Archive of Our Own

The Manor was always quiet after a game. 

The hallways were haunted by shuffling echoes– hurried footsteps, whispered complaints, the rustle of bandages wrapped crudely around wounds. Shadows trembled across the walls as moonlight seeped through the windows, granting a layer of breathable air in the suffocating darkness of every corner. The stench of iron and anxiety permeated the very dust mottles in the corroded crevices of old furniture, clinging to curtains and floorboards alike.

The game had ended in a hard-won tie. One survivor chaired. Another two injured.

The last… bled out just before reaching the dungeon.

The hunters weren't always cruel. Negotiation was possible. Sometimes even the hunters are too weary to chase survivors in this daunting game of cat and mouse, all for a win that will bring no pleasure to either side.

The nun, Disciple, was known to be a rather peaceful huntress. No unnecessary deaths or injuries, usually feeling kind enough to allow herself a loss just to end the game faster. However, Ann had her own limits, and that infuriating Matador crossed unspoken lines with his arrogant taunts. At least, that's how Richard saw it. The bastard was waving his blood-red muleta around like he was still standing in the ring, sun blazing hot and roaring cheers bursting in a hymn of glory, fueling the untamed bravery in his soul.

What Hernando couldn't understand was that he wasn't dealing with thick horns and heavy hooves crushing bloodied rocks beneath sand. He was dancing with something far more intelligent than a mindless bull driven by rage.

That's what got him killed.

A trail of blood followed the stiff crawl of his body– ribbons of slick, gushing crimson trailed behind him in morbid rivulets, seeping into the murky earth. The telltale breeze around the dungeon was absent, replaced by the kind of silence that muted any hope or prayer. Muleta half buried in the mud, clothes torn and stained with sickening scarlet dripping from open wounds, dark bruises mottling battered flesh. The dungeon door gaped wide open like a rusted maw, but only one arm dangled into the dark hole underground. His fingers twitched, tendons pulled taut, olive eyes dulled with something quieter than silence and heavier than sleep.

Richard had watched the grueling scene. He was there. Present, but not quite focused.

Hernando, dragging himself forward with the last vestiges of determination, trying in vain to keep the blood boiling in his veins… or whatever was left of it. In the end, he dropped in a heap of trembling limbs, tousled locks and dirtied fabrics. Hernando had glanced at him– even managed a smile, albeit weakly. Hardly a conscious reaction anymore. He had muttered something inaudible over the pounding of Richard’s heart. Something that Richard was glad he hadn't heard.

He wasn't sure when the Matador died. Maybe he was already dead when he reached the dungeon. Maybe he died right after Richard turned his back to leave through the exit. Maybe when Ann’s cat padded close to press a paw into Hernando’s dislocated shoulder while Ann herself loomed over him. Richard didn't spare a glance back, because a part of him knew Hernando would not make it out alive by the time he dragged himself to the exit gate. It was a futile struggle from the very beginning. This was just another false escape, and then the Manor’s ghosts would awaken them from the nightmare once more.

“A hero in the sun is only a spectacle.” Hernando had said once, a hint of nostalgia creeping in his tone.

And a hero bleeding on the ground is only a fool believing himself invincible.

Feline eyes pierced the murky gloom of the map, burning against Richard’s back with menacing intensity. The watery sheen of slitted pupils reflected the “Knight"’s escape. In the distance, a bell rang with the gravity of another concluded game.

The memories of the game lingered, raw and aching wounds that would not heal easily. They all raised from their seats like puppets pulled by strings, chairs creaking as their weights lifted, candles flickering with dying embers and food left untouched on cold plates. Hernando looked just as battered as he did in front of the dungeon. Some of the wounds had disappeared– a bit of the Manor’s twisted magic– and some bruises softened beneath his dirtied clothes. He could walk, he could talk, he could breathe. That spark in his eyes hadn't dimmed for a second. He almost looked… Pleased. Satisfied with himself, with his kite, with his failure, with his–

Richard grimaced. He wanted to say death.

He doubted it was just that.

Months ago, Hernando joined the Manor. Upon his arrival, everyone eyed him warily, unsure of what to expect. An enemy. A friend. Another senile freak hiding behind innocent features. He turned out to be every bit as charming and convivial as he looked. He laughed a little too loud, flirted a bit too casually, sauntered around the Manor like every chandelier welcomed a celebrity and not another prisoner of the Manor.

