The Thief of Skystead

The Duel

It's been seven days since he and Azazel began their illicit love affair. In natural fashion for Azazel, he's made love to him much more than seven times. Alistair simply cannot say no to the man. Not that he'd want to, anyhow. He's far too charming and suave for Alistair to resist.

They had been enjoying a stroll through the gardens and the occasional bout of Alistair writing down some lines in a poem when Azazel began to sneak kisses and touches from him. Currently, they're seated on the edge of the fountain, Alistair desperately attempting to keep pace with Azazel's ravenous kissing. If there's one thing Azazel is good at (which there isn't just one: there are many), it's kissing him senseless. Alistair is quite inclined to surrender himself and allow Azazel to do as he pleases.

However, he manages to silence such an imprudent desire, pushing Azazel off him when he grows frisky. Azazel doesn't look disappointed. Instead, he smirks like a man who knows he'll be getting what he wants, one way or another. How insufferable.

"Darling," Alistair says, adoring how easily the endearment rolls off his tongue, "We must be careful."

"I know, you've told me everyday," he replies, dipping his head down to kiss his neck. Alistair only allows if for a second or two before regaining his will and shooing him away. "Relax, doll. No one's gonna see us."

"We could be easily spotted from the guest bedroom window," he points out, nodding to the window of the room in which Azazel had been staying. Azazel ought to have known that himself, having stayed over a month there. He wonders what goes on in that head of his, sometimes. "There is a clear sight from the room, clearest in midday."

"No one's gonna go in my room," he denies, leaning back on the marble. Stretched out so indolently with a careless grin on his face, he looks as much of a prick as the first day they met. "Well, maybe except for you later tonight."

"I will not," he refuses, and Azazel raises his eyebrows in an amused challenge. "The general has grown questionable about my frequent disappearances. I have told him that I am simply sleeping in the other guest room, as I have been oft to do, but he remains suspicious nonetheless. I must remain in his bed tonight."

Azazel grimaces, repulsed at the idea. Alistair doesn't remember himself when he had grown numb to the idea of sharing a bed with his predator. Sometime a few years back, he presumes.

"I get it," Azazel says, taking his hand. Alistair laces their fingers together. "But I don't like it. I don't like him."

"Neither do I. But it is a task I must endure, should we wish to continue our affair," he explains, squeezing Azazel's hand. "Should the general grow suspicious and discover us, he will surely challenge you to a duel of honor. And that's a fight you will not win."

Azazel grins. "Wanna bet?"

"No, I most certainly do not 'wanna bet'," he retorts, and Azazel laughs for whatever inane reason. He huffs, but there's a smile tugging on his face. There always is, when Azazel's around. "You're despicable."

"You love it."

Alistair allows Azazel to steal another kiss, albeit a brief one. Kissing out in the open this way makes him nervous.

"I have written you something," he says, turning back to his notebook. Tearing the short poem out, he offers it to Azazel. Azazel reads it as he adds, "Consider it a token of my affections. Someday, I will marry the general. I simply wish that you know where my heart belongs despite that."

Azazel's eyes seem more crestfallen with every line he reads of the poem. Alistair is confused. There is nothing sorrowful in the poem. Has he done something wrong? Are letters of love only exchanged between characters in books, and not in real life?