In Control and It Brought You So Low

by Caustic_Causes

Summary:

Druig is slipping away and Ikaris is desperate to keep him. Whatever it takes.

Notes:

• Inspired by With the Devil You Know, You're Never Alone by lowlife_symptoms

Please mind the tags!

And before or after you read this, I seriously suggest hopping over to lowlife_symptoms, their art is literally breathtaking.

Unbeta'd, apologies for mistakes.

The city sprawls below him, a muted and distant flourish of life. Not much different than any other city he’s helped to create. Not in the grand picture, anyways. And that’s all Ikaris is interested in: the grand picture.

A city protected. Deviants destroyed. What else is needed?

At least, what else is needed for this city? What else do they owe it?

He scowls at the thought, jerking the cuffs of his deep blue robes to straighten them. The feel of the stiff fabric does nothing to ease the ache building in the joints of his fingers, at the back of his jaw. Not pain. Nothing so simple as that. Tension, maybe.

Even this late into the night, from where he stands on a balcony jutting out from near the highest reaches of their temple-palace, Ikaris can see people moving in the streets below. Not people, not really. Just shadows, cast by flickering torches and largely escaping the pale illumination sent down by the full moon above. The lights and shadows move here and there, some purposeful, others more erratic. Drunks, thieves, warriors. Very few else would be out at this time. Especially not with what was coming.

His eyes flicker further out, to the city walls. Contemplating. They had kept out Deviants for a time, with the help of the Eternals. But the walls will not keep out the humans, because the Eternals will not intervene. The scouts have been reporting back for weeks now, of armies landing, of soldiers marching, of blood spilled by what the people of Tenochtitlan call sticks of fire.

Phastos had been right to keep that particular invention out of this part of the world. The humans kill each other so easily now. It’s almost a shame the guns found their way to this corner of Earth.

Almost. But Ikaris regrets it more for what it’s doing to his family than what it does to the humans.

This lofty section of the palace, his room, is quiet. Earlier in the night, there had been many festivities in the open courtyard far below, celebrating the slaying of yet more Deviants. Nearly the last of the Deviants. The raucous, almost desperate din from the celebrations had reached even him, high above them all.

No doubt Kingo had partaken. Sprite would have awed the crowds with stories of past and future heroes. Assuredly Gilgamesh had been there, sampling the food and alcohol and whirling around men and women alike in boisterous dance. Makkari had probably had her fun, too, haggling for whatever newest item or information took her fancy, shamelessly offering stolen wares in return.

A small thing, easily overlooked. When it comes to Makkari’s quick smile and quicker fingers, much is easily overlooked.

Ajak, yes, for a time, though she would have retired early, burdened by the weight that sometimes seems effortless for her to carry, and other times… not.

Phastos, probably not. He prefers spending time with his inventions.

Thena, no, but she is out hunting. Always hunting. Today, Ikaris almost wishes he had joined her.

And Sersi… If he closes his eyes, he can picture her, surrounded by the humans that seem brighter, more real, just for her presence. With Sersi in their midst, Ikaris can – almost – understand why she loves them so. Could he learn to love them, just for her sake?

No. Not anymore. Not with what he knows. There had been a time, but now… Now such a thing would only disrupt what they were sent to do.

What they were sent to do. It takes Ikaris a long time to realize his hands have become fists, and when he becomes aware of it, it is a struggle to relax them. He does, though, forcing them to loosen as he stares out over the city.

"Admiring your empire?"

The sardonic drawl from behind him is unmistakable, and it has Ikaris' shoulders tightening, fingers longing to curl again. He doesn't turn around when he replies, "Isn't enslaving humans more your specialty?"

Too fast an escalation, too harsh, but Ikaris can feel the tension clawing across his throat, coiled up in his chest. 

And his fists.

Druig doesn't reply immediately, instead walking past and standing at the very edge of the balcony, balanced on his toes as he peers down into the city. The jutting out area has no railing because Ikaris frequently flies through here to access his room. At the sight of him rocking for balance, Ikaris tenses further. The urge to snatch Druig's dark robe and yank him back is strong, but he keeps himself still.

The mood they’re both in, he can't see it going over well. That seems to be the mood they’re always in, recently.

Besides, Druig would survive the fall. As weak as he is compared to some of the other Eternals, there is still so much he would survive.

"The priests are back at it again," Druig abruptly says. He twists just enough to glance at Ikaris, giving a glimpse of tired, washed-out eyes before looking back to the dark expanse below.

"We told them not to bother us." It comes out as a growl, more inspired by the hint of his companion's exhaustion than anything the humans were complaining about.

"Yeah... That worked for a bit. Not anymore, when they're seeing their deaths in front of them." When Druig laughs, it’s a dry rasp. "What's an angry Eternal to empty eternity, huh?"

"We've told them it isn't our fight."

"And they don't believe us. Would you? They spent the last generation honouring us as demi-gods, seated at the feet of their Huitzilopochtli and Tlaloc and the rest. They gave us so much."

Without actually looking, Druig waves one hand, encompassing Ikaris’ room, not cluttered but elaborately provided with what furniture there is. It’s a spacious area, well lit by several bracketed torches. The low bed has a jaguar’s pelt strewn across it, the mats on the floor are vibrantly colourful and wear-free, and the wicker baskets and handful of squat chairs are well woven. Even the one piece of art Ikaris had accepted is stunning; a large statue of Quetzalcóatl, the feathered serpent god, terrible and great as it rears up with fangs bared. Real quetzal feathers decorate its scruff, and looking at the brilliant emerald and red mane, observing the gaping mouth and garnet eyes, Ikaris has to acknowledge that this might be a god worthy of adulation, if it existed. At the very least, it’s a generous gift.

And Ikaris well knows that his room is one of the most austere of the lot; one can hardly move in Kingo’s space for all of the extravagant junk, and Makkari too has built up quite the collection of items.

They never intend it to be that way, but it always is. Almost without fail, the moment a group sees the Eternals eradicate a terrifying monster that has been killing their people with impunity for years, they come to conclusions. About godhood and the like. And gods have to be honoured, one way or another. This way is preferable to some of the notions of sacrifice they have encountered and had to... redirect... through the years.

At least that has been a use for Druig’s skills that they all agree on.

Ikaris shifts at the thought, taking in the tight, slight expanse of his companion’s back. He wonders if Druig went to the celebration today. He used to – he tends to be Makkari’s impromptu translator, and they enjoy being among the humans together – but lately Ikaris thinks Druig has been slipping into the forest, hunting or fishing or simply wandering. He seems keen on avoiding the company of the humans.

Not just the humans.

When Ikaris doesn’t reply, Druig swings around, frowning. Probably takes the silence as tacit disagreement. Of course, that is exactly what it is.

He cuts such a striking figure, silhouetted against the brazen-moon sky. He’s wearing a finely cut robe, of a deep, plum purple that reminds Ikaris of a new bruise. It’s held closed by an intricately wrought belt, red and richly vibrant against the darker fabric. It’s not one of theirs; whoever gave him the clothing was granting a princely gift, and it sits well on Druig.

Yet all Ikaris can see, really, are the lines heavy around his mouth, the slump of his shoulders that the supple folds of the robe can’t hide. It’s obvious how much effort it takes Druig to lift his chin, to glare at Ikaris as though he isn’t being torn apart inside.

The tension grows, rigid through his muscles.

“Don’t you think we owe them something? After all they’ve given us?” Druig demands.

“We’ve killed almost all the Deviants,” Ikaris replies flatly, trying to crush the emotion of that challenge with his voice alone. “That’s what we’re here for, and we don’t owe them more than that.” Truth be told, they don’t owe them anything. It isn’t about owing. But his companion won’t like that truth.

He doesn’t even like the half-truth. Thick brows furrowing, Druig’s expression is too easy to read. Ikaris knows he wants it to look mocking, but all he manages is a slight lift of his lips before apprehension makes the sneer fall away. They’d all learned to lie over the thousands of years they’d lived, but not to each other.

With a few notable exceptions.

“They’re going to die, Ikaris.” Druig’s voice is so quiet it’s almost hard to catch. “Some are going to be disembowelled. Others will go with lead in their stomachs, thanks to that lovely powder Phastos helped them make.” An exaggeration, in that Phastos’ involvement was several steps removed, though Druig obviously isn’t in the mood to be corrected. “Burned to death, some. Rape, enslavement, that’s what the rest get to look forward to.”

“It’s nothing they haven’t done to others.” That is a fact. It isn’t as though Tenochtitlan became the powerful city it is predominantly through peaceful trade.

Now the other man’s lip does curl. “Something I could have stopped years ago. I could have stopped it all, years and generations and millennia ago. So don’t you fucking tell me it’s nothing they haven’t done to others, as though that makes it better.”

It hurts. It genuinely does. Not what will happen to the humans – Ikaris pities them, in his way, yet no more than that – but the raw grief in Druig’s voice touches him. Touches him – and frustrates him. It is all so simple, so obvious, yet Druig insists on hurting himself. “Arishem says–”

With a sudden spike in volume, Druig laughs. “I am so tired of hearing those words. You and Ajak both, just blindly parroting whatever he tells you!”

His own anger rises, and so does his voice. “He is our Maker, Druig! The Maker of billions of worlds, all like this one. He sees on a scale you can’t possibly imagine, so what gives you the right to question him?”