Some tolerated him. Others even warmed up to him. Not Richard. He decided he would hate everything about Hernando Romero the moment the bastard looked at him with that infuriatingly kind smile, all warmth and good intentions and expressive eyes and–

Ugh. What a showoff.

Just another crazy bastard with a mastery in theatrical charisma.

This insufferable fool, who bled out due to his own stupidity and still managed to smile with some kind of twisted triumph, silently slipped out of the lobby before anyone could strike a conversation. Richard watched, questions swirling in his mind.

Hernando never left without saying a word. This was odd behaviour for the always so amiable Matador.

Richard froze.

… Since when does he care about Hernando's behaviour?

He blamed Demi’s alcohol and its bitter taste of loosened resentment and bad decisions. Richard couldn't stand alcohol, but Demi was hell-bent on healing him quickly with a good ol’ dovlin. Nothing better than that acrid burn down his throat while smacking keys on a rattling cipher, hoping that the calibrations aren't just another warning bell in his alcohol-addled mind.

After a while of silence, the lobby doors creaked open. Emily stepped into the lobby with that concerned look that always threw his patience out the window. Richard realized this was his cue to leave as well. He'd rather not have the doctor checking him for injuries. Really, he felt fine. Just dandy.

Unlike his wrist, which ached with unusual persistence after a particularly nasty fall earlier.

Richard palpated his wrist. 

He winced.

… Alright maybe he should have it checked for potential injury, but that woman’s hands better be anywhere but him or so help him god he will give Emily a good reason to quit being a doctor. The poor woman only wanted to do her job but Richard would have none of it.

Out of five people only three were left, looking at the empty chairs with confusion.

Richard slinked down the labyrinthine hallway, navigating the shadows like an unseen map. He avoided any unwanted contact, hiding from the few residents wandering outside their rooms so late in the evening– idiots couldn't be asleep, could they? 

Just his incredible fortune, he supposed. At least it was decent practice to help him slither his way around hunters unnoticed in future games.

By the time he reached his room, a sudden thought welled up in his mind. He stopped by the door, arm outstretched, hand hovering uncertainly above the handle. The golden plaque read “Richard Sterling”, each letter twisting elegantly like the handwriting on the cursed invitations. The “Knight" clenched his jaw as denial and curiosity gave him pause in equal measure.

Should he… visit Hernando? Check on him? Scold him?

Richard was the only one present when he bled out– that inventive Luca "I'm a fool and I know it" Balsa was chaired and sent to survivor heaven (the Manor, apparently), Miss Bourbon was forced to run out the exit gate while escaping Disciple’s cat. All that was left was Richard.

Only he knew the extent of Hernando's wounds. They had not been a pretty sight.

A dark, shameful part of him wished he could have traced the inflamed flesh around the split skin. Soak his finger in the thick pool of blood and let it seep into his sleeves. Savour the stench of iron and useless struggle mixing with the acrid air. Richard shuddered, pulling his hand back as if burned.

Damn that Matador and the way he had such an unorthodox grip on Richard’s mind.

Before he could second guess himself, Richard was already rushing towards Hernando’s room. The sooner he questioned Hernando, the sooner he could go to sleep and forget all about the game for a few blissful hours. With renewed vigor, Richard walked with purpose, determined to see this through.

Reaching the Matador’s room, he took a second to read his name on the door. His mind drifted to their first encounter.

"My name is Hernando. Hernando Romero. But just Hernando es más que suficiente. It is my greatest pleasure to meet everyone.”

Richard clicked his tongue in annoyance at the memory. Even his name sounded like honey. Everything about this man was just honey. Movements smooth, voice too sweet, always sticking to people he shouldn't be sticking to in the first place.

Always sticking to Richard and getting on his nerves in particular.

There was no knocking– he decided Hernando didn't deserve one. No announcing his presence. The handle gave way under the pressure, pushing the door open a bit more forcefully than intended. Richard stepped past the threshold as if he owned the place, his expression a mask of haughty indifference.

He had his acidic speech already planned out, word by word. He could almost imagine Hernando’s foolish expression in the back of his mind.

"Romero, we need to talk–”

It all went to shit the moment the Matador came into view.

The room was modestly furnished, polished mahogany wood. A gold-framed painting of a Greek tale that Richard couldn't be bothered to remember hanging on the wall, a tasteful chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The space was filled by a simple bed accompanied by a low nightstand, an elegant desk and a sizable wardrobe– the usual layout of the private quarters in the Manor. The white bedsheets were spread evenly, a few droplets of blood staining a corner of the blanket. On the nightstand, a lamp burned dimly, casting a warm, inviting glow over the jagged shadows of the room. The moonlight couldn't penetrate the heavy curtains as they were pulled together over the large windows, blocking the outside world from view.

