Ambrose sneaks home well past dark, with his shirt improperly fastened. He was saying a proper goodbye to a lovely Cohort officer of his acquaintance, that's is. He sneaks back in walking on his toes to keep quiet, with no rapier, no badge of office at his hip. Scruffy and undignified and alone. His curls are messy like they've been pulled.

Penthos flicks on the light, arms folded, looking quite cross. He'd left the blood to dry that trickled out of his nose earlier that evening, wanting to make Ambrose guilty for leaving him alone. "Well aren't you a sight. The picture of a Seventh Cavalier, aren't you?"

Ambrose's heart does pang at the sight of that blood, just about instantly. "You ought to be asleep." He says, instantly. "It's late."

"What, like I was going to put myself to bed? All on my own? Come now Epta, you know better than that. You know I need help." He doesn't, of course. Hadn't when he was younger, and certainly doesn't now, but it doesn't matter. Pen would make himself need help if it meant that Ambrose would be the one doing the helping.

"And there wasn't anybody to help you?" He sounds, now, just as he had been prompted to sound. Worried, angry at some unspecified someone. "Come here, come here, let me clean your face."

Penthos rises, his instability there, but exaggerated just slightly, pushing him into Epta's arms. "There isn't anyone else, not anyone who's allowed to." But they both know that. They also both know Penthos has refused to have any sort of nurse.

"You ought to get some extra help, for when I'm out." He scoops an arm around Penthos's, under his arms. "Can you walk to the bathroom?"

He can. He usually can, and today has only been bad because of situations, rather than his body betraying him, even so he looks up at Ambrose, batting his eye and gazing through thick lashes. "Help me there?"

Ambrose scoops Penthos into his arms without further consideration. Sets him down on the edge of the bath in the bathroom down the corridor. Dampens a cloth, too, and uses it to wipe at the dried blood on Penthos's face.

"What were you doing out so late? Coming back so disheveled." Pen is pretty sure he knows, but on the off chance it was something important, he should cut his lovely cavalier some slack.

"Paying my respects to the Cohort. I've got a... friend who's shipping off-planet tomorrow. If things had shaken out differently, I might have gone with him."

Penthos jolts. "They wouldn't! Not on your own! Why would they have not informed me of that possibility?" If Ambrose is being sent out, he'll certainly not be going alone, even if having Pen alongside him would likely dimmish his success.

"They wouldn't. Not bound to you, and they wouldn't send you unless you wanted to go. They never do, with a decently-born necromancer. You don't want to go, do you?"

He would love all those eyes on him, truly, but- "No. No, I think not." Not when he could have Ambrose all to himself here. Well, he should be Penthos' alone.

"Good. Good." Ambrose's touch is gentle. "Nosebleed? Were you working too hard at your studies?"

"Of course. It's not like there's anything else for me to do all day. Not with no other duties to occupy my time." He's made a bit of progress as well, the little pocket of decay he's cultivated in the corpse coming along wonderfully.

"You'll have to show me what you've come up with. In the morning. Oh no, in the morning I'll be..." He rubs his head, thinking of the prospect of the hangover he'll end up with.

Pen snickers a little. "Consequences, consequences~" He should have known better. Especially when he has such a lovely little thing here at home waiting for him, no alcohol required.

"Indeed. The worthy consequences of good brandy." He groans in anticipation of future pain. "How've you been feeling?"

"Same as always, sick and tired. It's been hurting more lately, the eye." He knows that's partially his fault, letting it liquify more before halting the decay again, but he knows he can get more of a microbiome in there, more thalergy to harvest from, more living decay.

"You really should make sure there's someone to put you to bed if I'm not around. You need the sleep. Here, I'll read to you, if you like."

Why in all the worlds would Pen get someone to put him to bed, to care for him, when he can stay 'helpless' and force Ambrose to do it.

But Ambrose looks so genuine, now. So concerned.

"I would love you to, Ambry, you know that. I always do."

"Come on, then." He offers his arm to be leaned on.

Penthos leans far more of his weight on him than needed, making Ambrose hold him more.

Ambrose half-carries him to bed. Helps him out of his clothes and into a nightshirt, tucks the pillows up for him. "There you are."

This is always one of his favorite parts of the day. Having Ambrose undress him, even in such a chaste manner, having him be set gently into bed. Pen relishes in it, spends far too long thinking of other ways to be undressed, to be tossed to these sheets. "Thank you. What's the story for tonight? What will my darling cavalier choose for me?"

He almost flushes. "How does a tawdry romance sound? There's a handsome necromancer with a sword."

"You know I always love a nice, long sword. That sounds perfect." Pen lets his hand trail along Ambrose' arm, salacious.

The hairs stand up on Ambrose's skin. Oh, he must be reading too much into it. The touch, the tone. It must be innocent. He starts to read.

He almost frowns, but Adrastis is far too used to this rejection by now. He's not sure why he keeps trying, honestly. Well, that's a lie, he keeps trying because he's been hopelessly in love with Ambrose since they met as kids, and he'll be damned before he lets him get away.

But Ambrose didn't quite pull away. Ignored him, rather, like he was still too drunk to even perceive the flirtation.

When Ambrose gets to a particularly saucy bit, Penthos has to lean forward, smirk quirking his lips. "Well, that's just impossible, isn't it? There's no way a sword fits there."

"No way." Ambrose agrees. "It would hurt awfully. No, I've never brought my sword to bed, but..."

"But?" Oh, this he needs to hear. "I'm sure some bed partner would enjoy it being there." Pen knows he would.

"Some have asked." He admits. "My position can be quite the aphrodisiac. But I don't imagine it would work quite like that."

"Your position? Being a cavalier to a half rate adept of low nobility?" Penthos tries not to laugh. "Although I suppose many have dreams of bedding a cavalier no matter their standing."

"It's exactly that. And they don't see low nobility, just that I belong to a noble."

That warms him quite a bit. Belong to a noble. To him. "Yes, you do." Pen preens.

"The idea of sworn service, at that... that I gave away my life."

"They should know better than to try to make you theirs, then." Perhaps he needs something more visible, something Ambrose' bedpartners can't remove.

"They ask all kinds of dirty things about you. If you use necromancy to make me... do things."

“Oh, do they?” Pen is almost giddy at the thought. “What kind of things Rose? Tell me, you must!”

"They think you'd puppet my body to make me pleasure you. Like some sort of... sexual marionette."

“Oooo do you think I could? I bet I could, with a little time to figure it out.” Of course there’s a glaring error there. “But that makes no sense, you’re not dead.”

