispers unknowingly. Pietro's sharp-edged gaze softens just enough to catch the tremor in Alipede's jaw, to hear the faint whisper of fear beneath the bravado. The mission had long since been forgotten. Standing here with him, Pietro gently releases his wrists, still cuffed. He remembers a time when he too believed in commands that would end the threat with a single, clean motion. But tonight, he cannot find it in himself to seal a life he cannot pretend to understand or fully condemn. There is a quiet paradox in their standoff: a man who cannot see finds a way to feel more surely than a man whose sight was supposed to illuminate.
That's what draws Pietro in.
After a moment, Alipede finally responds. "My shirt.." He mutters, not wanting to admit that he caved in. But that's okay, Pietro won't hold it against him.
With a callous hand, Pietro gently runs his fingers under the hem of the white button up, his fingertips grazing the pale skin underneath. Not inherently sexual, but Pietro was curious to what lay beneath. "Hurry up." Alipede remarked bluntly, soft breath hitching as Pietro unbuttoned his dress shirt. Slow. Steady. It made his heart race, no one has ever gotten past the gates of his walls- but, here they were. Here he was; Letting someone in.
Letting someone close.
"Don't leave any marks." Alipede stated firmly.
Pietro, too engrossed in the display of skin, only tilted his head. "I won't. Don't want you getting in trouble." Earning him a flustered chuff from the other. He knew how Raphael worked; Seeing one of his Disciples marked up would make him lose his mind. Still, a man could dream.
Being in a body much younger than before, Pietro's pants tightened. Curse his body for making it obvious. His hands traced lazy circles over his pale hips. 'Strong.' Pietro thought. A body well versed in the arts of offensive and defensive techniques, at least, if his abs had anything to say about it.
"Is this your first time?" Pietro inquired, palms moving upward to his chest, leaving behind a warm trail of something that hinted at affection.
Alipede clicked his tongue, turning his head away. "You don't need to know that." He stated, because why would he bother to tell him that?
Another passing moment of Pietro just absent-mindedly admiring the large, pale expanse of Alipede's torso. Mainly his pectorals, that stood out far more than the rest of his body, causing curiosity to stir within him— he decided to test the waters, and ran his thumb over his nipples.
That earned him a kick to the leg. "Don't touch me there." Alipede was not going to admit that a heat started to stir in the pit of his stomach.
'My observation was correct.' This was Alipede's first time. For a man with an appearance that could rival any of the other Disciples, made Pietro wonder. But, he kept that to himself.
Though, he wasn't a stranger to the quiet satisfaction he felt bubbling beneath him. Alipede caught that, obviously. "Don't act so smug, you won't be the last person." Ah, of course not. Ever the man who kept his pride intact.
"That's fine." Pietro remarked simply. He's experienced a lot in his 65 years of living, so this wasn't something he'd hold a grudge over. (A/N: Pietro isn't physically an old man, just to clear that up)
Another breath of slow silence that was starting to get to Alipede, because by now, he's sure his body had reacted against his will. His pants were tented. He needed relief, but there's no way in hell that he'll ask Pietro to get him off‐
"Do you need help?" Pietro interrupted his thoughts. He's certain that they could both read each other's minds.
Alipede let a strangled noise leave his throat, he didn't expect to be asked so blatantly. Such a stoic face to ask such an obscene question, and yet, stupidly Alipede did not decline the offer. Not when his hands are still cuffed. "Fine. Anything else and I promise to cut your head off."
"Noted. So, is that a yes?" Pietro remarked calmly, humming slightly.
"Yes, jeez, hurry up before I change my mind." Alipede bites out, groaning softly as the zipper on his pants was pulled down slowly. Gently. As if Pietro was afraid to be rough.
Alipede didn't care either way.
That first touch of a warm hand against his hard cock sent a spike of pleasure up his spine as the first few strokes eased the ache. His body relaxed against the wall, head lazily lolling to the side. The action causing his neck to come into full view. Pietro could make out the tiny thrums of his pulse.
No bites. He reminds himself, biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from marking him. "Is this good...?" He asks instead.
Alipede only grunts. But, Pietro being... so damn observant, so... considerate— ends up slowing down his hand. "Is that a yes?" He clearly wanted Alipede to enjoy this. To know that not every hand would deal violence.
