Work Text:
Lord Yazur has taken Alda out on Patrol again.
Images of the two fighting side by side have been tormenting Serios all evening, well into the late hours of the night. He's witnessed it before, too many times, enough to form clear figures in his mind. A disfigured, eyepatch-clad man hovering near his Lord like a parasite.
To allow such a thing near his Lord Yazur, and to know he wants nothing to do with their faith, that he's a non-believer—the very thought sickens him. The reality of the situation churns his guts into vile knots.
It's only made worse by the guilt jabbing at him over being angry with Lord Yazur. He should be grateful to picture him in vivid clarity, to see his divine face in his mind. Existing in his Lord's presence so often is a blessing in itself. Yet when the shape of that corrupted filth bubbles up in his mind, carving a sharp form out of memories from past patrols, straying too close to his Lord for his liking, the bitter net fixed of his organs pulls taut with jealousy. Tangled with envy.
No one has devoted themselves to Yazur the way he has. No one loves him the way Serios does.
No one else deserved to be by his side except for him.
To be envious of Alda, of all beings—what a cruel joke.
Of course Serios understands why Yazur keeps him close. He recognizes the practicality of keeping a talented fighter around. Protecting their faith is of utmost importance. And he won't deny the shared past between them, the value Yazur sees in their connection.
A connection exclusive to the two of them. A connection Serios is incapable of replacing.
That vile corrupted freak doesn't deserve to share a history with his Lord. He doesn't deserve to be anywhere near him, let alone fighting with him. He's continually graced with Lord Yazur's presence, gifted his time and attention, binded to him by a past no one else can replace, and he acts like it doesn't matter. He's never even tried to immerse himself in their faith, yet he gets to spend all that time with their saviour. And that foul, faithless monster remains uncaring, ungrateful?
Contempt floods his body until he's tense with it, his jaw grinding together. Alda should be rotting as a corpse, not stealing Serios' place by his Lord's side. Death at the hands of God would be too merciful; he's unworthy of gazing up at their God's holy form as he dies. He deserves the slow, agonizing torture of bleeding out while Serios sneers down at him. Wrathful for his existence, gleeful to witness his end.
Oh, what Serios would give to wrap his hands around his throat and squeeze his fingers tight enough to bruise, to witness the life in his eyes dim to emptiness.
Something shuffles behind him. Serios keeps his attention fixed ahead, on the moors of earth coloured deep navy tones in the shadows of night. Even as it moves closer, even as his adaptor senses pick out the familiar signature of his most beloved saviour, he stays rooted to the spot.
He can't sense Alda's presence, but the wending of anger and jealousy stomping through his torso has yet to ease up, and he dare not turn to face his Lord with anger tonight.
"Serios." The voice of Lord Yazur calls out to him, quiet even in the hush of the night. He's light on his feet as he walks, crossing the room as soundlessly as a fox in the snow. Perhaps just as predatory, too—the thought gives Serios pause as a shiver rolls down his spine.
Serios hesitates, face scrunching in distaste, wrinkled by shame. He breaths a silent sigh, attempting to expel any lingering frustration from his expression—the refusal of a direct call would be blasphemous. He wouldn't dare offend Lord Yazur with feigned ignorance.
When he turns, his Lord is staring at him, the smooth planes of his face perfectly illuminated by the moon. He's an alluring vision no matter the time of day, but there's a certain brilliance to the cool sheen the evening casts upon his skin. An almost untouchable aura surrounds him—a holy spectacle, a true vision of their god.
Serios' gut twists again, scrambled by the force of his own infatuation.
"I was expecting you to be waiting at the front for our return," Yazur says, tone even. Expression devoid of any accusations or disappointment, merely voicing an observation.
Serios quivers and bows to him as though scolded.
"My apologies, Lord Yazur," he says. Serios hadn't wanted to see them return together, covered in the same blood, stained from the same battle. He feared his anger would have overtaken him. He'd never regret an attack on Alda, but he knows his lord would be deeply disappointed with him, and that is possibility he cannot bear to face. "It went well, I presume?"
