Archive of Our Own

A touch, just one touch
That's what that irrational voice in the back of his mind was asking for.

Emperor Schpood of Westhelm had survived thousands of assassination attempts, had lost people close and important to him, his people had suffered considerable losses in the war, and at the end of the day, it was just him again

Except for that night, a couple of months after the Infernus battle.

Saparata was visiting Westhelm after spending so much time in seclusion to heal the physical and mental wounds from his own battle. He looked so different, he looked so ————

His hair had grown into a small cascade of white silk over his shoulder, his clothes, once a torn and dirty fugitive's cloak, once Westhelm robes with accessories from The Covenant, were now simple white clothes.
Not that he looked bad but Schpood would rather dress Saparata in the fine silk from Westhelm's clothes, take that soft hair in his hands and tie it up with gold ornaments,  make him get rid of the diamond boots that had once belonged to that traitor from Island Two and instead wear custom-made sandals that would allow him to roam freely around Westhelm.

Schpood wanted Saparata in Westhelm, by his side, safe.

But it was impossible to ask for the existence of someone free who seeks his own peace with the past. 
So he simply welcomed him into his empire with open arms, hoping that he would reconsider the words he once whispered to him: “You will always be welcome in Westhelm Saps, don't forget that” and that Saps would stay there, in Westhelm, by his side, safe.

That night was a poor imitation of one of the nights before the battle of Infernus, when 5pyder had not yet died in the territory of the Commonwealth and when Saparata was comfortable enough in the empire to go out with the emperor and his consul to drink at The French Kiss.

Now it was just the two of them.

No war, no 5pyder, no Remmy, no people filling the restaurant and having fun for their own reasons, no Island One Band livening up the nightlife, no laughter, anecdotes or promises.

Just the two of them and a wine bitter by memories.

Saparata had already succumbed to the alcohol in his blood, his hair spread across the acacia table, and the glass had slipped from his hand, a pale, scarred hand that Schpood had once had the opportunity to hold.

“Take me to bed... I wanna sleep” Saps murmured with the ounce of conscience he had left, under a mess of his own white hair.

Schpood laughed, setting aside his own half-empty glass and rising with an initial tremble that subsided as his hands and arms reached for Saparata, the drunken man becoming malleable, his only effort being to wrap his loosened arm around the emperor's neck while Schpood slid his own arm around the other man's waist to provide stability as they walked together to the entrance of The French Kiss, where his new guards —ones he’d never quite bond with as Owo6 and 5pyder— approached to offer to carry the drunk man their leader was dealing with. 
However, Schpood refused, pulling Saparata closer to his body with the possessiveness of an animal holding its prey between its teeth.
His guards understood and set about escorting their leader and the semi-unconscious man to the emperor's personal chambers where the heavy wooden door was slammed in their faces.

Fresh sheets and soft pillows welcomed Saparata gently, but there was a comfort he hadn't felt in a long time, one he recognized instantly: Schpood's bed, the same one they had once shared.
But his exhaustion was bigger, and he fell asleep before even telling Schpood that he had found a place to sleep beforehand and that it was unnecessary to share a bed again.

The emperor entered the bed shortly after with slow and considerate movements so as not to wake his guest—although that would have been impossible given his condition. 
There was a lot of space in the bed and yet he moved closer to the other body until their sighs crossed in the distance between their faces. 

In the silence of that night, similar to those of the past, the irrational voice in the back of his mind came back, repeating like a plea "A touch, just one touch" and as always, he succumbed to that demand.

A heavy hand, covered in calluses and scars that told stories of fierce battles was placed with unusual delicacy on a white head, sliding fingers through fine strands of hair, those same glooomy caresses moved to the face, tracing each faded scar, rubbing the slightly furrowed brow and passing over the pronounced dark circles under the eyes, pausing only at the thin, sickly pink lips. 
He had long ago memorized every feature on that face.

Taking his hand away and now caressing Saparata with his gaze, Schpood remembered the first time he saw that face; on wanted posters scattered across both islands, that portrait bore no resemblance to the face he saw in person shortly thereafter.
Disoriented and with a plan, Saparata had arrived in Westhelm, crestfallen and discouraged, but still hopeful, he left after the initial rejection. 
Curious and cautious, he returned after receiving a personal invitation from the emperor. 
He was cheerful for a while during his stay, during which they went out drinking—when 5pyder was still there— on that occasion his consul was the most sober of the three and the one who carried Saps in his arms.

Then there were a few days of melancholy, during which Saps stayed in the room most of the day, left his food untouched, and stopped their little habit of sharing a chat in bed before going to sleep.

Saps' sadness infected him, making him unable to concentrate as he thought about Saps' distressed face and a thousand ways to bring back that silly smile and the lively sparkle in those dark eyes.

“5pyder, take Saps for a walk, a depressed man won’t help us in the war” Commanded, and his loyal consul carried it out.
He did not see them both until late at night, when he was already in bed and the murmurs behind the door announced the return of the pair who were saying goodbye.
That night they resumed their routine, and talked about stories of war and betrayal, plans and promises. And when the moon was fully over Westhelm, both were already in their own land of dreams.

Schpood tucked the sheet around them, one arm over Saps, pulling him closer to his body, afraid that Saparata's figure would vanish and that when he woke up, he would only find the pillow.

And for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to dream.