With a fierceness that’s half derision, half passion, the other man strikes his chest as he takes a step closer. “This! This fucking heart, that can see how wrong it is, what we let them do to each other. Arishem might have made us, but not equal. He seems to have misplaced your heart somewhere in the making.”

“Then he misplaced your ears, as deaf as you are!” Ikaris snaps. Why couldn’t Druig just listen? Dampening his anger proves impossible, but he tries to soften his tone. “Arishem is working for all of us – for everything.” There the secret is, not even close to teetering off the edge of his tongue. Ikaris has far too much self-control for that. But that doesn’t make it easy to weave his words with honesty and lies both. Not when he’s speaking to his family.

It doesn’t get through to Druig, anyways. “You would say that. If he told you dirt was a delicacy, you’d eat it and ask for seconds. Ikaris the soldier. Ikaris the obedient.” Said with such scorn they practically drip, the words make something tight and enraged begin to vibrate through Ikaris’ chest.

He retorts, “You are a hypocrite. Constantly sneering at me for obeying our god, and yet your only ability is exactly that! Forcing obedience! And you would use it like it’s nothing! You would enslave the humans just to make yourself feel better.”

“Only to help them!” Druig replies quickly, but Ikaris can see from the way he links his fingers together, pulling at them distractedly, that he’s scored a hit. When Druig continues, he sounds more unsure. “I won’t make them do anything they hate, anything that hurts them. Not like Arishem.”

“A gentle tyrant is still a tyrant, Druig.”

Druig's graceful fingers flinch around each other, the knuckles going momentarily white. For an instant Ikaris can't tear his eyes away from the sight of his hands, clenched together. So much pain, and for what? For individuals who will be dead soon enough. For a planet that is going to end, sooner or later. Even without the doom Arishem has decreed, Earth is going to die. It is inevitable. What is the point of such bleeding-heart sentiment?

The other man clears his throat, drawing Ikaris' gaze. A bloodless slash in a face gone even paler, Druig's tight lips are a testament to the conflict going on in his head. "You might be right," he says. "If I do this, I might be a tyrant. But the thing is..."

There's a pause, stagnant with what the Eternal can't say. His eyes go out of focus, and abruptly a golden sheen slicks over their slate-blue depths. Like oil over water. Druig goes icily still. Ikaris realizes that he's reaching out to the humans, and he leans forward, ready to put a stop to it. Before he can actually step forward though, the hint of cosmic power leaches away. The golden sheen is gone, leaving wan pools, and Druig blinks. Blinks again, like he's trying to wipe away something he wishes he hadn't seen.

“What did you do?” Ikaris demands roughly. “Did you call them here?” The last thing he wants is for humans to be bumbling around his quarters. Especially with he and Druig on the edge of... something. Something terrible. Or maybe something great. But something that feels final in a way that sets his teeth on edge.

Druig shakes his head. “I was checking something. You reminded me.” He’s smiling again, but the expression is utterly without humour.

“Checking what?”

“It’s not an issue you want to concern yourself with.” 

“Druig...”

The other man seems to need something to do with his hands; he smooths out the belt around his waist, trailing his fingers over the creases with a meticulous care that suggests they’ve personally offended him. "I feel them all the time, you know?" A whisper, as faded as the colour from his eyes. “These empty – I don’t know. Vessels. Spaces. All around me, all the time. And I step in, and I fill them with what I will, and they do what I want. It’s easy.”

He can’t see where this is going, and that frightens Ikaris. He and Druig have rarely seen eye-to-eye, but this is a different kind of disconnect. It’s as if the other man has come to some resolve, is facing some journey that he expects to take alone. Like a goodbye. “What were you checking?”

The question is ignored. “It’s so easy to fix them. But you know what isn’t easy? Just sitting there. Watching a man beat his daughter and wife, just because he can. People being murdered, starving to death. Hurting themselves, hurting others. Again and again and again and...” Druig sounds like he’s on the verge of choking up, stops himself.

After several unsteady breaths, he looks up from his belt. “Do you know, it’s never any different? How many places have we been now? How many cities, how many people? And it never changes. Just – pain. Pain and pain and more pain. And I have to just sit there. Oh–” He laughs bitterly. “That’s right. Unless they threaten us. Dare to wave their little spears and bows in our direction. Then I get to step in. Then I get to do something. But the second they turn those glorified sticks on each other, huh? What then?”

“Druig, I–”

“You’re so sure, Ikaris. So faithful. Where... Where the fuck do you find that faith? I look around me, at how this world is, and I ask myself why Arishem told me to do nothing. And I find I am so fucking tired of doing nothing.”

Even in the face of the almost frantic exhaustion saturating Druig’s uneven outburst, Ikaris’ faith doesn’t waver. It never has. It never will. He trusts Arishem because he understands that he cannot be more than he is. It’s a knowledge that inundates every cell, every molecule of his self. A warm, solid conviction. Arishem is a god in the most certain, concrete terms imaginable. He is divine, in a way that none of them can fully comprehend. Ikaris, simply, is not.

What is there to question, when confronted with that?

If there is death in the world, there is a reason. If there is hate, and hunger, and hurt, there is a reason. If this world – and hundreds more like it – need to be sacrificed, every single life snuffed out, there is a reason. What does it matter if he doesn’t know the exact rationale? The justifications?

If a tree falls in a forest, it makes a sound, whether Ikaris can hear it or not. That’s so blatantly, starkly obvious, he doesn’t know how to explain it to Druig. To any of his companions, really. Even Sersi has never really understood.

But Druig is despairing, all shattered, cutting edges, and Ikaris can’t see how to approach him with the certainty he holds in his heart. And what he’d said... “I am so fucking tired of doing nothing.” What did that mean? What is the thin steel threaded through Druig’s otherwise tattered presence?

For the third time, he asks, “What were you checking?”

“Arishem should have made you a crocodile. You’re good at not letting go.” Ikaris shifts his weight impatiently, and Druig holds up his hands. It would be a conciliatory gesture if it wasn’t so flippant. “You said that controlling the humans, forcing them not to hurt each other, is wrong. The thing is... I’m too tired to care if it is or not. It’s too much.”

When Druig tilts his head, there’s something endearingly – achingly – earnest about his expression. Like a child asking for approval. “I lasted for a long time, huh? More than 6000 years. That’s not a bad record.”

With mounting urgency, Ikaris steps closer to him. His throat is tight, stinging with the amount of pain the other man is holding. With frustration, over how easy it should be to let it all go. “We’re so close, Druig. The Deviants are almost gone. Just a little more, and then–”

“Then what? We form a happy little commune up some mountain?” Druig shakes his head, the earnest light fading. “That might be your dream, Ikaris, but it’s not mine. Nah.”

He takes a deep breath, his shoulders straightening, and his pale gaze finds Ikaris’ and holds it. “I’ve made my decision. You are all capable of eradicating the last of the Deviants. For all we know, Thena is out there doing just that tonight. So... I’m leaving. I’ve had the humans prepping supplies and I–”

“You what?” Electric shock burns through his body, searing his lungs and making breathing difficult.

“I know you can’t let me break Arishem’s laws right under your nose. I don’t expect you to. We’ll go far away. It’s not anywhere near all of them, anyways. I’ve spoken with a small group, they’ve agreed to come and follow me.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing when you’ve left the city? Plotting with the humans?”

Bristling, Druig replies, “I’ve talked to some of the tribes outside the city, yeah. The ones who haven’t gone either way in this war. We’ve prepared...”

Druig is still speaking and Ikaris hears him, sort of, but in a meaningless way. The details don’t matter; it’s all just noise. I’m leaving. This is what he’s been fearing for years now. The first break that will inevitably weaken the whole. The first sign of the eventual collapse of the only thing he’s ever cared about.

He can’t let this happen.

He can’t.

He won’t.

"Have you spoken to anyone else about this?" Ikaris interrupts, and he doesn’t miss the way Druig pauses, head cocked as though he’s listening for something that’s not being said.

His reply seems honest. "No. I wouldn't be surprised if Makkari knows something is going on. She... picks up on things, sometimes. But 'sides that, I haven't told anyone else. And I'm not going to, except Ajak. The humans are done packing. There's no reason to stay."

"No reason to..." His mutter dies out, and the sudden, incredulous fury is a caustic substance, burning through his throat until it feels like he might choke to death on it. "You're just leaving." Even to his own ears, his voice sounds wrong. Too flat. "You don't want to wish anyone a sweet farewell?"

"Sweet? I think y'mean ugly and traumatic." Druig grins, but the gaze he levels at Ikaris is cautious, searching. He hears the strange flatness, too. "How do you say goodbye after 6000 years?"

Ikaris doesn't know. Why doesn't he know?

After a pause, like he's waiting for Ikaris to fill in the stunned silence between them, the other man continues. "It's not forever, anyways. All of you can visit. Once we get set up and I'm sure they're safe, I can come back, too."

"That easy? Just – stop in for a chat? After you've abandoned us? And spat in Arishem's face?" The words are aggressive, but the tone isn’t. He tries to put something into the tapestry of his voice and finds the acid of his anger has melted away the colours. The anger itself is – beyond. It feels like a fracture is happening, in a place inside of himself he’s never been aware of before.

