Chapter Text
Exactly as practiced, Scott's body hit the stage floorboards with a sickening, hollow thud.
What Scott hadn't practiced was the very real agony consuming his throat.
The famous actor trembled as he reached up to his throat, double checking to make sure he wasn't simply lost in the moment and nope his throat had absolutely been slit open and that was very real blood pouring from his throat instead of the pouch of red dye they'd prepared–
In the corner of his eye, Scott could see his stage partner calmly walking away – perfectly on cue, exactly as they had rehearsed a thousand times. Did the other man know what happened? Did he know that Scott was actually bleeding to death right now?
Of course he did. He had to.
How could someone accidentally slit a throat and not know it?
And yet, Scott couldn't help but weakly reach towards him, silently begging for him to come back. Just like the charming villain, Scott's character, was supposed to do.
But, just like the hero in the story, his stage partner didn't look back.
Why would he?
This was karma.
The fate of a villain was to die.
But Scott didn't want to die.
His arm weakly fell to the stage, his head struggling to turn to the audience. He reached towards them, fingers trembling with the mere effort.
"H-Help..." Scott rasped, tears brimming in his eyes. "P-Please..."
There was silence.
Then overwhelming clapping.
The audience loved it. They thought the desperate clutching at his throat, and tearful reaching towards them, was just brilliant acting. They thought the genuine terror in his eyes was just another masterful performance by Scott Antonis Mattheos Pagona Pavlos III.
A deep-seated, strict part of his mind – the part he'd trained and perfected since he had been chosen for the role of an actor as a child – screamed at him to just stick to the script.
Die gracefully, it whispered. Give them a tragedy they'll never forget. At least you'll have put on a good show, right? That's all your good for anyway. What will be left of you, if you mess up an act this grand?
But the rest of Scott, the raw, cowardly core of him, was so incredibly scared.
He didn't want to die.
But as usual... Scott didn't get much of a choice in the roles he played, did he?
The applause grew louder. Many even standing in their seats and screaming for an encore.
Well, unfortunately for them, Scott had only one life to give, so this would likely be a one-time thing. A performance of a lifetime and all.
For the first time in his life, Scott truly hated the sound of applause.
And yet, it wouldn't stop.
It echoed in his ears. Crawling beneath his skin and pounding at him like the rapid thumping of his heart – the foolish organ that continued to race even as it caused more and more blood to flow from his wound to the stage below.
This is the end... isn't it?
The last curtain call.
As the edges of Scott's vision began to fray into a cold, welcoming black – a world where, perhaps, he could finally lay down the masks and maybe even figure out who he was behind it all – a sudden disturbance shattered the rhythm of the clapping.
There was shouting.
The heavy thud of someone, perhaps multiple someones, jumping onto the stage.
Suddenly, Scott's world tilted.
His body jolted painfully as someone hoisted him into a pair of massive, impossibly warm arms. The heat was shocking, but perhaps that was only because Scott's own limbs were already turning to ice.
He wanted to thank whoever it was – he wanted to beg them – but before he could try, a rough, heavily scarred hand pressed down directly over the wound on his throat.
Scott choked, his vision swimming violently as he struggled even harder to breathe. Panic flared anew, but he was too weak to do anything but weakly grasp the hand holding him.
Are you here to kill me faster? Scott wondered, new tears flowing down his face. Was my performance that disappointing?
"Shhh," a rugged, low voice rumbled right above his ear. "Save your strength, Pretty One. Was quite a show you put on there. Wouldn't want to lose such a fine talent in such a cowardly fashion."
Through the haze, Scott faintly heard someone shrieking for the guards. Oh, now they were calling for the guards? The clapping had stopped too, much to Scott's secret relief.
"Nikos!" another voice roared from somewhere that felt both close and far away. There was a sharp clanging noise of metal striking metal from that direction as well. "Flirt later, heal now!"
"Of course, Pretty One!" the rugged man called back cheerfully. He sounded completely unbothered by whatever this situation was.
Wait, Scott thought sluggishly. I thought he called me the Pretty One. Does he call everyone Pretty One?
While Scott knew that every person had a beauty unique to themselves, he felt vaguely disappointed by the idea.
He had very little time to process this feeling because, a split second later, he felt chapped, scarred lips press firmly down against his own.
Now, Scott was usually down for a make out session under almost any circumstances, but this was undeniably the strangest kiss he had ever had. He was covered in his own blood, actively dying, probably looked like an unforgivable and unattractive mess of sweat and rumpled clothing, and he couldn't even see the face of his savior – or killer, or whatever this man was.
Then, Scott felt it. A thick, glowing liquid being deliberately passed from the rugged man's mouth into his own.
A potion.
The moment the fluid hit the laceration in his throat, the numbness vanished, replaced by a localized flare of agonizing, knitting heat.
Scott reflexively fought against the kiss, gasping and choking on the magic and pain, but the scarred man's grip was steady and unyielding.
