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Stepping through a pair of large ornately carved rich mahogany doors, Leon immediately felt out of place. Among the glitz and the glamor of everyone’s expensive imported fabric that showed their ridiculous amounts of wealth, practically choking on buttons, embroidering and barcading covering them, he felt under dressed in his tamer choice of wear: black leather shoes with a large shiny silver buckle, white cotton stockings, and his pale cerulean waistcoat, breeches and jacket made of fine wool with buttons and embroidering lining the edges and cuffs. His frilly silk cravat spilled from his waistcoat in neat layers.
Sliding his hands into the pockets of his breeches, Leon’s eyes roamed for Count Redfield, who had invited him to the Gala. He had really outdone himself this year; it was held in the very spacious Redfield manor, marble floors perfectly reflecting the image of every guest and servant alike. Thick columns held the high ceiling of glass, allowing the soft moonlight to fall upon them, not to mention the decorations at each table of various fresh fruits and vegetables laid out to please the eye.
“Leon!” Speak of the devil and he shall appear.
“Chris.” Shaking his hand, Leon offered a placating smile. They weren’t on the best terms, but Claire liked him, so that was reason enough to be friendly with the knight. But it mattered little in the grand scheme of things at this specific gathering.
“Welcome, I hope the trip wasn’t too hard on you.”
“It was rather pleasant, actually. How’s Claire? She hasn’t been sending as many letters since she’s been helping with the Gala.”
Pressing all of the right buttons, Chris babbled on about Claire, how she basically took over planning, which is why it looked better than the one he’d hosted a few years ago. Passively listening to things he didn’t care about, Leon’s eye caught a flash of something red. Turning, he saw a woman with black bobbed hair in a beautiful red gown clack down a nondescript hall like a shadow. Huh.
Turning back when Chris’ vocal stream of consciousness stopped, he looked around for what had
finally
made him shut up.
“I suppose I wouldn’t be doing my duties as a host if I didn’t introduce you to my other guests,” he started up again. “You’ve heard of Count Wesker right?”
“Yeah,” Leon replied. Who hadn’t heard about Count Wesker? An elitist with a shock of blonde hair that enjoyed flaunting his wealth, but didn’t conform to societal norms that would strip away his natural beauty. Wigs mainly. That and the unusual addition of black silk gloves. More importantly though, was how ruthless the man was. He built up the face of a calm, friendly gentleman who was sympathetic and understanding of you and your situation, gently prying you open, licking up your tender innards, and in the morning, you found yourself disgraced and disowned, your secrets laid bare by an anonymous source. He was quickly rising in rank and power, and as his wealth and fame grew, so did the rumors. They said all sorts of queer things about the man and the people he surrounded himself with. Things like he was secretly a monster wearing a human's skin as a disguise, the man was made of pure stone and marble, he was the bastard of a prince or princess in an unholy union and was seeking revenge (or most likely, that he was the bastard of King Spencer, it made sense with how unusually favoring he was towards the Count). Whatever the case may have been, he was a dangerous, vile man. The exact someone Leon has been keeping an eye on. He had seen the man in passing at a few events. They even nodded at each other once in passing when Leon had to rush back home after an unexpected storm hit.
“Well, he’s looking right at us.” Chris nodded to the left slightly and, ah. There, Leon found the pale-faced devil himself, a small smirk quirking the corner of his mouth.
“Better get it over with.”
Sighing, Chris adjusted his orange coat and led Leon over to the man dressed to kill. Wearing black slip ins polished to perfection with a bit of heel, making his intimidating height taller, white silk stockings stark against his black crushed velvet breeches, with ostentatious gold embroidering along the cuffs. His silk waistcoat was a pale cream color covered in barcading of all sorts of warm colors. His frilly silk crocheted cravat was tied into a bow around his throat, plenty of material spilling down his chest. A black silk glove held a simple black cane with a snake made of silver coiling up the length with blazing red eyes.
“Count Redfield,” he greeted with a tilt of his head. Chris didn’t seem eager to touch Wesker either, keeping his hands to himself, so instead he clapped Leon on the back. “You’ve met Sir Kennedy, right?”
“I haven’t had the pleasure. Count Albert Wesker.” Holding out his hand, Leon took it and on pure reflex, he bent down and kissed the back of Wesker’s hand. Tense, Leon straightened out and then stiffly gave his hand a firm shake (curiously he hadn’t ripped his hand away as soon as his lips made contact. Maybe he was frozen in shock? Leon couldn't get much of a read on him due to those damn gold framed, small black circular lenses of his sunglasses), and said: “Sir Leon S. Kennedy.”
Leon completely forgot Chris was there until he cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” he said and quickly walked away. It couldn't be more obvious that he wanted to get as far from Wesker as he could as quickly as he could.
“Sir Kennedy--“
“Leon please, Count.”
Wesker smiled like he had heard a very amusing joke. “Wesker then. Come, let’s talk away from eavesdroppers and people who can’t keep their eyes to themselves.”