Making an annoyed sound deep in his throat, almost like he is planning on spitting in someone's face, Druig shakes his head. "The mission, as you call it, is done. Way I see it, I don’t owe Arishem anything else.”

“You owe him your life.”

“That’s a bad trade if the life doesn’t end, huh? Eternal servitude in exchange for a life of eternal servitude?”

“That’s not what–”

With a violent wave of his hand, Druig cuts him off. “See, I didn’t come here to argue theology with you, Ikaris. I’m not looking to be persuaded.”

"If you're so determined to go, then why come to me?" Ikaris demands. And the question resonates through him. Why would Druig come to the person least likely to let him go? Why come to Ikaris, unless that last was a lie? What if he really is looking to be persuaded?

One way or another?

Druig clasps his hands behind his back, keeps his chin high. For the first time in the last several minutes – maybe the first time tonight – he actually looks... poised. Almost relaxed. Like he's set down a burden he's been carrying for an eternity.

And it turns out that it's Ikaris' turn to be crushed.

"I'm gonna tell Ajak now. I wanted to tell you, because if I didn’t and you woke up tomorrow and I was gone, you’d come flying after me and pitch a fit. I didn’t want the humans to be dragged into that. Energy beams shot from eyes don’t really agree with them.” Druig offers a small, wry grin, inviting Ikaris to join in on the joke.

Ikaris ignores the offer. “I would have done it because it was the right thing to do. Because you shouldn’t leave.”

The smile dies. “Then I’m glad we talked about it here. But it’s over now, Ikaris. I’m going.”

“You can’t.” He puts all of his conviction, all his authority into that statement.

Druig is unmoved. “I can. You’re no master of mine, Ikaris. Even Ajak isn’t.”

“Druig, I’m telling you right now, you can’t. Arishem has forbidden it.”

With an explosive exhale, the other Eternal turns away. Ikaris’ hands come up automatically, reaching out to him, before he jerks them down. “I don’t want to argue with you,” Druig says quietly. “I came here 'cause I hoped... I know you can’t change who you are, Ikaris. But the fact is, the war is almost over. The fight is almost done. When the last Deviant dies, there won't be no more need for warriors who fight only for Arishem. A little tip? Maybe it’s time you start thinking about who you are if you aren’t a soldier.”

Of course he doesn’t know, he can’t understand. There will never be a time when Ikaris isn’t a soldier – except, he supposes, the day he dies. If that day ever comes. And once Arishem has claimed this planet, Ikaris will go elsewhere, serving the Celestial at another time, in another place. And the rest of his family will be with him. He won’t allow it to be any other way.

There’s something steely rising from his depths. Something that’s always been there but has remained unacknowledged until now. Maybe he’s even pushed it down, brushed it off, tried to cover it up. Something too brutal and rigid for the love he has for his family. But he needs it now.

His resolve hardens, and he starts breathing more deliberately. Slowly. A preparation for what’s to come.

Waiting for a response and not receiving one, eventually Druig shrugs. “I still don’t know how to say goodbye. But I guess this is it. So... goodbye.” Ikaris remains silent and Druig’s mouth twists, a mix of sorrow and irritation crossing his face. “I’ll see you later, Ike.”

He goes by Ikaris, their shoulders almost brushing as he heads for the door. One more time, just one more, Ikaris tries. He tries. “Druig. Don’t go.”   

“Yeah. I’ll miss you too.” And the other man sounds sincere, even as he keeps walking away.

Before Druig has taken two more steps, Ikaris is there, grabbing his wrist. The tension is so thick it’s almost a weight, Ikaris’ rage heating it into a molten mass that sears his breath. Still – still – he doesn’t lose control. It feels like everything is crystalizing, solidifying until all that remains is the pressure, the urgency, and the knowledge that Druig can’t be reasoned with. Not with words.

His hold is too hard for Druig to break, but the other Eternal tries anyway. Just another indication of how much he’s failing to think. He wrenches his arm so hard he must be hurting himself in his effort to get away, and when that doesn’t work, Druig glares. His pale face is set, rigid with the decision he’s made. “Let me go.”

“Make me.”  

Quiet but unyielding. Ikaris meets the furious blue-grey eyes with incisive intensity. Druig’s brow creases, the fine lines across his forehead his only sign of unease. “I’m serious, Ikaris.”

“So am I. I think you’ve forgotten some important facts, Druig. So try. See if you can make me, and then remember that you can’t.” This is the only way. Druig has to understand just what he is. What they all are.

With a curt exhale, Druig mutters, “You bastard. I should be telling–”

And he takes a swing at Ikaris’ head. Too slow, even with the trickery.

Give it to Druig, he isn’t a bad fighter. Crafty, quick to learn, cautious but not cowardly. He’s one of their better non-combatants. It’s just that he’s up against Ikaris.

And Ikaris is the best.

At first, Druig is almost lazy in his attempts. He leaves his guard open, confident Ikaris won’t hit him hard enough to injure. His strikes are jokes, contemptuously batted aside. He even fights with a slight upward curl to his lips, like this is a little tantrum and he’s amused by it, ready to wait it out while playing along.

But. As minutes pass, and Ikaris doesn’t let up, as one or two blows hit more jarringly than Druig is ready to accept, the smile fades, then leaves altogether. His brows knit together, and he starts to take it seriously. It doesn’t matter. At his best, he couldn’t beat Ikaris.

They grapple for a long time. Not because it’s a contest, but because Ikaris is fighting one of the most deliberate spars of his life, dragging it out. Moving just fast enough to avoid the blows or send them glancing off the armour he’s wearing. Barely striking at Druig’s lean body, and when he does, it’s merely a cuff, a stinging reprimand across the ear or jaw or into the ribs.

Long before they finish, Druig understands the rules. He knows Ikaris is taunting him.

He fights on anyway. Jawline stark with effort, sweat beginning to trickle down his face, low grunts of effort escaping his lips. Once he makes a dash for the door, an attempt summarily stopped by Ikaris with a hard yank on his robe, tearing it open and off one shoulder as he drags Druig back. Their scuffle knocks over one of the chairs, kicks some of the rugs into crumpled heaps, threatens but doesn’t quite tip the statue of Quetzalcóatl. The feathered serpent watches the struggle silently, fangs bared in what could almost be a grin.

A swift kick to his knee, followed by a stiff shove when it gives out, sends Druig toppling backwards to the floor. Before he can rise, Ikaris puts one foot on his collarbone, applying just enough pressure to keep him pinned. “You want to lead the humans, but you can’t even stay standing. You’ll need to work on that.”

The flush of red across Druig’s cheeks is satisfying in a way that feeds the anger pulsing through Ikaris. “Get off!” the other man snarls. “Seriously Ikaris, get off now or–”

“You’re still trying to give me orders?” He presses down harder, until the sound Druig makes is a note away from pain. “You don’t get to give me commands, Druig. That’s not how this works.”

Hands wrapped around Ikaris’ ankle, trying futilely to heave his foot off, Druig shows his teeth. “Is that right? So how does this work, m’lord?”

“It’s simple. Just – stop. Stop questioning Arishem. If you can’t do that, at least stop questioning Ajak. Stop questioning me.” Ikaris realizes the last had almost come out as a plea, but he can’t make his tone significantly harder when he continues. “Defying Arishem is wrong, but it’s also dangerous. We can’t know what he’ll do. I want what’s best for all of us, Druig. You have to trust that.”

“I don’t have to trust–” Eyes focusing behind Ikaris, Druig suddenly yelps, “Ajak! Help!”

Automatically Ikaris steps off him, away, turning to the entrance. The empty entrance. When he whips back, the other man is on his feet. Not even smirking at fooling his opponent. They’ve gone at each other too hard for that. “Guilty conscience, Ikaris?”

“Guilty I didn’t rein you in sooner,” Ikaris retorts. “I’ve let this go on for too long.” And he springs forward. More blows, faster and fiercer than before. Druig is forced to backpedal more now, to shield himself instead of lashing out. But still, every time Ikaris demands he yield, there’s just a short shake of the head, a vehement curse in a range of languages.

Finally, Ikaris decides it’s not enough. This little beating won’t make him cave. As the other Eternal tries for another punch, he catches his arm, yanks it brutally behind his back while using his left arm to wrap around Druig’s opposite shoulder and keep him from spinning out of the lock. A small exertion, a manipulation of his elbow upwards to put pressure on his shoulder joint, and for the first time Druig actually cries out. The sound is a little knife through Ikaris’ eardrums, but he doesn’t relent. Just does it again, harder this time, eliciting another sharp yelp.

“Ika...Ikaris, stop! Fuck, just–” Another cry, the sound strangling in Druig’s throat. Abruptly he slumps, the wiry tension limping from his body. For a long time, there’s only the sound of his heavy, gasping breaths.

Ikaris isn’t even winded.

The fight has left Druig in disarray; his robe is slipped off one shoulder, his dark hair sweat-dampened and sticking to his forehead, his face flushed with effort. He looks like a mess. Digging into Druig’s bare shoulder with his left hand, he can feel Druig’s hot skin and trembling muscles, a testament and a condemnation of Ikaris’ strength.