Yazur nods. "Only a small group of corrupted souls, and they were purified quickly." The man moves forward to stand next to Serios, less than an arm's length of space between them.
It would be all too easy to lean over and touch their shoulders together.
His eyes scan the curve of his Lord's lips for a moment before clearing his throat. "I see. That's good…" And he means it, but it still tastes like a lie on his tongue. "Next time—" Serios inhales sharply, refusing to swallow his selfish desires. "—you should take me instead."
Serios has devoted his every piece of himself to his Lord. Hasn't he earned a bit of his favour?
Yazur tilts his head to the side, and though his expression remains stagnant, his eyes gleam with curiosity. "You accompany me quite often already, Serios. Do you really wish to spend all your time on patrol with me?"
"It is dim here without your radiance to guide me, my Lord." The words barely scratch the surface of the depth of his devotion to Lord Yazur. He doubts the words to truly describe his reverance even exist.
Yazur glances to the floor, then turns his head out to midnight sky. The moon glints off the lenses of his glasses, a pearly shimmer brighter than the stars beyond. No celestial body could ever hope to shine as brightly as his Lord.
In the moment of silence, Serios notices a speckle of dried blood on the side of his neck, a stark red under the cool wash of the moonlight. He must've missed the tiny dot when he'd wiped his face off.
His fingers twitch. It would be so easy to reach up and swipe the mark away—to feel the soft flesh of his Lord's neck under his fingertips.
He's reminded of a fantasy he's dreamed of countless times before: craddling his Lord's bloody face and scrubbing him clean with a rag and gentle hands. Permitted to remove his glasses and wipe the smears from his nose, his eyes, his cheeks and his lips. To hold him so close, so tenderly, and demonstrate his utter devotion to him through his touch.
To prove no one else is as worthy of his Lord's love as him.
Serios balls his hands into fists. He wouldn't dare touch without permission, no matter how hard he yearns. No one ever gets very close to Lord Yazur, not even Alda. He'd be a fool to assume without confirmation; he wouldn't risk making him uncomfortable.
"Serios," Yazur says, gaze still fixed on the horizon.
"Yes, Lord Yazur?" Serios' face blooms a hot red, embarrassment coursing through him as though Lord Yazur could sense his thoughts.
"I appreciate your dedication to our faith. The church would not be the same without you."
Serios' jaw falls open. He shuts it quickly, eyes wide, and snaps his head towards the horizon, gazing at the same point as Lord Yazur as his heart begins to pummel his ribcage. He straightens his spine, trying to center himself as his face burns.
Lord Yazur appreciates him. He notices all the things he does for the church, for him.
Only a few moments pass before his eyes are drawn back to the source of his love, and his breath catches in his throat when their eyes meet.
Yazur offers a small smile, lips slanting upwards a fraction, and any concerns Serios had about being selfish dissolve, replaced by an overwhelming greed. He wants more of his smile, more of his time, more of everything his Lord is willing to grace him with.
He's already been selfish today, asking to attend more patrols with his Lord. Perhaps he could get away with a little more. His craving for his attention is a ravenous thing.
"Lord Yazur," Serios mutters, sounding as breathless as a man who'd run a mile. "You have—there's still some blood on your neck."
Lord Yazur blinks, raising a hand to slide his fingers along his own neck. His hands miss the mark, first too high and then too low. Serios attempts to point from a distance, controlling the urge to reach out and touch, but his directions only lead the man further from it.
He swallows his own nerves, allowing the rapid pace of his heart to lead him forward.
"May I…?" he says, trailing off.
If his Lord is shocked or appalled by the idea, he doesn't show it on his face—the same visage of calm he always carries. "Please, go ahead," he says. A tremble threatens to make Serios collapse from weak knees.
Serios does not touch his Lord often. Typically it's in battle, rarely a casual touch on the shoulder. Sometimes their hands will graze each other's when passing items back and forth; he treasures those fleeting touches like blessings.
Intentionally touching his Lord in such a tender manner, and such a vulnerable location, is foreign for the both of them. As he shuffles forward and his hands tremble and his breath comes in short bursts, he wonders what Lord Yazur must be feeling. Is he nervous too? Is he looking forward to this as much as Serios is? Will he feel the phantom of this touch for the rest of the night, remember the sensation well into the day?