The unknown man held Scott tightly against his broad chest, anchoring the fallen actor as he patiently fed the rest of the life-saving potion into Scott's body. He didn't let go until the very last drop was weakly swallowed by Scott.
Only then did those rugged lips finally release him.
Scott gasped, unable to mourn the loss as his chest heaved with his first real breath. The oxygen tasted unbelievably sweet, but his lungs were pumping too fast. A new wave of tears poured down his face, even quicker than before. He knew he had to look like an absolute wreck – a disaster of smeared stage makeup, sweat, tears, and crimson blood, but he couldn't get control of himself.
It was pathetic. It was disappointing. It was unprofessional.
But it was all Scott had at the moment.
"There we go, Pretty One," the rugged man soothed, his face finally starting to come into focus. "You've got this."
As expected from the voice, the stranger was very handsome with a sharp jaw, long brown hair, hazel eyes, tattoos, and a scar across his nose. What wasn't expected was the way there wasn't a single hint of disgust or disappointment on the man's face. There were a few flecks of blood splattered across the man's cheek – probably Scott's own blood – but he seemed entirely unfazed.
With hands still stained red, the stranger carefully reached up and brushed a stray lock of white hair away from Scott's sweat-damp forehead.
"Just breathe, Pretty One," the rugged man continued, his voice more soothing than any instrument Scott had ever heard or played. "Air is good for you. That one god... Aeolus, yes, he would approve, I'm sure. But you inhale too fast. If too tough, breathe with me. In... out..."
Scott found himself instantly obeying, struggling to match his breaths to the steady rise and fall of the man's bare chest. Even to Scott's muffled ears, he could tell his attempts were pitiful, but the bright smile that lit up on the stranger's face made Scott feel like... he was doing something right. Something of actual substance.
(That was a first.)
"Very good, Pretty Actor," the man said in a low tone that, any other time, would have done very different things to Scott. As it was, the sound was a lifeline that Scott was using to drag himself back from the depths of the darkness still trying to pull him under. "That's much better–"
CLANG
CLANG
The sharp, brutal sound of a sword parrying a spear nearby snapped Scott back to reality.
"Nikos!" the voice from before barked again. This time, it sounded significantly more strained. "If he's fine, it's time to go!"
Scott blinked, his eye shifting past Nikos to see a second man – a gladiator or warrior by the looks of his armor – fending off a wave of theater guards with terrifying, fluid precision.
The man seemed somewhat... familiar, but Scott couldn't put his finger on it. Perhaps it was the blood loss. Otherwise, how could Scott ever forgive himself for forgetting the face of yet another supremely handsome man? Especially one moving like a whirlwind, somehow combating the immense number of guards on stage and keeping them from approaching Nikos or Scott too closely without doing any actual harm.
If Scott wasn't already struggling for air, he would've lost his breath all over again at how undeniably attractive the unknown fighter was.
Meanwhile, Nikos let out a heavy, disappointed sigh. He gently laid Scott back down on the wooden floorboards.
"Gotta go, Pretty One," Nikos said, his rugged voice tinged with what Scott thought may be genuine regret. "Your people are... well, they're not very fond of men like us."
Scott's fingers twitched, desperately wanting to reach out, to grab the edge of Nikos' tunic, to yell at them to stay. To yell at the guards to stop whatever they thought they were doing.
More than anything, Scott wanted to know who these men were. He wanted to understand why they had saved the actor. How they had known to save Scott when everyone else in the audience and backstage had been completely convinced it was just another show.
(Convinced... or unwilling to help.)
(Perhaps, some of them had even known just how final this curtain call was supposed to be.)
But even as Scott opened his mouth, his still repairing vocal cords and weakened muscles refused to cooperate. All that came out was a soft, breathless whimper as Nikos stood up, drew his weapon, and jumped into the fray with a loud cry of exhilaration.
It wasn't a bad view at all, but it was quickly covered up by a suffocating wall of panicked faces that seemed to have been waiting for the former man to leave before approaching Scott.
"Scott! Oh gods, Scott, look at me–"
"Call a physician! That barbarian attacked him–"
"Give him air–"
Hands – soft, manicured hands that had never touched a weapon – began to touch his shoulders, pulling at his blood-soaked costume, hovering over his face in a blur of faces.
He knew he should smile, reassure them, play the part that he was trained to play, but he just closed his eyes.
You're so loud, a traitorous part of Scott whispered. Why weren't you making that noise when I needed help earlier? Why can't you just go back to ignoring me so I can continue to examine my two very handsome saviors?
Once again, Scott didn't get his wish.
And now, with his eyes now closed, it was impossible not to surrender to the heavy, numbing weight of the darkness. The frantic shouts of his manager, clanging sounds of weapons, and the crying of the crowd bled into a dull, distant hum.
The show must go on...
But, for now, Scott couldn't help but sleep.
His last memory being of the rugged man's lips feeding him the potion and the fierce sound of the other fighter's blade preventing any guard from getting close...