Walking beside the Count, Leon watched Wesker out of the corner of his eye, the black silk tricot of his coat giving his whole ensemble a casual note that was balanced by a military inspired trim. So-called Brandenburg-made braided passmenterie — trim and tassels (if Leon was remembering correctly, he hated how his head was stuffed full of useless knowledge) — draped over a frankly impressive musculature for a Count.
“Tell me, Leon, how are things at your lovely fief?”
He wasn’t expecting Wesker to take much interest in him. Perhaps it was to lull him and lower his guard.
"Things are fine. Crop growth is steady, my hunting dog whelped four pups. It's been a fruitful spring for me, I hope it has been for your county of land."
"Your concern for my well-being touches me, but you needn't worry yourself. Everything is as it should be."
Leon didn't have long to think of how odd that last sentence was. The curve of his smirk painted it ominously. Wesker’s next question had his blood simmering.
"I heard you were recently a prisoner of war for a month to a small neighboring kingdom under King Saddler, if I recall correctly." Wesker took a sip of his goblet, his face giving nothing away.
Taking a goblet from the platter of a nearby servant, Leon took a long sip of the tart wine. He needed something to distract himself before he reacted poorly. Taking a deep breath, paying careful attention to the tone of his voice, Leon said: "Yes. It was my first time as a prisoner of war. It was an...enlightening experience to say the least."
"In what ways were you enlightened?"
Leon couldn't help it when his voice hardened and expression turned dark. "That the other men who bravely fought alongside me were slaughtered like dogs, while cowardly knights were treated with comforts and polite handlers. All because they wielded the title of a knight. It's disgusting." He scoffed.
A silence stretched out in the conversation. Leon was unsure if Wesker was giving him a moment to cool down or if he didn’t know what to say to Leon's scalding remark. Or, more likely, he was waiting for Leon to apologize for his ill mannered slip of the tongue in his presence.
"Will I be seeing you in this year’s tournament?” Wesker chose a new, safer (but not safe enough) line of conversation, but Leon couldn't get rid of the niggling bitterness that came with the memories of his comrades being butchered.
Chuckling around his goblet of wine, he nodded. “Unfortunately. You aristocrats love your blood sports.”
"Mmm, nothing much else to do but cast out your loyal lap dogs to squash the opposition. You should understand, as the King's lapdog." There it was — that damned smirk of his. It made Leon’s skin crawl with all of its unsaid sins.
"Bold words from the King's companion,” Leon mused, setting his empty glass on another platter of a passing servant. Simmons, moments before Leon begrudgingly got into the carriage for Count Redfield's estate, told him to be respectful, subservient and to stay in line . His mouth and unwavering morals constantly got him in trouble. Simmons didn't want to deal with another mess caused by Leon, especially not where so many powerful eyes and ears were vigilant for gossip.
A brow twitched, but the smirk didn't falter. "You make it sound as if it's an insult."
"I've been told anyone with eyes can see the way you leer at the old king. It doesn't help with your sizable reputation." They both swept up another goblet. The second drink of the night for both of them.
"Your relationship with Count Simmons isn't any better."
Simmons was different. They were both aware of their mutual hatred of each other, no present tenses needed. It was all a business investment for him and King Graham favored him, so it was an obvious decision for him to make. He told Wesker as much.
Not expecting the laughter that spilled from Wesker’s lips, Leon watched as he covered his mouth with a hand, ink black gloves contrasting harshly against his porcelain skin. Leon was unsure why, but his eyes locked onto his hand. Remembering how warm and strong it was, Leon almost missed: "I’ve never met such a funny knight before. Usually they are so stringent, moral defenders of their code of ethics, or slobbering all over me.”
Clinking his goblet with Leon’s, Wesker led him towards a back corner where the crowd thinned out, and stopped behind one of the thick ones that could easily hide them both. He maneuvered them so that they were still somewhat visible if someone were searching for them. He didn’t need to add another rumor upon his already unsavory list.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, Leon. The White Knight of King Graham’s kingdom. Shedding light on everybody you meet, courageously fighting for the good of your kingdom. But you divided yourself from the rest of the meager and licentious crowd. You are the true embodiment of a Knight, seeking out honor and justice for all.”
Leon had been sipping at his wine, taking great care not to choke when Wesker started showering him with praise. It had him tensing. This situation was like the snake charming the snake charmer. Honeyed hisses softened with compliments as it slithered closer, locking eyes with him as it poised to strike.
“You flatter me, I am simply doing as I should as a Knight. The weak will always need the stronger to protect them from tyrants and the scum of the Earth. Until they are wiped clean from the Earth, I will continue to protect until my dying breath.” Leon smartly left out 'protect from people like you.'
“How noble. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a knight that so frequently and so constantly switches between knight bachelor and knight banneret. Only loyal to your ideals and morals. Hopping from cause to cause to dole it out among the pitiful. How very interesting.”
“I wouldn’t call needing help pitiful. Everyone needs help."
“Everyone?” Quirking a brow, Wesker stared down Leon.
“Everyone, even kings.”
“Well, Leon, I have a problem that I need help with.”
It sickened him that he jerked to attention, ready to fulfill the task bestowed upon him. “Yes?”
