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I need a word, Shadowhand. Urgently. Respond with your location if you are alone. If not, do not answer.
The unexpected message sends a blot of ink sprawling in the middle of the spell Essek has just finished transcribing into his spellbook. He throws up his hands in frustration. For a second, he thinks about ignoring the Sending entirely, but something about the tension in the words makes him reconsider.
“My towers,” he says at last.
This had better be worth his while.
Essek gathers his cloak about him and descends from his laboratory on the top floor.
Outside of his private resting chambers is a small room with nothing but a table and two chairs, its only source of light a single oil lamp, its only adornment the dark curtains that are always drawn to prevent prying eyes from peering in. The one room where he has begrudgingly agreed to modify the wards just enough to permit teleportation directly into his towers. And only for one specific person.
The familiar circle of arcane glyphs glows a dull red on the floor, heralding the arrival of former Vollstrecker Caleb Widogast as he steps out of the aether and into Essek’s home.
Essek crosses his arms tightly under his cloak, smoothing his face into its usual inscrutable mask. In the presence of this man, regardless of what associations they have shared, Essek is ever conscious of the fact that every breath he draws could be his last. The danger sharpens his senses, keeping him focused on the needle he must thread. His voice is cold and impersonal despite the anticipation coiling in his stomach.
“Widogast. What in the Light’s name is so important that you need to speak to me at this late hour?”
His brow furrows when he sees the way Widogast’s chest is rising and falling in barely controlled breaths, his mouth twisted in a mockery of his usual charming smile. Even more surprising is the fact that he makes no attempt whatsoever to conceal the purpose of his visit under his usual veneer of flirtation. He acknowledges Essek with nothing but a nod. No small gifts, no murmured praises, no quiet smiles tonight.
Essek tamps down the stirrings of disappointment, already chastising himself for allowing his mind to wander.
“Shadowhand. I have unearthed some information on your precious beacon,” Widogast says at last, addressing a spot slightly to the right of Essek’s face. “The one that I stole and returned to your queen, at your behest.”
Essek’s pulse goes into overdrive. He can barely think over the sudden rush of blood to his head. “And?”
“I believe that it was someone within the Dynasty’s power structure who spirited the beacons out of Rosohna.”
Is that all? Essek sighs in exasperation. “Of course this is a possibility I have already considered. There are very few people who even have access to the beacons at all—”
Blue eyes flick to meet his at last, leveling him with a single hard glance. “That is exactly right, Shadowhand. There are very few people who have access to the beacons at all.”
“Please get to the point,” Essek says shortly.
Widogast takes a step toward Essek, tilting his chin up to reveal the few inches of his throat left exposed above his high collar. A symbolic gesture of good faith among the Kryn. I trust you not to slit my throat. Essek blinks in surprise. It is unlike Widogast to be so blatant about something he needs. He must be in a terrible bind to be this desperate for information.
“I would like to know who those people are,” Widogast pauses and takes a breath as though to compose himself, “because I have a vested interest in whoever turned the beacons over to the Assembly. I would like to thank them personally, if you take my meaning.”
“And why is that?” Essek watches Widogast, noting the near-imperceptible tension in the lines of his shoulders, the grim set of his mouth. “What gratitude could you possibly have for them?”
His heart is pounding fast as a hummingbird’s wings as his fingers reach for a shard of onyx among his components, concealed in a pouch beneath his cloak. There is no telling whether this is an impassioned demand for information or a thinly veiled threat.
Whichever it might be, this is a revelation to Essek, despite the many discussions they have had about the beacons and the potential of the power they hold. The studies they have conducted together here in this very room, feverishly trading theories until the wee hours of the day. Evenings spent planning for Widogast’s heist, in the earlier days of their… Essek does not even know what to call this. Is there a word for his relationship with a turncoat assassin whose nation is at war with his own? This would be so much easier if what they are to each other could be poured into a conventionally-shaped bottle. Adversary, co-conspirator, accomplice, colleague? Nothing fits.
Widogast looks away. For a long moment, he does not speak. Essek waits, his thumb running along the shard’s edge, an incantation waiting on the tip of his tongue.
“Surely you must have wondered about how quickly I grasped the concepts of dunamancy. I do not discount my own intellect, of course,” Widogast adds, as Essek restrains himself from rolling his eyes, “but the beacons were instrumental in our training. I was part of the immensely lucky few who were… selected to experience its effects firsthand.”
Cold horror floods through Essek. The possibilities for the misuse of dunamancy and prolonged exposure to a beacon’s energy are endless. And yet he finds himself longing to ask. He has never known what it is like to peer so deep into the beacon’s depths, not with the manacles of Luxon zealotry holding him fast, keeping him from the knowledge he has craved for so long.
For one sickening moment, he actually envies Widogast.
But just as quickly, the shame burns in Essek's stomach to see what Widogast cannot quite manage to conceal—the slight tremble of his mouth, one hand rubbing at his wrist in what is clearly an unconscious movement, designed to self-soothe. Essek’s arms tighten around himself. He does not miss the irony of his own desire to offer Widogast comfort. Not when it may as well have been Essek himself who developed the spells the Assembly must have once used to break Widogast and remold him into who he is now.
This is not the time to indulge his curiosity. Essek should have known it would not be long before his sins caught up with him. His hand presses hard against his chest, trying to stifle its unseen ache beneath his cloak. All the same, he cannot afford to be distracted. Widogast suddenly offering Essek this much leverage against himself… it is unsettling, to say the least.
“If what you seek is sympathy, you have chosen a poor time for it,” Essek says at last.
“Sympathy is not the word I would use.” Widogast’s lips curve up in a mirthless smile as he takes a step toward Essek. “I seek many things from you, Shadowhand, as I know you do from me. After all, what is our arrangement but mutually beneficial?”
His fingers reach up to smooth a loose strand of red hair from his face, but the gesture is slow, his eyes fixed deliberately on Essek’s face.
One more step. Only an arm’s length separates them now. Essek swallows, grateful for the high collar that conceals his throat. The intent beneath Widogast’s question is obvious enough, but if Essek makes the smallest error, he will be bound for the gallows next. If he is lucky.
“Be that as it may,” Essek says, doing his best to maintain his composure despite how dry his mouth is, “you have not come all this way merely to flirt so shamelessly with me.”
Widogast grins, sharp as a blade. “A harmless pretense. We have many goals we hope to achieve, you and I. Why not accomplish them together, and enjoy ourselves when we can?”
He steps right into Essek’s space, broad hands smoothing over the thick velvet of his cloak. The audacity. And yet Essek does not pull away. His heart makes an odd stutter at Widogast’s touch. His presumption is an intimacy, and Essek… Essek allows it.
“What do you want?”
