“What the hell, you fucking bastard?!” His voice was a rasp, but he could feel some foreign emotion welling in his chest, constricting his throat painfully once more. He pushed through. “What do you want from me? Why don’t you just say it, rather than waiting around like some dog, expecting the man to understand his thoughts?” The comparison made him immediately afraid, and he pushed himself back on the ground instinctively from the mere thought of another aggressive assault.

     Angeles’ eyes lowered, and then he dropped to his knees. Both of his hands grasped hold of Kirin’s ankles, and he pulled mercilessly, forcing the slighter man to slide upon the uneven surface towards him. It was a none too thrilling experience, made all the more terrifying by the continued dark expression on the older male’s face. This was like a completely different person. As the black haired creature was made to sit face to face with his living nightmare, there was a shift in those glowering orbs. The gold turned molten - still menacing, but with an oddly sultry stirring, the face turning devilishly sadistic as he spoke.

     “Stop running away. Stay down here with me.”

     Kirin blinked, the cold voice commanding. It was a simple request, and the young immortal was terrified enough to not dare refusing. He did not accept it outright, either. After a heartbeat, the red haired male continued.

     “Tell me why you are imprisoned here. Tell me about the world that has changed.”

     Some rational part of Kirin was clinging onto the fact he had just been assaulted, rather forcefully choked, and it was struggling vehemently against a stirring part of him that suddenly felt compassion for this monster. A yearning to understand him. A need to fulfill and be fulfilled by him. His lips parted, but his voice would not come forth. His purple eyes wavered darkly beneath the unmovable stare.

     “Give yourself to me.”

     A shudder sent pinpricks down his body. He was not prepared for the lips that crushed down upon his, for the urgency their heat washed over him with. It was too hard, too forceful, too desperate - too delicious. When had he become this weak? His mouth parted, and his tongue dared to invite in the serpentine counterpart of this dance, and he was met with an eager lust. Their saliva intermixed with the faint coppery flavor of blood, Angeles inadvertently splitting Kirin’s lip once more amidst his erratic display of affection. Both men briefly allowed the exchange to rule their senses, to overpower other sensory input, and then mutually pulled away.

     Tears threatened Kirin’s eyes. He did not know when they were summoned, but he could see them gathering along his lower lashes, the damning moisture building up in treacherous amounts. When he met those golden orbs, he sensed within his companion some measure of unease. Perhaps even regret. Right now, there was nothing else in the world but Angeles and Kirin. Neither one knew another. Kirin had realized this long ago, but still allowed his fears to rule him, to cause him to deny himself entirely, without a care for what this stranger truly wanted. He drew his hands up, reaching out to take hold of his partner, taking the large hands into his hold and bringing them up to his lips. Gingerly, he drew his tongue out and across the bloodied surface of one finger. Then, he resolved to use his voice, forcefully steadied.

     “My name is Kirin Unlair. I am the third son of the Duke of Arowai.” He looked up towards Angeles, searching the other’s features for some unspoken sign, and was relieved to see that the terrifying countenance had relaxed. Those stunning eyes were once again something closer to serene, though they swirled with a known sign of his lust and desire. He did not make any attempt to interrupt, or pull away his hands, but watched with silent interest. Kirin took a deep breath, feeling the tears cease their building. He was confident he could blink them away. He was less confident that he could face something he had been striving to avoid for too long.

     “The current king of this nation is Jeffon, the second of his name, eldest son of the Late Queen Laya. He is young, and unpopular. His ascension to the throne was something of a series of unfortunate events. His mother fell ill suddenly, and was quickly sent to the country side. News spread that her carriage was assaulted by the Low Landers, and it was reported that she died in the attack. Jeffon ascended shortly thereafter, but was also stricken with an illness. His lasted for three years. In that time, he confined himself to his quarters, and allowed matters of state to fall on his advisers. Few things ran smoothly in those times, including a drought that affected a quarter of the nations farming.

     “My brother, Lysain, is the ninth in line for the throne. However, my family controls the largest duchy, and Lysain has been at the forefront of innovation since the time he was twelve, gifting immortals and humans alike with new and ingenious ways to simplify our lives. We have the support of the lion’s share of nobility. Prior to my imprisonment, I had been studying at the National University in the capital.

     “About a month before my imprisonment, Jeffon released a declaration. He demanded that each of the noble families send a daughter to him as tribute, which he would wed, and consolidate his power among the nobility. This was met with much protestation and outrage, and few did not understand that he was desiring hostages. My family especially spoke out against it, because it would mean sending to him our only daughter who has yet refused to marry. A week before I ended up here, I received a letter from my mother. She said it was urgent that I seek audience with my uncle, the Earl of Beckon, at my earliest convenience. He was out of town, however, so I had to wait for his return. I did not think very much of it at the time.”