“...Fine.” It’s hard to read the wheezing exhalation. Anger, definitely, but is there anything else in Druig’s words? They’ve hurt each other before, even purposefully. Of course they have. After thousands of years and arguments heated enough to melt mountains, the list of injuries – physical and otherwise – has only grown. But not like this. Ikaris has never set out to deliberately and continuously hurt one of his family before.

Maybe that’s why Druig’s voice is so rough when he continues. “Fine, fine. You’ve made your point, yeah? You strong, me weak. I get it, I admit you’re stronger. You happy?”

No, he isn’t happy. “Of course I’m stronger! It’s not about a comparison, Druig. I need you to think.” He can still feel the urgency, terrible and resolute, thumping like a second pulse under his skin. Druig has to understand that he can’t control anything. Not truly. It’s the only way he’ll agree to stay, the only way to keep their family together. The only way to complete their mission properly.

In the following silence, he can almost hear Druig’s thoughts whirling. He can also hear the stubborn defiance settling in, and isn’t surprised when the man replies. “So – what? You want me to promise I won’t interfere? Because that isn’t going to–”

More cries, higher pitched as Ikaris puts more force into shoving Druig’s arm up. It’s a good thing this area of the palace-temple is so isolated. The humans are secretly terrified of Ikaris and rarely stray near his quarters for anything but set tasks, and the other Eternals are unlikely to come this late, thinking him retired for the night.

Nonetheless, when Druig catches his breath enough to form words, he actually tries to call for help. “Makkari! Thena! Ikaris is–”

And Ikaris wraps the hand not holding Druig’s elbow around his throat. Hard enough to choke off the sound, to have Druig writhing helplessly against his chest, free hand scrabbling at Ikaris’ hold. He can’t get enough leverage to free himself, and there’s a strange, hollow certainty inside Ikaris’ bones, like his purpose has finally replaced the marrow there.

He keeps his fingers digging into Druig’s throat until the man finally sags, hand dropping. Not near unconsciousness – you’d need more time than that to take an Eternal out – but an admission of defeat.

Slowly enough that Druig can’t possibly mistake who’s making the decision, Ikaris loosens his hold. Loosens it, but doesn’t let go. He changes his grip, uses his thumb to trace the prominent line of the other man’s jaw before forcing his head back slightly.

Pulling Druig closer, Ikaris puts his mouth near his ear. “Try that again and I’m going to make you regret it.”

“Ikaris...” If, before, Druig had been trying to hide his bewildered pain under a front of boldness, that shield has cracked now. Cracked just like his voice is, a splintered mass of ragged anguish. “What are you doing?”

“What I have to.” Ikaris keeps his own voice firm, because he has to. If he shows any weakness, any hesitation, Druig will never believe him capable of delivering punishment. He’ll never truly understand that his place is here, with them all, not galivanting off with humans. “Do you understand now? Do you really think you still have a choice? Tell me you won’t leave, and that you’ll stop this with the humans. I’ll let you go.”

Fluttering under his fingers like a frightened bird, Druig’s pulse only slows after several more shaky inhales, and it’s not until it’s slowed even further that the other man forms a response. “I– Okay. I get it. I’m not... I won’t help the humans. I swear it.”

Ikaris smiles. The expression is a sad one. “Ah... Druig, do you really think you can lie to me?” His pulse had been a clue, the quick surrender another. Druig has his pride, and will fight hard when he can – and sometimes when he shouldn’t – but he is also too intelligent to let himself be tortured for no reason, not if a lie can set him free. If he had resisted for a lot longer, if his pulse had raged while he spoke, an inner window to his fury and fear and humiliation, Ikaris might have believed him. As it is...

“No– Ikaris, I–” A denial that quickly cuts off when Ikaris tightens his fingers around his throat. He doesn’t choke Druig for long this time, just enough to give a warning.

Still, when he relaxes his grip, Druig is left panting. He also seems to have abandoned the short-lived ruse. “Ikaris... You can’t do this.”

“Of course I can,” Ikaris replies matter-of-factly. “You can’t stop me.” A dagger, twisting in, trying to shatter Druig’s resolve.

“What do you think this will do? You hurt me enough and I’m just gonna roll over like a beaten dog? You think that little of me?”

Ikaris has to admit, part of him is impressed by the restrained anger that clots through Druig’s tone like congealing blood. There’s no give in the man he’s holding to his chest. That’s... admirable. It also makes exasperation spike, punching through his satisfaction and leaving wrath. And fear. Plenty of fear. He has to get through to Druig. For both of their sakes.

He’d hoped... he’d hoped it would be enough. Some of the other Eternals might have folded to the pain. But that hope... Just a foolish sentiment. A reminder that emotion, when it comes to do with anything involved in the mission, is a mistake. He knows Druig. He shouldn’t have expected this to be enough. But how...

When he pauses, caught in his reflection, Druig makes another attempt to throw him off. This time, Ikaris jerks his elbow up even higher, ruthlessly straining his shoulder. Too much more of this, and it would dislocate. The muscles are probably already torn. His captive screams and Ikaris covers his mouth, muffling the sound. Druig twists, trying to escape despite the added pain it must be causing him.

To keep him still, Ikaris crushes him harder to his chest, until they’re almost molded together. Druig’s thrashing only succeeds in creating friction between them, and Ikaris realizes in a distant way that his body is reacting. It doesn’t surprise him, not really. The heat of Druig’s skin presses against his senses and his scent is an enticing blend of wood and smoke, curtesy of his lonely forays out of the city. In another life, Ikaris might have leaned into the scent, pressed his face into the nape of Druig’s neck just to get a stronger hint.

But not this life.

It’s never been lost on him just how attractive the other man is, and the situation just amplifies his desire. Ikaris has always preferred to be in control with those under him, and with Druig literally in his power, the wave of heat through his cock is a natural response.

And he knows now what he can do to break Druig of his defiance.

He eases up the pressure on the shoulder, and Druig quiets. Taking his hand away from his mouth leaves the other man’s uneven breaths rattling through the air, and Ikaris shifts his grip, slides it back down to press gently against his throat. Almost a caress.

“You’ve become bad at following the rules, Druig. So we’re going to lay down some basic ones, and you’re going to follow them. Think of it as practice,” he murmurs, and feels the other man shudder in response. “One. If I catch you using your power to call the humans to rescue you or tell the others, I’m going to hurt you very, very badly. And then I’m going to find out which human you used, and I’m going to kill them.”

A violent inhale, Druig stiffening. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. You can test me if you want, but their death won’t be on my hands.”

“Arishem forbids interference! Does murder not qualify, huh?”

Truly, he’s been so remiss in teaching Druig. It’s so obvious, and for the other man not to know... “The mission before all other rules. If killing a human is what it takes to get you back in line, that’s acceptable.”

“You bastard.”   

“Careful, Druig.” Ikaris’ voice is rough, and he pulls up on Druig’s elbow, forcing him to go to his tiptoes to avoid the hurt. “Too much more of that and I might decide you need a reminder that you can’t protect the humans from me, any more than you can protect yourself. So – leave the humans out of this, like they always should have been.”   

In truth, he’s surprised Druig hasn’t made an attempt to call on them already. Obviously the humans couldn’t stand against Ikaris, even if all of Tenochtitlan came, but they could bring one or more of the other Eternals, and that would be a problem. They won’t understand the necessity of what he is doing.

He doesn’t understand why Druig hasn’t tried yet, but he’s confident he can stop him if he does. It takes several moments for Druig to establish full contact with a mind, several more to move them to where he wants them. Getting him to let go isn’t easy, exactly, but he’s lost his hold of humans under extreme pain and pressure before. There’s a reason he largely stays out of battle.

The man trapped by his hands doesn’t reply to the instruction, his breath coming hard and unsteady, but that’s fine. It’s a good sign that he’s giving his tongue a rest. “Two,” Ikaris continues, allowing Druig to settle back on his feet, “you’re going to stop fighting me. You and I both know I can beat you easily, but I don’t want to hurt you, Druig. It will be so much easier if you submit.”

Druig makes a sound that’s almost a laugh, though it breaks apart into something far closer to a sob at the end. “Easier for you.”

“For you,” Ikaris corrects firmly. “That’s the lesson. Once you accept your place, everything falls away. The worries, the doubt... All gone.”

“I can’t,” Druig cries, moving weakly. Not trying to escape – just a physical rejection of the words.

Nonetheless, Ikaris tightens his grip on Druig’s throat. He can’t allow any kind of rebellion, not anymore. The other man stills himself, and Ikaris hums approvingly, relaxes his hand. “You can, Druig. It’s at least partly my fault for letting you get like this; I’ll help you learn.”

“I’m not a hound to be taught tricks!” Despite the vehemence of the protest, it doesn’t escape Ikaris’ notice that Druig keeps himself almost motionless; but for the quiet trembling, he could have been a statue. He’s always been quick on the uptake when he wants to be. Now Ikaris just needs to remind him of what he already knows. Break him down, so he can find his proper form.

“Hush,” he says, but gently. “Third, and last... You’re going to thank me, Druig. For reminding you of your place.”

Druig’s breath hisses out between his teeth, but before he can refuse, Ikaris is hauling him across the room. He spins him around so they’re face to face and then shoves him onto the bed. With a grunt of surprise Druig falls backwards, landing only partially on the low structure with an oomph, his legs splayed over the edge. For a second, he starts to get up, and then he seems to realize where he is and freezes.