"You could, probably, if you could move my blood around, get my muscles to fire..."

“Do you wanna try?” Penthos is pretty sure they could get it to work. What a sight that would be, Ambrose making him shake at his command. Pen can’t decide, would it be more attractive if Ambrose wanted to be puppeteered or if he were fighting it every step of the way.

"I'd try. It might be fun, mightn't it?"

Of course, Ambrose only acquiesces out of duty, pity, perhaps. Best to keep those fantasies to himself and offer a more acceptable choice of testing ground. “It really might. Oh! I could make you walk into the lake!”

"But you'd pull me out, wouldn't you? Wouldn't let me drown?"

“Ambry I don’t know what I would do without you. Obviously I’d pull you back out.”

"Good. Good. In the morning, we should try it." His heart is still quick, with fear mixed with anticipation. "It's probably some sort of a heresy, so we should definitely try it."

That makes him laugh. “Some sort of a heresy! Yes! oh that’ll be delightful.” His gaze falls back to the book and the laugh subsides into small giggles, smothered by salacious curiosity. “You said they ask ‘all kinds of things’ about me. That was one, what else do they ask about? It’s pertaining to me, I must know.”

"Oh, they ask if you like me on my knees for you, but that's so pedestrian. And the usual comments that you must like me better cold."

Pen pouts. “How boring! And here I was hoping for something else fun.” What would the point of Ambrose be without him being himself? That’s the only point. The only bit that makes Ambrose worth it all.

"Never slept with a necro, most of them. Or a cav. The whole idea of both fascinates them. And oh, they have such set ideas."

“Well that’s nothing new, they all seem to have decided they know what hens behind locked adept doors. I suppose they all think I order you about, giving no mind to your needs?” Really, as if he doesn’t want Ambrose to hold him down and tear him apart. If it wouldn’t damage the delicate balance of decay he’s cultivated, Pen would want him to fuck the liquifying eye too.

"They do think so. That you must use me for your lusts."

“Surprised they think me well enough to have those. Don’t we all turn celibate monks once we get frail enough?” It’s a tad bitter, even though he knows he makes it worse. Makes himself worse. All to get more of Ambrose’ attention.

"Well, some of them think that. Many seem to have settled on the idea of the depraved and powerful. That corpse-lust is universal."

“And still they all want you, my lovely, gallant, brilliant rake of a cav.” If he weren’t so blindingly jealous, he would be prouder.

"Some of them seem to think they'd be saving me from you."

Penthos starts, surprised. “Saving you?”

"From your indecent attentions. Demands on me."

“What indecent attentions?” He’s been very careful to keep his fantasies to himself, not letting anyone know, including Ambrose. “What demands!?”

"That's what I tell them! They let their lurid imaginations run away with them! You don't make any such demands."

“Of course I don’t.” Even if he really really really wants to. “Don’t know that anyone does, least not here on Seven.

"Seems a perversion of the Third, if any such, to force a cavalier to your bed."

“And of course no one ever thinks it goes the other way round. Honestly, it’s not like you all don’t carry around large weapons constantly!”

"Nobody ever thinks it might be the other way." He sounds rather too delighted by the idea.

Penthos thinks for a long moment. “I don’t know it could be, for most, could it…. Most of us don’t actually need s physical weapon.”  Please  his brain screams.  Please! Come, take me! Ravish me! Make me yours, require me do your bid!  He doesn’t say it though. Never does. Too terrified of losing Ambrose the way he has him now.

"That makes it all the more exciting, doesn't it? You're not helpless. You could fight back."

“I suppose you’re right.” If he thinks about either scenario either way for too long though, his nose starts bleeding again.

Ambrose leans in to wipe a faint trickle of blood with his fingers. "Exciting, isn't it?"

When he finally gets the voice to speak it’s quiet, uncharacteristically subservient. “Yes. It is.”

"The second thought, is it, that gets you like this? Being taken advantage of?"

It’s suddenly too much. He loves it, loves all of it, but— if Ambrose doesn’t like him back…. well then not only has he made a fool of himself, but he’s ruined the relation ship he does have with Ambry. He turns over, curling under the covers.

"Ah. I should leave you to sleep, shouldn't I?" Ambrose sounds guilty

“I guess… Can we read more? Tomorrow? I really liked tonight.” It’s painful, to draw back, but he’s terrified of a blatant rejection.

"Of course. The book is just getting delicious, too."

“I’m sure it is. It all is…..” He touches fingertips with Ambrose, and lets himself be tucked in. “Thank you.”

Ambrose takes a bit of daring, clutches it to his chest. Kisses Penthos's forehead. "Sleep well."

Pen almost swoons then and there. As it is, he turns a brilliant pink, all the more noticeable for how pale he is. A flustered squeak and a nod. “You too Rose!”

Ambrose barely sleeps. In the morning, he goes only as far as the training grounds. Not to meet anyone.

Once he leaves, Penthos can’t shove his hand down under the covers fast enough, pretending it’s Ambrose’s. Pretending to feel his callouses, his fingers. It’s never real enough. Hr falls into a fitful sleep soon after, waking up the next morning horribly tired.

Ambrose is at the breakfast table already, glowing with sweat and exertion. "You look pale."

“You look sweaty. What else is new.” It’s flat, with a raised brow. He hasn’t put on his eyepatch yet, not when it’s just the two of them, and a servant in the other wing.

"Are you feeling alright? Sit, I'll get you something to eat." He smiles. "It's training sweat, I promise."

“I’m tired, but overall alright, I think. Doesn’t seem to be worse than usual at least.” He sits more than hy to be waited on by his Ambry.

Who fetches him some tea, and bread and butter and ham, with nothing but smiles.

“Did you know you’re a godsend?” He digs in, making a monstrosity of a sandwich, tea included by way of dipping.

"Oh, but I do always appreciate hearing it. Especially from you."

“Truly, though, I think God, the Emperor Undying, King Everlasting, the Necrolord Prime, made and sent you to me, specifically because of you lovely you are.” Ok he may be laying it on a bit thick, but he’s not exactly lying either.

And Ambrose blushes because of it. Like the delicate rose he isn't.

Penthos hadn’t known how hungry he’d been. Not until he realized he’d forgotten dinner the night before, too caught up in his work and his anger to bother with pesky things like eating.

Ambrose watches him eat with an almost clinical eye. Worried about blood sugar.

Most would hate the smothering, the fussing and mother-hening. But all Pen feels is glee. Ambrose’ full attention is on him, and it’s beautiful. He’s more then hy to pretend he needs more help than he does, if it means Ambry helps more. “I haven’t grown another head, have I?”