He hopes he will. He craves to live in Lord Yazur's thoughts as much as possible.
Serios steels himself. He looks away from his Lord's eyes, burning from their intense focus despite his mellow demeanour. His own eyes find the side of his neck, locating the small blemish as red as Serios' own face. Heat is unspooling itself across the length of him, a web of flame fueled by his desire, heightened by his nerves. He can't mess this moment up by coming off too strong. He can't take up too much of his Lord's time wiping the blood away. But Serios wants to sear the sensation of his fingers on his neck into his mind, recall the sight of his hands grazing his body for the rest of his life. He'll spend an eternity with this memory if allowed.
He flicks his eyes up to take in Lord Yazur's face one last time, leaning in far closer than necessary. He's never been close enough to count his eyelashes before. With the sparkle of the moon reflected in his irises, bearing straight into Serios' own, he almost wants to try. And when his Lord breathes out next, it tickles the lower half of his face, ghosting over his lips. A few inches closer, and their noses could bump together.
A noise bubbles up in his throat. He swallows it back down, unsure of what desperate plea he may voice, his ears too full of the sound of his own blood to hear himself think. He breaks eye contact, trying to focus on the task at hand. His guilt is far too distant for how shamelessly he's behaving.
Serios' thumb meets his neck light as a feather, swiping in a small, singular motion at the bloody mark. His touch drags away fleck of dried crust along the edges of the mishappen oval, but the majority remains unchanged. He bites his lip, repeating the goal of his actions over and over in his head like a mantra, trying to prevent distractions.
His thumb presses harder on his next attempt, the remainder of his knuckles resting against his Lord's skin. The stubborn stain flakes off in small portions, refusing to concede to him.
His nails would probably work better. If he pressed his nails into Lord Yazur's flesh, he could scratch the whole thing off easily.
And he'd leave small indents behind where he touched him, a red trail from the irritation. Physical evidence of himself etched along his Lord's body. To leave a visible mark on his flesh…
Serios' vision blurs from desire, a possessive urge flooding his conscience. His head spins, and he blinks in rapid succession until the world regains its clarity.
Serios presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He's taken far too long to complete his task already—Lord Yazur praised him just minutes ago, he can't disappoint him now.
Dragging his nail over the spot once, then twice, he manages to scrape the rest of the blood from his skin. He brushes his thumb over the spot one last time in a soothing manner, watching a ruddy line bloom in the place where the blood once was, where his nail had dug into him, now imprinted on his neck.
Serios drops his hand and scrambles to take a full step backwards. His head droops, hanging low, filling his sight with the cracked stone of the floor beneath him, cataloguing all the divots and dents and scratches on its well-worn surface.
Before him, the sound of his Lord clearing his throat reaches his ears. He tilts his head upwards a small margin, barely enough to peer at him from under the curtain of his lashes.
"Thank you," Lord Yazur says, voice unchanged from earlier. A perfect portrayal of serenity. If it weren't for the faint red mark on his neck, there'd be no signs to suggest anything at all transpired between them.
No one may realize Serios has left his mark on him tonight, but that doesn't matter when he's the only person permitted to touch Lord Yazur this way. Not even that wretched corrupted soul has ever been gifted a chance for intimacy.
"Of course," Serios wheezes out. He's long since given up on maintaining a cool composure.
His fingertips burn where they'd made contact with his Lord's skin. A tingling heat dances up his arm, mingling with the already present inferno of yearning in his nerves. He flexes his hand, splaying his fingers and then tightening his fist into a ball. He's sure he must appear a mess, but he can't find a good reason to care. He'll reduce himself to a flailing, sniveling mess as many times as necessary, so long as his Lord is satisfied.
Lord Yazur adjusts his glasses with one hand; Serios almost blurts out a request to clean them for him.
"Come, let us pray together before we rest."
Serios nods his head in a rapid motion, failing to contain the eagerness in his movements. As Lord Yazur turns to walk away, his face softens, the ghost of a smile on his lips once more.
Serios nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to follow him.