Chapter Text
Kingsley Tealeaf is just admiring the third tally he’s scored into the wooden bench in his cell with his claws when he hears the sound of voices coming his way.
“I mean, really, Alaine,” says that familiar, lordly voice, “I encourage you to do a bit of reading. This is a simple smash-and-grab; it isn‘t Kingsley’s alleged modus operandi at all. That alchemist was just a basic victim of convenience for anyone strolling down the main thoroughfare with sticky fingers.”
A moment later, Essek Thelyss is standing in front of Kinglsey’s cell, a warning flash in his eyes as he regards the tiefling imperiously. “And you,” he says with an accusatory voice, “you just had to be skulking around wearing light armor with thieves’ tools in your kit? Really? We’ve talked about this, young man.”
“Sorry, Essek,” Kingsley says, giving him a wounded look like a pouting moorbounder kitten.
“I’ve heard that one before,” Essek snipes. He turns his cutting gaze to where the nervous Sergeant Alaine is fumbling with her key ring. “I don’t have all day. Thank you.”
Then the door is open and Kingsley’s manacles are being unlocked. He gives the sergeant a mocking smile which the stocky drow wisely knows not to respond to in front of Essek.
She’ll find a way to make Kingsley pay, of course, but he expects nothing less. Honestly, he kind of likes her. She only pretends to be bumbling in front of the higher-ups, presumably to avoid garnering an unwanted promotion. In reality, she’s sharp as a knife and good with one, too.
Essek drops something on the bunk in the cell and Kingsley looks covetously back when he hears the jingle of a considerable amount of coin. “It seems like you should probably clean up in here,” Essek spits at Alaine unpleasantly, though his lips curve oh-so-slightly in mirth. “Come now, Kingsley. It’s fucking freezing out and I’m soaked to the bone because of this unpleasantness.”
Kingsley winks at Alaine as he follows Essek out of the cell and down the stone corridor. The sergeant’s eyes flash with spite, but Kingsley is already free.
“Better luck next time,” he mouths as he rounds the corner.
It is not until they are both bundling their cloaks around themselves and stepping into the icy gale that Essek speaks, letting the winter wind whip away his words. “I suppose you need somewhere to stay,” he says crossly.
It isn’t a question.
****
By the time Kingsley has crossed the threshold to the Thelyss ancestral tower, the adrenaline has worn off and his stomach is in knots.
In the entrance hallway, Essek doesn’t look at him. As they make their way up into the main parlor, Essek doesn’t look at him. When they walk into Essek’s private sitting room, Essek doesn’t look at him.
Kingsley takes a deep breath, and goes to help Essek out of his cloak.
His touch makes Essek take a surprised breath, but the drow doesn’t jerk away like he once might have. Kingsley carefully undoes the man’s damp cloak and lifts it away from the decorative mantle beneath. Essek shivers, still refusing to look at thin, so Kingsley goes and dutifully hangs the cloak up in the coatroom along with his own things.
“Do not track mud in here,” Essek snaps when Kingsley returns to the sitting room. “Boots. Off. Now.”
“I’m sorry, Essek,” he says with a grimace.
“I appreciate the apology,” Essek bites off, “but this is getting to be a bit much.”
By the time Kingsley has taken off his boots and put them away neatly in the coatroom, he finds that Essek has at last deigned to look at him. Rather than looking angry, Essek looks worried.
“What was it this time?” he asks. All the anger has bled from his tone.
Kingsley had been hoping for anger. Anger is simple and pure and easy to parse. These moments when Essek foists his pity on Kingsley are a lot more complicated. He knows he has no right to hold anything back from his tireless benefactor after being rescued from yet another idiotic bind of his own manufacture, but he can’t think of what to say.
“Was Caleb a prick to you again?” Essek asks.
Kingsley shakes his head. “No. He only just got back from the academy four days ago; I haven’t even seen him.” He rolls his shoulders, stiff from two nights spent on an unforgiving cell bunk. “Can I sit?”