"No. I was making sure you weren't going to come over dizzy. You're eating like I've been starving you."

“No, just forgot supper yesterday. This is really good!”

"Ah, I should have come home to make sure you'd eaten, at least. I could have pushed my date later."

“Yes, you should have,” he doesn’t try to hide the petulance, pouting a bit. You could have not gone on your date at all. “Abandoning your adept for some nobody. It’s cruel!” Teasing, if still a bit upset.

"It's alright. I won't see him again, most likely."

“Even more of a reason to not have left me.” Which isn’t fair, not when he knows Epta’s date is being deployed, but he doesn’t care.

" We ought to have a dinner out some time."

Adrastis light up. “We should! Oh we haven’t gone out for anything other than duties in ages Rose! It’s so boring being shut up in here all the time.”

"What if we go out tonight? I'll make things up to you, I won't even flirt."

Ambrose can flirt all he likes, so long as it’s only with him. “You’d better not! I’ll not be trotted out so you have something interesting for your potential conquests to gawk at.” Even if he does  so  adore those eyes on him. Marveling at his twofold beauty.

"I'll keep my eyes and my words to myself. Bring my most charming stories, all of that."

“Good. Dinner then. Someplace fun!” He nods, definitive, pleased. “It’s obvious why so many like you.”

"I can charm when I try." As if it isn't an easy act for him. One that's become as good as natural.

He just never tries with me, Penthos supposes. “And I can tell them all about how you nearly broke you nose on you own rapier as a kid. Drag out the baby pictures.”

"Oh, and ruin all my mystique, wouldn't you? And I'd deserve it."

"You would! Leaving your poor, helpless, frail little necromancer all alone!" Drama is dripping off his tongue, a hand flung up over his forehead as he leans back, trying not to giggle.

"You know I'd come home if you called for me. If you needed me."

I shouldn’t have to call though, he thinks.  You should just always be here.  What he says is "I know Ambry. I always need you, though."

"I should spend more time at home. You're not looking well. Worse than usual, I mean." And he doesn't think about how it correlates so well with him spending more time away.

It's absolutely because of how often Ambrose is away. Adrastis has been making himself worse in hopes it would draw him back, but he hadn't, it hasn't and now he's sicker than before with nothing to show for it but even easier bruising and more frequent nosebleeds.

"Isn't there anything I can?" Ambrose asks, half despairing.

"I think you'd know better than me at this point. I can stop the decay, but beyond that you're the better healer." Penthos shrugs, affecting nonchalance, as if this isn't exactly what he's wanted for weeks.

"Have you checked your blood counts? Surely."

“…….No.” It’s only half sheepish.

"You must. You've been bleeding and bruising and..."

He shakes his head. He knows he’s worse, but not by how much.

"You don't want to?" Ambrose says it gently.

“Not on my own. Need you there Ambry, you know that.” He can and has done it himself before. Hundreds if not thousands of times, but he wants Ambrose’ hands on him.

"I'll be there. Even hold your hand."

“Can’t hold my hand if you’re taking the blood…” But he’s eased.

"I can hold your hand after, can't I?"

“Please do. I like when you hold me.”

"Your lab, then, shall we?"

Pen scarfs the last little bit of his sandwich and nods. "We shall." Waits for Ambrose' arm to lean on to stand.

Ambrose gives it, of course. Patient and courteous and careful.

Once again he leans more on him than he strictly needs to, nuzzling against his bicep as they walk.

And Ambrose isn't pushing him away. Is allowing it, he himself thinks, more than he perhaps ought to.

When they get to his lab, Penthos is loath to let go, wishes he could just crawl up into him. "How much do we need this time?"

"Shouldn't be too much. Do you think you can give me two vials?"

Pen would give it all if Ambrose asked. He nods. "Could probably do three, if you need."

"Give me three. Won't hurt to have a spare."

He nods again, extending his arm, pulling up the loose, poofy sleeve of his nightshirt, exposing the vein. The arm is covered in bruises, he's never been good about watching his limbs, knocking them into all sorts of things, bruising easily.

Ambrose presses two fingers against a vein, ting to bring it up. "You always have lovely veins, at least."

"Guess the blood cancer didn't fuck that up at least. Makes it easy to find." He honestly loves when blood gets taken, loves feeling Ambrose' hands on his arm, loves watching him insert the needle.

Ambrose is so intent, as he works. So very diligent. Careful. He always promises it won't hurt, his voice silk-satin. Like he might say when...

Like he might say when guiding someone through intimacy for the first time. Like he might say as he opens them up, slides into them. It makes Pen shiver in want, heartrate speeding up.

But Ambry penetrates him with the needle instead, sure and steady. "There we go. Good."

Any praise in that tone of voice makes Penthos have to beg his cock to not rise, excited. Even still it twitches in his underwear, dangerous with no trousers between them, only thin underpants and the bottom of his nightshirt.

"There you go. Done! Want me to kiss it better?" And he's not quite properly teasing.

"Yes, actually." Today, Pen decides, he can be a bit selfish.

Ambrose brings Pen's arm to his mouth and kisses the place his needle marked the skin.

He has the prick heal over, leaving it mostly unscathed when Ambrose pulls back. "Look, it worked."

And Ambrose laughs. "It always impresses me how you do that."

"What, even all these years later?" It's not like he hasn't seen Penthos do some variation of this since they were kids.

"It gets more impressive as we grow. Quicker, cleaner, fancier."

That makes Penthos smile wide, crooked and pale, but wide. Showing off headstone teeth. “Well it would be rather disappointing to us all if I regressed.”

"I'd be tremendously worried if you did. Let's have a look at this blood now." He sets it up to process.

He is genuinely interested in what Ambrose will find, after having not done his bloods in at least a week, and having certainly worked himself far too hard, hard enough to get sicker. “What happens if they’re bad?”

"We'll see what taking care of you need, and we'll do it. Might have to rest for a while."

“I won’t on my own. I refuse to be shut up in that room without anyone and don’t suggest the maid, or a nurse, because you know I hate them seeing me in the nude.” He wants Rose, wants to be kept and cared for by him and him alone.

"Then I'll stay by you. I'll have to train, but you can sleep when I do, and I'll be there when you wake."

“Or, you could help me down to the training grounds to watch.” He wheedles, looking as plaintive and innocent as possible. “I’ll be good and stay in the wheelchair the whole time if I need to, promise!”

Ambrose flushes up at the very idea. "Oh, I won't be as good if I'm trying to impress. But certainly."