“For you to tell me what you know about the theft. As recompense for securing the beacon for your Queen.”
“You were given your freedom for the service you have rendered,” Essek answers, outraged. “You have been granted the Queen’s protection and her favor, and a home here in Rosohna, besides. All with my assistance. It is much more than what someone like you deserves.”
The grip on Essek’s cloak slackens, but only for a moment.
“Perhaps. I am nothing but a traitor Scourger, after all, ja? The lowest kind of Empire filth.”
Widogast is smiling, but he refuses to meet Essek’s eyes. He takes another step. They are so close now that Essek can see the fine spray of freckles across the bridge of Widogast’s nose. Warm palms come to rest lightly on Essek’s forearms, crossed over his stomach under the cloak. “In that case, what do you wish in exchange for this request I ask of you, Shadowhand? You have only to name it and it shall be yours.”
The implication is unmistakable. Essek recoils, yanking his cloak from Widogast’s grip. “I have never asked you for such things as, as payment.” He does not understand why his throat is so tight. “I do not want something not freely offered.”
There is a split second where Essek catches a glimpse of hurt on Widogast’s face before his expression shutters. Pain so raw that it punches the breath out of Essek’s lungs.
“And who says it is not freely offered?” Widogast says softly, cajoling. “I am at your service, as I have always been. Why turn me down now?”
Why, indeed. What a dangerous idea. Essek resolves never to think about that again.
“I do not have that information. If I did, the culprit would be long dead by the Dynasty’s hand at this point.” There is nothing he fears more than Widogast’s keen eyes perceiving what he has been holding so close to his chest all this time, but he forces himself to look up and hold Widogast’s gaze. “I do not wish to make light of what you have experienced because of the beacon, but… revenge? Why resort to such a petty thing? I would have thought you of all people would be smarter than this—”
“Do not speak of what you do not understand,” Widogast says abruptly. “I have my reasons, and I owe you none of them.”
“Bold words from you, considering that I may hold the key to the knowledge you seek,” Essek retorts.
“Bold words from you, considering that I may have the same.”
This makes Essek hesitate. He stares at Widogast, unable to believe his ears. “You… you have—”
“I took great pains to get a look at the Martinet’s research notes while I was recovering the beacon,” Widogast says, raising an eyebrow.
“A look?” Essek says incredulously.
“A look is all I need, you know it is,” Widogast says, rolling his eyes. “It is enough. You and I can piece the rest of it together, just as we have before.”
Essek shakes his head. “You tempt me, but that does not change the fact that the information you seek has been eluding me for years.”
A strange expression crosses Widogast’s face before it smooths over into his usual charming façade. “Shall we call it a favor, then? One that I may collect when the time comes?”
“You ask me for something I do not know if I will be able to give. And I am not in the habit of being indebted on such terms.”
“Of course,” Widogast says, inclining his head. “I will take it on trust, then.”
There’s a hint of a smile hovering on his lips as he stares at Essek, who cannot help but soften against his own better judgment. He has never met anyone like Widogast, who parries all his blows and challenges all his ideas. Between the two of them, the playing field is even ground.
“Certainly, we can call it trust,” Essek says, managing to sound gracious. The very concept is an inside joke to them at this point. It might even be humorous if it were not so bitter on Essek’s tongue. “I suppose the next step is to say that we are friends now.”
Widogast actually laughs aloud. Somewhere in the back of Essek’s mind, he registers that dimples have appeared around the corners of his mouth. Oh, that is… strangely endearing.
Essek dismisses the thought at once. This is not the time for sentimentality.
“Friends,” Widogast says, mirth lingering in the lines around his eyes. He puts his hands on Essek’s waist, pulling him close once more. “Certainly, we can call ourselves that, if you wish. Friends,” he repeats, as though it is a word unfamiliar on his tongue. “In the meantime, since we find ourselves at an impasse, perhaps it would be best that we conclude business now and move on to, ah… other, infinitely more interesting things.”
“Such as?”
“Whatever you would deign to bestow upon me. A glimpse into your spellbook, perhaps?”
“You are pushing your luck,” Essek warns.
“My apologies,” Widogast says, though he does not sound the least bit sorry about it. He tilts his chin up toward Essek, his lips slightly parted, blue eyes fixed on Essek's mouth.
Essek is gratified to see the flush already spreading across Widogast’s face. For all they have carefully negotiated the terms of this arrangement of theirs, this is the one stipulation that remains unspoken. And yet Essek cannot help but wonder what Widogast’s lips might feel like. The scrape of his beard against Essek’s skin. The man looks like he would kiss hard enough to bruise.
Part of Essek thinks he would rather enjoy that, to be marked so carelessly. To be treated as something to be desired. To have the memory of it pressed deep into his hips, where he could carry the marks under his clothes and revel in a secret that only they knew.
It is a ridiculous thought, and he knows it.
Essek unwinds Widogast's bright red scarf from his neck and drapes the rough wool over a nearby chair. Beneath it is a new shirt, Essek notices, midnight blue ramie cut in the latest Xhorhasian fashion. The high collar and asymmetrical neckline are exceedingly becoming on Widogast, and the deep purple of his new coat brings out the blue of his eyes and the red of his hair. A far cry from the dull, faded brown of his former scourger uniform.
Like this, Widogast is the perfect Kryn, rounded ears notwithstanding. He could not have dressed better if he had intended to come courting. The thought makes Essek smile a little.
Carefully, he undoes the topmost ebony button at Widogast's collar, and another, and another, and lets the pads of his fingers ghost against the delicate skin beneath. Widogast's pulse is thundering beneath his fingers. His blue eyes are half-lidded, thick dark lashes lying heavy against his cheeks. Essek lets his touch rest for a long moment in the divot where Widogast’s throat meets his collarbone.
Widogast’s hands find the seam in Essek's cloak and roam freely over his hips. Presumptuous. Intimate. “This is the part where you decide how you would like to take me tonight.”
“Tsch. Greedy. Perhaps I will not, just to keep you guessing.”
But Essek regrets it at once when he sees Widogast's face fall, his desire unmasking him. He cups Widogast's cheek in one hand in silent apology, his thumb running through the coarse hair of the beard that Widogast has allowed to grow out of the usual sandpapery shadow that Essek is accustomed to seeing.
“You like it?” Widogast breathes, his eyes brightening. “I thought you might.”
Essek's heart skitters at the thought of Widogast taking his preferences into consideration. “Elves do not have much in the way of body hair,” he says evasively. “I find it… fascinating.”
“You did not answer my question.”
“The beard will do,” Essek allows, and Widogast huffs out a laugh.
“That is enough for me.”
His fingers are toying with the clasp of the cloak at Essek’s throat, waiting for permission. When Essek nods, Widogast undoes the latch with deft fingers, catching the cloak with his usual grace around one arm as it falls from Essek's shoulders.