     At this point, he paused briefly, wondering if his words were boring, but Angeles was unmoved. His stare held firm. With a deep, steadying breath, he continued:

     “When I got there, the guards were already waiting. They accused me of treason, and without a warning, I was restrained and dragged down into that cell. My uncle.. I could smell the death in that house. I don’t know what happened exactly, but my family... I believe they attempted and failed a coup. After I was put in that cell, I haven’t learned of anything. My expectation is that they use me as a hostage... Or maybe worse. I am not sure. I don’t think I want to know...”

     Biting lightly on Angeles’ finger, though not enough to pierce the skin, he queried bitterly, “Don’t you think I am really a pathetic creature all around?” He felt so powerless. Ignorance was horrifying. Part of him suspected that he would be murdered in his sleep one day, sent to join his mother and brothers, his sister, every other immortal soul that he held as intimate family. And another part of him felt pathetic because he had put up such a miserable fight, such a disappointing display of fortitude. That he wallowed in his cell rather than plotting revenge. That he found comfort in the arms of a stranger while his kin may be rotting already.

     The soft press of flesh to his forehead was startling, accompanied by the gentle brush of crimson hairs. The kiss left a warm impression in the skin there, and the tall male did not pull back fully, allowing his breath to further stimulate the innocent region. It brought a tender heat back into Kirin’s heart that he was afraid to accept, but he did not hide from it now.

     “You are certainly pitiable, my timid minx. Shall I teach you to be brave?”

     The faint sound sent a shiver down his spine, and soft violet orbs lifted to inspect the visage of his companion. Curious and inquisitive, he searched for any indication of insincerity, pondering the risk and reward of being fooled by this beast in immortal flesh. The smoldering gold of his counterpart met his stare unflinchingly, no trace of malice in those glowing depths. They were as mesmerizing as ever, the sort that he was positive could persuade even the most wary of souls given enough time and patience. Angeles held such an unreadable expression, however; the line of his jaw, the set of his lips, the angle of his brow - they betrayed nothing of his inner workings, no matter how studiously Kirin might try to pinpoint them. This roused a familiar bloom of unease within him, but he pushed it away. He hated that aspect of himself, the part which he had never been forced to face before this life as a prisoner. It couldn’t be too late to change it.

     And then, it dawned upon him. In this place of desolation, where he existed alone with one other soul - why not capitalize on such for his advantage? It was as if he had been content to sit in the darkness, waiting for a shard of light to come; but why? If his family had fallen, but he survived, did he not now have the means to escape this place? To seek vengeance in truth? It was a frightful thought; he had never been held to the same standards as his brothers. And he had never desired them. Though he accepted his place in society, he did not covet one above him. But no matter how shattering his fall from grace had been, he knew within him was the confidence and strength of will that, perhaps combined with the aid of a creature found in this abyss, would lead him to carving out his own light and finding his enemies fall to their knees before him.

     It would be a sweet victory. Then, even if Angeles left him, he could return home with pride instead of shame. “Teach me,” he finally said, his hold on the male’s hands before him shifting. Rather than tender, he grasped them tightly, his eyes finding a focus, seeing a way out of this existence. Had he allowed himself to wallow so low? Pathetic. Being the victim was exhausting, he would much rather watch others bow down before him in submission. And fate had sent him a crimson haired angel just for that purpose.

     “Finally,” the words were apathetic, but carried out with the faint exhale of exasperation as those large, dangerously clawed hands shifting to hold his own in return, giving a tug to pull Kirin forward and into the other man’s lap. “Now, we may get to know one another properly.” The smaller man shifted, finding a comfortable position in such an unlikely place to sit, pushing down the awkwardness that threatened to bubble forth. And the change in direction of the conversation prompted an inquisitive nature within the ebony haired immortal.

     “Since I have divulged details about myself, I feel it only fair you do the same. If not your history and why you are here, then...” Tilting his head to the side, examining the presently impassive features of his companion with open interest, he continued, “Why do you have such a strong desire for physical contact? Like, just now? Were you imprisoned down here for adultry?” A playful grin, the first he had allowed himself in some time, played upon Kirin’s lips at his own jest, particularly when he witnessed a mirror of the levity in the golden orbs of his partner.

      “No,” was the simple answer, at first. Silence followed, as though the other individual were considering his reply at length, and just when Kirin suspected he would get another obtuse answer, Angeles’ arms shifted, wrapping around the lanky creature in his lap and leaning to press his forehead against Kirin’s. The aroma which had become so invitingly familiar was strong in the air, bringing forth heated memories and a comfort that felt odd, almost invasive, when the young immortal felt so emotionally off put by the current string of events. “Isolation does strange things to the mind. After long enough, it becomes hard to tell what is a fabrication from reality. But to touch, taste, please and be pleased.... Every time, it is a reassurance of that reality. That you are not a mirage that will dissipate when my hand finds your flesh.”