“You know you don’t need to try to impress me, Amb, I just want to watch! It’s been ages.” And Penthos is desperate to see his cav get all sweaty and wild looking. Swinging his sword, all that glorious footwork….. If he’s lucky, he might even get to watch a shirt come off.

"Then we'll do that. Whether you're tr: ed inside or not. You'll get some nice fresh air." He frowns, though, looking at the blood results.

“It is rather nice out now. Not as repugnant as last time you tried to get me out.” It had been horridly sunny and even being outside had made his eyes hurt. Not the mention the sunburn.

"The sun is good for you. In controlled amounts." Ambrose insists.

“I turned pink Amb! Pink! And not a cute pink either! I looked like a boilt creature, and the peeling! I was losing skin in sheets!” It had been downright agony and done even more damage to his skincare routine.

"I suppose a burn can be a terrible thing indeed." He shakes his head in the direction of the blood he squints at.

Pen huffs a sigh. "It wasn't even a real burn! It was that stupid in between thing, not near enough to be pretty. Intolerable, truly."

"Well, we'll make sure you don't burn. I don't like what I'm seeing here, you know."

He frowns, even if only for appearances. "What? What's wrong with it this time?"

"Well, you're terribly anemic. No wonder you're bruising so."

"Oh. Have I not always been? Did it just get worse? The blood has been thinner, with my nose...."

"You're always a little, but it's worse, and your platelets..."

"Those are important huh." Well, he certainly got what he wanted, worse. He kicks his feet, hoping it looks like idle fidgeting, and not suppressed glee.

There's clear worry on Ambrose's face, creasing his brow and darkening his eyes. "Yes, you'll have to rest at least. Eat well."

"Yeah yeah, I know the drill. " Pen looks up at him. "Is that why I've been so hungry?"

"It must be. Even more so if you've been overdoing it on your work."

Adrastis puts on a show of grumbling. “It’s not like I have anything else to be doing, and I am making progress. You know that.” But he’s glad of it. Glad it means he’ll get forced to rest and therefore have his Ambrose within calling distance twenty four seven for the time being.

"I know! But you can't destroy yourself for your progress, it simply won't do."

I’m destroying myself for you! For you to look at me! Touch me! Hold me! It’s all for you. You must have noticed by now that I get markedly worse every time you get more serious about someone. Every time you blow me off to hook up. It’s not for progress, love, it’s just you.  But Penthos Adrastis is many things, foremost at the moment being ‘coward’ so he says none of that. Instead what comes out is: “I know, I’m sorry.”

"It's alright. We'll take care of you. We'll see you right. Doesn't look so much like a progression of the cancer, more so evidence of neglect. That's fixable."

Damn he hadn’t hid it well enough. “That’s good, right? Means you can fix me up?”

"Mm. I can, and I intend to. Not going to let such a pesky trouble defeat me."

Perfect. “Oh they wouldn’t dare! Such pests tremble at your might!”

"They had better. No, I'll see you right, you'll see. How do you feel? Terrible?"

Now that he’s thinking about it in more depth, it’s all so damned painful. “Atrocious, Rose, it’s so…… tiring.”

"Let's get you to bed. We'll get you a clean nightshirt, and you can rest a little before lunch. I'll even read more."

“Alright… before actual bedtime can we do a bath? I’ll behave all day, just want to get the yuck of the day off before you tuck me in all proper tonight.” If he’s lucky (or messy enough), Ambrose might even get in with him, or at least shed some clothing to not get soaked.

"Of course. It'll help steady your temperature, too. I'm rather shocked you don't have a fever."

Really the only reason he doesn’t is because he hadn’t let himself. They’re nasty things, making him all sweaty and ruining the pretty things he puts on every day. “It is strange, I suppose I’m just lucky.”

"Let's hope that luck holds. Or I'd have to find ways to cool you."

“Oh? And what sort of ways would that be?” He’s terribly curious.

"Put a fan on you, sponge you down if your temperature stays up."

Penthos nods. That sounds kind of nice, actually. Maybe he will let the fever run a little bit. If Ambrose isn’t being attentive enough at least.

Pen cums with a whimpering cry, overcome with want, surrounded by Ambrose, and loving it.

Ambrose raises his hand to his lips, and licks a broad stripe across his come-covered palm.

He shivers, eyes wide and lustdark, staring at that tongue. “You don’t know what you do to me, Ambry.”

"You don't know how beautiful you look. And taste."

Pen has a slight inkling of how he looks, spread out over the bed, pale and fragile and a rainbow of bruising, ripped shirt making him look ravished, a blush pinking his cheeks, with such lovely decay in that one eye, half hidden under sweaty locks of raven hair. He knows he’s always been pretty, does so much to emphasize it. A pretty corpse is a better corpse, after all. But Ambrose is right, he has no idea how he tastes. “Let’s rectify that then, let me taste.”

Ambrose holds out come-smeared fingers. "Go on, then. Give it a lick."

His tongue runs up those fingers slow, curling to press against as much of them as he can, drawing his own spend into his mouth. When he pulls back he looks like he’s tasting a fine cheese, trying to access a flavor profile. “You’re right.”

Ambrose smiles. "And your mouth..."

“What about it?” He wants to hear every little thing Ambrose has ever liked or wanted of him.

"I want to feel it on my prick."

Penthos licks his lips, staring at his crotch. “I- I want that too. I haven’t… before though. So I probably won’t be much good.”

"It's alright. I'll show you how."

He nods, crawling his way toward Ambrose, eye locked on his target.

Ambrose sits back, spreads his legs.

Pen opens his trousers, pulling out his prick, and falls to his elbows, marveling at it, at him. “You’re gorgeous, Ambry….”

"Put it in your mouth. Go on, lovely."

Plush lips wrap around him, wide eye looking up, for approval, for guidance.

Ambrose's hand comes to rest on the back of his head. "Open your mouth a little wider."

He does, wanting to make it good for Ambrose.

"Good boy. That's it. Just suck."

Pen tries, sucking, letting his tongue explore over the lovely cock in his mouth. He does taste just delicious.

Ambrose rests a hand on his head. "That's a good boy."

He hums in contentment, in pride, letting his head move lazily under Ambrose’s hand.

Ambrose groans in pleasure. "Little more..."

Penthos isn’t sure if he means a little deeper, a little more tongue, or a little more suction, so he does all three. Eye rolling back a bit as he sinks down.

"Oh, fuck, that's good, yeah, I'm going to..." He comes on his tongue before he can finish his sentence.

He swallows down as much as he can, but chokes, pulling off with the rest dribbling down his chin, mixed with spit. "You taste... even better."

