The nausea that plagued him had subsided during his travels, but only enough for Areti to be able to walk from place to place. His dreams had gotten worse, filled with the all encompassing hope that Ambrus and Petros would somehow want him back, only for it to be ripped away the moment he awoke. They couldn’t be classed as nightmares, but that was what they felt like whenever he was faced with the harsh light of morning. 

He handed out letters like a puppet on a string, entirely unaware of who was speaking to him. They asked him questions and he knew his mouth moved to respond, but he heard none of the words that spilled from his lips. His distraction and exhaustion were getting to him, but at least his body knew how to keep moving. 

Part of him wasn’t even aware of where he was. He’d seen the gates of Pethra, seen the familiar halls and courtyards and faces, but never came to the proper conclusion that it was Pethra, where Petros was no doubt waiting for him, as they always did. He was still lingering on his dreams and the feeling of warm hands against his thighs, the awful terror of being used.

He was still lingering on that when he walked past Petros, not quite seeing them at first. A hand on his arm stopped him from turning the corner and he startled, lips parting in shock at the strength of the person holding him. Then he saw the familiar face and the nausea returned tenfold, overshadowing the joy he always felt. 

“Petros,” he croaked and grasped tightly to the strap on his bag with his free hand. “I’m sorry… I didn’t see you there.”

Petros frowned, but that was nothing new. They went to speak, but Areti pulled his hand away and dug through his bag before he could. Give the letter. Make an excuse about how busy he was. Leave. It should be simple. It had to be.

His hands shook when he handed over the letter, only minutely, but he cursed them nonetheless. Petros was still frowning, but it was impossible to tell what they were thinking. They didn’t even open the letter, just stared at the thick parchment like there was something wrong with it. 

In an instant, Areti knew what they wanted. 

“Are you alright?” they asked. A confirmation, not actually seeking to reassure. Areti knew what answer was expected of him, and couldn’t hold it back. 

“Yes.”

Petros’s hand wrapped around his wrist again, not as tight as it was before, but far more insistent. It pulled, forcing him down a familiar hallway. It wasn’t fast or rough or uncomfortably pushy, but gentle in the way that it believed it was reciprocated and that they needn’t run towards their goals. The leisurely pace was fine. For Petros, perhaps, but it left too much time for Areti to think.

A door opened and closed and the silence that followed was thicker than the one they had just come from. That wasn’t new. On any other day, the thickness would have been caused by anticipation. Perhaps for Petros, it still was. For Areti, it was thick with tension. 

And yet, it was still so easy for him to fall into his role. The hand around his wrist tugged him forward again until they were chest to chest. He ignored the flash of memory, the one barely a week ago when he had told Ambrus about himself. Could Petros tell what lay under his chiton? No, that wasn’t important. It was never important. 

There was a gift he had to give. If he couldn’t give them the letter and leave, then he could give them the gift and run. Run far. Run away from Pethra and Kallus and the army and the war… And be executed for it. He couldn’t. 

Then Petros grabbed him, gentle hands pressed against his sides, and he lost himself in the feeling of being wanted, being held, being loved. For only a moment. It was always only a moment. Sometimes, it felt like enough. He wanted so desperately for it to be enough, for him to not be some object for their amusement. 

But he had a gift to give and a duty to uphold. He was the one who pushed Petros back towards the bed, the one who clambered atop them with none of the grace Ambrus had shown. It didn’t matter, as long as he was close enough for Petros to pretend that he was a different man. A different man with the right body parts and dark skin and a boyish face and a smile that lit up the world. Not himself. Never himself. 

The kisses were rough and passionate. Petros cupped his face with two big hands and slowed him down, kissing him in the teasing, gentle way they always had. Areti forgot himself in a matter of seconds, which no longer came as a surprise to him. All he wanted was for them to want him back, both of them. It was all too easy to pretend that they did. 

Mimicking what Ambrus had done no longer mattered, not when Petros had taken control of things from the moment Areti had climbed on top of them. Instead, he took what he could from them, took in the love and want meant for someone else and tried to pretend it was for him. For a few minutes, it was easy and he lost himself in the feelings and the day dreams that spawned from them. 

Being with the two of them after the war, living in whatever place would be happy enough with three people in a single relationship, introducing them to his extensive family. He could celebrate birthdays with them, draw them whenever he felt like doing so. He could watch them be happy together and be happy with him. 

It should have been so simple, what he desired. He wanted them to be together again, wanted them to be happy, but also wanted some of that happiness to come from him. Later, he would think himself a terrible, selfish person, but for the moment, he let himself have everything he wanted. 

The armour made it uncomfortable, but easy to not go any further than he wished to when there was so much to remove. When one of Petros’s hands drifted down, Areti stopped it against his waist and smiled at the little hum they gave in response. It didn’t last much longer than that, with Areti pulling away to settle in their lap. 

They smiled up at him, a tiny, sweet thing that was hard to see unless he knew what to look for. Their hands settled on Areti’s waist, keeping him in place while they both caught their breaths. 

They hummed again, the noise so pleasant that Areti wished to bottle it up and carry it with him wherever he went. “Ambrus gives you the most wonderful gifts,” they whispered. 

The illusion shattered in an instant, like he himself was made of ceramic, crushed against the boot of a warrior. Areti froze and felt the nausea settle in the pit of his stomach again, let the blood seep from his skin and leave him pale and shaking. Petros took no notice of his reaction, but a rueful part of his mind found that it didn’t surprise. 