Ikaris takes advantage of the momentary paralysis to stop for a moment, to really observe – and appreciate – the man sprawled in front of him. His chest is almost totally bared, a tantalizing display of his sculpted pecs, a scattering of freckles across the canvas, the lean curve of his ribs, of his smooth stomach, and lower, lower, blocked from sight by the bulky belt that’s held together despite the rough treatment it’s been put through. Druig’s expression, too – lips parted as he takes quick, panting breaths, eyes glassy with unshed tears – is as pretty as a painting.

An ever-increasing heat pulses through his groin, the pooling warmth creating a tingling expectation that skitters across Ikaris’ skin and leaves him restless. By now, Druig’s collected himself enough to sit up, but as he moves to pull the robe closed, starkly aware of the eyes on him, Ikaris makes a cutting motion.

“Don’t.”

There’s something hopeless about the way Druig’s hands tighten on the edges of the garment but don’t make any move to draw them together. “Ikaris... please,” Druig whispers, the first time tonight, and it doesn’t soften the relentless purpose.

It just makes Ikaris hungry to hear it again.

“Stay there,” he orders, and then turns away. Not as casual as he seems, he keeps all his senses focused on Druig as he stalks around the bed to one of the wicker baskets. Inside, a jumble of personal items, and the one he pulls out is a medium-sized clay jar. Then he’s moving back to the bed, where the other man sits tensely, his fingers still curled into the robe. He flinches when Ikaris gets close, eyes flicking to the jar and then away.

As Ikaris opens the container, a warm, sweet scent begins to permeate the air. He and Sersi have used the canella-infused oil on more than one occasion, and he has no doubt it will work now; the pleasant fragrance is a heady one, relaxing and sensual.

On the other hand, Druig looks like he might be sick. He doesn’t ask what’s happening. Of course he doesn’t. He has his faults, but weak perception is not one of them. Shivering, the other man sees Ikaris openly staring at him again, averts his gaze. His knuckles are white, face suffused with colour.

“Take your belt off.” The command rolls out unequivocally, and Druig closes his eyes, seems to be trying to control his rapid breathing. Fails.

“No.”

Another flinch as Ikaris leans towards him, but Ikaris makes no attempt to strike or otherwise hurt him. Active obedience isn’t in the rules, at least not tonight. Only submission. As long as Druig doesn’t resist...

And though his wiry frame is so tight it looks like it’s about to snap, he doesn’t try to stop Ikaris from undoing the belt, or from pulling his robes apart to bare the loincloth underneath. When Ikaris rips the flimsy (to him) fabric and throws it to the floor, Druig does reach out to prevent him, a quickly aborted motion that instead ends with his hands fisted at his side. He doesn’t try to cover himself, but neither can he keep eye contact when Ikaris leans closer, pointedly enjoying the view.

They’ve seen each other naked plenty of times before, in a variety of situations, but never quite for this purpose.

Ikaris won’t deny it to himself; he likes seeing Druig like this. Ashamed and helpless, instead of that constant, brazen defiance. It’s just going to make it that much easier to impress on Druig what needs to change before the night ends.

He slips one hand onto Druig’s thigh, skims his fingers along the smooth stretch of skin.

Druig’s breath hitches, and as Ikaris’ glances up, checking his reaction, he realizes the other man is crying. Not loud, not sobbing. But there are slow drops escaping down Druig’s cheeks, and the wetness catches the torchlight in his eyes, bringing out their blue.

Automatically Ikaris makes to brush the tears away, and Druig jerks his face away. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he rasps.

A good reminder. For just a second, confronted with the raw, betrayed grief on the face he knows and loves better than his own, Ikaris had felt... conflicted. An answering grief. Foolish. He’s going to hurt Druig now, and the other man will hate him for it, but it’s going to save him so much worse in the future.

Sometime, a day or a decade or a millennia from now, Druig will understand. Until then...

Well, Ikaris is a soldier. He’s good at doing what others can’t bring themselves to do, whatever the consequences might be.

His expression hardens. “Again with the orders.” His palm makes a flat sound when it connects with Druig’s cheek, and it’s hard enough to topple him to the side. “Get up.”

Slowly Druig does as he’s bid, hefting himself back into a seated position. An imprint of pink covers one side of his face, and with fingers that tremble, Druig gingerly touches the spot he’d been struck. He pulls them away, stares at them blankly like he expects a stain. There’s nothing there, of course.

In a voice so toneless it feels hollow, ready to crumble inwards, Druig says, “You didn’t say I couldn’t give orders. That’s not one of the rules.”

“Stop. Fighting. Me,” Ikaris repeats, enunciating each syllable with harsh precision. “That includes fighting your place.”

“My place.” There’s still a flicker of mockery in him, hidden so deep that it would have been impossible to catch if Ikaris hadn’t known him so long. Druig looks at him, and though his face is carefully impassive, there’s a fire deep in his eyes that he can’t hide. “What is my place?”

A goad, that’s all it is, and with the anger and lust seething through Ikaris’ stomach, perfectly united in their objective, it is also very, very unwise.

Maybe Druig genuinely believes Ikaris won’t go any further. Maybe he thinks it’s about to end here, that at any second Ikaris will back down and let it go. Maybe he hopes that’s what will happen. Prays, to whatever god he might pray to, since it obviously isn’t Arishem.

He is wrong.

“Your place,” Ikaris replies, cold and clear, “is under me.”

None of Ikaris’ words are empty. Ever. He walks around the bed and then joins Druig on the low cot, on his knees behind him. From this position – as most positions – he looms over the smaller man. Druig huddles in on himself, but as Ikaris reaches around with both arms, caging him in and resuming his exploration of the inside of his thighs, Druig stiffens, sits up straighter. An attempt to push Ikaris away without blatantly doing so.

Ikaris bears down on him, letting him feel his heavy presence against his back. He ducks his head, presses his mouth against the crook of Druig’s neck. Not quite a kiss; he rubs the bristles of his stubble against the sensitive skin, smiling grimly as Druig’s shoulders hunch, another failed attempt to get space. When he does kiss Druig, it’s a long, slow press against the side of his throat, and before it’s over the other man squirms, tries to duck away.

Trapping him with one arm, once again pinning him against his chest, is easy, and Ikaris doesn’t lift his lips from the sweat-salt taste of his neck. It’s even easier to trail his other hand further up his leg, a gentle skim that eventually finds Druig’s cock. When he palms the soft shaft, Druig gasps and then immediately bites off the sound. His resistance increases, but only up to a point; he’s obviously afraid of crossing a line, and stops short of actually doing more than attempting to get some distance.

Well and good. His own cock aching, Ikaris gives Druig’s dick a few short strokes, but it’s too dry, there’s too much friction. The oil, placed meticulously in reach, solves that. The wetness of it has Druig’s breath hissing out, and he jerks with renewed desperation, until there’s a bit too much defiance there.

Ikaris turns his kiss into a bite, hard enough to elicit a cry, gritty with fury and pain both. Druig gets the hint, though. He settles down. It doesn’t stop Ikaris from stroking the other man’s cock, and he’s already hardening. Eternals are the pinnacles of fitness, and for those inclined to it, that includes their sex drive.

With one hand working between his legs, Ikaris uses the other to play with his nipples. Dragging his nails across the nubs have the sensitive areas stiffening, and when he pinches one, Druig recoils – or tries to. There’s nowhere to go, trapped between Ikaris’ chest and his hands. Ikaris relents, just a little, stops his rough squeeze and turns it idle, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Every little pull makes the other man flinch, and he’s just so sensitive to Ikaris’ touch. There’s something gratifying about that, about being able to drag more and more blatant reactions from Druig, no matter how much he claims he doesn’t want it.

As his erection becomes harder in Ikaris’ hand, Druig’s breathing turns fractured. Laboured with the weight of a steadily increasing tension, his voice creaks out. “If you’re going to fuck me... Just do it already. Stop fucking around with–” A severe stop, a pause as he remembers the rule, and then he rephrases. “Why are you fucking around with me?”

“Ah, Druig, you’re learning,” Ikaris observes approvingly. “Good.”

That doesn’t answer the question, but he wants Druig confused. Wants him overwhelmed and humiliated by what his body is doing without his permission.

And it’s doing a lot.

Before too much longer, precum joins the oil, and jerking Druig off is more of a pleasure than Ikaris expected it to be. It helps that the other man is quivering, low moans escaping his lips, and – not often, just two or three times – he thrusts into Ikaris’ hand, chasing the pressure before wrenching himself to a crushing halt, to hold himself once again in agonized stillness.

The next time he does it, Ikaris laughs, deep and mocking. “You want it so badly.”

“No!”

Thumbing the head of his cock prompts another stuttering exhale, and Ikaris puts his mouth to the other man’s ear. “You don’t sound sure.” Even kissing the shell of his ear provokes a response, a shudder and an almost-whine. He’s that tightly strung. “Are you sure you don’t want it?”

“No, I’m– I don’t!” Druig gasps.

Ikaris considers drawing it out more. Maybe for hours. On and off, stopping the other man’s orgasms until he truly is a mess. Maybe doing it until Druig begs him for release. Begs to be allowed to come, to spill himself, and then does, all because he’s been given permission to do just that.

