[ it hurts as much as he expects. worse, because it's kaz. because he knows the amount of courage it took to get this far, to allow hands and lips and whispered words against his skin. he remembers every tentative touch, every eager kiss, the press of his hips and the salt of his skin. he remembers the spill of blood, the terror of his pulse, the scent of his fear. all of it tangled together. you told him you hoped he'd try again. and this is the reward you give him.
the pain between them is a living thing. if tossing kaz into the roiling waves of his worst nightmare was cruel, then this is another sin he can't atone for. better for kaz to hate him, to finish this job and return to ketterdam with his life than to die in a foreign country on a foolhardy mission from a queen he doesn't even particularly like. but he liked you. a foolish thought. kaz must hate him now — and if he doesn't, he will. when the sting of this subsides into something more manageable, he'll see him for what he truly is: a man with a thousand different faces and none of them true, none of them real. he says what he needs to say in the moment. and those moments pass as quickly as breathing.
except for this one. this one looms over them like an eternal sentence, like his time with elizaveta and her damnable bees. he finds his voice, miraculously steady. ] I am tired of tasting your blood, Brekker. I may not understand the deaths you've lived, but you don't understand mine. Don't pretend that you do.
[ you are cuts into him too deeply for remarks. he doesn't want this kindness. maybe it's why kaz forces it on him, knowing that it will hurt more than another spurning. or maybe he really believes it. somehow, that's worse.
a king doesn't take orders is on the tip of his tongue, as he takes kaz's direction without comment. he wants the chair instead, but kaz is already in it, barring the door that nikolai wants desperately to walk through. and there's the gun, too distracted to have realized it was in plain sight all along. not his best night. he doesn't keep his eyes on the ceiling, instead watching the way pain flickers across kaz's face. he would sit on the floor and try to ease some of the ache with his hands if he didn't think kaz would kick him in the face first. or shoot him for deigning to stand.
a rough breath escapes him, shaking his head around what sounds like a chuckle. ] What part of the night? The part where I almost killed you? The part where you wanted to kill me?
[ he raises his bare hands in a gesture of surrender before carefully sliding from the bed to the floor, his back resting against the wooden frame. easier to stay awake this way. he turns his eyes to the window. now that the room is still, his own pain creeps up on him. not the pain in his lungs. there's an ache right beside his heart. his fingers curl around the memory of dark hair. he does need the sleeping tonic despite vowing never to take such a vile thing again, because otherwise his nights will be full of nothing but kaz. kaz and the demon, an endless loop of his botched failures.
morning will always come. morning is as far away as it always is. ]
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the pain between them is a living thing. if tossing kaz into the roiling waves of his worst nightmare was cruel, then this is another sin he can't atone for. better for kaz to hate him, to finish this job and return to ketterdam with his life than to die in a foreign country on a foolhardy mission from a queen he doesn't even particularly like. but he liked you. a foolish thought. kaz must hate him now — and if he doesn't, he will. when the sting of this subsides into something more manageable, he'll see him for what he truly is: a man with a thousand different faces and none of them true, none of them real. he says what he needs to say in the moment. and those moments pass as quickly as breathing.
except for this one. this one looms over them like an eternal sentence, like his time with elizaveta and her damnable bees. he finds his voice, miraculously steady. ] I am tired of tasting your blood, Brekker. I may not understand the deaths you've lived, but you don't understand mine. Don't pretend that you do.
[ you are cuts into him too deeply for remarks. he doesn't want this kindness. maybe it's why kaz forces it on him, knowing that it will hurt more than another spurning. or maybe he really believes it. somehow, that's worse.
a king doesn't take orders is on the tip of his tongue, as he takes kaz's direction without comment. he wants the chair instead, but kaz is already in it, barring the door that nikolai wants desperately to walk through. and there's the gun, too distracted to have realized it was in plain sight all along. not his best night. he doesn't keep his eyes on the ceiling, instead watching the way pain flickers across kaz's face. he would sit on the floor and try to ease some of the ache with his hands if he didn't think kaz would kick him in the face first. or shoot him for deigning to stand.
a rough breath escapes him, shaking his head around what sounds like a chuckle. ] What part of the night? The part where I almost killed you? The part where you wanted to kill me?
[ he raises his bare hands in a gesture of surrender before carefully sliding from the bed to the floor, his back resting against the wooden frame. easier to stay awake this way. he turns his eyes to the window. now that the room is still, his own pain creeps up on him. not the pain in his lungs. there's an ache right beside his heart. his fingers curl around the memory of dark hair. he does need the sleeping tonic despite vowing never to take such a vile thing again, because otherwise his nights will be full of nothing but kaz. kaz and the demon, an endless loop of his botched failures.
morning will always come. morning is as far away as it always is. ]