At the center of it all stood Hernando. His white shirt and dark vest were thrown haphazardly on a chair, folds swallowing the crimson petals of his signature carnation. A roll of bandages sat on the desk, edges ripped unevenly as Hernando tore strip after strip with the ease of someone used to tending to injuries. His back was turned almost strategically to Richard, utterly bare to any passerby’s eyes.

Sun-kissed skin stretched taut over lean muscle, glistening with a thin layer of perspiration. Every droplet caught the lamplight with a faint glimmer, like molten gold dripping down a statue carved from bronze. Scars marred every dip and curve, healed into pink tissue yet carrying a story of battles won and bulls defeated. Broad shoulders slumped with fatigue, highlighted by a soft glow, giving his skin a healthy sheen. With every small move, taupe brown hair shifted in a windswept mullet around the elegant column of Hernando’s neck, framed by two thin braids left undone after the arduous game. The strands stuck out messy and unkempt, brushing against his rounded jawline and obscuring his face from view.

Hernando braced a hand on the desk, the other tying a bandage around his torso. His high-waisted pinstripe trousers were rolled down to hip level, exposing more than decency should allow under other circumstances. But these were not just any circumstances.

Richard stared in silence, stunned by the sight. The image was seared… no, branded into his mind. It would haunt his dreams.

Hernando’s sucked in breaths whenever the fabric rubbed against aching injuries. The way his bare torso moved and shifted. The subtle flex of his arms… his slouched back, a canvas of barely coiled strength–

Richard felt suspended in time, every sense attuned to the present moment, a traitorous heat rushing in forbidden places that he dared not name, nor acknowledge. He snapped out of his thoughts as Hernando suddenly turned his head, startled by the usually brooding “Knight" standing in his doorway. A sight he had not expected. Olive eyes widened with recognition, confusion. Eventually, they crinkled with mild amusement.

Despite the blatant staring, Hernando managed a small, friendly smile, facing Richard properly. There was a welcoming air to him, his posture relaxed and unguarded despite everything.

As if being seen half naked was normal.

As if Richard barging into his room unannounced at that exact moment was even more normal.

"Richie, ¡mi caballero favorito! To what do I owe the pleasure? Here to talk, ey?”

Hernando sounded unbothered, happy even. Like he hadn't just bled out before Richard’s eyes. He was bare, bruised yet still looking devastatingly handsome even when disheveled, smooth accent roughened by tiredness in ways that did unholy things to Richard.

Hernando’s accent always rubbed an itch in Richard’s brain just right.

A little too right. Annoying. Pleasant. Good.

Maybe he wasn't even trying to get him weak in the knees. It happened naturally.

Get it together, damn it! Richard screamed at himself with contempt, jaw clenched with the effort of not staring at Hernando's athletic body.

"... Precisely.” He forced out, trying to sound calm and composed and not like a pervert getting hot and bothered seeing pecs– Richard cleared his throat, gripping the door handle slightly tighter. "About the game.”

Hernando’s back straightened, a flicker of something strange passing through his eyes. He leaned back against the desk casually, arms crossed over his broad chest. His scarred chin tilted to the side just slightly. Assessing. Interested. Challenging Richard to mention his death, if he dared.

“Ah, sí… Not our best game together, eh? I held the hunter busy for quite some time though. I would say I performed spectacularly out there, wouldn't you agree, ¿mi amigo?" 

Richard frowned. He felt mildly unsettled.

Not by the subject. By the way Hernando looked at him in that captivated sort of way he only ever saw in lovestruck fools.

"... No, I don't agree.”

He stepped past the threshold, closing the door with a resounding click. Richard mirrored Hernando’s pose and leaned against the wall, crossing his own arms leisurely over his white vest.

"In fact, I think your performance was terrible and not worth anyone's attention… least of all mine." 

Hernando stared at him with mild surprise. A hint of hurt, followed by a barely suppressed grin flashed across his face. He inhaled quietly, the bull necklace shifting against his heaving sternum.

“I see… And what did I do wrong, ¿Señor Sterling? Me encantaría escuchar tu opinión." His Spanish slipped out easily as he gestured with one hand. As if everyone could understand him. Not Richard, who ignored the language change each time.