Widogast takes off his own coat and tosses it over the back of the chair. He drapes Essek’s cloak over his coat with careful fingers, smoothing the wrinkles away with the flat of his hand. It strikes Essek breathless suddenly, that one small gesture.
He takes Essek’s forearm and lifts it toward his face, until the tip of his aquiline nose is brushing against Essek’s wrist. He shivers as Widogast’s chest rises and falls in a deep breath.
He hums and inhales again, slowly. Exhales. Inhales a third time, deeper. Essek’s knees grow steadily weaker with every breath. He is grateful that his magic is holding him aloft.
“This is new,” Widogast remarks. “A mild scent. Citrus first, then floral. Sandalwood at its base, with just a touch of vanilla.”
“I did not take you to be a connoisseur of fragrances.”
“I have a theory, you know,” he says, pointedly ignoring Essek, “that the fragrance you choose reveals something of how you spent your day.”
“And what does this one reveal, pray tell?”
“It is very pleasant. The sort of fragrance worn to allure. In that, it is a resounding success.” He flicks a knowing look at Essek, who stares back at him with the best stony-eyed expression he can muster.
“It seems at first to be an incongruous choice of perfume. The Shadowhand does not have the time nor the inclination toward romantic entanglements, save when they are to serve his purposes,” Widogast continues, almost clinical now. “And he did not know that a certain erstwhile Vollstrecker would come to visit him tonight until just a few minutes ago. Not that it matters. The Vollstrecker has never smelled this particular scent before, which indicates this was not worn for his arrival.”
The insolence.
“And what conclusions has the once-Vollstrecker drawn?” Essek asks, curious despite himself.
Widogast is rubbing the light silk of Essek’s long-sleeved tunic between his fingers. “All these, and the fact that the Shadowhand is not wearing his court clothes beneath his formal cloak, tells the Vollstrecker that the Shadowhand has been home for some time, with no further plans of leaving or entertaining visitors.”
He is examining Essek’s bare palm now. Essek realizes with a thrill of embarrassment that he had not even thought of putting on his gloves before Widogast had arrived. The umavi would have his head on a silver platter if she ever found out. Something about that thought is oddly satisfying.
“The Shadowhand has been absorbed in his studies this evening. Or perhaps he has been finishing his correspondence for the day, judging by the state of his inky fingers. No rings, in deference to the long hours he has spent holding a pen.”
“How very observant of you,” Essek says dryly. “Are you quite finished?”
“Almost.” The corner of Widogast’s mouth turns up. “The Vollstrecker concludes that the Shadowhand wears this fragrance in the privacy of his own home, without anyone present to appreciate it. In sum, he wears it simply for his own pleasure, and no one else’s.”
“Are you so unoccupied these days that you resort to analyzing my perfume choices?”
“I would never pass up a chance to learn more about you,” Widogast says, a coy tilt to his head. “Unless what you mean to say is that my initial assumption was correct and you are in fact wearing this fragrance for me, in which case—”
“Enough,” Essek says haughtily, dismayed to find that his face is burning. “If you stay only to plague me, I prefer that you leave.”
“Come now, what is a little teasing between friends? That is what we are now, is it not?” Widogast smiles, his arm winding around Essek’s waist. “What would you have of me tonight, Shadowhand? Let me make the distraction worth your while.”
He does not wait for Essek to answer—he holds Essek’s fingers pressed against his neck, Essek’s palm cupping his jaw as he undoes the rest of the buttons on his shirt with one hand, stealing another glance at Essek from under those absurdly thick lashes of his. Making sure that Essek is watching.
Inwardly, Essek marvels at Widogast’s artfulness. How easily he can wrap Essek around his little finger. Even at Essek’s best, this particular… skill has never come easily to him. The only consolation he has is that this little game goes both ways. Widogast’s heartbeat is fluttering rapidly under Essek's touch. Reassurance that this part is always real. Even if nothing else is.
Widogast undoes the first few buttons of Essek’s shirt in turn, laying the high collar open, exposing just a few inches of Essek’s neck and allowing the smallest glimpse of his chest. Widogast leans forward and the roughness of his beard brushes against Essek’s skin—he gasps when Widogast’s nose traces the sensitive spot directly under his earlobe.
“Whatever reason you have for wearing this scent, Shadowhand, it is a wise decision for you not to wear it in public. It only makes you all the more tempting. I would hate to see all those scheming courtiers pawing at you with those fancy gloved hands of theirs.”
“Sometimes it is necessary,” Essek says, but he wrinkles his nose at the very thought.
“How envious they would be to know that a filthy Empire traitor such as myself can enjoy it to my heart’s content.”
Essek’s eyes close entirely of their own accord when the warmth of Widogast’s breath grazes his ear. A full-body shiver goes through him as Widogast’s teeth scrape against his earlobe—without thinking, Essek casts.
A loud huff escapes Widogast’s lips as he finds himself pinned to the wall by Essek’s spell, his pupils blown so wide that only a thin ring of blue remains.
“I have warned you about startling me,” Essek says through clenched teeth, embarrassed by how ragged his voice is.
Widogast’s chest is rising and falling visibly as he stares down at Essek from where he is tethered against the wall by his arms. A butterfly with its wings held open, caught fast in a spider’s web.
“Forgive me. Suffice it to say your fragrance has achieved the intended effect.”
“Which is?”
“Reeling in its unwitting victims.”
Essek cannot help but admire the lines of Widogast’s broad shoulders and chest tapering down to his waist, only further emphasized by the way his shirt hangs half-open, the tails still tucked into his trousers. It is impossible to miss the bulge straining against his trousers.
Essek wonders if Widogast will ever undress fully for him one day. To permit Essek to see all of him.
The very thought makes Essek wince. How arrogant of him to wish for something that he has never given Widogast in return.
“Shadowhand. I appreciate your admiration, but I would much prefer you do it with your hands rather than your eyes.”
“And what if I wish to take my time looking?”
Widogast makes a sound that might be a scoff, were it not so… so fond. He jerks his chin at Essek. “I may as well do the same then. I should have known that even at home, with no one around to see you, you would dress like this.”
Essek’s dark tunic of thin, flowing silk is certainly much simpler than the tailored finery he wears to court, but still. He would not have dressed in something that did not suit him. And if he had known earlier that Widogast would be coming, well. Perhaps Essek would have worn something else. An outfit designed to impress. Maybe even a touch of silver to line his eyelashes, to go with the delicate silver chain that connects his septum piercing to the matching stud in his ear. As it is, he is barely wearing any jewelry. Small hoops, one in each earlobe, and the simplest ear cuffs he owns.
Self-consciousness flares in Essek's stomach.
“Are you criticizing my wardrobe choices, Widogast?”