Essek nods, gesturing to the settee. He sits down at his customary position on the chaise across from it, and Kingsley sprawls on the settee with a groan. He sees Essek make the now-familiar gesture that will ring a bell many floors below to summon the housekeeper with some tea. “You were saying, young man?” the drow prompts.
While Essek’s expression is no less serious, the teasing term of address is meant to inject some levity into the scene. As on edge as he is, it does still lift Kingsley’s mood somewhat. It’s a reminder that Essek puts up with his foibles, even the ones their other friends can’t understand.
Kingsley forces himself to speak, because he knows Essek deserves the paltry explanation he has to offer. “Jester sent me a new flyer,” he explains. “From Darktow.” He sighs heavily, and rummages around in his coat pocket. “It’s pretty fetching, honestly. I can see why she sent it; probably thought I’d think it was a right lark and have a good laugh.”
Essek takes the crumpled piece of parchment that Kingsley proffers and opens it. He regards it with amusement. “You know, most pieces of paper that read ‘Dead or Alive’ at the top aren’t this artistic,” he muses. “The Plank King must really have it out for you, Kingsley.” Essek’s smile fades now, and he looks up at Kingsley more incisively. “This set you off. Why?”
“I just want to go back home,” Kingsley whispers.
“You have a home here in Rosohna at the Xhorhaus,” Essek reminds him, “and against all good counsel, you are invariably welcome here in my home as well.” The drow frowns. “It has been six months since you came here to Rosohna—allegedly to stay out of trouble—and while you have failed to do that, you have succeeded in many other things. You are starting to make all kinds of interesting contacts in less-than-savory circles. If tales are to be believed—and I, of course, would never believe a word of it—you have stolen all kinds of wonderful things from hideously wealthy people. I know I once balked at your professional interests, but… you’re making a name for yourself here, and you aren’t doing it any way but your own.” Essek sighs. “You were a damned good brigand, and I know you miss it—but now you’re a damned good thief. Why do you keep ending up in Sergeant Alaine’s cells? Why do you keep ending up back at the start?”
“I dunno,” Kingsley mutters, rubbing his freezing face with his hands. “I just… sometimes nothing here feels real. So I guess I do things… to make it real.”
Essek utters a soft tut tut. He is about to say something when the housekeeper bustles in with a tray of tea and sandwiches.
Essek has more to ask Kingsley, and Kingsley realizes he has a whole lot of things that it might feel good to say. Yet in this moment, Essek relents, and Kingsley takes refuge in his own cowardice.
He eats a startling number of sandwiches and has several cups of hot tea. Essek watches him with a look of amusement.
Gradually, Kingsley starts to feel more like a person.
When he has finished eating and Essek has finished daintily sipping his own solitary cup of tea, the drow sighs and stands. “Goodnight, Kingsley,” he sighs. “Please, get some sleep. It is supposed to snow a foot overnight, so if you try to leave without telling me where you are going, I will send someone after you. You do not want to have the death-by-frostbite of one or more innocent people weighing on your conscience, do you?”
Kingsley smiles at Essek. “I love it when you threaten me.”
“I wasn’t threatening you,” Essek rejoins. “Do try to keep up.”
****
The first thing Essek notices when he wakes the following morning is how cold the tower has become overnight. He lies there a moment, teeth chattering, before he musters the will to get out of bed, casting his cantrip to spare his feet from the cold stone of the floors and the rough texture of the rug. His body feels unusually stiff and sore as he moves about.
Entering the sitting room, he finds Kingsley sprawled out on the settee. He is reading one of the novels he has been leaving around Essek’s private quarters in ever-increasing numbers.
“Are you going to stay here forever now?” Essek asks him crossly. “Don’t you have a home to go back to?”
“Nope,” Kingsley says, tail twitching playfully. “I’m a stray.”
“I can buy you a home, if that’s the reason you’re still here,” Essek sighs.
“Your place suits me just fine,” Kingsley says, setting down his book. He appears to do a double-take. “Ess? Are you alright?”