You died, idiot, is what Richard wanted to say. The words died on his tongue, bitter and unpleasant.

"... Everything," he sighed, rubbing his temple.

“Now, where do I begin? Oh, yes… You threw yourself at danger unnecessarily. Crossed half the map and left barely any pallets for the rest of us. Miss Bourbon almost fractured her leg and that fool Balsa messed up and got himself chaired trying to save your pathetic arse. You risked the entire game solely for the sake of your enjoyment!"

Such a hypocrite he was, acting like he cared whether Demi and Luca escaped unscathed.

Hernando stayed silent. The seconds ticked by, tension settling between them like lead. He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Why are you really here, Richard?”

Richard paused, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "... What?”

Hernando laughed softly, pushing off from the desk with fluid ease. "You heard me, sir Knight.”

Those eyes sized him up and down with burning intensity as Hernando approached– slow, steady like an unspoken warning given flesh. Richard wanted nothing more than to maintain the distance between them, until he realized his back was already pressed to the wall. When Hernando drew near, Richard had to force himself to not look below the Matador’s chin for the sake of his pride and image. He swallowed quietly, adam apple bobbing in his throat.

Hernando stopped a hairsbreadth away, crowding the slightly taller man against the wall. Up close, Richard could count every freckle dusting the tanned lines of his cheeks, count every trembling eyelash and every muted glint of his bull necklace. His olive eyes, always so warm and lively, resembled swirling pools of amber liquid rimmed with green in the dim light of the bedroom.

Richard inhaled shakily, fighting that shameful part of him that found this even remotely exciting. The closeness, the intense gaze, the heated tone in Hernando’s voice… None of it should've affected him the way it did.

“I'm only here to… reprimand you for your failure. That's it.”

Hernando shifted, tilting his face up with a defiant lilt.

"Are you really?”

“Don’t play games with me. What do you want from me, Romero?” Richard’s mismatched eyes flashed with irritation.

Hernando was silent for a moment, considering the question. He chewed his inner cheek, pressing even closer to Richard– if that was even possible– with an angled jut of his hip.

"Let me think… Hmmm, sí, I know! Your honesty would be un excelente comienzo, cariño.”

What is he even saying… Richard reminded himself to kill Hernando in his sleep.

"Would it? How about you withdraw first, and maybe I'll consider rewarding you with my precious honesty.”

“Ahaha… See, that sounds muy fascinante. However, I must disagree. I'm quite content with standing this close–" 

Richard grabbed Hernando by one of the braids, tugging his head away roughly. “Romero, I said get off or I will ensure your death stays permanent and no magical revival or prayer will save your sorry, presumptuous ass this time." 

A pause.

That made Hernando quiet. Richard thought that did it.

Instead, Hernando’s gaze sharpened, muscles drawn taut under the weight of his control.

"... Oh?”

A calloused hand slithered upwards, tracing the soft, white padding of Richard’s dirtied vest and the puffed sleeves of his tunic, until he reached Richard’s fist tangled in his hair. Richard frowned, tracing the path of that wandering hand with his eyes.

He grimaced. “What are you–”

Hernando grabbed his wrist and held it bruisingly tight, wrenching it away from his head with a painful jerk.

For a second, nothing really happened. Then, the pain registered. And it burned.

A sharp cry tore itself from Richard’s lips, ragged and strained. Pain bloomed steadily from the harsh contact, even the smallest twist igniting a deep, intense throb that seeped into his muscles and very marrow.

Richard forgot all about it– the injury he refused to let Miss Dyer treat. The searing pain when he tripped on a broken pallet and fell on his arm, certain that he broke something. The numbness that followed after ten minutes of choked breaths and curses and impending nausea.

Hernando gripped his wrist even tighter, digging his fingers in the sensitive flesh just to watch Richard writhe and glare at him with that kind of hatred and pain only he could possess.

“Richie, do you really want to hurt me? After watching me die that game? Did you not feel even a bit of sympathy for ¿tu matador favorito?”

Hernando sighed with something dangerously close to fond exasperation. “You wound me. Always so cold, so distant towards me… I try so hard to impress you, and yet you reward me with threats and violence.”

Richard winced and sucked in shaky breaths, too focused on the throbbing pain to process anything else. He mustered a weak punch against Hernando’s bandaged torso, hoping to hit a wound. A bruise. Anything to get Hernando off his damn hand.

