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Arthur stood beside candle flame.
The paleness of his skin shined gold under its light. Barring, of course, the small red bruises João had inflicted onto his neck and chest. Arthur's loose, white blouse doing little — if not nothing — to hide them.
João would deny blame come daylight. Arthur — his Arthur — was seasoned and hardened by centuries of war. And yet, he scraped and bruised easily, like a summer peach under hot sun. João was simply not at fault.
The solid oak desk hoisted Arthur's body high above the floorboards, his stance casual in a manner no one beside João would ever see. His legs outstretched. Hands gripping quill, gliding over paper.
"I think this is the one," Arthur exaggerated his completing mark. The scratch of the pen accentuating his excitement.
Candlelight danced over his body as he moved, struggling to coat him. It reached, and reached, but the darkness of the night had doused Arthur plenty. Selfish and persistent. Winning the war over his lover's body. Arthur like the moon in eclipse.
From across the room, João scoffed, "You say that every time."
João, too, was enveloped in his own darkness. The cool linens of their bed covering his skin. The shadows of their room blocking Arthur's peering eyes.
"This time I'm certain," Arthur replied, his gaze intense. He was certain about much as of late.
João lazily rolled in his sheath, like a cat in sunlight. "Forgive me if I need convincing," he droned. Spent, and far too tired to not have his lover within arms reach.
"Convincing I can do."
João groaned into his arm, "I will need a performance."
"But of course," Arthur was ever dutiful with his poetry, "It's only right."
João lifted his head, though he was sure Arthur could not see. "I will need a performance," João repeated, "Tomorrow. Come to bed, Amor."
João watched Arthur with lidded eyes.
He watched him furrow his brows and bite his cheek. Tilt his head and tap his foot against the floor. And then finally, decide to give into João's request.
Tucking his quill into the pages — so as to not lose his artwork later, João was sure — Arthur placed his notebook onto his desk. He then straightened. And blew out the candle. And the room plunged into complete darkness.
"Can you see?" João asked, his smile evident purely through his tone.
Arthur sighed, "Keep talking."
"So demanding."
A clatter came from the direction of the desk. Combined with a quiet noise of surprise from Arthur. João laughed, "Are you alright?"
He heard his lover grumble. Moving the object from his path, it creaking against the wooden floorboards. "I hit the chair," Arthur announced, his feet padding over towards João once again.
"Poor thing," João extended an arm out as far as he could from his leisurely spot between their sheets. "Reach for me," he coaxed, "I'll protect you from these shadows."
João felt Arthur's hand enter his. Cold and callused, and so familiar. He took the chance to pull his lover in, as though he were saving him from a whirlpool at sea.
Arthur gasped slightly, stumbling atop the bed and into João's arms. Their foreheads bumped awkwardly, and he struggled to get his bearings. But João laughed nonetheless. His smile being Arthur's first sight once his eyes adjusted to the dark.
"Not funny," Arthur chided, though he could not stop his own smirk. He pulled at the covers. Unrolling João from their restraints, though the Portuguese merely whined in reply. Comfortable in his silky, soft cocoon.
Eventually, Arthur joined him under the cloth. João closed any space between them quickly. Burrowing his hands under Arthur's blouse, and tucking his face into the crook of his neck. His warmth a welcome addition to the comfort of their bed.
"You'll perform your poetry for me tomorrow?" João asked, feeling somewhat guilty for denying him the time today.
Arthur nodded, his chin grazing João's cheekbone as he spoke, "Certainly, Love."
He was certain about so much as of late.
João peppered kisses against his bruised skin, "When will you return home?"
Arthur sighed, "At night, Love."
And he was busy with so much as of late.
João hummed.
Sleep came for them quickly. The next morning, João kept with tradition. He arose as the sun did. Its morning rays seeping in through their window, coating them in an orange glow.
João kept with tradition. He arose before Arthur. Only to watch him sleep in reverent peace. To soak in Arthur's features unburdened with worry.
His notebook remained in its place on his desk. The wax of the candle melted to its brass guard. The sun chased the shadows from their room. And João placed a kiss to Arthur's temple. Because he, too, was certain about much as of late.
He was certain about Arthur. Without a shadow of a doubt — Certain.