“I am doing the exact opposite,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “You are, if anything, even more handsome than usual. Which is saying a lot, considering you are already a knockout on your ordinary days.”
“Stooping to flattery now? How disappointing.”
“Give me some credit. What would I get out of flattering you?”
Absolutely nothing, Essek almost says, before he realizes what Widogast is trying to say. He is as deliberate as Essek is. Words are carefully weighed and doled out between them. True enough, flattery would net him nothing. And yet he had chosen to compliment Essek all the same. The only conclusion: he means it.
Essek’s heart does something strange in his chest. He would call it happiness if it did not hurt.
“Shadowhand,” Widogast says, interrupting Essek’s train of thought, “if you do not touch me right now, I will absolutely combust.”
“So impatient.” Essek glides closer. He lets his fingers trail up the seam of Widogast’s trousers, all the way up to his inner thigh, and stops. Widogast groans.
“You are terrible,” he says, voice thready with frustration.
“And yet, here you are, wanting.” Essek cannot seem to muster up the strength for his usual smile. “Why turn me down now?” he says, echoing Widogast.
“I would never,” Widogast says, the vehemence so startling that Essek actually loses his concentration on the spell. There is a soft thud as Widogast lands on his feet—Essek finds strong hands gripping him tightly by the shoulders. “I would never,” Widogast repeats, his eyes searching Essek’s face. “Not for this. Whatever it is, you only have to say the word and I will do it.”
Essek laughs, but there is no humor at all in his voice. He has never known anything so powerful as the want coursing through him. He fears what Widogast would do if he ever found out about this volatile, nameless thing that binds him so closely to Essek’s heart.
Even Essek’s hunger for knowledge cannot compare. And for that, he ignited a war.
He maneuvers Widogast against him, allowing himself to be pinned with his back against the wall.
“It is always you who offers,” he finds himself saying, his lips moving entirely without his permission, weighed down by regret and guilt. He reaches down and cups the burning heat between Widogast’s legs. “Our relationship is—how did you put it?—mutually beneficial. And it is my turn now, I think.”
Widogast’s eyes are clenched shut, his hips rolling minutely against Essek’s hand. “I—Shadowhand—”
“Hush,” Essek murmurs, undoing the ties of Widogast’s trousers, the intricate knots familiar to him by now. “Let me.”
Desire clouds his judgment, but even with the shreds of self-awareness Essek has left, he finds that the last thing he wants is to stop. He reaches into Widogast’s trousers and wraps tentative fingers around his cock.
Essek finds himself crushed against the wall, Widogast’s weight pressing heavily against him. Encouraged by this reaction, Essek strokes once, twice, thrice, again and again, his thumb brushing against the damp head of Widogast’s cock with every stroke. He curses under his breath in a language Essek has come to recognize as his native Zemnian.
“Scheisse, I—” he grabs Essek’s wrist, his breathing shallow and quick. “You have been so busy teasing me. It will be over much too quickly if you keep that up.”
“Well, we certainly cannot have that,” Essek whispers. His fingers open a seam in the fabric of the universe to extract a small vial of oil from his wristpocket. He seals it up again, slicking up his fingers clumsily. “I have other plans tonight.”
Widogast leans against him, his weight on his forearms on either side of Essek’s head. He is so close that if Essek tilts his chin up a fraction of an inch, their lips would meet. He squeezes his eyes shut and fumbles at his own trousers, pulling them halfway down his thighs.
“Whatever you want,” Widogast murmurs, “tell me and you shall have it.”
Essek has to gather together the last of his courage before he can move again. He would not alter the choices he has made, even knowing what he does now, but he regrets more than anything that Widogast has suffered for it. Nothing he can do can possibly make amends. But this is something he would be more than willing to give, if only for Widogast to have a few moments filled with nothing but pleasure.
Before Essek can lose his nerve, he pushes his trousers all the way down until they hang awkwardly over his boots. He reaches behind himself, and a sharp hiss escapes his lips as he pushes two fingers inside himself without preamble.
It burns, but it is not unpleasant, the sharp edge tempered by the promise of bliss. The discomfort brings Essek back to himself, enough to catch the moment that Widogast looks down, eyes widening.
“What… what are you doing?” he says thinly.
“What does it look like?” Essek snaps, the very tips of his ears burning with embarrassment.
He thrusts, deeper now, and another sigh leaves his lips. The undisguised hunger in Widogast’s face makes Essek clench around his own fingers. A little more, and—yes, there—he has to stifle a moan when he finally finds the right spot.
“Not that I am complaining,” Widogast whispers, unable to tear his eyes away from Essek’s, “but why all of a sudden?”
“You said anything I want,” Essek bites out between thrusts. Pleasure, pain, all laced together with the piercing awareness of his own guilt. “Will you deny me now?”
“No, I—” For some reason, the expression on Widogast’s face twists for a moment into the same terrible agony that Essek had glimpsed earlier. “Shadowhand, if I may be so bold,” he says quietly, “perhaps a bed would be better for this?”
A bed? Essek does not understand. They have always made do with what is in this room. The small table, the chairs, the four walls stripped bare—why is this any different?
“Please,” Widogast whispers, his thumb caressing Essek’s cheek lightly. “I want… that is, you would be infinitely more comfortable.”
And when has Essek ever been able to say no to him? He sighs. “As you wish.”
It is beyond awkward to have to pull his trousers back up, to retie the knots at his waist, but Widogast does not comment, falling silent as he follows Essek into his resting chambers.
Essek lights the room with a single tiny blue globe in deference to Widogast’s eyes, but no more. He is ashamed to show the mess that has built up here in this space that no one sees. The knee-high pile of discarded clothes in the corner, the books carelessly stacked next to the side table, earrings scattered across the dresser, a blanket in a crumpled ball on his usual trancing chair.
He sits on the bed he rarely uses and gestures for Widogast to join him. But to his surprise, Widogast does not—he kneels instead, one hand resting on Essek’s boot. Waiting.
Essek is too surprised to move, but after a moment, he nods. Widogast begins unlacing his shoe with single-minded determination, and before long he is pulling it off Essek’s foot and starting on the second boot. The care that he is putting into loosening the laces just enough to pull the shoe off without any trouble is making Essek’s chest tighten until he can barely draw breath.
“What are you doing?”
Blue eyes glance up at him, puzzled. “I am removing your boots. What does it look like I am doing?”
“Why are you doing it?” Essek corrects himself, already edging toward annoyance.
“So you can be comfortable.”
“It has never mattered before,” Essek mutters.
“It matters to me now,” Widogast says sharply.
They are verging on dangerous territory in more ways than one. Essek cannot help but curl in on himself, suddenly feeling very small and ashamed. There is a reason he does not bring anyone to this room. It is the one place he allows himself to shed his layers. To be only Essek.
