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I. Indulgence had never suited him, and Marco had witnessed, time and time again, this prove itself to him. He didn't mind it, either; he preferred it this way. Having self-control meant he could focus on what was important, and it kept him and his morals pure. That in of itself was important to him, in fact. Sometimes, it was more important than what he sometimes heard were basic needs, but what was more immediate than the need for peace? He'd already lived a life, albeit a short one. He wasn't interested in himself anymore. He could shove petty temptations aside. All that mattered was Hao, and seeing his blood spilled before Lady Jeanne's feet.
Well, that was what Marco told himself. Maybe it was true, maybe not. It was a matter of opinion, really. And he believed he had always tried his best to have self-control, sometimes to a painful degree.
Once the Shaman Fight had moved from Japan to America, and every participant had made it their mission to locate the Patch Village, a boy found his way into the X-LAWS, or, more precisely, Marco found him in the street, walking sluggishly, looking distraught, something missing in his eyes. He hadn't taken the power of the Great Spirit well, it seemed.
An orphan, a victim of Hao, someone else who knew the charring of fire and the smell of burnt flesh as well as Marco did. He knew he was doing something noble, lending his hand to someone in need, sitting him down and giving him a shoulder to cry on. He was doing the right thing, as always.
Lyserg Diethel, he had an incredibly unique name, and his voice cracked when he spoke, red in the face, cheeks wet with tears. He had a slender, androgynous body, but not so feminine that Marco mistook him for a girl. He was so badly in need. It showed in his eyes, with every nervous glance, every guarded stare.
For goodness' sake, it wasn't fair, how...special he was, it wasn't fair, how beautiful he was. It wasn't fair, how desperate he was. Marco hadn't even realized he'd taken off their coats, and Lyserg's shirt was undone, suddenly. Why? When had he...no, there was no use whining, but how ridiculously unfair this was! Marco thought, maybe, he had done this to make Lyserg more comfortable, and Lyserg had been grateful, so it was all perfectly innocuous; that was why he'd blanked out. It had to have been that, but deep down, he knew it wasn't. And they sat in silence for minutes without moving, without doing anything. Two heartbeats, that was all, with Lyserg's breathing slowing from something sharp and ragged to a calm whisper, smooth as his untainted skin, soft hair, and...oh, dammit. Marco wanted to slap himself.
It wasn't that inviting him into the X-LAWS had been a mistake, but Marco had thought himself clever, had "forgotten" to tell Lyserg that, yes, he had the option to customize his uniform, do whatever he'd like with it. It was his own, but no, it wasn't, and Marco had made sure it would come with a pair of shorts as opposed to pants, tailored with the coat flaring out like a skirt, and he'd checked to make sure of this more times than he was comfortable admitting. But it suited Lyserg, Marco told himself, it just looked nice on him. He was too beautiful to have his uniform look anything short of perfect, but then, Marco would catch himself stealing glances at Lyserg's waist, his legs, or have to walk faster past his room upon hearing the rustling of clothes and zippers from behind the door.
Training him only worsened this. Marco would curse him again and again, tell himself he wouldn't give in to temptation. He'd remind himself to stay focused, keep his thoughts pure, but behind the blinding glare of his glasses, he couldn't hide what was going through his mind. The thought was always lingering, that he could do whatever he wanted. They were constantly alone together, and Lyserg would never deny him, at the auspicious age where a boy thinks himself to be independent but still craves approval, assurance. And more than most, Lyserg desired these things, as well as power, so in turn, Marco would remind him of his purpose as a member of the X-LAWS: for him to serve Lady Jeanne and enforce her will at any cost. But so long as Marco continued to grant his wishes, Lyserg would be sure to let him do whatever he wanted as well. He wouldn't complain or be inattentive. He'd always obey, and he'd love it.
He was doing little things, Marco noticed, sending hints his way. Staring back at him for three, five seconds at a time. Touching him and smiling at him more than anybody else. Or, Lyserg would sit with his legs crossed, showing the undersides of his thighs. He was doing it on purpose, he had to be. And he wouldn't even wince in pain anymore when hit; he would just sit on the floor with a hand hovering over his cheek, staring blankly. And the thought that he looked just right like that, it had stopped feeling strange around that same time. Seeing his body crumpled on the floor had stopped feeling even a little bit strange to Marco. And he knew it was wrong, that he was wrong for that lack of feeling, the emptiness in him that had been taking the place of his empathy for years, now. But, maybe it wasn't wrong, and maybe it wasn't even his fault. He prayed that it wasn't.
II. Any child born to loving parents knew the feeling: to be gazed upon like you're the most darling, beautiful creature to exist, to be held and cherished in somebody's arms. Lyserg knew it well, so well that he'd taken it for granted for years as a young child before losing it in the blink of an eye, and, unbeknownst to him, he had begun to search for it everywhere he could. And Marco, the captain of the organization that had taken him in in such a state, had found him alone, eyes clouded over with blood-red anger, that ceaseless desire for revenge. He'd been so loving, too, and Lyserg liked to think it was that very gaze he'd been missing for so long he often noticed travelling along his body.
He imagined that sometimes, it was, but not always, though it didn't surprise him. He couldn't remember a time in his life when men weren't looking at him that way. But that didn't stop him from feeling shameful, stupid for expecting anything different, and terrible for not hating the attention as much as he ought to. Worse, he would watch Marco, try to figure him out, and let this change the way he behaved, just enough to be given a little more patience during training, or be hit with a little less force when he misbehaved. And he knew it meant that whatever happened next would be his own fault, but just as well, he knew this was as close as he would get to having control.