“We are not doing that,” Essek protests for the umpteenth time. “That detestable nickname is not something we are doing.” His muscles are absolutely killing him and he doesn’t know why.
Kingsley is on his feet, approaching Essek with a look of concern on his fine features. “You look like shit, Essek,” he says. Then, with the heedlessly physicality the man shares with all his friends, he presses the back of his hand to Essek’s forehead. “You’re about my temperature,” he says as his frown deepens. “For a drow, that’s a hell of a fever. You’re sick.”
“Damn it,” Essek mutters. The way his body feels makes a bit more sense now. He glowers at Kingsley. “If only you hadn’t had me tramping around in the freezing sleet yesterday, Kingsley!”
“Yeah,” Kingsley says with a grimace. “I’m really sorry. Come on: back to bed.”
“What are you talking about?” Essek snaps.
“You’re sick. You need to go back to bed.” Kingsley sighs and takes Essek’s arm. “Don’t make me drag you. Come on!” He grins invitingly, tail swishing. “What, you don’t want to lounge around for a day and relax for once? It’s fucking snowing out; you can’t really go out when it’s like this.”
Essek briefly considers pitching a fit, but a glance out at Rosohna’s eternal twilight does indeed reveal a foot of snow on the gargoyles outside. Not to mention he’s shivering like a leaf in high wind and feels like he hasn’t had a good night’s trance in weeks. He sighs, his shoulders falling, and he lets Kingsley lead him to his bedchamber.
He pauses briefly on the threshold, prepared to at least repel Kingsley from coming in with him. Right when Essek tries to stop short, Kingsley’s grip tightens just enough on Essek’s arm to allow him to haul him bodily into his own bedroom.
“You really have some nerve,” Essek exclaims indignantly.
“You’re so fussy, Ess,” Kingsley says, clicking his tongue as he shuts the door to the chamber behind them, both barring Essek’s escape and deterring the servants from coming to rescue him from his plight. “Come on; I know I’m a nuisance, everyone thinks so, but I can at least look out for you if I’m going to be here.”
Essek lets out a heaving sigh and lets himself be guided over to the bed. He feels a thrill of nerves when he watches Kingsley carefully tug the covers down and out of the way. He lets Kingsley guide him to lie down, and downright flushes when the man carefully arranges the covers over him.
“Is there wood for a fire somewhere?” Kingsley asks.
Essek shakes his head. “Not up here. There’s coal in the kitchens, though gods know I’ve not the slightest idea where.”
“That’ll work. I’ll go get some, and I’ll find some tea and some more blankets while I’m there,” Kingsley says. “Do you want anything else?”
“…Tell Muriel to make some soup for later,” Essek says, resigned to being mollycoddled at this point. “That should do nicely if the weather is going to be this dreadful.”
“Mmm,” Kingsley says. “Honestly, soup isn’t usually my go-to thing, but if it’s going to be a once-in-a-century blizzard, it seems kinda… what would Caleb say… ‘a-purpose?’”
“Apropos,” Essek corrects.
“I was close,” Kingsley says, and he does a truly ghastly thing and pinches Essek’s cheek.
“Fuck off, Kingsley,” Essek growls.
“You really must be sick,” Kingsley says, “because you didn’t even try to cast at me just then.”
Then the tiefling takes his leave, thank the gods, leaving Essek to fall back onto his pillows and shiver wretchedly as he tries to figure out when he lost control of his life.
When the door is safely closed, the drow looks after Kingsley in disbelief. Essek has gone the better part of a century without having anyone save for his servants in his bedchamber, and now in the space of a week he’s had both Caleb and Kingsley with him here.
His cheeks take an even darker hue as he has to struggle through the sense-memory of what it was like having Caleb in his bed, warm and gentle and so very eager.
He lets himself wonder for the first time if Caleb in particular is aware of the way Kingsley and Essek have taken to seeing so much of one another over the past few months. While his proximity to the tiefling was initially somewhat unwanted on Essek’s part, he’s grown partial to Kingsley’s habit of constantly invading his home. Essek always needs a push to seek any sort of companionship, and Kingsley is nothing if not insistent. As such he’s become a pragmatic remedy for Essek's habitual self-isolation.