“We both need another drink.” Handing over his empty goblet, Leon took it thoughtlessly and stared at them in his hands, before his brain jump started and he turned in search for more wine.
Should he just hand the empty glasses to someone and slip away into the crowd and escape from Wesker? It was a tempting thought, talking to Jill or Barry would be a million times better, but he wouldn’t be doing his duty to allow some poor soul to be swept up by the Count, drained dry of everything nigh their lives.
With a heavy heart, Leon with drinks in tow, set off back to their corner.
---
Leon wasn't sure what changed. Maybe it was the drinks they knocked back in quick succession, Leon needing a crutch to deal with Wesker. And Wesker, not wanting to scare Leon away, kept pace with him. Or the fact the conversation took less of a mocking, biting direction of Wesker laughing at his character. Instead, he started...seducing him?
Over the period of their strange game of verbal cat and mouse, Wesker inched closer, towering over Leon, looking just shy of perfection. His soft-looking slicked back hair, the slight color to his cheeks from the number of drinks he had drank, he was even close enough for Leon to catch a whiff of his expensive perfume. Like a rose. So pretty to look at, so pretty you forget the thorns laying underneath when you reach out to touch it.
"Leon," his baritone voice rumbled, practically whispering in his ear. "I have another problem for you to solve."
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Leon tipped his head in question.
"I need a loyal, upstanding knight by my side. Everyone else pales in comparison. I'll treat you a hundred times better than that rat Simmons," he said. A warm silk glove cupped Leon’s face, tilting his head up fully to stare back into his own reflection. He looked flummoxed, cheeks darkening from the alcohol and the proximity of the Count. "What do you say?"
Leon couldn't believe what he was hearing. A hand extended to betray his kingdom, his king, his friends, everything he had for this silver tongued snake that was proving sin was so much better than virtue.
And idiotically, Leon reached a hand up and took Wesker's in both of his. Rubbing his thumb back and forth against the smooth material that stretched over the hands of a possible murderer, Leon's hand trailed and tracked the bumps, smooth hard bone, over muscle and flesh. Thumbing at the edge of the glove, Leon hooked his thumb under the frilled edge and slowly, softly tugged it off with the same great care and reverence he held when he would (rarely) take a lady home for the night.
It was jarring really, seeing Wesker's naked hand between his own. Glove hastily tucked away, no words were shared when Leon bent his head and kissed the top of his hand. A mock recreation of their first meeting. And just as he thought, Wesker’s skin was smooth, as smooth and soft as the rest of him looked. Covering the top of his hand in kisses, moving down to the knuckles he pictured cracking into someone's skull, Leon quickly slipped down to long artful fingers. Fingers that wrote letters that orchestrated the destruction of countless lives. Giving each individual attention, he made sure every bit of skin was tingling with the warmth of his affections.
Flipping his hand over, Leon could hear Wesker’s labored breathing as his head dipped down again, kissing the center of his palm. The underside was slightly weathered from countless activities in his lifetime, but with such care and extreme consciousness about his appearance, the damage wasn't too great. The same couldn’t be said for Leon’s calloused hands. He did wonder if the Count had many scars — but that was for another time. He needed to focus on the present, and the present was currently him pressing kisses to each pad of Wesker’s fingers.
A sly thought slithered into his brain. If Wesker was this ruffled from a few kisses…
Licking a long stripe down his palm, Leon felt him tense and jerk in his hold and heard a sharp inhale. A small gasp followed suit as Leon continued to kiss and nibble what he could get to.
Licking and kissing blindly, Leon shut his eyes in pleasure. He didn't know what overtook him to act in such a way or why Wesker was allowing it to go so far, but God, it felt good. Licking down the length of his fingers, he was allowed only one more stripe along his palm before Wesker pulled his hand away.
“Harlot,” he whispered, staring at his hand, glistening with Leon’s saliva.
"That will be… quite enough, Sir Kennedy," Wesker said, wiping his hand off on his breeches. He cast him a look. "You really are a lapdog. Do you lick and kiss all the hands that feed you? Or am I just lucky?" Adjusting his coat, Wesker buttoned a few of the bottom buttons that came together to cover a suspicious lump in his pants. His smile was sharp, half a disgusted sneer, half possessing the glint of a shark smelling blood in the water.
He would never admit it, but pulling away from Leon’s hot tongue, soft lips, and gentle grazing teeth that nibbled his fingers was a Herculean task. It pained him slightly to pull away, but the indignant look that crossed Leon’s face was well worth it.
"I think we are done here for the time being.” Eyeing him, Wesker really, really liked what he saw. He would be coming back for him later. But for now, he had other things to attend to. "Thank you for your lovely company, Sir Kennedy. I thoroughly enjoyed every minute." Bowing slightly, Wesker went back to the crowd, clustered at the center around the dance floor.
Watching from his place by the pillar, Leon saw the same lady in red from earlier say something, hand over a parchment, and loop her arm around the Count’s. Frowning at the smile Wesker threw over his shoulder, Leon followed with his eyes until he lost sight of his blonde head.