glory and gore go hand in hand
May. 22nd, 2021 12:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notapaladinHe's so, so tired. In Acatl's arms, he finds the equilibrium he needs.
-
There is blood on his hands. And in the creases of his elbows. And under his fingernails. It’s starting to dry, sticky and cold and disgusting, on his skin.
He can’t stop shaking. His skin feels too tight and too dry, still almost feverish, and it’s a blessing he’s still on his feet. At least he’s alone; at least nobody is here to see the Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan struggling even with the simple task of washing his hands. Oh, they’d tried, of course—he’d left the dais and almost immediately been surrounded by his nobles and his attendants, all seeking to bring him aid, but he’d sent them all away. He thinks he’s seen too many people today, even with Huitzilopochtli’s light a blinding, scorching presence under his skin.
He’s definitely seen too many people. He hadn’t been able to look at their faces, hadn’t been able to bear their expressions, but—
There’s so much blood. He scrubs harder, cold water splashing from the basin onto the floor. His skin is crawling, but the rough towels help a little. When he tries to take a slow breath—slow, something to calm his racing heart—the action makes his shoulders ache again.
He can still feel the knife in his hands. He hadn’t been able to feel much while it was going on—his world had been heat and light and fire, lava pouring through his veins and the Southern Hummingbird’s breath in his ears—but he’d known he was holding the knife, had felt the resistance of muscle and bone and hot blood pumping over his hands as he’d grabbed and twisted and pulled.
He clenches his fists. It doesn’t help. He can still feel the sweat-slick grip of the knife in one hand, the steady beat beat beat of a pulsating heart in the other. No amount of lather or cold water will wash it away.
His people are praising him in the streets, for he has shown their strength to all those who would doubt them. The rulers of Metztitlan and Tlaxcala and Huexotzinco have seen the price of opposing him; though they leave with lavish gifts, he knows they’re happy just to escape with their lives. He has been a conduit for Huitzilopochtli, His hand in the Fifth World strengthening the boundaries and keeping them all safe from His sister’s rage. Under the sea of blood he’s spilled these past few days, Coyolxauhqui has been all but drowned; Her bottomless rage will not touch those he loves. He should be happy.
He wants to cry. He wants to shake until he falls apart.
He wants Acatl.
Hurry up, he mouths at the basin. You said you’d meet me here when the sacrifices were over; where are you? His lover had had no role to play in the rededication of the Great Temple and its twin shrines to Huitzilopochtli and Tlaloc; it had been harder than he’d liked to find a private moment to speak. Just to speak. They hadn’t even been able to touch. He misses him like a lost limb.
And then the sound of a rustling entrance curtain lets him know he’s no longer alone in the baths; he picks out a familiar, steady tread of bare feet on stone, and his shoulders slowly start to relax. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t have to; he knows he’s safe. Acatl could hold a knife to his throat—oh, there’s an interesting idea—and he’d still be safe.
“Acatl.” His throat hurts.
“My Emperor.”
Acatl’s voice is soft, tender, awestruck—in truth the voice of a priest addressing his Revered Speaker, not a man speaking to his lover—but then he must realize the state Teomitl is in, because he steps forward to stand in front of him and gently, so gently, take his hands in both his own. “How do you feel?”
He sucks in a breath. He can’t quite look at him. Their joined hands are easier to take in, though Acatl’s are clean and cool and dry where his own are so hot and sticky-damp with water and blood that he’s surprised they haven’t started to steam. At least his fingers aren’t shaking quite so badly anymore. “...It was...” He swallows. “So much.”
“I’m not surprised.” Acatl presses soft lips to his forehead. They’re cool too—or maybe it’s just that his skin is burning. “You’ve never channeled so much power before, or for so long. But...you handled it very well.”
“I can’t get all the blood off,” falls from his lips, but what he really means is Help me. That, he bites back; he’s in no shape to break down yet.
Acatl strokes the backs of his hands, thumbs moving in soothing little circles. “...Let me?”
He nods. He’s still not sure he can trust his voice.
Acatl doesn’t seem to expect him to talk, at least. He turns away to wet a clean towel and start at the insides of Teomitl’s elbows, wiping at the drying flecks of blood with a gentler hand than Teomitl had used on himself. When he breaks the silence, his voice is quiet. “I know you don’t expect gratitude, but you’ve done more for our world these past few weeks than your brothers did in both their reigns put together. You’ve kept us safe for centuries to come. I’m so proud of you, my love.”