Hernando sighed in defeat feeling the miserable rebuke, softening his brutal hold, not quite releasing Richard yet.

“Richard, if you don't tell me why you're truly here, I won't let you leave.”

Richard opened his mouth to speak. His mind conjured all sorts of venomous insults and curses. All that left him was a choked yelp as the brunet tugged him by his arm, dragging the unwilling man towards his bed.

“You're being muy difícil, Richie… I don't want to hurt you. Talk to me, ¿sí? Can you do that? Or do I have to grip your wrist even tighter?"

As the initial wave of agony subsided just enough, Richard finally found his voice again. “... Asshole! A-are you dense? You want to break my wrist now!? Which part of getting off did you not understand–”

The next second, he landed on the bed with a soft bounce, forcing a small “oof” sound out of him. The mattress dipped further as Hernando loomed above him, bracing his hands on either side of Richard’s head, caging the stubborn noble beneath him.

Richard glanced up and immediately regretted it.

Hernando looked utterly hopeless.

Earnest, sad in a way only a puppy denied attention would be. Richard stared at him, dumbfounded by the sheer insolence, by the intimate, precarious position they were in and the audacity of being given those pleading eyes after what transpired. A few strands of brown hair tickled his temple as Hernando leaned in closer, bringing his bare torso and flushed face dangerously close to Richard’s body. The bull pendant dangled between them, clinking softly. 

“Richard… maybe you don't understand why you came here. But I do. I know you better than you think." 

Hernando smiled sadly, raising Richard’s injured wrist to his lips– the latter put up little resistance. Maybe he was curious where this was going. Maybe he was plotting the Matador’s demise.

Maybe he enjoyed the heated presence above him. And the view.

Warm breaths washed over Richard’s throbbing skin, sending alarming tingles up the taller man’s spine. Hernando didn't hesitate to press a chaste, apologetic kiss to the abused flesh, eyeing Richard pathetically. He wordlessly begged the "Knight” to forgive him for what he did.

Richard scoffed in disgust and winced again. And yet, a pretty flush coloured his cheeks, betraying his embarrassment and… and whatever else was playing behind his mismatched eyes. Something he was ruthlessly trying to suppress and failing quite miserably.

Discomfort, yes. But something much less dignified too.

"... You… You–”

“Sí, me. Richard, could you please focus? I'm apologizing quite earnestly here.”

Richard attempted to slap him with his other hand. Hernando caught it easily. The bluish-grey haired man felt even more frustrated, annoyed, irritated, any word synonymous to angry and flustered he could possibly think of.

"I'm trying! You're holding me hostage on your bed, you arrogant prick!”

Hernando pouted. “Ey, it's a soft bed! Would you rather I slam you against the wall? That wouldn't be too hospitable of me, caballero.”

"And breaking my wrist is hospitable!?”

"... Someone had to get a bit of hands-on action to get to you." 

"Well I would rather you unhand me instead!" 

Richard trashed on the bed, the pain in his wrist forgotten in the heat of the moment. He tried everything. Smacking. Kicking. He may or may not have attempted to bite Hernando’s nose or spit between his eyes. Both unsuccessful, of course. Hernando dodged everything and held him down with the kind of strength that, in different circumstances, should've been alarming and scary.

Richard felt anything but alarmed and scared.

“Hernando!" He yelled out again.

Hernando’s gaze softened. “Lo siento, Richard. I would hate for you to hurt yourself… You know, you remind me of a cat hissing while receiving affection. That's kind of cute!" 

If eyes could burn, Hernando would have a gaping hole right in the middle of his face.

“... O-okay, okay! Sí sí, anything for you, Señor Sterling.”

He finally released his volatile prisoner, taking a step back for the sake of his safety. As expected, Richard immediately cradled his injured hand close to his chest, crawling further up the bed with a piercing glare that could've stabbed him in any place imaginable.

Hernando felt as if he was being watched by Disciple’s cat all over again. He shuddered at the thought.

Richard grumbled, rubbing his thumb over the faint finger marks imprinted on his wrist. Their breaths were uneven, their hairs disheveled from the brief struggle. Richard clicked his tongue in annoyance, readjusting his white vest around his waist.

“Perverted bastard! You pin me against the wall, against the bed– you think you can just haul me around like you own me? Very hospitable of you!”

"That… that wasn't my intention.” Hernando sulked at the foot of the bed, adjusting his necklace. "Besides, you're the one who broke into my room.”

"That's not an excuse.”