As soon as his limbs were his own again, he wrenched away from the gentle hands on his sides, tripped over the edge of the bed, and stumbled into the middle of the small room. He faced the table, where the unopened envelope sat, pale and taunting. For a moment, he was sure he would reach across and tear it to shreds. 

It was Petros’s voice that stopped him. “Areti,” they said, concern lacing every syllable. “What’s wrong?”

There was a second where he was sure he would never get the words out, the block in his throat painful and impossible to get past. Then he swallowed and it was gone and in its place was rage and despair and hurt. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said. The words should have been stronger, more forceful, but even with his anger, he was still so tired. 

“This?” Petros said, pushing themselves up until they sat on the edge of the bed. “If the gifts are too much, we can go back to something simpler. We don’t want to overwhelm you.”

“No!” There it was, the fury, the disgust in himself, out there for the world to see. “I don’t want to do any of this anymore. I can’t! I can’t…”

Petros had no right to look so sad, so confused. How could they not know? How could they not understand what they were doing to him? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair! They didn’t move or try to touch him, which was easier in the end. There was no telling what he would have done if one of those hands had wrapped around his wrist again. 

They swallowed, licked lips that were dark from kissing, and never looked away from him. “What happened? I thought you enjoyed- Did one of us do something you didn’t like?” they asked. 

Yes. Everything. He couldn’t tell them that, not that he knew what to tell them in the first place. His words were a jumbled mess, becoming tangled somewhere between his mind and his throat. “No… I don’t know,” he whispered and leaned back against the table, fingers grazing the edge of the envelope. “I don’t like any of this anymore. I feel…”

“What? You feel what?” Petros asked, but their voice was flat, uncaring. If there was any emotion hidden in it, Areti couldn’t find it. 

“Used.”

There was the emotion, flitting across their face as if he had punched them. “No, no, that wasn’t what - what we - ever wanted-”

“What did you want? Because half the time I can’t tell, and it hurts. It hurts so much. I feel sick and tired, like I could vomit at any moment,” he growled and for a moment, he waited, watching thoughts flit across his friend’s face, but there wasn’t a response. “I feel disgusted in myself and my body. And, of course, I feel used. I feel like I am nothing more than an object for you and Ambrus, a toy for the two of you to play with until you can meet again.”

“That’s not-”

“So, tell me, what did you want?”

There were still more words to say, so many more, but he knew he needed to stop and think it through properly. He needed to wait, to see if he could ever get the answer he so desperately wanted. 

Petros was thinking, but it wasn’t a question they should have to think so long about. He could see it in the way their eyes darted to different parts of his face, the way they shuffled on the edge of the bed as if considering standing, the way their lips parted when they thought to speak, only to close again a second later. They could not give Areti the answer he needed, and they knew it.

It gave him a chance to say the rest of his spiel, even though his stomach and heart clenched at the thought. He would be ending it all, but it would be better for him after a while, healthier and safer. All he had to do was speak. 

“Do you know what I want?” he asked, ignoring the way Petros winced and bit down on their lip. Neither of them moved properly, except for Areti inching his hand away from the envelope and another aborted attempt at standing from Petros. “I want to be kissed by someone who wants to kiss me, not someone who wants me to kiss someone else. I want to be wanted by you and Ambrus both. I don’t want to be nothing more than a gift or a conduit or a toy. I want my feelings, such as they are, to be reciprocated.”

“Areti-”

“And I know that isn’t possible,” he continued, tears in the corner of his eyes and his voice choked by the constriction of his throat. “So, even though I promised I would help you both, I can’t anymore. I need to be away from you. I want to be happy and I can’t do that if I constantly have to see the two of you. I’m sorry, but I won’t be carrying your gifts anymore. Or your letters for that matter. I will take the next one, but after that… You’ll have to find a new messenger.

“And please, don’t do to them what you have done to me. That’s not fair. It was never fair and I should have realised long before now.”

With his piece said and done, he turned and walked towards the door with more confidence than he truly had. All he needed to do was get out and make it to a spare room before he broke down into tears. That was simple. That was easy. Each clench of his heart was painful, begging him to turn around and take it back, but he couldn’t.

Instead of grabbing his wrist again, Petros grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him. There was something desperate in their eyes, wild like an animal and far more expressive than anything he had ever seen from them. It would be all too easy to take it back and fall into their embrace again.

“Don’t!” he yelled and stumbled away. “Let me have this, please. In… In your letter, tell Ambrus of my decision. I don’t wish to have this conversation again. I don’t think I could bear it.”

He didn’t give them a chance to speak, running from the room as fast as he could. If anyone saw him running, he didn’t give them notice, not stopping until he was as far from Petros as possible. The room he eventually found himself in is nothing more than a small spare quarters for those who visit the castle, more than enough for what he needed. 

He sobbed, curled in a ball on the uncomfortable cot. He sobbed until he falls asleep, wishing that things hadn’t gone the way they had, the way he eventually knew they would. In time, he would be happier, knowing that he was out of an arrangement that was deeply unhealthy for him. Maybe. He would always wish for what he wanted, that his love had been returned. A love that wouldn’t fade. But better that than what he was being given. 

In the morning, an envelope sat under the crack in his door. How Petros found where he was, he didn’t know. Ambrus’s name sat neatly in the middle of the parchment, an awful taunt. Areti tucked it in the bottom of his bag and cleaned his tear-stained face. One more time, that was all.