100 » you think about me when you kiss her

[ironwind]

[ When all is said and done, and the bloodied sands are turned over for new, clean silt, a young aristocrat named Eberhart walks through the gladiators' hall in Mondstadt in search of the man he calls his slave.

He is a bastard son who will never inherit anything, though many call him fortunate and privileged to at least be acknowledged by his father, who could have turned his slave mother out on the streets to die if he were not a more kind and generous soul. Kind and generous, Eberhart thinks with scornful cynicism as his heeled boots click against the tiles of the gladiators' quarters. Kind and generous, though his somewhat useless, rather foppish, pure-hearted older brothers will inherit the family fortune, and probably let everything go to ruin if they are left to their own devices. Kind and generous, though Landrich as good as raped Eberhart's mother — even though she didn't think of it that way, even though, when she was still alive, she only ever used to say It was never about love, Eberhart. Few things in this world allow people like us to love.

He is a bastard son and his father's perfect scion.

He has one vice. ]

...Ainsley.

[ A name for a man who should be nameless. Words for a man who should be silent. Eberhart's applause comes so slowly — one clap, then another, then a third, a fourth — silence — that it could be sarcastic. His cool gaze betrays nothing of his thoughts. ]

Well-fought, today. The Bringer of Dawn, they called him? I suppose he'll be bringing nothing now.

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[ironpoint]

[ The heady rush of the match — another victory — still pulses hot in Ainsley's blood. Outside, the spectators' cheers no longer ring out, but their echo stays with him, filling his ears and his heart. Where they once held the promise of freedom almost in his grasp, their meaning has changed; they are a backdrop, a chorus.

In their midst, his master's quiet presence takes center stage, a beacon distinct against the faceless crowd.

Ainsley hears Eberhart's approaching steps: the soles of Eberhart's boots tap out a precise rhythm upon the tiled floor. Eberhart claps just as precisely, keeping each pause the same length, like a musician setting his tempo. His voice — his praise — cuts cleanly through all else.

The gladiator draws himself up, reflexively, for a glimpse of his master's expression, closer now than it was from the arena, before he kneels at Eberhart's feet. His body aches, and his time on the sands has left him filthy, streaked with dust and sweat and blood, but the brooch he wears is untouched, and his heart soars. It might have been a bird instead, set free from its cage.

That simple well-fought sweetens his victory.

Master Eberhart is different from the rest — the thought surfaces again and again. Who would address a slave by name when nothing would do just as well? Who would go out of his way to show that slave kindness after kindness? ]

Master Eberhart, I... Thank you.

[ Lifting his gaze, breaking his silence, Ainsley peers up at his young master past matted strands of hair falling into his eyes and clinging to his skin. Eberhart's features are unchanged, unreadable, but he is here. ]

I'll fight again, as many times as you ask.

[ Well-fought. The gladiator savors the taste of his master's approval. ]

I'll win again.

[ironwind]

[ Eberhart steps closer. He touches Ainsley's cheek. He does not ask the gladiator to rise, as he might if he truly regarded the man as an equal. His fingers caress Ainsley's jawline; his thumb brushes against the man's bottom lip. He is handsome, Eberhart thinks, a little distractedly, and not for the first time. The others know it too. The spectators — they would not cheer so loudly if he were not so handsome.

Still, he's getting on in years. Thirty-five or thirty-six is not too old for a nobleman, but it is old for a gladiator, one who has borne the brunt of many blows and fought hard every day of his life. One day, perhaps, Eberhart will impress upon him the need to retire. And then —

And then what? Ainsley lives in the manor, surrounded by every luxury like a fatted calf? He would not want that. Eberhart's father would not tolerate it, either. But there are other things, lighter burdens — he could take up a job as a manservant, perhaps...

The young noble is so caught up in his thoughts, and for so long, that he doesn't hear his slave's response. Whatever it is Ainsley has just promised him, Eberhart has already forgotten.

And perhaps that is cold of him — but he cares, in his own way. He tries, in the only way that he can. ]

...You should wash up.

[ He offers nothing to cushion the blow of the remark — one might even suspect that he has been looking at Ainsley in disgust this whole time. Still, he doesn't look as though Ainsley's scent has offended him, and the gladiator should know by know that bloodshed has never fazed his master. Eberhart withdraws his hands. ]

I'll go with you. I don't trust these attendants with your welfare.

[ironpoint]

[ Ainsley holds still for Eberhart's fingers, but to his senses, the touches contradict what could have been a cursory inspection ending in displeasure. They are pleasant — tender, despite Eberhart's outward demeanor. They are gentle, another unusual kindness, contrasting with the rigors of battle, the strain on even the strongest body.

