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Pretty Little Things [Part 2]

[(Anonymous)]

“I thought you might understand” is what Antonio thinks he might have heard Roderich say, but his eyes are fixed on the red and the gold of the wine and the goblet and Roderich’s lips and the room blurs around him so he doesn’t really hear what Roderich has to say. The wine’s such a beautiful color, it makes his heart ache— red has always been his favorite. He tries to seal the moment in a memory because he does like beautiful things, he really does. But if he cannot destroy it, then yes, he supposes, preserving it (even if only in memory) will have to do.


And he really would like to destroy it. A vision flashes through his mind, one of many possibilities. He could lay waste to Roderich’s pretty house, with the instruments of siege, or with his own two hands. He might like to do the latter: taking destruction into one’s own hands, it’s so much more personal. He could do it with his axe. It wouldn’t be hard, just a little touch would be enough.


He could have Roderich on the ground before him, dirt ground into that fine silk clothing of his, and that fine white face. One good punch, and he could split Roderich’s lip right open, make him bleed. Just one.


Roderich seems to notice he is not listening, because he sets down his drink and stands then, pushing his chair carefully back beneath the table once more.


“Or perhaps the journey has been too taxing. If you cannot focus, you should rest the night before we continue. I will have your quarters prepared for you.”




Roderich calls for a servant to prepare Antonio’s room, and another to show Antonio the way. Waiting for him in the guest quarters is a four-posted bed with a stead of fine mahogany, it’s form one with sprawling curves and clawed lion’s feet. Beside the bed is a table set with another goblet of wine. Antonio thanks the servants, and when he is left to his own devices he runs his hands over the soft blankets, marveling in the gentle weave, the softness beneath his ungloved fingers. His callouses catch on it if he moves against the grain.


He does not wear gloves, but Roderich does, with little black buttons at the wrist. He’d noticed them when they’d sat down for wine. Antonio wonders if the gloves are made of the same stuff as Roderich’s cravat.


He falls asleep almost as soon as he has pulled the blankets over himself. He probably has the wine to thank for that, and for the faint, ghostly music in his ears that follows him into dreamless sleep.