And yet here is Widogast kneeling at his feet, looking at Essek in the half-light as though he is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Essek squeezes his eyes shut, guilt coursing so quickly through his veins that he thinks he may be about to be sick.
“Shadowhand,” Widogast says. His palm is warm and rough against Essek’s cheek. “May I remind you that neither of us are here under duress? We may stop at any time you wish.”
“I am aware,” Essek hisses. “Do not coddle me.”
Widogast’s face closes off. Without warning, he pushes Essek down on the bed, pinning him down firmly by the shoulder.
“Me? Coddle you? I am not such a fool as that.”
He tosses his red hair out of his face with a careless laugh, the lines around his eyes taut. His thigh parts Essek’s legs, and Essek cannot help but rock helplessly against him, sighing.
“Good,” Essek manages. “I expect nothing less.”
Widogast’s lips are only a few inches away. If Essek tilts his chin up, he will finally know what Widogast’s mouth tastes like.
“Expectations are a dangerous thing to have, Shadowhand, especially for people like us.”
“I am nothing like you,” Essek says harshly.
“Is that what you tell yourself so you can trance at night?” Widogast’s smile is soft as silk, sharp as a razor. He rolls his hips, one elegant controlled movement that makes Essek gasp. “I suppose if you hear a lie often enough, you start believing it is the truth.”
He cups Essek firmly through his trousers, making a pleased hum to find Essek already hard for him. “Ordinarily I would ask you how you would like to take me,” he whispers in Essek’s ear, with the slightest suggestion of lips against a sensitive earlobe, “but I believe it is to be the other way around tonight, ja?”
“Yes,” Essek breathes, his fingers pulling the loose knot at his waistband free. His body is a paltry thing, but it is all he has to offer. Poor recompense for what Widogast has suffered in the wake of Essek’s choices.
His nerve fails him at the last moment—he dispels the tiny blue globe and feels Widogast freeze against him, head jerking up in alarm.
“No lights,” Essek whispers, so embarrassed the words are nearly inaudible, and pushes Widogast off him.
There is no graceful way to do this. Essek pulls off his clothes until he is dressed in nothing but the thin silk of his tunic, so nervous his limbs are beginning to tremble. He positions himself onto his hands and knees as Widogast so often does for him, spreading his legs so that Widogast is slotted neatly between them.
He waits, heart pounding hard in his chest, lightheaded with anxiety and fear and the flutter of anticipation.
Widogast reaches out with one hand, the warmth of his fingers brushing tentatively at the hem of the silk tunic before he finds the bare skin of Essek’s thigh. He cannot help but tense, self-consciousness rearing its head before he can stop it. Widogast pulls away at once.
“I can hardly see anything, if that makes you feel better.”
Essek huffs. His fists are clenched tight around the bedcovers. “Do not concern yourself with my modesty.”
Widogast makes a sound like an aborted protest, but he says nothing more. His hand returns to Essek’s leg, tracing the contours of his thigh with only the tips of his fingers. It is too close to reverence for Essek’s comfort.
“Get on with it, Widogast,” Essek hisses. He is not here to be worshipped like some false god. He wants Widogast to dig his fingers into his hips until his touch leaves dark imprints on Essek’s skin. He wants Widogast to take him until he is left utterly debauched on his own bed.
“And you call me impatient,” Widogast murmurs. Essek wonders if he is imagining the tinge of melancholy in Widogast’s voice. “The only time you bare yourself for me, you do not let me see, and will not even let me touch you long enough to remember?”
“That is not what you are here for, is it?” Essek retorts. He balances himself with difficulty on his elbows as he reopens his wristpocket to withdraw the little vial of oil once more, spilling it all over his fingers and the bed—to his surprise, Widogast’s hand travels along his side and down his arm. His broad hand closes over Essek’s, slicking his own palm with the oil dripping from Essek’s fingers.
“Do you have someplace to be?” The sound of the oil between Widogast’s fingers is borderline obscene as he reaches around Essek and closes his hand around the length of Essek’s cock.
The wave of pleasure that sweeps through Essek is immediately overtaken by mortification when he realizes how much he has flagged. “I… I—”
“I did not think so. Let us take our time, then,” Widogast concludes, his hand moving in steady strokes, twisting his wrist the exact way Essek likes. His breath quickens, his cock already hardening once more under Widogast’s attentions.
“You are wound tighter than a clock tonight,” Widogast says softly. “Why not let me—”
“No,” Essek says, his jaw clenched. He tries to reach behind himself and realizes at the last moment that it is logistically too awkward for him to stomach. He summons a spectral hand instead, the glow of magical energy dim enough that it does not make him any more nervous about this than he already is. He slicks its surface with a thought and maneuvers into place.
Widogast’s hand has stopped moving. “Shadowhand,” he says. “I can—”
“No,” Essek repeats, more forcefully this time. Without preamble, he pushes three fingers of the spectral hand into himself.
He cannot stop the choked groan it pulls from his throat. The faint hum of energy across the surface of the hand is strange, but not unpleasant. Only decades of arcane training keep Essek from losing control of the spell, his nerves set alight by something that is half pleasure, half pain, and altogether completely overwhelming.
“Shadowhand,” Widogast repeats, his voice suffused with what sounds very much like awe. It takes him a few moments, but his fist around Essek’s cock begins moving once more in time with the mage hand, and this time, Essek’s concentration crumbles. An embarrassing whimper leaves his lips when the hand vanishes, leaving him bereft.
“Widogast,” he says, the want in his voice turning the words into more plea than demand.
“I’m here,” he says at once, wrapping himself around Essek from behind, leaning over him so that they are pressed together, chest to back. The fabric of his trousers scrapes against Essek’s bare thighs. “What do you need?”
Essek squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck me.”
Humiliation washes over him the moment he says it. He does not know what he regrets more, the fact that he has spoken such ugly words aloud, or that there are no other words to ask for what he really wants. Even here, they must make do with what they have.
Essek’s fingers curl even tighter into the blankets. Behind him, Widogast has actually stopped breathing.
“Ja, okay,” he says after the longest, most agonizing pause Essek has ever known. There is a small movement behind Essek—he can hear Widogast slicking himself up, stroking his own cock. “Are you… are you certain that is enough for you? Do you not need—”
“I thought I told you not to coddle me,” Essek says sharply. “Do not make me say it a third time.”
Widogast exhales through his teeth in a long hiss. “You will be the death of me one day,” he mutters.
The words make Essek’s blood run cold, but Widogast does not give him a chance to linger on their implications—Essek gasps at the breach, the intrusion eased only by Widogast’s hand still stroking his cock.
Widogast inhales sharply. “Is that enough for you yet, Shadowhand?”
