For T-bat, who knows why.
AU, verry much so. Yaoi. OOC? who knows... Lemon. And Angst/death. Damn it, I have a really bad habit of this...
By the time I got what you might call a roommate of sorts, I'd been isolated from most human contact for way too long... so long that I had taken to talking incessantly to myself, just to keep from listening too much to the silence of my prison cell. Hell, for the most part, the guards who shoved bread and water through the slot at the bottom of the door rarely even grunted at me, so I was a desperate man.
Humans, by and large, are pretty much social creatures, and I'm rather exemplary of that. I love people. Talking to them, listening, watching, it doesn't matter as long as I can be around them. Being locked up in a prison cell alone nearly drove me nuts. I could have cried the day the door to my cell opened and they tossed the boy in to join me.
I was all over him, practically before the door had shut behind him, babbling my name and questions so fast that I was practically tripping over my own eagerness.
He was just a kid--maybe midteens, definitely no more than that, skinnier than any person has a right to be, and really quiet... Getting him to talk was one hell of a feat, much to my disappointment, but silent company was better than no company at all, in my opinion. He called himself Trowa--I don't think that was his real name, if he even had a name, but then again, I'm self-named too.
At first, he would barely look at me, sitting in a corner, folded in on himself like a scared animal trying to look small. I did what I could to make him more comfortable--talked endlessly about anything that sprang to mind, keeping a careful distance from him and trying not to move suddenly, sort of like you'd behave with a skittish horse. Told him the entire sad story of how I, a young man in the prime of his youth, came to be rotting away in the Lord High Chamberlain's personal dungeon. (It's not my fault that the man has no sense of charity whatsoever... He never would have missed those jewels, I swear! If only that wretched dog hadn't barked...)
I have a relentless personality, so he warmed up to me eventually, emerging a little from his corner and telling me in soft, halting words why he was sitting in the cell with me.
As it turned out, the "kid" could have been my grandfather... Yeah, maybe I should have known from the delicate way his features were put together, or quiet depth to those green eyes of his, but he was definitely one of the Fair Ones. Not full-blooded, as it turned out, but not fully human, either.
Seems our esteemed Lord High Chamberlain had been out hunting one day and stumbled across my quiet friend... Well, Trowa is a pretty striking guy, and looks like a kid, so it crossed the man's mind to pick up a different sort of trophy than the stag he'd been hunting. He has peculiar ideas of ownership, though, and wanted Trowa to go to his bed willingly. Trowa refused, the Lord High Chamberlain lost his temper, and I got a prison mate out of the deal.
His lordship came down to visit Trowa occasionally, hoping that the horrible conditions would change his captive's mind. After the first visit from the slimy bastard, I decided that I simply had to seek new accomodations elsewhere, post haste, and that Trowa was going with me.
The only problem with this was the fact we were sitting in a cell carved out of solid bedrock with a door guarded day in and out that never opened, as Trowa quickly pointed out to me.
Well, it was only a minor detail, and I was certain I'd figure a way out eventually.
Trowa got sick.
No, I'm not talking coughing, hacking, feverish sick. More like... he was pining. For what, exactly, he wasn't ever able to tell me. From the way he'd talk, though, of the forest and the animals and listening to the song of the wind and the blue sky, I could guess, though. His lordship wasn't doing his would-be lover any favors by keeping Trowa locked away.
What was worse, I fell in love.
Spare me your sermons about who and what we should love. I never bought too much into religion, and life's too short for most of us to let any opportunity for love to pass by. Blame it on the constant presence he had in my life, or the deprivation of human contact I'd had before he arrived if you like, I don't care. All I know is that somewhere along the line, listening to his tales of running alongside deer for the sheer joy of the act, or of dancing beneath the full moon, or of simply sitting under the branches of a tree being, I fell for him. Hard.
He knew, probably before I did. And secrets are impossible to keep when you live with someone every hour of the day. Besides, I talk in my sleep.
Maybe he loved me back, or didn't have the heart to break mine. In any case, he certainly didn't discourage me when I kissed him the first time. Or the second, or the third, or when my fingers went fumbling through his clothes, pushing the cloth aside and roaming across his smooth pale skin freely, teasing the upright nubs of his nipples first with light brushes of my fingertips, then with lips and tongue and teeth. And whatever his thoughts on the matter, by the time I had worked most of my clothes and his off and was worshipping every inch of his chest with my mouth, he was gasping and moaning as eagerly as I was for more...
Your average prison cell generally doesn't come with anything at all to make anal sex an easy thing, so I know it had to have hurt him when I put my fingers, wet only with saliva, into him, preparing him for more. He didn't stop me, and by the time I was fully inside him, thrusting and hitting his prostate every time, his eyes were wide and his mouth was open, gasping for more, until my own celibacy and his inexperience proved too much and we fell over the edge together.
In the end, Trowa was the one to make escape possible, but not in the way I was expecting.
Even I failed to understand just how much he needed to be free and to be out of doors... but he knew. And he explained, in his most matter-of-fact tones possible, exactly how I should make use of this knowledge.
He died there, in that shit-smelling cell, without ever seeing his beloved forest again. I like to think that wherever he is now, it's someplace green and peaceful and, most of all, free.
I told the guard dully that he had died--he came in, of course, to check, and wrapped up the body in one of the ratty blankets for the priest to bless later before they disposed of the body. The body they blessed, however, was mine, and the huddled figure under the other blanket who cursed the priest, through the knack of ventriloquism I picked up in my early street life, was Trowa's.
The escape was simple after that, and I understand that the Lord High Chamberlain's screams of rage could be heard for a mile once they figured out what had happened. I didn't care anymore for what he thought, other than to get as far away from there as possible...
Which is why I'm sitting here now, underneath this tree, listening to the music in the rain. Sometimes, if I'm paying especially close attention, I can almost hear his soft laughter of delight.
I think he must have loved me.
Can you tell I've read The Count of Monte Cristo about three times too many?
C&C greatly desired.