"You're sweet." Ambrose gropes for a handkerchief to wipe Pen's face up.

"I'm telling the truth. You're lovely."

"And you're rather good, for a first time."

Oh Pen's eye sparkles in adoration. "Really?"

"I'll teach you to be even better. You'll make a quick study. You always do."

It shouldn't sting, but some part of him is hurt by 'even better,' never mind the fact Amb had just told him he was good for it being his first time. "Thanks." Is all he can manage, lips a little swollen, eye trying not to water.

"Ah, I don't mean to be harsh, I don't mean it that way at all."

"I know, you never do. No one ever does."

"But they are?" Ambrose finishes.

"I can always do better." He's only a little bitter about it. "I know you don't mean it that way, though."

"I don't. I mean, I want to do this with you again and again."

Pen cracks a salacious smile at that. "Ohhhhh I see now. You just want a pretty little thing to suck you off when you get bored~" Obviously teasing, especially when long nails walk their way up Ambrose's leg. "Agan and again, huh."

"I don't even need to be bored to want a pretty little thing to suck me off."

“Mmn, so you’d rather I just be free for you to use? On my knees for you 24/7? My, my, what would the rest of the Seventh think?”

"They'd be jealous, wouldn't they?"

“Of whom? Me, for getting the privilege of your prick? You, for having turned your adept into a fleshlight? I think they’d more likely start spouting off all of that crud about duty and imbalance again.”

"Oh, surely. They wouldn't say the same if it was the other way."

He hums, thinking. “I might still get that lecture on imbalanced duties and a slap on the wrist. But that’s likely it.” His head falls to rest against Epta’s thigh, warm and solid.

"I wouldn't even get a lecture. I'd get cloying sympathy. " His hand drops to play with Pen's hair.

“Another necromancer taking advantage of their swornsword… They’d not even take you away from me. Just look at you different.”

"It happens, but nobody talks of it."

“Ambrose, I don’t think I could properly take advantage of you if I wanted. I mean- Look at us.”

"You're right. I'm gagging for it."

Pen shoves at him, laughing. “That’s not my point and you know it!”

"I know what you meant. But there's other factors, too."

“Oh?”

"It would be hard to abuse me if I wanted it."

“Oh.” And here he had thought… “What eh… what kind of abuse, Rose?”

"You could fuck me, cut me, use my body for your experiments."

Penthos’ face heats up, turning a lovely pink. “I- That’s— Oh Amb, I—“

"You like that idea, don't you?"

“Yes,” comes out in a breathy rush, as if scared to admit it. “Want to make you afraid, and kiss you anyway.”

"What would you do with me? Tell me."

“Oh, so many options…. I want to open you up- no. I’ll preserve you like this…. living corpse set up all perfect for me… Could even put you on display! It’s hurt something awful, and I’ll kiss every little spot as it trembles. Let you back free all slow, maybe just parts of you at first…. Fuck you while you still can’t move…….” Pen takes a deep breath, presses a flushed kiss to his leg. “I do want to open you up though. Implant the loveliest little kernel of decay in you, see how it spreads. More mundane things too, things even regular boring people could get up too, but that seems a given.”

"It sounds wonderful." Ambrose finds himself saying. "Being at your mercy..."

Pen pulls himself up, pats him on the cheek. “Ambrose dear, don’t you know? You always have been.”

"And yet you never took advantage of it. Yet."

“Nothing wrong with giving that mercy. Even if I really should have punished you proper for leaving me alone, frail and weak and utterly helpless.”

"I would have deserved it, too." He bends near in half to press his lips to Pen's forehead. "Oh, you're warm now."

He’d almost forgotten he let the fever start. No wonder he’s a little faint. ..

"Why don't I... stay the night here?"

“Please. Ambry, you have no clue how long I’ve wanted to hear you say those words.”

"I'll sleep the night here. Be right here if you need me."

Pen doesn’t even try to hide the relieved sigh, the way he tucks himself close to his side. The way he clings. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Ambrose kisses him again. And he tastes come and fever-sweat and it's good, it's good.

He does slip into a lightly fevered sleep, tucked up into Ambrose the way he’s missed for more than a decade. When he wakes he’ll have to pull the fever back down, smother it till the embers die, but- well…. For now they can just rest.

Ambrose lies awake for a little while. Partially in worry, partially savouring his circumstances.

It’s late, quiet, when Penthos opens his eye. Sweaty and warm, disgusting, even pressed close to Ambrose. He focuses, and forces the fever down, muting each pyrogen release, and feeling his nose bleed for the effort. Digs deeper, superior, to the hypothalamus, forcing back down the temperature, sweat turning bloody and painful, choking on it.

It's a moment before the coughing wakes Ambrose, but not more than a moment. He turns over on his side, facing him. "Pen?"

He can only cough red, both eyes leaking liquid crimson, everything staining his perfect pretty torn nightshirt.

Ambrose sits up sharply. "Come here. Come here."

Penthos manages to sit, leans forward to do as told, and hacks up a horrid glob of red phlegm, directly onto Ambrose

Ambrose cradles him to his shoulder, not caring for a moment about all the blood smearing. Patting a hand up his spine, steadily and on the edge of painfully hard.

He tries to stabilize himself, and another gush of blood rushes from him, staining the pair. Penthos groans and nuzzles into his shoulder, clutching Ambrose’s shirt.

Ambrose's hand rubs the spot he was hammering the same hand against it. "That's it."

Finally it subsides into shudders, trembles and red, coppery sweat bleeding through fabric. Pen tries to speak, and what comes is a red pool of saliva, tongue failing him.

"Oh, Pen." Ambrose sounds somewhere between disointed and grieving. "Tell me you overdid it today, and you weren't doing necromancy in the  middle of the night  ."

He looks horribly sheepish, averting his eye, still slowly weeping red. The silence stretches on between them.

"Right. You'll have to get up and let me clean you up."

“Hurts.” It’s quiet, pathetic, feeble and weak. Penthos clings, long nails curling tighter into Ambrose’ shirt.

Ambrose softens, as if he'd ever been truly firm. "Your chest?"

“Everything.” And it has never been more accurate. He pushed it too far, did far too much. And now he can feel it all teetering on the edge of autolysis.

"I'm going to run you a bath, alright? You'll feel better when you're clean."

He can only nod, not wanting to let go. When his fingers are finally peeled free, red prints are left behind.

"Just you rest, I'll only be a moment." Ambrose as good as runs through the steps of switching on the bath.