“No,” Essek growls. “Not even close.”
Before Widogast can react, Essek rolls his hips hard, pushing a few more inches of Widogast’s cock into himself. He grits his teeth, eyes watering against the burn as Widogast lets out a bitten-off moan.
“Scheisse, wait,” he says, his voice rasping in his throat, one hand tightening around Essek’s bare hip. “It’s so much, you… you’re so tight—”
Essek has made the mistake of forgetting that human proportions are not drow proportions—it is a relief to pause for a moment, to let his body adjust to the sensation of Widogast’s cock, significantly thicker than his own fingers. Already, the pain is fading, a shivery anticipation taking its place.
“More.” Essek rolls his hips, pressing down on Widogast’s cock, gasping as he sinks another inch deeper. “What are you so worried about, you will not break me—”
Widogast wraps an arm around his waist, stilling him. “Sometimes I look at you,” he says in the same harsh whisper, “starched stiff and buttoned up the way you are, that I forget how impetuous you really are under all those layers of yours.”
Essek lets out a ragged laugh. “I have been told—ah—that it is part of the charm.”
“Charm you have in plenty, Shadowhand,” Widogast murmurs. “But it is what is beneath the charm that appeals to me.”
Whatever witty retort Essek had prepared is lost when Widogast bottoms out, their hips pressing flush together. Essek shudders, his wrists giving way beneath him as he collapses onto his elbows, but Widogast will not allow him any relief—his arm is still securely around Essek’s waist, holding him in place.
A high whine leaves Essek’s throat. Everything is so hot and full and tight, he can barely draw breath. He reaches down and fumbles at a few more buttons on his shirt, tugging them free. Widogast’s hand is petting at his flank, clearly trying to soothe, but Essek does not want to be soothed. He wants Widogast to move.
“Widogast,” he gasps, every inch of him trembling.
The fingers on Essek’s thigh still, then tighten their grip.
“You have no idea what it does to me,” he murmurs, dropping onto his forearms, his forehead resting between Essek’s shoulder blades, “when you say my name like that.”
“Tell me.”
Widogast rocks forward in a deep grind that makes Essek gasp. “I would rather show you,” he says, his words a low rumble in Essek’s ear. His hips settle into a slow, steady rhythm, taking Essek in hand once more. “If I had known how much you wanted this, I would have offered it to you a long time ago.”
He shifts slightly, and the change in angle makes pleasure flare like lightning all the way down to Essek’s toes. He clenches his teeth, but the moan of pleasure escapes anyway. This much he can give to Widogast, if nothing else—he presses his cheek against Widogast’s, the rough scrape of his beard against his skin grounding him in the haze.
“I could not have told you,” Essek admits, the words punched out of him with every stroke, “because I did not know.”
“You did not—” Widogast stops abruptly. “What did you not know?”
Essek groans in frustration. He tries to roll his hips, but Widogast curls an arm around his waist, preventing him from moving. “I have not, ah,” he says, shame overcoming him completely. He buries his face in his arms. Widogast cannot see him in the darkness, but it helps a little. “Like this,” he adds, not knowing how else to say it.
Widogast stills.
“Like this,” he repeats.
“It does not matter,” Essek mutters.
A strange sound leaves Widogast’s throat. He lets go and withdraws himself from Essek, slow and careful.
Oh, no.
“What do you mean, like this?” Widogast asks, voice low and urgent.
“I am sorry,” Essek says instead of answering, his throat tight. It is dark, and Widogast cannot see him, but he pulls the bedcovers over himself anyway. Tries to gather the rapidly fraying threads of his dignity together. “I thought it was what you wanted. But I—I am—”
“No,” Widogast interrupts. His eyebrows are drawn together, dismay clear in his face. He is so much more expressive in the darkness. “I, I had no idea, you seemed so certain of yourself, I thought you—”
“It was not relevant,” Essek says, uncomprehending. Why does Widogast look like that?
“Not relevant,” Widogast echoes in disbelief.
His fingers trace over the blankets for a moment, mapping out the planes of Essek’s body by touch, before he lowers himself on the bed next to Essek. He flicks a single tiny amber globe into existence in a distant corner of the room before gathering up the bundle of blankets that is Essek and pulling him close, holding him tightly. Even through the layers of fabric, Essek can feel how warm Widogast is.
Something has shifted between them. The very air is charged with it, sparking like electricity.
It frightens Essek. He curls in on himself beneath the bedcovers, hands tucked under his chin. The fear of too close is warring with the overpowering desire to pull Widogast even closer, to press his cheek against Widogast’s chest for no other reason other than the pleasure of listening to his heart beating. It is too much and not enough, all at the same time.
“I would have made it good for you,” Widogast murmurs. Not even the blankets can muffle the pain in his voice. “You should have told me.”
Another layer over Essek’s guilt. “I did not want you to be disappointed,” he admits, the honesty torn from his chest, so quiet that he hopes the words have gone unheard.
Widogast growls and throws the blankets aside—Essek, in a panic, dispels Widogast’s lone amber light, but Widogast does not object this time. Somehow, even in the darkness, his hand finds Essek’s cheek, skin rubbed raw from the friction of his beard. He cups Essek’s face so gently that he almost recoils. What business does he have being given this comfort? It is the last thing he deserves, after everything he has done to Widogast; and yet he leans into Widogast’s touch anyway, because Essek still has the insolence to crave his affection.
The darkness deceives Widogast into forgetting. Under its cover, he wears his heart on his sleeve. Distress, horror, grief. What a strange combination. Essek cannot parse it at all.
“I… I am sorry,” Widogast whispers. “Let me try again. My way this time. Please. It will be better.”
“Do not apologize. It was already good,” Essek says, hating himself for being ashamed.
“Better,” Widogast repeats. “The way I should have done it for you.”
Essek flinches, his guilt burning in the back of his throat. “Don’t say that.”
“Too bad. I already have.” The warmth of Widogast’s fingers trail down Essek’s body, leaving burning lines in their wake. “Hand me a pillow.”
Essek reaches up wordlessly and grabs a pillow above his head. Lets Widogast guide his body entirely by touch, pressing him on his back, tucking the pillow beneath his hips.
They have never done this before—it was only ever Widogast on his knees or bent over the table. Essek nearly draws the blankets over himself once more. Widogast cannot see him, but… it feels too exposed, somehow, to have Widogast between his bare legs like this, the coarse fabric of his trousers chafing against Essek’s inner thighs. His breath ghosting over Essek’s face. Mouth close enough to kiss.
Too much. Not enough.
“Like this?” Essek whispers.
Widogast’s head turns in the direction of his voice. His blue eyes are unfocused in the darkness, but he moves as though he is attuned to Essek’s every movement. “Yes. Just like this,” he murmurs, his hand warm on Essek’s hip. “Do you, ah. Have any more of that oil?”