"You can... be a little rough." Alipede grunted out, hips bucking for more pleasure. That's all he can think about. His body has known no gentleness that was not earned by violence or abuse. He expected it outright. Not even Raphael's gentle bravado was expected.
"I think this is good." Pietro noted, continuing slow languid strokes that seemed to be stirring quite the reaction. Did Alipede know what faces he makes? They were quite interesting.
Alipede doesn't have it in himself to scoff, as a moan slips from him. He didn't know a hand job could feel so good. So... tender. He has known nothing but the roughness of hands and the harsh glint of fear in other people’s eyes. His own touch is spare, careful, because touch has long learned to be a currency of caution rather than comfort. To be treated, not with a pitying fragility, but with a resolute decision of genuine respect— he almost forgets who he is for a second.
The child of circumstance, and the blind weapon used in a fight for a man with sight. It was ironic at best.
The hands touching him were not stained with blood like those who'd taken his precious bunny from him, nor like the merciless hands that he served. A true hint of humanity. This time, not a slice. It was an entire serving. All for him.
His breath hitches, moaning as the heat increases, an intimate moment between two opposites. He knew he'd cum soon.
He absolutely didn't want this moment to end. With the amount of emotions stirring within him, Alipede felt the first stir of tears. Anger, frustration, anxiety— all curled into one. Pietro caught it. His other hand came up to gently stroke the blind man's wrist, feeling the raised skin there.
He doesn't bring it up.
"You can cry, if you want." Pietro proposes, his voice laced with a genuine sincerity.
The words arrive like a soft dawn, not demanding, not dismissive, but a declaration that sadness has a rightful place in the room. That Alipede has a right to feel. To simply be. Even during such an intimate setting.
"Stop.." Alipede trembled out, cursing himself for getting so worked up over something as pathetic as being touched right. His body betrays him, as his hips buck for just a little more to push him over the edge, and for the first few tears that streak his pale cheeks.
Pietro's face presents the slightest tinge of a small smile. It was extremely subtle, but it was there. His thumb gently rubs over the slit of Alipede's cock, as the blind man allows a moment of solace to sob through a pain that was caged behind ribs. Pietro's body moves on it's own, ever so slightly bringing his body closer, allowing space for Alipede to lean into him or to pull away.
Alipede leans in.
A single action that spoke loud.
'You don't deserve it.' The voices match the faces of a past he wanted to forget. Riddled with secrets that covered every corner of whatever fucked up part they took for themselves.
The hand on his cock tightens slightly, causing the heat to rush forward, before he knows it, he's cumming straight into Pietro's palm, with that acceptance also causes his body to let go of what had long since burdened him. His breath comes in short pants, adjusting his height despite the shaking in his knees, as he wiped the tears from his face.
He must've been showing his humiliation, because Pietro carefully pulls his hand away, cleaning away the liquid with a handkerchief. He tucks Alipede back into his pants, and then calmly steps away. "You don't need to be embarrassed. It happens."
Right, because the correspondence between fighting to kill, and then getting a handjob from your enemy was meant to 'happen.'
The air between them thickens with a cautious tenderness—an unspoken agreement to acknowledge pain without letting it command every breath. He longs to hear the soft, almost inaudible cadence of Alipede’s footsteps, to read the story written in the quiet curvature of that blind man’s resolve. But, for now, Pietro will settle just for this.
The silence between them was far more telling than words alone.
Their fleeting moment of complicated intimacy is soon interrupted by a voice echoing from Pietro's earpiece. He takes a moment to respond before returning his attention back to Alipede. "I have to go."
Alipede merely nods, a slight feeling of disappointment thrummed beneath his chest, before it's willed away. "Don't die." He remarked bluntly, but there's no real malice behind it.
Pietro's eyes glint with amusement, as he stops by the exit to glance back. "Never." A simple statement that echoed truthfully, before leaving, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
Alipede exhales sharply, taking a moment to gather himself. He couldn't afford to return to Raphael so exposed, and not just physically.
And in the tense stillness before the inevitable clash, there is a fragile, hopeful possibility: that mercy might loosen the grip of fear, that understanding might hush the urge to strike, that two men—one who cannot see, one who cannot bear to harm—might choose a different fate together, if only for a moment, if only to remind the world that even in the harshest conflicts, the heart remembers how to listen.
That mercy may be the bravest act one could give.