It is a different sort of agony, this time. A dull ache deep in him, as if a hand had been gently disarticulated and pulled away from the body, with all the vasculature intact, stretching. Pen finds himself whimpering, still sweating blood, though slower now. He can’t tell if it’s due to recovery or due to a lack of the stuff to lose.

Ambrose reenters in the doorway. "Come on now. I'll carry you."

“Thank…. you… My gallant savior…” He feels a bit like he’ll pass out.

Ambrose gathers him up, bloody clothing and all. Rests Pen's head against his shoulder, like he knows it's a risk.

“Never have… to worry about anything when you’re here….”

"No. You don't. I'll take care of you." He promises.

When they get to the bathroom, Pen has to thump on his shoulder, gesture frantically to the toilet, so he can throw up bloody stomach bile into plumbing, rather than down Ambrose’s front.

It's a near thing, and a messy thing. Ambrose winces, in more sympathy than disgust. "Poor thing."

"Was... was getting rid of the fever..."

"Did it work?" He has to ask.

He's pretty sure it did, but.... "Check f'r yourself."

Ambrose puts a hand against Pen's face. "It does seem so."

That makes Pen grin, wide and bloody, teeth stained a bright red. "See? 'M a good necromancer...." As if there had ever been a question of this.

"You are. Very good, I'd never doubt it."

Penthos only smiles wider, as if this one sentence has made him h: ier than any other praise ever has. Blood slowly oozes from orifices, and the putrefying eyeball is beginning to waver, leaking serous and such as well.

"But you've overdone it quite awfully. Into the bath with you, come on."

The water is an instant pleasure, even as uncomfortable as it is being in wet clothes. "Better than.. any nurse..."

He needs to do more than just eat and pack. Needs to clean the rest of the blood off of him. Needs to stabilize or dismantle his running experiments, needs to make himself look more alive than dying. But he turns back to Ambrose, eye shining, wet. "Alright. Yes, alright I'll eat."

"You'll need the strength." Ambrose bites into his own scone.

Penthos eats half his scone in two bites, hoping to settle his stomach. Hoping to still that gnawing void in his gut.

Ambrose is all business, and all excitement. Smiling, humming to himself.

“Oh I don’t even— It’s silly…” He knows there are far more important things to worry about. “I don’t even know what to wear!”

"Something..." He hesitates between advising form and function. "Something pretty. And warm."

"Nothing I have is warm!" Pen despairs. It's all thin layers, lace and poofy fabrics, made to make him look innocent, and feeble and, in a certain light, desirable.

"Don't you have a coat, at all? Then you'll have to layer up. The trip will be cold."

“‘Don’t I have a coat’ he asks, Ambrose you know what my closet is! You’ve helped dress me in most of it!”

"I'll have to lend you one, then. For the trip. You can't afford to land at the First wearing your cavalier's coat."

Pen feels his insides heat up so happily at that until it sinks in. “Oh, I can’t, can I…. Neither of us can. Even if it was only duty, no one would believe us.”

"We'll have to play to have the usual sort of relationship."

“But I just got to have you to hold and keep.” he grumbles, undoubtably pouting as his rifles through clothing.

"And you'll have me. The moment we're away from other eyes."

That mollifies him a bit. “Good. I don’t want to spend another night apart from you. The bed there best be big enough.” And then his eyes go wide with concern. “Ambrose- Ambrose do you think they’ll have ramps? Amb, what if I need my chair!”

"Surely they'll have some such accommodations. Surely. It's the First, it must be lovely."

“They must, right? I mean we won’t be the first from Seventh…. We can’t be.” The fear is there though, as he looks over the collection of mobility aids. “I can’t very well expect you to carry me everywhere when I get too worn out.”

"And I will, if I have to. You know that."

“I do~” and he relishes in it. Stepping toward Ambrose and leaning against him. How nice it is to be able to finally have him.

Ambrose presses a kiss to his lips. Quick, feather-light.

He follows, deepening it, desperate and hungry.

Ambrose's hand wraps around the back of his head, kissing him proper.

Penthos can’t help it, can’t help the way he opens and moans into the kiss, under his touch, pulls him closer, licks inside and—

And Ambrose gasps into the kiss. A breathy sort of sound, unlike him.

It only makes Pen press harder, more forceful, walking then back till Ambrose hits the bed and the pair fall, half nude, to the bare mattress, lips and teeth and tongues a writhing wet mess.

Ambrose should rationally push him away. Insist on finishing their work. He doesn't. Lets them tangle further.

When Penthos makes his way on top of him, hips stretching just further than they should to straddle Ambrose’s, it feels the most natural thing in the world. He can’t see, can’t breath, can’t think beyond a constant litany of ’AmbroseAmbroseMineMyAmbroseMineMineMine’

And Ambrose isn't pushing him away. Hard and ready and his.

Hands rove over skin, tracing, feeling, squeezing what belongs to him, exploring new territory, utterly flawless, as if Penthos would have let anything stand to mark or scar his cavalier.

Skin he's fixed scars on before. All but that proud scar on his face. That one, the only mark allowed to stay.

Allowed, but begrudgingly. Penthos hates the damn thing, and if Ambrose wouldn’t be horridly upset by it, he’d have gotten rid of it in Amb’s sleep forever ago. As it is, Pen avoids looking at it when he can. Is lucky it’s on the side his bad eyes faces when they kiss. This way he can stare at Ambrose all he wants from less than 4 inches away, spit stringing between them.

Ambrose is flushed. Even he, the great seducer, is visibly impacted by Pen's kiss.

“I want to devour you, so I can keep you forever. Did you know that?” It’s breathy, lips puffy and red. Penthos never wants to let him go.

"Do it. Keep me. Make me a part of you." Ambrose insists, unable to account for what he's saying, love and arousal talking.

Well how can Pen say no to that, leaning forward and takes a bite out of him. Flesh and skin part under his teeth and blood bursts, filling his mouth. When Penthos pulls back, he’s chewing, and- “oh how delicious you are, Rose.”

Ambrose shivers. "That hurt." And that didn't change his erection, or his blown eyes.

Pen swallows, and presses a kiss to the missing flesh, healing it over, scar-free. “Yes, it was supposed to. You’re supposed to be willing to hurt for me.”

"I am. Would. Are you testing me?"

“No.” Maybe. “You said you wanted it. I gave it.” Another kiss presses to the bite site. “Should I be testing you?”

"There's no need. You won't find me wanting."

“Of course I won’t. You’re my cavalier. Mine. All mine.” It’s only then that Penthos sits up properly, realizing they have precious few hours left before they depart.

"We have to pack." Ambrose says, coming to the same woozy realization.