What if he doesn’t beg, though? Refuses to bend that far? It might give him pride, make him forget losing control in the first place, and that would make all of this pointless.

Not worth it. Not tonight, at least.

“I want you to come, Druig. So it doesn’t matter what you want.”

There’s only a soft groan in response. Pleasure or pain, it doesn’t matter now. It only takes a few more passes, Ikaris’ dextrous fingers coaxing out more moans, and then Druig’s back is arching, pressing him more firmly to Ikaris’ armour-clad chest. He comes with a choked grunt, straining against his own body to suffocate the noise. Cum coats Ikaris’ hand, thick and hot, and spatters against Druig’s thighs, the bedding, the floor.

Ikaris doesn’t halt but keeps stroking the other man’s cock, and he milks out several more bursts, reducing Druig to a squirming, boneless mass. “Stop,” he cries, barely able to get the words out. “Please, please–” And for a moment he seems to lose what he’s asking for before it comes back to him. “Ikaris, please, stop!”

The begging is – exactly what he wants to hear. And so Ikaris does stop. He takes his hand from Druig’s cock, unwraps his other arm from around his chest.

Freed, Druig slumps forward, braced with his forearms on his knees. Panting harshly, head hanging down, every few seconds his breath falters, and it seems like he’s going to start crying. He doesn’t though. While Ikaris watches attentively, the shaking shoulders still. His breathing slows, if not smooths out completely. And his hands, pressed into his stomach – like he’s staunching a wound Ikaris can’t see – gradually fall away to hang limply between his legs. Hiding what he’d just done, maybe.

Not that Ikaris will let him forget.

“You say one thing, but your body says another,” he says, relentless. “And your body won. It’s natural, Druig. As natural as obedience. If you had stopped fighting yourself, you could have enjoyed that more, but you wanted it all the same.”

“...I didn’t.” So soft it’s hard to hear, and Ikaris could let it go but he won’t.

With the hand that jerked the other man off, he grips his chin, forces Druig to turn towards him. Druig looks... drained. His keen eyes are bruised in his pale face, and there’s a thin trickle of blood coming from his lip; he must have bit himself, trying to keep back the sounds he’d made. He can’t keep up eye contact, and Ikaris thinks with a strange mixture of pity, smugness, and affection that he’d read Druig exactly right.

The other Eternal can fight against Ikaris – could do it for an eternity and a day, probably. But how can he deny what his body just revealed? That he isn’t in control. That he never has been. That Ikaris can exert more influence over his body than Druig himself can.

This isn't what Ikaris would have preferred. Forcing Druig to acknowledge his own weakness is one thing, a necessary thing, but forcing him to submit to Ikaris exclusively is another. Better if he would bow down before Arishem. Yet Druig isn’t like Ikaris; he can’t worship in the same way. If this is what it takes to get the other Eternal to follow the rules, Ikaris will stand in as a physical - and strict - symbol of his god.

And there are more lessons to be learned tonight.   

His hand is still sticky with cum, and with his thumb, Ikaris traces Druig’s full lips, leaving a smear of the pearly white fluid that mixes with the blood already there. “What’s rule number three?” he asks, and Druig’s face contorts into a grimace. He tries to jerk away, but Ikaris grinds his fingers into his jaw and keeps him still.

“Rule three,” he repeats, with all the patience of a teacher bringing along a particularly dense student. Druig has to acknowledge it himself.

“I won’t.”     

He’s so stubborn and so nearly done. It has something... eager sinking into Ikaris. A kind of hunger, for the moment when the other man breaks altogether. For the sheer satisfaction that’s ahead. Like the pleasure that comes from crushing ice between your teeth. He’s not sure if Druig realizes it, but Ikaris can see it as plain as day; the other Eternal is hanging by a thread. It won’t take much more to shove him off the pedestal he’s clinging to.   

“You will,” Ikaris replies, and the brutal certainty of the promise rings loudly in the room. “If you don’t, we’ll do this all night. I’ll show you just what a whore you can be, and believe me, Druig, you’ll be crying for me to fuck you by the end. Do you want that? Is that why you keep resisting? You’re looking for a reason to beg?”

“N-no. No! I’m not try–”

When Ikaris forces his thumb into Druig’s mouth, the other man chokes on his words, strains to pull his face away. Ikaris has to grab both his wrists with his free hand to keep him from trying to shove Ikaris off, and he squeezes them hard, feeling the muscle grind beneath his strength. A whimper issues from somewhere deep in Druig’s throat. A justified reminder.

As quick as that, Druig stops resisting, just sits there, tense and expectant, his eyes closed and Ikaris’ thumb resting on his tongue. “Do you taste that, Druig? Your cum? I could make you lick it off each of my fingers, one at a time.”

And he could. The very fact that the other Eternal didn’t think of biting him – or if he did, he quelled the temptation immediately – tells Ikaris just how much he can push Druig. How much he’s already crumbled. At the beginning of this, Ikaris would have been lucky to keep his finger. So Druig’s learning.

Good.

In the silence Druig swallows, and the sight of him, throat bobbing, eyes closed, accepting the finger so well, strikes Ikaris an almost physical blow. His cock strains uncomfortably against its confines, and he’s tempted – he’s so very tempted. To make this about more than teaching his errant companion. To see if Druig can take his cock just as well. Probably not. But there’s something to be said for the thought of him gagging on it, desperate to please, his eyes wide and earnest even as he chokes.

In another life. 

Ikaris exhales slowly, unconsciously licking his lower lip as he quells the urge. Not the fire – his cock is still a persistent ache in his breeches, the lust still a low burn – but he redirects it. Reminds himself of what is necessary. That’s all this is. If he does only what’s necessary, he can look Druig in the face and not feel guilt. Otherwise...

He deliberately takes his thumb out, a string of saliva glistening as he pulls away. Ikaris leaves his fingers digging lightly into Druig’s face as he says, “Rule three.”

Druig’s eyebrows furrow, and a muscle jumps in his jaw, hard under Ikaris’ hand. One second. Two. Five. Ten. Ikaris is patient.

He’s rewarded. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

There’s a small explosion of air against his skin, but despite the huff, this time Druig doesn’t hesitate. “For reminding me of my place.” No coy evasions. No clever wordplay. The tone isn’t sincere, it’s dull and resentful, but asking for zeal would be pushing the other man for more than he has to give. Ikaris hums thoughtfully, idly tracing Druig’s lips as he thinks.

It’s almost enough. Almost. But to really sink the lesson in – to make sure the other man remembers this moment tomorrow, and the next tomorrow, and the one after that, like Ikaris’ authority is etched on his bones – there needs to be a bit more. A bit more pain. A bit more pleasure. A bit more.

He releases his grip on Druig’s face, who immediately turns away. With careful contempt, Ikaris wipes his hand on the beautiful robe hanging off of Druig, leaving blots of oil, semen, blood, spit. As if it matters. As he moves off the cot, he instructs curtly, “Get on your hands and knees.” 

The other man doesn’t respond, his shoulders sagging. His head is so low Ikaris can’t see if his eyes are still closed. It takes a moment, like Druig is having trouble comprehending the words, but then he slowly and painfully clambers further onto the bed. On his hands and knees, just as ordered.

With hands made rough by impatience and something deeper – darker – Ikaris grabs his hips, manhandles him closer to the edge of the cot. He shoves up the soft folds of the robes, until Druig’s pale ass is bare, the purple fabric bunched at his stomach. He squeezes the supple skin of the other man’s cheeks, hard enough that it might bruise... if Druig were human. But he’s not, and he just grunts at the harsh handling, and Ikaris lets his hands drop away.

At this point, drawing it out appeals only to logic, not the arousal knotted through Ikaris’ gut. Nonetheless, he’s going to make this last. Picking up the jar of oil from where it sits on the floor, he tilts it carefully, watches the golden brown liquid spill onto the small of Druig’s back. It makes the other man suck in a breath, the strongest reaction he’s had in the last few minutes. A small adjustment, and then the sweet smelling fluid is dripping down Druig’s ass, trickling down his crack and then sliding further, streaking his bare thighs. That inspires another gasp, tighter than before, and Ikaris feels pressure building in his chest at the taut sound.

The oil is slick and warm on his fingers, and easing Druig open with two of them isn’t particularly hard. Oh, there’s resistance, and the other man whimpers when they enter him, but Ikaris is more than strong enough to push through that, one hand still digging into his hip as an anchor. He works methodically, oiling Druig’s hole and crooking his fingers with relentless purpose, finding the spot inside that Druig doesn’t want him to touch.

(“Good,” he says soothingly to the whines. “Relax. Accept it, Druig.”)

It takes longer than before, but still, how long can it be to an Eternal? Minutes pass – minutes and moans and memories – and then Druig folds, falling to his elbows, pressing his mouth against his forearm to muffle the wretched sounds. He’s shaking so badly the hand on his hip almost becomes a necessity to keep him up. “Please, Ikaris, please just– just don’t make me. Not again,” he gasps, and Ikaris pauses, unable to resist the pleading note.

“It will hurt less if I do this.”

“I don’t care! I don’t– I can’t take it again. Please.”    