In the beginning, Kingsley seemed to need Essek to intercede on his behalf in yet another encounter with the guards every few days - an occurrence which, present circumstances excepted, has become mercifully rare. Instead, about once a week, Kingsley will simply turn up on Essek’s doorstep unannounced and stay for a day or two. He just sets himself up on Essek’s settee, annoys the help by doing his own cooking and washing, and reads voraciously from increasingly complex works of both poetry and prose.
Caleb’s relationship with the tiefling seems… well, complicated, and that’s what is worrying Essek now. The drow has long nursed the suspicion that Molly, Kingsley’s predecessor, was more than just a friend to Caleb. Whatever they were to one another, it makes Caleb treat Kingsley with kid gloves. Essek recognizes the signs that the human is trying to keep Kingsley at arm’s length to avoid his feelings; after all, up until recently, Essek was doing the same to Caleb himself.
It would be a fascinating dance to watch if it wasn’t so horribly frustrating and confusing for Kingsley. When Essek started to cautiously trace back the chain of causality that led Kingsley to repeatedly come knocking at his door, he was surprised to recognize how often some small interaction with Caleb was the impetus for the tiefling seeking the peace he finds in Essek’s home.
****
Essek lies there, slipping in and out of his trance, letting his stiff, aching body fade from his consciousness in favor of perusing his own memories and suppositions.
He ordinarily spends his trances thinking about his arcane theories more than anything, but his mind is obnoxiously fuzzy, not keen enough to remain attentive to any one topic for long enough to be of any use. Instead, he entertains memories of his friends. As he listens to the wind whistling around the tower, he finds himself delving at times into the memories of their fraught time in the treacherous ice and stinging snow of Eiselcross.
Eventually, the chamber warms somewhat and Essek stops shivering. It is only when he feels the bed sag beside him and opens his eyes blearily that he realizes the reason why. Kingsley is sitting on the side of his bed, a fire now crackling in the grate. Essek wonders how he didn’t hear the man come in, let alone how he didn’t hear him making a fire.
“Hey,” Kingsley says softly, and he does that thing again where he just effortlessly touches Essek the way so few others dare, resting his fingertips on Essek’s arm. “I brought some tea. Move over some, okay?”
Essek shifts himself over, groaning somewhat as he does. He is, of course, expecting for Kingsley to set down a tray or employ some other civilized method for bringing him tea in bed; he does not expect for the tiefling to climb up on the bed with a cup for each of them.
“Kingsley,” Essek objects, sitting up. “Come on. Is this really necessary?”
“I think it is,” Kingsley says calmly as he presses a mug into Essek’s hands. The tiefling sighs and leans back on the drow’s pillows, which makes something confusing twist low in Essek’s belly. “You aren’t very good at taking care of yourself, you know.” He waves his hand toward the tea. “…Let me know if you want sugar or milk or something; I just went with honey.”
Essek takes a long sip from the mug, and sighs at the warm taste of matcha and the soothing feeling of honey coating his sore throat. He looks up at Kingsley and finds himself without the energy to keep up his prickly demeanor. “Thank you,” he says softly as he takes another sip.
Kingsley smiles at him, his expression warm and without artifice. “Listen,” he says, “I know I can be a bit of a prick, but I really feel awful that I dragged you out in the cold yesterday. I can’t keep doing this shit to you and I know it.”
“Oh, please,” Essek says. “You keep my life interesting.”
“Oh yeah?” Kingsley asks. With his customary familiarity, he reaches out and tucks Essek’s hair behind his ear. Essek jumps at the contact, but Kingsley pretends not to notice. “Let’s have a quiet day of it, okay?” the tiefling says softly. “I’ll go get your books and I’ll get some of mine. You can rest or read, and I’ll keep an eye on you in here.”