Even though he knows his lover is right, he’s too tired to appreciate the compliment. “You’ve saved the Fifth World half a dozen times over, and you’re proud of me?” It’s bitter and ungrateful, but he can feel tears prickle in the back of his throat and being caustic even for a moment will stop them from falling. The sudsy water sluicing over his arms feels like a balm.
Acatl doesn’t rise to the bait. The towel slides along first one of Teomitl’s forearms and then the other, gently clearing away the stuck-on gore. “I am,” he says softly. “You were magnificent. I’ve never seen the Southern Hummingbird’s power so bright and clear, and I have met Him in person.”
It hadn’t felt magnificent from where he’d been standing. The priests of Huitzilopochtli had moved like a well-trained unit to hold down victim after victim, and all he’d done was bring the knife down and hold the heart aloft for a moment before throwing it in the cuahxicalli. The stench of burning flesh has yet to leave his nostrils. He doesn’t want to see or smell meat for a week. No, a month. Maybe by then it won’t turn his stomach.
“Don’t let Quenami hear you say that,” he mutters. “He was...unpleasant.”
Acatl’s head lifts, eyes narrowing, even as his hands continue the work of getting blood out from under Teomitl’s nails. “Hm?” That single-toned hum carries a myriad of undertones, not least of which is the strong suggestion of murder.
More cold water is poured over his hands. It unknots something in his chest, and he can breathe a little easier. And, too, it gives him the strength to continue. That’s right. My enemies are Acatl’s enemies, because he loves me. “I could feel him standing there, all seething jealousy. I swear he was waiting for me to make a mistake or—I don’t know, drop the knife in someone’s chest cavity like Tizoc did that one time. I know you said to leave him be, but...”
They hadn’t quite fought about it, when he’d first brought it up in the long months before Tizoc’s death. He’d only drawn Acatl aside and told him the truth, as plainly as he could possibly make it. That if he had his way, Quenami would follow his Revered Speaker into the afterlife; that he deserved it a thousand times over, for having nearly taken Acatl from him.
That if Acatl really wanted, Quenami would get to live another day.
“Yes,” Acatl had said after a long pause. “Spare him, keep him as High Priest, so that he may know he’s beaten.”
Quenami had not felt beaten on the top of the Great Temple. A spot in the back of Teomitl’s right shoulder crawls with the memory of false, poisonous good will, a manic and vicious helpfulness that had just been waiting for him to falter. The man clearly has neither forgotten nor forgiven the moment after Tizoc’s death when Teomitl had drawn him close and told him just who he ought to be thanking for his miserable life.
Acatl’s voice takes on a honed edge. “...I changed my mind.”
His head snaps up, and for the first time he looks into Acatl’s eyes; their depths are as dark as ever, but now there’s firm resolve in them. And anger. His heart had started to slow down to normal, but now it’s kicking up again just registering the heat in that gaze. Acatl praises him for his power and strength, but his lover has never seen himself in a temper; it’s enough to send a lesser man than Teomitl to his knees.
Cool fingers tighten briefly on his own as Acatl continues. “Obviously, he has learned nothing from your mercy. Whatever you wish to do with him, I will not gainsay it. His replacement will surely be a man of better sense and decorum.”
It’s what he’s wanted to do for years, and part of him jumps at the chance. The rest of him studies Acatl’s face, remembers the way his lover is forever second-guessing himself, and asks, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Acatl grits out. “I can forgive insults to myself, but it’s a different matter when he thinks to undermine my Revered Speaker.”
You shouldn’t have to forgive anything, he thinks, but then the possessive notes in his lover’s voice hit him and he almost gasps. Yes, yes, that’s right. I’m yours. For a moment he almost can’t speak. They’re not close enough. The water on his skin isn’t cold enough. “...Oh, Acatl-tzin,” he breathes.
Acatl makes a soft, desperate sound. For an instant he looks as though he’ll kiss him, but instead he whispers his name like a prayer. “Ahuitzotl.”
“No.” He shakes his head, feeling the shiver travel down his spine. That’s not what he wants. He’s been Ahuitzotl too much lately, and it’s never rang true from his loved ones’ mouths anyway. “Call me by my name.”