He could take it. But then again, if Druig must learn obedience, he can also stand to remember that Arishem isn’t an inherently cruel god. That the punishment can end, if he just submits in the right way.

(And the fact that Druig’s voice is broken and small and unfamiliar has nothing to do with the decision Ikaris comes to.)

His fingers have left Druig open, though not truly open enough. When Ikaris removes them, the other man sobs, and it’s hard to tell if the cracked noise contains relief or loss. Ikaris unlaces his brilliant blue breeches, hikes up the heavy fringe that makes up the lower part of his armour. His cock is hard – and has been for excruciatingly long – and just guiding himself to Druig makes his breath hiss out.

The precum isn’t quite enough, but another splattering of oil has his cock slick and shining and still too large against Druig’s ass. Now that it’s come to this, he doesn’t linger. Doesn’t taunt the other man. His first thrust into the slippery warmth doesn’t get him anywhere near all the way in; he’s too big and Druig too small and tense for that. But it does send electric pleasure sizzling along his nerves and Ikaris grunts at the sudden deluge against his senses.

For his part, Druig’s breathing is a laboured mix of pain and something more animalistic. The debauched, sloppy sound of Ikaris thrusting into him mingles with the cries the other man makes. As Ikaris gets deeper, pressing through the rigid resistance of Druig’s body, the pain in the voice becomes more pronounced, and Druig says things that he doesn’t really comprehend, like stop and please and Ikaris. Little by little he collapses, shoved by Ikaris’ heavy weight until he’s almost sprawled out facedown on the bed.

Ikaris follows him, one hand braced on the cot for balance, the other hitching Druig’s ass up more, effortlessly adjusting the angle as he keeps hammering into the tight heat. It’s been a long time since he’s had someone other than Sersi, and the difference is dizzying. Not better, just – different. It makes keeping his purpose clear in his mind a struggle, the edges frayed by the thick lust burning its way through his body.

At some point, it all comes together. Fucking Druig, serving Arishem, they’re all one and the same.

And Ikaris comes in a burst of stellar warmth, wave after wave of it, a kind of cosmic radiation that strips his senses away. Under him, Druig writhes weakly, and Ikaris ignores the struggle, pins him, and fills him with cum until it leaks out of his ass with every thrust. The pleasure is almost blinding, and it goes on and on and on – until it fades, and Ikaris finds himself almost fully on top of Druig, their bodies slotted together, his cock buried to the hilt in the other man’s ass.

They’re both panting, wet and searing. Skin dripping, the sweet scent of oil overlaying the musk of sweat and cum.                

Druig is so warm and so, so still beneath him. Ikaris moves a few more times, gentle rolls of his hips, luxuriating in the waning thrill still coursing through his cock. Cum trickles out at the movement, and Druig’s ass is pink from the impact of skin on skin.

He caresses the damp back of Druig’s neck, just as much to ground himself as to offer a bit of comfort. “You felt so good,” he murmurs, stroking the man’s nape, and it’s partly to hammer the humiliation home, but it’s true, too. “It’s so much better when you submit, Druig.”

When he pulls out and steps away, there's another gush of white between Druig's legs, and it's tinted pink. Ikaris frowns at that. He hadn't meant to hurt him in that way, but obviously the lube hadn't been enough. Something he should have taken into account, considering his size and Druig's unwillingness.  

Druig himself doesn't move, despite the weight being taken off. Not at first. Then, again belatedly, as though he isn't registering things at a normal speed, he turns onto his side and curls into himself. Shock, Ikaris supposes. He's seen that on many battlefields before. It's disconcerting to think of their relationship in those terms. Like they’re at war. Like Druig is the survivor of an atrocity. In a fit of impatience, he brushes the thought away.

There’s a jug of water left at the entrance of his room every morning by the humans. Ikaris splashes it into a small basin, takes out a shirt at random and wets it thoroughly. Then he’s back to Druig, who hasn’t tried to cover himself. Wiping at the mess on his thighs does provoke a response; he curls up more, mutters, “You don’t... need to do that.”

Somewhat relieved that Druig hasn’t lost his words, Ikaris keeps his tone mild. “I don’t,” he agrees, “but I want to.”

“Another lesson?” And it’s impossible to miss the bitterness in that question.

It is, of a sort, but nonetheless Ikaris replies, “No. I’m just helping you, Druig.”

The other man chokes out a laugh. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

Ikaris stills, forces violence into his voice despite the way his throat is tightening. “Do you want to continue?”

Druig flinches, goes silent. After a moment, Ikaris resumes his ministrations, carefully scrubbing away the congealing oil and cum. When his companion is clean, he casts the shirt to the floor and fixes the robe so that it covers him. At first, he tries to place a hand on Druig’s shoulder to help the other man sit up, but the Eternal cries out and shies away from the pressure. Another injury he’d intended to make but also... not.

He shifts to wrapping his arm around Druig’s side, lifts him up that way. Once sitting, legs hanging off the bed, Druig fidgets, tracing his hands like he’s not entirely sure they’re his. Both of them are quiet. Ikaris thinks it’s best to let the other man sit with what happened, to come to the conclusions that he already knows.

With his eyes still fixed on his fingers, eventually Druig asks, “Do you think Sersi will forgive you?”

That sends a sharp jolt through his chest, and Ikaris closes his eyes against the immediate welling of defensive anger. Trust Druig to say something that cuts him to the quick. That brings up guilt, even panic at the image of Sersi’s expression if she found out. He’s thought this through already, though. There’s no reason to lash out. Ikaris opens his eyes. “She would find it hard to accept, if she found out.”

“If?” Druig says, and he’s not threatening, sitting there with hunched shoulders and a curved spine.

“You won’t tell her, Druig. You won’t tell any of them.” His voice is strong with certainty, and it’s merely a reflection of his belief in that very thing.

“Because you order it?”

“If you’d like. If that would make it easier for you. But no... It’s because you’re not anywhere near certain they’d believe you. My word against yours. Their shining knight against the dark Druig. And there are so many things I could say. You wanted to relieve stress and I agreed. Maybe you’re so angry at Ajak and I for not letting you help that you decided on a lie like this. Or maybe...” Ikaris pauses, considering. “Maybe you’re suffering from Mahd Wy'ry, Druig. Maybe it’s all in your head, or you hurt yourself.”

Druig’s hands tighten around each other, and there’s a thin thread of desperation running through him when he says, “Some of them would believe me. I know Makkari would.”

Ikaris dips his head, granting the point. “Aye. Some of them would. And that’s the second reason you won’t.”

Heavy with confusion, Druig is slow in looking up. The moment his eyes land on Ikaris, they jerk away like the sight is burning him, and he resumes staring at his hands. “The second reason,” he repeats dully.            

“You care, Druig. About this family.” And he does. Ikaris knows that. Maybe in a different way than Ikaris, but at his heart Druig would no sooner hurt his family than he would chop off his own hand. “Telling them would rip us apart. We would fight each other, hurt each other. Maybe worse. You don’t want that to happen.”

The other man knows all of this. He isn’t stupid. Ikaris can tell by the way he doesn’t react, doesn’t protest, that he’s gone through the scenarios already. Seen the disintegration of their family, all because of what he shouldn’t have said. Druig’s just asking to have it laid out, plain and simple between them, and Ikaris doesn’t mind that. Most times it’s better for things to be clear, anyways.   

There doesn’t seem to be anything more to say. Ikaris watches Druig and Druig watches his hands and there’s nothing more between them. He’d thought it would be satisfying to see Druig like this – passive, docile, defeated – but it isn’t. It just leaves a bad taste in Ikaris’ mouth. He doesn’t think he was wrong to do what he did – in fact, he knows he wasn’t – but that doesn’t make it easy to see the result.  

Finally, Druig shifts, a slow and tentative movement. “Thank you for reminding me of my place, Ikaris,” he murmurs without looking up. “Can I go now?”  

Ikaris considers. There’s no reason to make Druig stay, but... Could he make this easier somehow? Ease Druig’s pain without erasing the lesson? If there’s a way, he can’t think of one.

“You can.” The words feel numb in his mouth.

When the other man gets to his feet, he staggers. Ikaris takes one step to help, and without looking at him, Druig waves a hand. “I’m fine. Don’t – I don’t need help.”

It's not an icy wall or a hard one that falls into place at that. Ikaris could break through either of those. This barrier is more intangible, like gossamer or mist, and Ikaris has a sudden thought that if he tries to reach through it and touch Druig again, the other man will disappear. A stupid thought – one he sets his teeth against, almost ready to try it just to show himself how irrational it is.

Unless Druig has already faded away, and isn't really there to touch, anyways. Unless Ikaris has turned him into something – else. Like he's stolen Sersi's power for a brief moment, long enough to transfigure flesh to fog.

He shakes his head, grimaces at himself. If Druig is changed, it's for the better. He believes that, wholeheartedly.

It would be pleasant if belief dulled the sudden prickling unease cascading down his spine, counting out the vertebrae like it suspects one or two are missing. He just – he needs to keep Druig close. Make sure none of the imagined possibilities come to pass.

But in the meantime, Druig is heading for the door, slow, painful steps that make it obvious how hard Ikaris had gone at him. He’ll heal soon enough. He will.

“Druig?” The other man pauses, his back tense. “I don’t want you wandering like you were before. Stay in the city. And come see me, every day.”