Essek nods, looking down at the tea in his hands. He takes a sip.
****
The hours pass most pleasantly. Kingsley keeps Essek company, curled up beside him on the bed, embroiled in his novel. Essek tries to read, but soon falls victim to his fatigue and slips into his trance. His mind is unusually aimless, flitting between thoughts of his strange new bedfellow, of the other man who has graced his bed as of late, and at times just settling upon the sounds of Kingsley turning the pages of his novel or the fire crackling.
Essek finds himself stupidly wishing to just be less sick. His hair is sticking to his face in a sheen of sweat and he isn’t thrilled that anyone is seeing him like this. He’s finding he is surprisingly amenable to having Kingsley closer than usual, but he’d rather be a bit more put-together for the occasion.
He lets his mind stray to his recent memories of having Caleb here. He’s still embarrassed by how much he clung to the man after they’d made love, how he’d hung onto his every word and pulled him back into bed a while longer when he got up to go.
Would he do this for me? he wonders. He realizes he doesn’t know enough about Caleb to know if he’s the sort to look after a sick friend with this degree of attention.
“Ess?” Kingsley says. He suddenly brings Essek to full consciousness by stroking his fingers through the drow’s locks.
“Hm?” Essek is acutely aware of how wretched he must look. He hasn’t seen to his hair, he hasn’t put on any jewelry, he isn’t wearing any kohl; he’s an absolute disgrace to his name.
“There you are,” Kingsley says with a chuckle. “You were asleep for a while… or whatever it is you elves do.” He sweeps his fingers through Essek’s hair again, the bastard, and it feels so much better than it has any right to. “I’m gonna go get your dinner, okay?”
Essek nods, swallowing hard. “Thank you,” he says.
“It’s the absolute least I can do and you know it.” Kingsley gets to his feet and disappears, shutting the chamber door behind himself with a click.
Essek curls up in a ball and thinks about how good it felt to have Kingsley touch him. He doesn’t know why this is happening now when he feels so disgusting.
He wonders anxiously if he’s misreading things. Kingsley is in his bed, yes, Kingsley has run his fingers through his hair, but the man is nothing if not exhaustively tactile with everyone and everything around him. He might just see this as an extension of the platonic closeness they’ve grown to share. He might be motivated by guilt more than anything else.
Essek closes his eyes and groans. Why am I even trying to guess what he’s thinking? I don’t even know what I’m thinking.
Some minutes pass as he lies there, trying not to panic. Eventually, he hears the door open. He thinks to sit, but that involves abandoning the shelter of the quilts and covers, which seems unacceptable.
“I had a bowl of the soup,” Kingsley says. “It’s really good.” He climbs onto the bed, holding a small tray. “Come here. You can’t eat curled up under there.”
Everything makes so much more sense the moment Kingsley’s fingertips glide down his back to coax him upright. The scent of the venison stew isn’t as appetizing as it should be, but it still makes his stomach rumble. He lets himself be guided to sit, but the instant he lets the covers slip from him he starts to shiver and then his teeth start to chatter.
“You poor bastard,” Kingsley laments softly. “I’ll go get something for the fever after this. Come on, let me get some food into you first, or any potion I give you is going to mess up your stomach.”
“You’re completely ridiculous,” Essek whispers plaintively. “You really don’t need to do any of this, Kingsley.”
“But I want to,” Kingsley says, carefully draping a blanket over Essek’s shoulders. “There. Better?”
Essek nods. He picks up the bowl of soup and luxuriates in the warmth of it in his hands for a moment before he takes a sip. His palate is slightly off-kilter, but it’s the epitome of comfort, the perfect thing to have when feeling ill. As he takes another bite, he feels Kingsley’s hand softly stroking down his back once more.
Essek focuses himself on the food. He knows he’s probably expected to finish the bowl so he does his best, eating mechanically after his appetite forsakes its usual duty. All the while Kingsley rubs his back idly, sometimes absently humming to himself.