“They’ve given us so little time to prepare! You’d think the First would be more on top of things, no?” Pen slides sideways off of him, and gestures toward the trunks, indicating Ambrose will need to fetch them for Penthos to fill.

"Assuming we were the first they wanted." Ambrose goes to do exactly that.

“Oh. Right.” He’d been so caught up in a call from The Emperor, a call to lyctorhood, that he hadn’t even considered why it was them receiving it, rather than the Seventh’s primary.

"Not that he won't be impressed with us. Not that we won't do the Seventh proud. But they must have wanted the Duchess first."

Pen makes a face. “Of course he wanted the Duchess. Everyone wants the Dutchess and she can do no wrong.” That’s not fair and he knows it, but honestly what’s a little (far) extended family without jealousy.

"But he's going to get you, instead." Ambrose grins. "And see he's better off for it."

And Lord Undying, how can Penthos do anything but melt and match that grin. “He’s going to get the pair of us.”

"A fine cavalier, too, for his troubles." Ambrose boasts.

“The very finest!” And Pen has to kiss him again.

It's a quick kiss, this one, just a brief break in work.

One trunk fills fast, Pen sorting through garments, trying to figure out what’s appropriate for the venture. “They didn’t give us much to work ofd of did they? I mean ‘The Emperor calls now for postulants to the position of Lyctor, heirs to the eight stalwarts who have served these ten thousand years: as many of them now lie waiting for the rivers to rise on the day they wake to their King, those lonely Guard remaining petition for their numbers to be renewed and their Lord above Lords to find eight new liegemen.’ That tells me nothing of what’s expected etiquette wise!”

"Best behaviour, I suppose. Do you think we'll meet Him?"

“Oh scary! But…. maybe? I think we might not unless we join their ranks…..” He pulls out one dress he loves, but might be a tad scandalous, considering it. “It does day the ‘lonely Guard’ petition, so I suppose we might be meeting Lyctors?”

"I'd love to spar with a lyctor." Ambrose is practically salivating at the thought.

The image makes Pen laugh. “Oh sweetness, you’d be flat on your back in an instant.”

"And wouldn't it be a lovely story to tell later?"

“It really would, especially because I just know you’d end up spouting off some horrid line while pinned.”

"Surely. Just to see if they'd smile."

“And it won’t be my fault if they kill you for your insolence, but I would miss you something terrible. Beat shy away from the possibility, mh?”

"Best indeed. You're right. It's almost certainly sin, to flirt with a saint."

Cupping a hand to his face, Pen smiles, cheeky and wide. “Well once I’m one, it won’t matter if it’s a sin. You’ll still be my cavalier and if we want to flirt I don’t see what they can do about it.”

"You'll make me a consort, won't you? A kept boy."

“Consort to a saint…. now there’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one. But I suppose so. Although you’re already a kept boy aren’t you. Already mine.”

"I already am. And once you're one of them, no-one can tell you it should be otherwise."

Pen kisses him again, far chaster than before. “Precisely.”

Ambrose goes to pack his own things as hurriedly as he can. Warm clothes, and pretty clothes, and spare swords.

He comes back to Penthos dismantling his long running work, eyepatch still nowhere to be seen. “There’s water heating in the bath. As nice as it felt last night, we didn’t actually clean much of the blood off, and I’d rather not show up to the First looking like a juiced tomato.”

"No, that wouldn't be the best, would it? And I'm spattered with some too."

“So a quick bath. And I mean quick, Epta, we can’t get started on any funny business I’m afraid.” Having finished, he turns all his attention to Ambrose. “Just to get clean.”

Ambrose smiles, all wicked. "I'll keep my hands to myself."

“Oh well that won’t do… however would I get myself entirely clean?” But he’s smiling back, just as mischievous.

"I'll be very chaste about it, then, if you want a hand to get you clean."

Penthos gives him a quick peck, and climbs into the tub, dunking entirely under the water, and starting with cleaning his hair.

Ambrose starts with washing himself and then reaches out his hands to help Penthos.

They do manage to get all the blood off, and probably in record time too. “I still haven’t the faintest what to wear on the way there. Although I would quite like to match you.”

"We ought to be in green. Trimmed in silver. Show our House some pride."

His eye lights up. “Oh, that’s inspired, you’re absolutely correct.”

"I've got that lovely green riding coat, you know the one, the velvet one, and that sword belt with the silver buckle."

Pen nods, “Paired with those black slacks, the ones with the filigree.. oh and a nice blouse, yes that’ll work quite well.” He kisses Ambrose again, a small reward for small brilliance.

"You'll have a pretty cav at your side. Like you deserve."

He loves when Ambrose does this, loves feeling his hands holding him steady, lacing and pulling and tying him into his clothing. It's just as grounding as anything else. "Truly.... I'm happy we'll be going together."

"Do you want this tighter?" Ambrose asks or perhaps offers.

He shouldn't, he knows that. "Yes, please." He wants his lack of breath to be this, not nerves.

Ambrose teases the laces just a little tighter. Just to the point where it starts to pinch. "Oh, that's lovely. I could almost put my hands around your waist."

"Bet we could get it there.... Could make your fingers touch...." It's ill advised, yes, but he can't help being interested at the thought.

"If there's any fancy occasion at the First, we might well try."

Penthos turns, and pulls him into a kiss, raising onto tip toe, leaning against his front. "We just might."

"You'd be lovely. We could show up even the Third."

"You know we would. What good is pretty clothes if the people in them are boring and healthy?"

"Obnoxious flirts, too. I know I stand in a precarious position to say it, but..."

"But you don't act like a lascivious slut!" And he falls into peals of laughter, leant against Ambrose, happier here than anywhere else.

"I don't! I have some restraint!" Ambrose is laughing too.

They stay there, laughing together, until his timepiece dings. "Damn, we're going to be late!" A cane gets shoved in the second bag, and he gets settled into his wheelchair.

Ambrose practically runs with him. It isn't much dignified, but to be late would be a curse.

The pair do make it to the shuttle, but it's a close thing, closing up their house behind them. The earth is already waiting for them, and Penthos can't stop trembling through liftoff.

Ambrose reaches for his hand. His fingers of his other hand are clenched absolutely white around the hilt of his rapier, his own nerves bleeding in clearly.

Of course, Pen clasps their hands together, twining them together. "Do- do you want to look out? Or keep the windows shuttered?"

"I want to look." Ambrose has to speak around a lump in his throat to say so. "I've never gotten a chance like this before!"

He nods, opening the shutters, exposing the depths of space beyond them. "It's.... terrifying. How wide open it is...."

Ambrose leans over his shoulder to look. "It's beautiful."