“For how long?”

“Until I’m sure you’ve learned. However long that takes.”

With a voice of gravel, Druig replies, “If that day never comes?”

“We live for too long to say never, Druig,” Ikaris says firmly. “I’m sure you’ll soon prove to me how much you’ve understood.”

A beat, and then Druig’s shoulders slump. All Ikaris can see of him is those exhausted shoulders. Like nothing has changed. “Alright.” He starts to walk away again, and the connection between them is so fraught, and Ikaris doesn’t understand why he feels such an overriding sense of unease.

“And Druig?” The other Eternal stops yet again, wearily, his hands smoothing along the sides of his robe.

“Unless they become hostile to us, I see no reason for you to associate with the humans.” This last isn’t a lesson, but a kindness. At least in Ikaris’ eyes. Letting the other Eternal mingle with the humans as things get worse in the city – as they surely will – will just cause him undue pain. Make it that much harder to leave them behind when the time comes.

The other man bows his head. “As you say, Ikaris.” Then, before anything more can be said, he’s slipping out the door, and gone.   

It doesn't occur to Ikaris – not until a month or more later – that Druig never actually agreed not to interfere with the humans.    

---

For the next several weeks, Druig does not break his promise. He stops going on his solo trips away from the city. Every day he finds Ikaris. They have a short conversation. Polite, in the way that cell bars and shackles are polite. If Ikaris is with the others, the conversation is even shorter. The other Eternal does nothing to make him think he needs a reminder, and Ikaris is glad. For that much, at least.

Druig doesn't look at him, but then again, he doesn't look at anybody, not really.

In their gatherings he becomes a shadow of himself – a shadow of a shadow, for Druig has never been the light of their family. He argues less now, and Kingo’s eyebrows jump when Druig concedes a dispute about drama that they’ve had for centuries. Makkari playfully jostles his shoulder, and he walks away, leaving her staring after him. Ajak notices him favouring his shoulder, offers to heal it with all the warmth she puts into everything. Druig lets her, expression absent, and when she asks him how it happened his gaze hardens. Ikaris expects Druig's eyes to at least flick his way, then, but they never do. Because Druig does not look at him.  

One night, when he and Sersi are lying together, arms wrapped around each other – not in the same bed as that night, he won’t demean Druig in that way, and it’s not so long until they’ll be leaving Tenochtitlan anyways – she murmurs, “I fear for Druig. He seems so far away from us.”

“The humans. It hurts him to see them as they are,” Ikaris offers, because it’s not really a lie, and he hates lying to Sersi more than anyone else.

She dips her head, huddles further into his embrace, and he holds her tighter. It hurts her to see them as they are, too, even if it’s a different way than Druig. She loves them so much. Druig... even now, Ikaris is not entirely sure what he thinks as he sees them dying.

There are more and more reports every day; this tribe lost, that famed warrior, these children, those crops. Tenochtitlan is thrashing with a noose of Spanish rope closing around its neck, aided in no small part by the Tlaxcallan, and the city is already haunted by the ghost of what it will be. In some ways the rapidly spreading disease is worse; even Ajak rarely leaves the temple now, unable to bear the sight of the sickness that she could alleviate as easily is breathing. If it were permitted.

It is disturbing. It is war. Ikaris does not expect it to be anything else. Yet his family is bleeding themselves out with pity and the sooner they finish the last few nests of Deviants, the better. They need to leave this damned place.    

---

The city is burning below them. They are not so high that they cannot hear the screams, the roar of flames, the cracks of the guns being fired. Ikaris filters it to a place outside of himself, but he can tell, in the darting looks and restless shifting, that several of his family cannot block it out so easily. On the podium, Thena is healing under Ajak's hand. Her body, if not her mind.

His body is aching, a dull and persistent strain. The last two nests of Deviants had more of the beasts than expected, and with the combatants split up to crush them once and for all, it had been– Perhaps a fitting fight to end them. Fitting, but not easy.

He puts the pain away, focuses on what needs to be considered.

There's so much to concentrate on. Sersi, for one, her arms still folded tightly over the area that Thena wounded. Ajak is able to heal almost anything, but sometimes the mind remembers better than the body, and he knows that the non-combatants especially find wounds jarring. He wants to go over to her – longs for it, actually, with a fierceness he finds disquieting – but Ikaris keeps himself where he is, a little removed from them all. The better to watch over the events as they unfold.

And they are unfolding. There is a tension gathering in this room, a sparks-on-tinder anticipation, and everyone is breathless, waiting to see if the flames take hold. All the Eternals are focused on Thena as she slowly stirs to consciousness.

Ajak takes the lead, as is her right and her burden. She does not soothe Thena, because Thena does not want the soothing. She never has. Their Prime explains the Mahd Wy'ry and what it means candidly, and Ikaris watches the rest of his family begin to crumble.

Phastos, reaching for reason. Kingo with his fear. Makkari, concerned about selfhood. Thena herself, struggling with the loss ahead of her.

And Druig...

Druig, with a voice seething with emotion, saying what he ought not to say after all that Ikaris has taught him. Druig, who spits out words about trust and mistakes. Who rips open the wounds that he should just let heal. Druig, who looks at Ikaris for only a second before his eyes tear back to Ajak.

Ikaris moves forward, just a step, but it’s too late, Druig is turning away from all of them. Looking out at the city, at the death occurring below. There is an icy, hollow feeling radiating from the pit of Ikaris’ stomach, like it’s suddenly become disconnected from his body, and he can’t tell if it’s rage or desperation fueling the surge of cold. His muscles are locked tight, and despite the urge screaming through him to move, to stop Druig, to do something, Ikaris’ fear freezes him. For one of the first times in this life, he hesitates.

The delay costs him. It costs them all.

“It ends now.”

The near-whisper rises from a place far beyond this moment, and Ikaris knows, he knows that Druig isn’t talking about just these humans. The words resonate like a death-knell, ringing through Ikaris’ skull, summoning all that he has ever feared and will ever fear. And as though in response: silence. The cries and shouts and curses are quelled, the guns and swords stifled, until at last there is only the crackling of the fires, and the humans in this area of the city stand eerily still, turned towards the temple.

And then, only then, Ikaris is released from the paralysis, and he jumps forward, blood pounding through his ears, and he grabs Druig and slams him into the wall. “Let them go,” he demands, and Druig can’t fight him off, and Ikaris should be in control, so why does he feel like the words are a plea and his hands too weak to keep the other Eternal here?

Druig meets his eyes – finally, he finally meets his eyes – and there is rage in his gaze, but also a bleak calm that shakes Ikaris. “You’re gonna have to make me.”

Make me. An echo from weeks ago, deliberate and challenging, and only Ikaris can know what those words truly mean. The world slows – tilts – spins off its axis – and Ikaris’ hands tighten on Druig’s clothes until they’re fists, but not strong, shaking, like a man clinging to the edge of a cliff. Make me.

And oh, oh, he still could. Even now, he could. Hurt Druig again, in front of the rest of them, badly enough that he would be forced to let go of the humans. And then Ikaris would have to let go of what the others think of him. He would have to show them who he truly is. That’s the choice that Druig is putting in front of him. Yet it isn’t a choice at all, because in doing so, he’ll break the family apart. But if he doesn’t, if he doesn’t –

The family is falling apart anyways, and Ikaris can’t hold the pieces together.

“Stop.” Ajak’s commanding tones barely register and for a long moment Ikaris stares at her blankly, the panic swarming just under his skin. His jaw is so tight it feels like it might shatter – he feels like he is shattering. When at last the words edge deeply enough through the haze to make sense, Ikaris –

Lets go. He lets go of Druig. Forces his eyes down, makes himself step away. A good soldier, following commands. He tries to cling to that as Druig speaks again.

Softer now, addressing the rest of the family. “If you want to stop me, you’re gonna have to kill me.” Sorrow and resolve, mixed until they can’t be separated from each other. A goodbye in the form of an ultimatum.

And of course they will not kill him. Kill Druig, with the piercing, sardonic words, with the intense spirit and the playfulness that only arises with those he trusts? Kill him as he does the only thing that will let him live with himself? Kill a man they’ve loved for thousands of years? None of them are capable of that. Certainly not Ikaris.

Druig leaves them, and Ikaris didn’t mean for this to happen. It wasn’t supposed to happen. He watches the other man walk down the steps, back straight, and be slowly surrounded by the humans he’s controlling. As they move further away, Ikaris waits for the moment that Druig looks back.

It doesn’t come.

His purpose – his purpose has always been to serve Arishem and protect his family. That is his only purpose. What other purpose could there be? The Deviants are gone, Arishem is served, but his family is breaking apart. How can he protect them if they’re not together?

He thought he could keep them safe, no matter the cost. He thought he could keep them with him until the end. Everything he’s done, it’s for that purpose, and up until now, he was so confident that it was exactly the right path to take.  

But Ikaris was wrong, and Druig is gone.   

Notes:

The end! I especially like imagining the Amazon scene with this as context, where Druig says, "Are you going to charm me? Or threaten me?" and Ikaris replies, "There's a third option, if you prefer that." Just adds so much more to the interactions.

Anyways, thanks for reading! If you liked it, let me know with kudos and/or comments, I'd love to hear your thoughts!