No, not humming, Essek thinks as he finishes the last bite of his meal. It’s a purr. He’s never had any previous close associates who were tieflings before he met Jester and Kingsley, but he knows that they have some interesting traits derived from their demonic heritage. He’s heard Jester release these sounds a few times, but has never heard one from Kingsley.
When Essek is finished, Kingsley takes the bowl and puts it back on the tray. He disappears briefly and returns with a small glass.
“This isn’t gonna taste great,” he says. “It’s willow extract; Muriel was able to scrounge it up somewhere. I put it in some brandy so you can get it down easier.” He’s already climbing up to resume his former place in Essek’s bed.
Essek accepts the glass. Sniffing it, he wrinkles his nose at the bitterness suffusing the familiar aroma of the brandy. “First you burglarize a chemist’s shop and now you devise this concoction. Perhaps you have a future as an alchemist, Kingsley.”
“Down the hatch,” the tiefling says with a small smile.
Essek grimaces and takes the tonic in one big gulp. “Ugh,” he says afterward. “Well… you did warn me, I suppose.” He gratefully accepts a sip of tea from Kingsley’s mug.
“Let’s get you settled, then,” Kingsley tells him. “I think you might actually need some sleep - proper sleep, not just your trance.”
Essek hates to admit it, but the man might be right. “I haven’t been this sick in two decades,” he gripes. He follows the now-familiar guidance of Kingsley’s hands, lying down on his back. “I feel like hell,” he mutters tiredly.
“I know,” Kingsley says. He’s arranging the blankets over Essek, and then he sighs. “Hey,” he whispers, “you might hate this, but I’m doing it anyway.”
Essek releases a truly embarrassing sound as Kingsley pulls his head into his lap. The drow’s stomach does a flip as he stares up at the tiefling.
“Okay?” Kingsley whispers, watching him attentively. When Essek doesn’t respond, he experimentally traces his fingertips from Essek’s temple back over his ear, casually grazing along the sensitive tip like he either doesn’t know how intimate it is or doesn’t care. “You’re sore all over; I can tell from how you’ve been moving. Can I rub your shoulders and neck? It might help.”
Essek squeezes his eyes shut as Kingsley’s fingers bury themselves in his hair, dragging along his scalp. He doesn’t know why it’s so intense. He feels raw, like his nerve endings are exposed. Is he really this starved for physical attention?
Kingsley starts to stroke along the lines of Essek’s shoulders and neck, massaging the aching muscles. He’s methodical in his attentions. Essek feels like he’s being carefully explored, like his body is being mapped, and every reaction and twitch and sigh he makes is being cataloged. He couldn’t feel more exposed, and yet it feels so good.
Kingsley’s fingertips stray beneath the high collar of Essek’s tunic, parting it just slightly so that he can peer inside, and Essek gasps and grips his wrist. The drow wants to look at the man but he doesn’t have the nerve; he doesn’t know if he has the strength right now to keep all of the confusing things this man makes him feel safely out of view.
“I like the way you look in his shirts,” Kingsley whispers, thumbing at the Imperial cotton shirt beneath his tunic, making Essek’s eyes fly open in shock. “This is a new one, isn’t it?”
Essek is just staring up at him in horror. He’s really fucked up, letting Kingsley get this close, and now things are getting more complicated by the second. “Please,” he whispers. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for.
Kingsley smiles down at him, his expression no less open and warm than it was before. “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s not like that’s what gave you away. You’ve smelled like him since I got here, and your sheets smell like him, too.” There’s something wistful in his expression as he says it.
Essek realizes he’s still holding onto Kingsley’s wrist as though keeping his hand in one position will somehow put him back in control. He forces himself to let go, and is rewarded when Kingsley smiles at him and returns his hands to the task of massaging his neck. The way the tiefling’s fingers sometimes delve under his collar now suddenly takes on a new meaning. Essek knows that there are still marks on his throat; he’s certain Kingsley has already seen them. It’s incredibly intimate, being examined in this way.
“Why are you in my bed, Kingsley?” Essek finds the will to ask. “I know you want to take care of me, and I believe that part is genuine. But… is there something else?”