Acatl closes his eyes, trembling faintly, and lets go of his hands. They’re clean now, at least on the surface. “...Teomitl.” And it sounds like a man addressing his lover, and it almost breaks his overfull heart.
He draws in a long breath, leans in, and falls into Acatl’s arms. Hold me, he thinks. Hold me until my skin feels like mine again. He doesn’t need to say it out loud; his lover’s arms slide around his waist, holding him securely as the earth holds the foundations of the Great Temple, and for the first time air comes easily to his lungs. He can take one breath, and the next, and the next, as long as he keeps his head tucked into the crook of Acatl’s neck.
Acatl’s voice comes out muffled from where he’s got his face buried in Teomitl’s hair. “Duality, you’re still so warm.”
He feels warm. Acatl’s skin is cool next to his, and when fingers splay open along his spine he shivers. “The Southern Hummingbird was...it was overwhelming,” he whispers. He can admit that, here and now. “I thought I would burn alive.”
There’s a pause. A long, indrawn breath, Acatl’s ribs expanding with it.
Then Acatl is pulling back and kissing him, long and slow and sweet, and he melts into it. His heart is still too fast, skin still stretched too thin over his joints, but with his lover’s mouth on his he’s starting to feel human again. In this, at least, the heat of lips and tongue against his is more than welcome.
“My love,” Acatl murmurs when the kiss is broken. “My jade and quetzal feathers. Let’s see if we can’t make you feel a bit better, hm?”
It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask what Acatl has in mind, but his lover acts before he has the chance. One hand leaves his skin for a moment to dip back into the basin, and that’s all the warning he has before cold, wet fingers trail down the side of his neck. He trembles, breath catching in his throat. “Oh. That feels...” It feels incredible, is what it feels like. The cold on his overheated skin sends a jolt straight to his cock, and he has to bite his lip for a moment to maintain equilibrium.
Acatl watches him with something like concern. It’s terribly sweet, but in this instance entirely misplaced. “Too much?”
“Do that again,” Teomitl rasps out.
A smile flits across his face. He does it again. This time he brings his nails into play, scratching just hard enough to leave stinging lines behind, and Teomitl has to close his eyes as the sensation grounds him. It’s the most natural thing in the world to settle his hands at Acatl’s waist and tilt his face up, leaving it all under his lover’s control. He thinks again of a knife at his throat, and when sharp nails run over the thin skin of his collarbone his toes curl.
“Fuck, Acatl...” It’s almost a moan, and this time when his heart kicks up it’s not from the aftereffects of magical strain. His body is remembering it’s a thing that wants.
“...More?” Acatl almost—almost—sounds unruffled, but Teomitl can hear the catch in his voice and the way he shifts his weight in anticipation. It’s good to know he’s not the only one affected by what they’re doing.
Still, it’s kind of a stupid question under the circumstances. He’s breathing roughly already, more than half hard, and the loincloths they’re both wearing feel like too much fabric. He slips his hands into the waistband of Acatl’s loincloth, feeling the way the man shivers at wet skin on skin. “Yes. Gods, please.”
“Mmm. Alright.” He’s hyperaware of the warm breath on his face as his lover speaks; his skin tingles in all the places they aren’t touching. Acatl doesn’t close the distance between them; his fingers slide over his chest, circling one nipple with a thumbnail and making him twitch before continuing their journey down his stomach to the knot of his loincloth. Though he unties it gently enough, there’s a weight to the way the fine cotton tumbles carelessly to the floor that makes Teomitl quake.
He opens his eyes to find Acatl’s gaze locked on his, dark and deep and hungry. Oh yes, he thinks breathlessly. That’s what I want.
There’s nothing else he can do but kiss him, and this time it’s rough. This time it has teeth catching at Acatl’s bottom lip, hands all but tearing at the thin fabric of Acatl’s loincloth, the line of his lover’s body like lightning as it presses fully against his. Acatl’s hard and throbbing against him, bare skin like a brand. The Southern Hummingbird’s magic had felt like it was erasing him from the inside out, but the first grind of Acatl’s cock against his own is putting him back together. When his lover growls into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulderblades, he moans in response.