Hernando winced at the rebuke and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Yeah, you're right… How could I make it up to you?”

"... Die again in the next game. And the next. Maybe all your games.”

Hernando smiled.

"If you're in it. I always wanted to die before your eyes.”

Richard froze.

What… did this idiot just say to him?

The admission slipped out before he could control it. Hernando pushed his hair back, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. He approached the edge of the mattress, taking a seat at a respectable distance– for the sake of his valued life of course. He rested his bruised elbows on his knees, glancing at Richard with fondness and something harder to identify.

Almost deranged… in a soft, plaintive way.

"Running around the map didn't do much, I know. It only helped with the ciphers. That's one good thing, ¿sí? When lady hunter hit me for the first time, it reminded me of our first encounter.”

Hernando was a bit shy when they first met. Overwhelmed by the Manor, the residents, everything. 

Now look at him– a pain in Richard’s ass.

"You slapped me for greeting you.” Hernando chuckled fondly at the memory.

"You kissed my cheeks. That's assault.”

"It's a customary greeting in my home España.”

"This isn't España, this is the Manor. You reap what you sow." 

“Mhm…”

Hernando pulled himself closer, placing a hand on Richard's knee. The contact was tentative at first, a question and a plea. Richard said nothing. Hernando grasped his knee gently, rubbing his thumb over the jutting bone.

"Maybe you're right. But I meant it… I ran from lady nun–”

"Her name is Ann.”

"... Yes, of course. I ran from Lady Ann in hopes of finding you. I didn't expect to survive long enough to watch you escape. I was wrong… Oh, what a sight you were.”

Richard’s brows furrowed.

Hernando continued. "You looked… disgusted, Richard. I could see it in your eyes.”

"... Excuse me?"

“You didn't look away.” He quickly interrupted, leaning closer. “I died seeing you. Seeing everything. Unable to touch you. It was… such a cold feeling. I wish it was your hands squeezing the life out of me, instead of...” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

This was a new one.

Richard couldn't believe his ears. The Matador, the man behind the muleta, the one who flirted with death itself and always lived to tell the tale, admitting to this. Hernando looked genuine when he spoke those words, as if what he said was absolutely sane.

"Richard.” He gently grabbed Richard’s hands, leaning closer with an enigmatic smile on his scarred lips. "If only you could see past the pretenses and understand my motivations. My desires. The way I crave you every day and night, the way I dream of your blade using my body as a sheath.”

Richard recoiled slightly. "What? What are you saying? Are you insane!?”

"You have that look in your eyes again.”

Hernando sounded foolish, enamoured, sinister. He was chasing a high that was neither dangerous nor satisfying, one that nothing could bring but the man in front of him. So close yet so far. His hands trembled slightly where they held Richard’s, aching to grab the knight and hold onto him like the lifeline he never knew he needed.

Richard pulled his hands away abruptly.

“You're delirious." 

The loss of contact made Hernando frown with disappointment. “No, cariño. I am not. I am sober." 

“You've lost too much blood, surely it got to your head." 

“Richard, I-" 

“Do you ever shut your mouth when other people speak?" 

Richard wanted to slap him, but something strayed his hand.

He knew what it was.

It was satisfaction.

Satisfaction to hear Hernando admit to his deepest, darkest desires. And they all revolved around Richard. His cruelty and his mercy, his light and his shadow, anything he could offer and take away in equal measure… Love, or death, or anything in between.

He was his salvation. Sweeter than death itself could save a drowning man from the cold waves of the sea. Sweeter than the encroaching darkness suffocating and clawing at one’s throat.

How absurd.

Richard stared at a now silent Hernando, his expression unreadable but his thoughts clear. Clearer than they've ever been. If this is what Hernando desired, no, needed, how could he refuse?

And yet… How could anyone desire him in such raw ways?

There it was again. That acrid taste at the back of his throat. Guilt-laden bile, softened to an afterthought. It tasted fuzzy, like an emotion he couldn't name. Something not quite there. Richard clenched his jaw. Hernando’s face wavered in front of him, colours swirling together.

Is this really what Hernando wanted? His cold, poisoned hands squeezing the life out of him? His bloodstained skin touching his?

What if Hernando’s blood couldn't satisfy that craving deep inside? The one he always yearned for?

A sudden flick broke the heavy spell. Hernando snapped his fingers in his face, searching for a reaction, anything.

“… Richard? You there? You're spacing out.”