“I like borrowing things that aren’t mine,” Kingsley says, grinning in a way that shows off his fangs.
Essek is suddenly forced to contend with his mind’s questions about exactly how sharp Kingsley’s fangs would feel on his throat. He wonders how easily those teeth might leave dark bruises on Caleb’s pale skin. He wonders if they already have.
“Was Molly with Caleb?” Essek hears himself asking. “Do you know?” He immediately closes his eyes, mortified.
Kingsley pauses for a long moment, surprised by the question. “...Yasha seems to think so,” he says quietly. When Essek looks up at him, he looks slightly pained. “You don’t have to worry about that, Ess. He’s not interested in being anywhere near me.”
“I think you have that completely wrong,” Essek feels bound to point out. “I think it’s painful for him to be around you, but he wants to be around you very much. I suspect he thinks that trying to impose his affection on you would be the same thing as trying to make you be someone other than yourself.”
Kingsley, for once, is completely speechless, his hands going still. He frets briefly with Essek’s collar. “Are you just talking nonsense, or do you know something I don’t?” he asks at last. “Did he say something?”
“He didn’t have to say anything,” Essek says, glaring up at the man. “I am not terribly adept at picking up on these things, Kingsley. If I can spot it, it’s pretty damned obvious.”
“Okay,” Kingsley says slowly. “Okay, then. Well, that makes me feel slightly less insane, at least. I, um, I’d assumed that the sense of mixed signals was something left over from my past life. I don’t remember things, per se, but I have this really unpleasant habit of remembering feelings. It has been known to fuck with my head pretty badly.” He grimaces, and Essek feels a pang of sympathy. “Like, really badly.”
Essek sighs. “I know,” he says. “I’ve noticed. It’s why I’m so overprotective sometimes.” He steels himself, then reaches up to squeeze Kingsley’s knee reassuringly before bringing his hand back under the safety of the covers. “It’s a mess, and I’m sure I don’t know a tenth of it. Everyone we know who’s worth a damn has ended up so tangled up with one another that sometimes it’s ridiculously hard to figure out where one of us begins and the other ends - and I imagine it’s much, much worse for you.”
“It’s a mess,” Kingsley agrees softly.
They sit that way a while longer, each man taking refuge in the other. At times, Kingsley idly runs his fingers through Essek’s hair, tracing and retracing ornamental patterns like delicate bits of scrolled filigree on his shoulders and the nape of his neck. Essek tries to figure out if he’s relieved by the obvious confirmation of Kingsley’s interest in Caleb, or disappointed that the tiefling’s thoughts now seem to be directed elsewhere.
Eventually, against the odds, the charge in the air fades, and Essek feels fatigue taking over once again. He aches, and he thinks about what this position is sure to do to his neck come morning even as he refuses to genuinely consider relinquishing the comfort of Kingsley’s touch. Kingsley’s body is so wonderfully warm, too; it just makes sense to let this go on a little longer.
Soon, Essek’s eyes won’t stay open. He feels safe and looked-after, just as Kingsley had said he would be. He sighs softly, and it brings forth that rumbling, satisfied purr from deep in Kingsley’s chest. Essek feels deliciously smug at that.
If Caleb ever made Molly make that sound, he certainly hasn’t gotten Kingsley to do it for him.
Just as Essek is falling asleep, Kingsley sighs and shifts. “I’m gonna leave you to get some rest,” he whispers, and carefully repositions so that he can slip out from underneath Essek. Essek makes a disgruntled sound, but doesn’t have the wherewithal to form words. “Oh, now you want me to stay, huh?” Kingsley chuckles. “Such a brat.”
Essek opens one eye. “I will have you thrown in the Dungeon of Penance to rot,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.
Kingsley smiles at him and takes his leave, slipping silently from the bed. He leaves behind the warmth of his body, the smell of his skin, and a small pile of novels. After a handful of minutes, Essek falls fast asleep, halfway certain the man is still beside him.