They call to mind that day in the gardens.

Ainsley's lips part as his master's thumb passes across the curve of his mouth, and his breath catches in his throat. His eyelids lower, sinking to half-mast.

(How long do they stay like that, the two of them?)

And then Eberhart speaks again, drawing back, releasing his slave, and Ainsley stirs, blinks, straightens his spine. His master's words only elevate him to a place near freedom; Eberhart's apparent concern softens instructions that could otherwise be taken for an admonishment. The attendants' efforts should do, enough for a slave, but Eberhart's willingness to keep his slave company makes the gladiator someone valued, not easily replaced.

Ainsley bows his head, standing to comply. Eberhart's touch still seems to tingle on his skin.

For all the battles under his belt, the glory won, he feels somehow young in the face of his master's gestures. ]

You are always so kind, Master Eberhart...

[ For Eberhart, he thinks again, he could fight countless times more. But for now, he does as bid, careful not to walk ahead of his master on the way to the baths. Eberhart stands out, in these halls — still, even if the attendants they pass question his extended visit, they know better than to voice it aloud.

Once they are alone, Ainsley hesitates, poised to begin undressing, fingers on the straps of one arm-guard. He means to wash up thoroughly, on the one hand, and avoid keeping his master waiting, on the other.

He wonders, suddenly, how closely Eberhart will watch to see to his welfare. ]

[ironwind]

[ Kind, Ainsley says. It needles like the thorn of a rose into Eberhart's throat. What is kind about this — the relationship between a master and his slave? Is he kind simply because he has never beat his gladiator, never punished him for any perceived slight? It would be kinder for Eberhart to set him free. It would be kinder for Eberhart to treat him as an equal. Some part of him knew that, all those years ago, but he was too selfish to go through with it, and instead crushed Ainsley closer.

He never meant to break the gladiator's wings, but — but he did, and he wanted to, and that is sin enough.

When Ainsley hesitates and begins undressing, it's hard not to want again. Hard not to imagine what might happen if Eberhart pushed him against a stone column and let his hungry fingers wander. His guilt stays his hand, though. His natural coldness stays his hand. He does, however, allow himself one indulgence: stepping behind Ainsley, Eberhart begins undoing the leather straps of his breastplate, too.

The man smells of sweat and oils. He glistened like gold on the sands. ]

Do any of these chafe? If your equipment is ever dissatisfactory, you must let me know. I'll not have you suffer a loss on account of poor maintenance.

[ Maintenance, he says, as if Ainsley is chattel. He hates that about himself, too, but he must. It's — he must only be Eberhart, the kind young nobleman. He must. ]

[ironpoint]

[ Eberhart will watch closely indeed, it seems, directly behind Ainsley, already loosening buckles and straps, as if he has every intention of acting in place of any attendant. The faint clinking of iron and the whisper of leather accompany the movements of his hands, mundane sounds made captivating for Eberhart's proximity. This, too, is heady. It's a privilege that few slaves enjoy, Ainsley thinks.

If anything chafes, he doesn't feel it, too focused on the memory of his master's touch, the near-promise of it as Eberhart's fingers free him from his gladiator's breastplate, baring his torso before long. It is a privilege, tempting, intoxicating like potent wine.

Ainsley dares to hear concern in Eberhart's question. Defeat is unacceptable for other reasons, of course, reflecting poorly on a gladiator's master, a disappointment sure to have consequences, but Ainsley steals a glance over his shoulder, seeking Eberhart's gaze, something hopeful roused within him.

Master Eberhart, after all, is not like other noblemen. ]

You have my word that every battle will end in my victory. And I'll never keep anything from you.

[ Some of the blood dried on his skin is his own, and beneath the grime, his body is scarred; each mark carved into it documents all that it has weathered over the years. Even so, his strength hasn't waned. His victories are unbroken.

But he has kept something from his master — his dreams are things best left as dreams. ]

[ironwind]

Good. I...

[The impulse to say more has seized him before he can stop himself. Eberhart falters, briefly displaying a sort of uncharacteristic shyness. Maybe, just perhaps, part of what motivates him is that odd sense of hope on Ainsley's face, a kind of eagerness, like that of a well-trained hunting hound seeking to please its master, tail wagging and tongue out.

Eberhart should not want to touch. He should not want to linger. But no one is around to watch them, in this moment, and — and Ainsley belongs to him.

As he peels the last of Ainsley's armor off of his body, Eberhart's fingers graze the curve of a scar along Ainsley's hip, his touch gentle, even faintly ticklish. This contact is deliberate; it cannot be unintentional. A long, slow, drawn-out caress, as if to remind himself that the injury was sustained for him.]

...I want all of your secrets. I would have all of you.