Oh. Essek reaches into his wristpocket once more and uncaps the vial, nearly empty now. He pours what's left onto his fingers, reaching down to take Widogast in hand—but he hisses at Essek’s touch, and his mouth twists.
“That is not what I—” he cuts himself off.
Essek lets go. “Apologies, I thought—”
“No, please. I should have made my meaning plainer, that I wished to do this for you,” Widogast murmurs. For some reason, he looks tired. No, not tired, Essek corrects himself as he studies Widogast’s face. There is no other word for it—he looks sad. How strange this all is.
“We do not have to,” Essek says uncertainly. “If you would rather not.”
Widogast laughs, short and strained. “I should be asking you that.”
“I want it,” Essek says at once, then shies away, humiliated by how quickly he has been undone by the slightest sign of gentleness. But he tries to pull himself together. This is for Widogast, he reminds himself. He will give him this, if only because it is all Essek has to give. “I want you to.”
“Ja, okay,” Widogast says after a moment. He eases himself down, holding himself suspended over Essek, braced on one forearm. His other hand brushes over the inside of Essek’s thigh, his touch feather light.
“I will not repeat myself,” Essek says, but the sharp edge is gone from his voice, leaving only a hollow ache.
“I know,” Widogast says, and enters him.
The second time is easier. The sensation of fullness is still new to Essek, but Widogast is slow. Careful. Too careful. Essek feels as though he is about to break into a thousand pieces.
“Faster,” he says, on the brink of begging. His hands fist themselves in Widogast’s shirt.
Widogast grasps both his wrists in one hand. “My way now, Shadowhand,” he says, and pins Essek’s hands above his head by the wrists in one fluid movement.
A thousand alarms go off all at once in Essek’s head—he struggles for a moment, his fingers already moving through his somatics, before Widogast sighs and shifts his weight. He takes Essek’s hands in his, tangles their fingers together. He presses his bearded cheek against Essek’s, his lips so close to Essek’s skin that he shivers with the intimacy of it, soothed and agitated all at once.
“Relax,” Widogast murmurs into Essek’s ear, and rolls his hips once. Essek gasps. His grip tightens around Widogast’s hands. “Put your legs around my waist.”
The heat behind his words makes Essek tremble. He does as he is told, locking his ankles together behind Widogast. For a moment, Essek thinks he feels Widogast’s lips brush against his cheek—but Widogast’s next thrust hits a spot that makes Essek see stars, a cry tearing from his throat.
“There,” he moans, the last of his self-control slipping. “Widogast.”
“Good. Like that. Better, ja?”
“Ja,” Essek echoes, already breathless, and Widogast laughs.
This is what Essek wanted, to give Widogast what little he has to give. A pitiful offering compared to what Widogast has lost. But it is more than Essek has ever given anyone. It frightens him to think of how much more he might be willing to offer Widogast, if only he asked for it.
Every stroke is measured and deliberate, but Widogast is picking up the pace. A metronome counting down the seconds. Essek rocks his hips helplessly, trying to keep up. He tries to keep his eyes open despite the searing pleasure. Not for the first time, he wishes he had Widogast’s prodigious memory. Essek wants to remember this. Etch it permanently into his mind, a recollection preserved in amber. Widogast, with his lower lip caught between his teeth, cheeks flushed dark. Blue eyes screwed shut in bliss. His spellcaster’s hands, tight around Essek’s. Too much. Not enough.
“Wait,” he gasps, “I—I’m going to—”
“Show me,” Widogast says.
A small golden light flickers into existence above their heads, throwing Widogast’s angular face into sharp relief. He wraps his fingers around Essek’s cock, pulling in quick, tight strokes—and suddenly, Essek’s vision whites out.
The world narrows to every single point where he and Widogast are touching, his warmth flooding into Essek’s body. His beard against Essek’s neck, his throaty moan of pleasure muffled against the pillow under Essek’s head.
Widogast shivers against him and collapses, his weight heavy and warm on top of Essek.
“You reek,” Essek says, trying to catch his breath.
Widogast only huffs in amusement. “You like it.”
“You think so little of my taste?”
“On the contrary, I think your taste is exquisite.” Widogast lifts his head and flashes a smile at Essek. “I would know.”
Essek groans and pushes him off. He rolls to the side easily enough, but he keeps his arm around Essek’s waist, even when Essek pulls the blanket back over himself. Under the amber light, his sharply chiseled features seem different. Softer, somehow. A living being rather than a marble sculpture.
“I will have to go soon.”
“I know.”
Widogast falls silent, his thumb drawing circles in the dip where Essek’s hip and waist meet. He is looking at Essek, his lips pressed together in a hard line. A deep furrow has formed in his brow.
Essek cannot help himself. He never can, not when it is Widogast. He reaches out and traces his fingertips over the crease in Widogast’s forehead, trying to smooth it away.
“What are you thinking about?”
Widogast sighs. His jaw clenches and unclenches. When he speaks again, his voice is nearly inaudible. “I wish I could stay,” he says, the words so raw that Essek can only stare at him.
Then stay. Stay and I will tell you what I have done. Demonstrate how I can manipulate the fabric of space and time to break a person’s mind, to make them forget their very names, to catapult them into another reality altogether. You know these spells, because they have been used on you. I did this to you.
Now, do you still wish to stay?
The words are hovering on Essek’s lips. A confession akin to a dam breaking. Too much. Not enough. Essek looks away, because he has never been anything but a coward. He presses his forefinger briefly against Widogast’s mouth. It is a warning. A reminder. No more.
He dispels Widogast’s amber light one last time and prestidigitates them clean in the darkness.
Widogast stays silent. He reaches over the side of the bed and gropes for Essek’s clothes, dusting them off carefully before handing them back to him.
He pulls on his trousers, trying to be quick about it, his ears burning even though he knows Widogast cannot see him. When he glances over his shoulder, Widogast is lying on his back on the bed, staring at nothing, his face strangely blank.
Essek activates his levitation cantrip and flicks his tiny blue light back into being once he is halfway decent. Widogast sighs and gets to his feet, doing up the buttons on his shirt and retying the laces on his trousers as Essek tugs his shoes back on. He tries not to stare at Widogast smoothing his hair back into its usual low knot at his nape, muscle memory guiding his fingers despite the dim light.
He lets Essek lead them back into the antechamber. Small table, two chairs, a single lamp, dark curtains drawn over the windows. Nothing more. Here in this room, their rules of engagement are set in stone.
This is the part where Widogast will reiterate his latest list of requests for Essek. Spells, information, schedules for future meetings. Essek will reject most of them, pretend to consider a few. There will be a promise to meet again. And then they will part ways. A dance so familiar that Essek knows the steps by heart.