Richard blinked rapidly, pushing Hernando's hand away with a scoff. "I'm… I'm just thinking about your request. You said you want me to… Ah, I knew you could become a pawn in my games. It was that easy, I was truly blind." 

“... Huh?" 

Richard snaked his hands around Hernando’s throat, thumbs brushing over his jawline. The Matador’s skin was warm, pleasant against his chilled fingers. Neither soft nor rough.

He gently grasped Hernando’s broad shoulders, pushing the man down on the mattress. Now it was his turn to pin him to the bed, holding this frustratingly handsome man beneath him. He shifted, straddling Hernando’s hips with a strange smile on his face.

Hernando showed no resistance.

"All this time, I wanted nothing more than to watch you perish. I want you to fail, to fall under the light of the sun into the shadows of the abyss." Richard sighed, cupping Hernando’s cheeks with feigned affection.

“But… you never do. No matter how hard I pray, you always return. All smiles and glory. I wish I could dim that spark myself, watch you falter under the weight of despair and hopelessness. Is death truly the only way for me to keep you away?”

Hernando stayed silent, leaning into Richard’s touch– although he knew it wasn't gentle. He craved it all the same, gentleness or not.

"... Why? Why keep me away like this? Why not just let me in, ¿cariño?”

"Because I want you gone.” Richard hissed, his hands inching towards Hernando’s neck. He wrapped them around the firm flesh, squeezing lightly. He could feel the faint pulse fluttering against his palms.

"Your existence gets on my nerves. Every time you greet me, I want to break your arms and snap your bones. You– you infuriate me! Every single day, you choose to ignore who I am and still dig for the corpse of the man I left to fester and rot! I am not what you want or what you need, I am going to chew at your body until nothing is left for this world to see!" 

“Devour me then.” Hernando grasped his wrists, rubbing them gently. Encouragingly. Not a hint of fear or reluctance could be found in his eyes. "If this is the only way for me to fill that void inside of you, I will gladly pay the price.”

Richard tensed, his grip wavering around the man’s throat. 

"... You don't understand.”

"I do, Richard. You're the one who doesn't understand.”

"... What of your void, then? Don't tell me you feel whole. No one in this manor does. You must be broken just like everyone else."  

Hernando considered the question. He really did.

He could only smile sadly.

“... The man labeled as the "Knight” wouldn't ask me such a question."

He paused.

“... Only Richard would. Deep down, you don't want me gone. You're just like me– unable to handle anything but whatever fate throws at us.”

The bluish-grey haired man froze.

The hands around Hernando’s throat loosened, then dropped completely.

Fate. It sounded so wrong. So repulsive. Always forcing him to take paths he wouldn’t take, always guiding him down into the darkness of a life lived beneath a mask that reeks of lies. Richard recoiled, that accursed nursery rhyme filling his brain with a jarring rhythm.

"You're wrong.” He hissed, wrapping his fingers around Hernando’s jaw and forcing them to meet eyes. Anger radiated from his mien like vitriol. "I want you gone. Erased from my life. I wish you hadn't come to the Manor and that you'd disappear from my sight already!”

“... You're the one straddling me." 

Hernando leaned into that threatening grip without fear, his own hands sliding from Richard’s wrists to grasp his hips instead. The contact was careful, focused on reassuring rather than restricting. He caressed Richard’s hips tentatively, a pleased sigh escaping him as his fingers mapped the contours of the man’s body above him. So soft beneath his clothes, it made his head spin with thoughts of pulling Richard close and never letting go.

Richard cursed beneath his breath. When he tried to get off, Hernando tightened his grip and pulled him back.

"Let go of me.”

"No. Not this time, mi caballero.”

A soft yelp echoed through the room as Richard landed on top of Hernando, those strong arms wrapping around his body like a vice. He felt trapped like a bird in the narrow gap of an iron gate. Hernando pressed a hand down on the small of his back, the other cradling his head. He relished the feel of bluish-grey strands slipping between his fingers, silky and smooth. Richard’s hair smelled faintly of vanilla and something else… faint perfume, blood, exhaustion.

Against all warnings that Richard wore like a cloak, Hernando hugged the “Knight" so close, it almost felt like they would become one. Richard writhed, trying in vain to free himself, muttering insults in his ear. However, Hernando ignored them in favour of relishing the intimate contact instead.

“Don't. Let me… let me hold you like this for a while, Richie. Por favor. You can stab me later, I promise." 