Then Acatl breaks their kiss, moving to press him up against the nearest wall; he gasps at the cold, smooth plaster against his skin, but it’s nothing compared to the sizzling shock of a hot mouth descending on his neck. The faint scrape of teeth isn’t enough to leave marks, but it’s enough to make his blood sing, make him twist and arch in Acatl’s arms—and then his lover reaches between their bodies to take him in hand, and he bucks with a rough cry. When Acatl lifts his head, he’s smiling like a wolf. “Oh, how sweet you sound.”
Teomitl can’t stay quiet, not even if his life depends on it. He spares a tiny scrap of thought to be glad for thick walls, but then Acatl squeezes and all thought flies out the window. “Ah...nnngh, gods...” His lover’s touch is slow and sure and relentless as it always is, pumping him steadily, and he can’t stop himself from thrusting into it. More. Gods, I want—
He surges forward, burying one hand in Acatl’s hair and wrapping the other around his cock. When he twists his wrist just the right way, it’s Acatl’s turn to moan out loud, music to his ears. “Ah, Teomitl...!”
There’s a deliciously hitched gasp in his voice; with his head pulled back his throat is right there, and Teomitl can’t resist just a bit of payback. He mouths along his throat to his collarbone, just this side of bruising, and only when Acatl is fucking into his tight grip does he lift his head and pant, “Did you think—hngh—I’d be selfish?” Coiling heat is rising in his veins like smoke, like the tide, but he can’t let himself focus on it when Acatl is rock-hard and leaking in his hand. He wants more of this, too.
And he gets it. Acatl’s never as loud as he is, but the roughness of his voice and the way he’s braced himself against the wall with an arm next to Teomitl’s head speak volumes. “You never are,” he growls, fingers rippling as they slide slick up Teomitl’s shaft again. “You are—hah, gods, you feel so good, my lord...”
Calling him magnificent, praising him for his rule—those are empty words. But Acatl’s voice cracking with pleasure, the strength of his lean body pressed against him, the way he’s panting with each stroke...that is praise he can take real pride in, and it sends fire through him. And, too, Acatl’s wonderful long-fingered hand is still working over the head of his cock, making his own hand falter. The pressure building at the base of his spine threatens to spill over. A little more, and he’ll fall over the edge. “Going to—!”
Acatl’s eyes are the hottest, darkest thing he’s ever seen. “Good. Let go for me, I’ve got you.”
He comes so hard he’s surprised his legs don’t give out. He could almost scream, but then Acatl’s kissing him and what comes out is a filthy, incoherent moan that reverberates through them both. The heat of Acatl’s body pressing him against the still-cold wall, the lightning shock of his release—it feels like it’s going on forever. Love, comes his first thought in the moment of clarity that follows. I love you.
And he doesn’t want to leave him unfulfilled. Not that there’s any risk of that; a few firm, rippling strokes and Acatl follows him a moment later, pulsing in his grip and spilling over both their stomachs with a long groan. He drops his head onto Teomitl’s shoulder, breathing hard, and for a long while he doesn’t speak.
When he does, his voice is soft. The hand he slides down Teomitl’s back is softer yet. “Mmm. Feeling better?”
“Mngh,” he says. He feels like melted rubber. He can’t even remember the last time he was this relaxed. It’s a real struggle to nod, to remember how to reopen his eyes when a blink closes them. “...I do.” Maybe it’s reckless of him—Revered Speaker or not, they have to be at least a little discreet—but he can’t stop himself from adding, “Take me to bed?” Even though leaving the baths will require the currently monumental tasks of getting themselves clean and dressed, Acatl’s here. Acatl will take care of him. And then they’ll be together in his chambers, and Acatl will keep taking care of him.
Acatl sighs fondly and holds him a little closer, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “...I can’t. There is to be a banquet in a few hours, remember? A great feast in your honor.”
Teomitl groans. He’d managed to forget about that, but now it’s coming back to him. He’d rather be at a street stall with Acatl by his elbow, but the Revered Speaker whose Great Temple will seal Coyolxauhqui for centuries must have a meal worthy of his station. “Come eat with me, at least.” Or else he’ll be alone. Surrounded by flattering nobles and fawning servants, yes, but alone.
Another kiss, feather-light, on his mouth. “I would love to.”
He finds himself smiling as he kisses back, just as softly. No, he’s still not looking forward to the banquet, but with Acatl by his side it won’t be so bad. They’ll grumble about political nitpicking together, and he’ll feed Acatl choice bits from his own plate.
And if he still avoids the platters of roasted peccary and venison, he knows his lover will understand.