But Widogast does none of those things. Instead, he lifts a tentative hand and brushes the pads of his fingers across Essek’s lips.
“I have always wanted to know,” Widogast says, his voice dropping into something low and pained, “what it would be like to kiss you.”
Essek closes his eyes. Terror is coursing hot and fast through his veins, and yet something about it reminds him vaguely of joy.
“Don’t,” he whispers. “Please.”
Widogast wraps his arms around Essek’s waist. Presses their foreheads together. “Allow me this. Just this once. I will never ask again, I swear.”
The plea knocks the breath clear out of Essek’s lungs. “We… we will never be able to come back from this.”
“Do not say such things,” Widogast says in a voice so bitter that Essek blanches. “Do not say we like it could have ever been anything but this. You know that. You know it even better than I do.”
No. Essek’s heart jackknifes in his chest, pounding so hard that for a moment, all he can hear is the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. No.
“I do not know what you mean,” he says, his mouth dry.
A shadow crosses Widogast’s face. “Dishonesty was to be expected, but in all the time we have known each other, I have never lied to you. Not once. All this time, I thought you would pay me the same courtesy.”
“Widogast—”
“Tell me again,” he interrupts. Essek is no longer sure which of them is trembling. “Tell me you know nothing of how the beacon ended up in the Assembly’s hands.”
“Wait,” Essek whispers, his throat closing up. Too much. Not enough. “I can explain.”
“Your explanations will do us no good now, Essek.”
His eyes fly open at the sound of his name in Widogast’s mouth, and regrets it immediately when he sees the despair etched in every line of Widogast’s face. Essek's curiosity has always been his undoing. He should have kept his eyes closed. His mouth shut. His hands to himself.
“I did not know,” Essek says desperately, cupping Widogast’s face in his palms, willing him to understand. “Please, listen to me. Ludinus told me the Assembly would work with me. That we would unlock its secrets as collaborators. I had no idea—”
Widogast exhales. A single ragged breath. “Too late for that. Sixteen years too late.”
“Please,” Essek repeats. His fingers are growing numb with panic.
“I should have known it was you.” Widogast turns away from Essek and crosses the room. He lifts up the edge of Essek’s cloak and tugs out his coat from underneath, pulling it on in jerky, stilted movements. An automaton going through the motions of appearing human. “I should have known. No, I did, I think. I knew it all along, and that is what makes it worse. I was a fool for wanting to believe otherwise. I should have seen you for who you were.”
“And yet you did not,” Essek says, trying to process this information through the guilt choking him. “You came here anyway. You sought me out. Why?”
Widogast throws back his head and lets out a bark that Essek would call laughter, were it not for the way his breath catches in his throat. He crosses the room so quickly that Essek recoils, reaching for the pouch of components around his waist, but Widogast does not give him a chance. Strong fingers close around Essek’s neck—in his fear, he loses control of his levitation spell and stumbles when he lands on the ground. He clutches at Widogast’s shoulders in a desperate bid to regain his balance, but Widogast is still gripping him firmly by the jaw.
“Caleb,” Essek chokes out. They are teetering on the very edge of a precipice, and Essek is about to fall.
“Stop deluding yourself. You already know why I am here.” Widogast tilts Essek’s chin up toward his, his face contorting. “I let myself feel hope for the first time in decades because of you. I had never hoped so much that all my suspicions were wrong, and you fucking know why, Essek,” he says, the words torn from his throat, before he surges forward.
It is a bruising kiss, fierce and desperate. Essek’s fingers find the lapels of Widogast’s coat—he clings as tightly as he can to the warmth of Widogast’s body, barely able to draw breath with the grip of the hand directly under his jaw, the crushing embrace of the arm around his waist. Widogast kisses like a man starved. Essek feels as though he is being devoured whole. Every nerve in his body is singing, set alight by the heat of Widogast’s mouth, burning, burning, burning—
Widogast breaks them apart, pulling away. He takes several steps back, putting space in between himself and Essek. His chest is still heaving.
Somewhere in the haze of shock, Essek registers that the antechamber is very cold.
Only a few feet separate them from each other, yet the distance is insurmountable. Essek presses a hand over his mouth to stifle the sob that almost escapes him.
“Thank you for your time, Shadowhand,” Widogast says, his voice scraped raw. He bows to Essek in the Dynasty fashion, hand in a tight fist over his left breast in the manner that means goodbye. Something in Essek’s chest gives way.
“Caleb, please,” he says, and his voice breaks.
Widogast shakes his head. His blue eyes are very bright. He clears his throat, his fingers moving in the somatics Essek recognizes as his teleport spell.
For one wild moment, Essek almost counterspells it. Almost crosses the space between them to kiss Widogast one more time. Just once more, Essek thinks feverishly, once more and he will be content. But that could not be farther from the truth, and he knows it. He will want another, and then another, and then the world will have to tear him from Widogast before Essek will ever let him go.
The teleportation circle glows dull red on the stone once more. The despair in Widogast’s blue eyes is intolerable, but Essek cannot look away. Widogast presses a finger against his own lips, a mirror of Essek’s bid for silence. A promise. An entreaty. No more.
“Give my regards to the Martinet, won’t you, Shadowhand?”
The imprint of the arcane glyphs stays burned into Essek’s retinas long after Widogast vanishes from sight.
Slowly, he walks across the room to the chair and lifts his cloak from the backrest—when he does, something slips from its folds and falls to the ground. Widogast’s scarf, a blood-red denunciation.
Essek returns to his resting chambers and drops the scarf on the bed, still unmade from where he and Widogast had held each other just minutes before. He kicks off his boots. The rest of his clothes follow suit, fine silks and linens strewn carelessly across the ground. He tosses his earrings on top of the pile without a second glance and gets into bed.
He winds the red scarf around his neck. He has seen Widogast do this a thousand times, but evidently, it is more difficult than it seems. It takes Essek a few tries before he is satisfied. He lies down and pulls the blankets over himself, enveloped in what little warmth Widogast has left behind, the familiar ink-smoke-musk smell of him filling Essek with every breath.
In a few hours, he will have to get up and make his excuses to the Bright Queen. Ask to be transferred to Eiselcross. And if that does not work, he has a myriad of other plans waiting to be set into motion.
But tonight, he will allow himself to lie here, in what remnants of Widogast remain to him. Perhaps in the morning, Essek will find traces of Widogast’s touch on his body. The lingering ache between his legs, the skin on his cheek rubbed raw. Imprints of Widogast's fingers on Essek’s thighs and hips. He hopes for it.
It is a pathetic comfort. Widogast has seen all of Essek now, and in seeing him, no longer wanted to stay.
Caleb, Essek whispers into the scarf, and closes his eyes.