Richard refused to calm down– until he did, the fight draining out of him. The embrace felt… just right, like their bodies fit perfectly together. Hernando’s bare torso felt so hot against him, melting the ice that Richard had fought his entire life to freeze his soul. All of it, gone with one hug.

He didn't realize how much he needed it.

He would've never dreamt of yearning for something as simple as a hug. Here, Hernando offered it freely. No implications, no ulterior motives. Just them two, secluded in Hernando’s room, his arms wrapped around Richard and his breath caressing his temple. Warm lips pressed a kiss to his cheek, chaste and exploratory. Richard shuddered. His mind trashed like a fish on land, trying to get away from this treacherous man, but his body betrayed him in every shameful way possible.

And then, Hernando began to rub his back, encouraging each knot of tension to loosen and recede. He traced the ridges of Richard’s spine beneath his elaborate fit, searing every inch of Richard’s body in his mind. He pushed the cape aside, toying with the leather clasp with a thoughtful hum.

Maybe not tonight. Tonight, the embrace would suffice. 

By the time Richard truly processed what was happening, a sense of contentment washed over him, blurring the lines between their earlier conversation and the present moment. Somehow, it felt right. To lie on top of Hernando and simply rest. To bask in the warmth of his body and let it soothe his troubles for once. Hernando’s lips traced a path down his neck– Richard found he didn't dislike the foreign sensations as much as he thought he would.

How could something like this feel so good?

Did he truly deserve this… moment of intimacy?

Probably not. He probably never will.

But then Hernando guides his head away and forces him to meet his gaze, and all those doubts are washed away by the tide, back into the recesses of his skull. Those olive eyes look at him and Richard has to remind himself that being looked at with adoration isn't as disgusting as he thinks it is.

“Feeling better?”

Hernando murmured against his chin, leaving another fleeting kiss. Richard grit his teeth together, fighting off a pleasant shiver.

“... I suppose. But don't think this will become a habit." 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, mi corazon."

“... I'll kill you." 

“Mm… I'm sure you will. And when it happens, I'll welcome it gladly. Like I've never welcomed anything else in my life." 

Hernando grabbed his head, finally bringing Richard’s lips down on his own for a kiss.

Richard didn't pull back.

He didn't melt into it.

His mismatched eyes widened in shock and confusion at the odd sensation.

Soft, not quite wet, nor dry, nor… anything. It tasted like something beyond his imagination, sweet and salty and tasteless in equal measure. A tinge of iron flavoured the foreign experience. Hernando hummed in thought as he sensed the unresponsiveness, coaxing Richard’s lips apart with a swipe of his tongue. The latter wanted to protest and bite his tongue off, nose wrinkling with disgust. Instead, he hesitantly opened his mouth, a quiet moan slipping unbidden before he could stop it. Hernando smiled and murmured a breathless praise against his trembling lips.

“Good boy…”

Richard closed his eyes, angling his head to deepen the kiss. Hernando gripped his head in place, licking into his mouth with fervour, swallowing any sound that Richard had to offer. Their breaths mingled, cheeks blooming with heat and minds turning to mush as the embrace became more passionate faster than anticipated. In a daze, Hernando rolled around and pinned Richard to the bed, resuming their kiss with even more hunger.

Richard whimpered softly, settling his hands on Hernando’s shoulders, gripping the necklace around his neck like a lifeline. Each slide of their tongues elicited a quiet moan, a shudder, any kind of reaction that he didn't know he was capable of. By the time Hernando pulled back, they were both panting, faces flushed pink. A fragile string of saliva glistened between their lips, breaking in an instant. Olive eyes met brown and blue ones, sharing the same amount of confusion and desire.

Hernando chuckled breathlessly as he savoured the dazed look in Richard’s mesmerizing eyes, pushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

“You taste better than I imagined, Richie…”

Richard blushed a deeper shade of red, blinking slowly. “I… guess. You weren't so bad yourself.”

Hernando laughed again, softer this time. He leaned down and pressed their foreheads together, losing himself in the contact that he had denied himself for too long. To his greatest pleasure, Richard didn't pull away or push him off, instead closing his eyes and enjoying the silence.

“... Do you still plan on killing me?" 

Richard cracked open an eye. Hernando tilted his head, amused.

“... I assume that's a yes." 

Richard could have answered.

But he didn't feel like doing it.

Maybe he could postpone that for another time.

Maybe he would never get the chance to do it.

Not when his hands grab Hernando’s face on their own accord to bring him into another sweet kiss.