Penthos is grasped by a sudden, certain terror that Ambrose would run off into the depths of space and leave him behind. "You- Not more beautiful that life with me though, right?"

"No. More beautiful with the fact I see you silhouetted against it."

He should have known not to worry. "So you'll stay with me? Even if I hate being off planet?"

"Do you hate it?"

"I hate how..... empty it all is. There's no death there, just void."

"Just... little lights. Those must be the other Houses. I'm sorry, love. It must feel awfully cold to you. Are you feeling sick, being off-planet?"

Penthos shakes his head, slow, turning and tucking into his side. "Not more than usual."

"Good. Good." He wraps his arms around him. "Come here. Nobody to see us here."

He's right, there isn't anyone. The privacy screen is up between them and the pilot, it's just them and the casket of dirt. "Just us and the little bit of home in that box."

Ambrose pats the side of the casket almost affectionately. "No prying eyes there."

"No, just some microorganisms. Same as my own eye. Which means...." Penthos threads fingers through Ambrose's hair, pulling, before forcing him to bend into a crushing kiss.

Ambrose kisses back as eagerly, tongue poking between his lips.

Same as before, Pen deepens it, wet and hungry and demanding. fingers pulling harder at his hair.

Ambrose groans, sounding nearly wounded. "Pen..."

"Yes? What is it you want, Bry, you'll have to be clearer than that." He knows it's rude to tease, but he can't help it.

"We've got hours. I want to fuck you."

Lord undying Penthos wants that too. “Did you pack what we need for it?”

"I did, but... might be hard to get to. I'll fuck your thighs."

“Fuck my— What?”

"You can clench your thighs, and I can fuck between them."

Pen looks down, at his own legs. “There’s…. not much there to fuck between…” He looks back up, hoping the scrawniness isn’t a disappointment.

"It'll do very nicely. If I get the slick out, it'll be obvious I went through the luggage."

“Right because we aren’t allowed to open our own luggage.” It’s dripping sarcasm, but he agrees. It would be better to not let on even through implication. So he pulls down his trousers, and looks up at Ambrose. “So, do the undergarments come too? And do I need to lay down?”

"Yes. To both. That would be best, the first time."

The, admittedly frilly, underwear slide off and are cast aside, landing next to the trousers. The floor is cold. Horribly cold, actually, and gooseflesh raises along each limb, making his cute little ass shiver. “Front or- or back?”

"On your back. Face me."

Oh how nice it sounds when Ambrose orders. He’s not seen it since years back, at one of those demonstration things, all of the social cavaliers had. Pen shivers, lustful this time, rather than cold, and settles back properly, looking up at Ambrose, half-hard already.

Ambrose fumbles with his own clothes, and he's hard before he gets them off. "Legs open." Yes, he's relishing lording a lick of power over his adept. Relishing the privilege to order, and be obeyed.

Penthos does so, eagerly. Pale eye blown wide, looking entirely at Ambrose.

Ambrose basks in the gaze of those eyes. And slots himself between Pen's spread legs. His hand gathers up one of Pen's slim thighs, pressing them back together to make a space for himself to fuck.

“You feel- so good Amb…. can’t wait till you can be in me proper…”

"You're so little... you'll be wonderfully tight, I think."

Pen whines. hips jolting forward, seeming friction, warmth, Ambrose. “Want to be, for you. Just you.”

"You are." He thrusts against him. "Mine, all mine."

The drag is heaven, causing his mouth to fall open, soft little pleasure sounds slipping out like silks, his eye hazy and already dazed.

"Lovely." Ambrose purrs. "It's lovely, you're lovely..."

One of Pen’s hands finds it’s way up, fisting in Ambrose’s shirt. It’s no quite what he wants, but the feeling of Ambry’s cock dragging against his own as he fucks between thin thighs is making it hard to think straight.

Ambrose presses his hand down between them, wraps it around Pen's cock for extra friction.

Penthos is no stranger to a hand on his prick, but usually it’s his own, feeling Ambrose’s on him…. hell it makes him moan loud enough it echoes, lewd, around the metal walls of the shuttle, bucking up to meet the contact.

"Good." Ambrose coos. "Good boy."

“Yours- Your g’d boy-!” It’s all Pen gets out before he spills over Ambrose’s hand with a strangled whine.

Ambrose bends to kiss him. His mouth, then his neck, but he's careful not to leave a mark. "Mine." He chases his orgasm doggedly, hips snapping forward. When he comes, it's over Pen's thighs.

That only makes him tremble more, somewhere between need and exertion, pleased little whimpers slithering out. Pen hasn’t let go of his shirt, and he’s certainly not doing it now.

Ambrose kisses all over his face, kisses again and again. Then he looks up at the window, and laughs.

“What’ so funny?” As much as Penthos likes the kisses, he doesn’t like feeling left out of a joke.

"Look, look." Ambrose urges, pointing at the small blue ball of the First, growing steadily larger. "We missed the first look."

Penthos starts laughing too, choking out “we were- We were having a first of our own!”

"And it was lovely. And it was beautiful. Oh, look. It's a lovely thing too."

“It’s very… blue.” He’s not sure what he expected.

"Lots of water, it must be. Maybe we'll get a chance to swim."

“Oh, that would be just perfect, us, a swimming pool, and the other eight pairs!” Penthos knows he should be nicer but, well, when has it mattered in the past.

"You don't want to show me off without my shirt on, for them to see?"

“I’m sure everyone else will be….” He lets his head thunk back against the floor of the shuttle, hand going up to drag a hand across his face, and grimaces when he finds it’s still absolutely covered in both his and Ambrose’s spend.

"I'll clean us up. Don't you worry, don't you worry about us at all." Ambrose promises, grabbing some clean cloth. It's one of his shirts.

He lets Ambrose work, watching all the while. “It’s rather messy with two involved isn’t it….”

"Twice the mess. I'd be unsurprised if you found the stickiness displeasing."

Penthos does actually find it displeasing. He dislikes the feeling even when it's just his own mess on him. Usually, he wouldn't think twice before causing a fuss, but.... "Less of a problem when you're here."

"Exactly." Ambrose strokes over his softening cock. "It's my job to keep you comfortable."

It is, isn't it. That makes Pen smile. "You do such a good job of it too."

"I'd be derelict in my duties if I let you be miserable. Or sticky."

"I think your duties are currently mandating you come here and kiss me." Especially now that he's mostly clean.

Ambrose presses their lips together gently. It's a kiss that makes it feel like their hearts beating together, like they slot together into one.

When they finally break apart, loathe as Penthos is to do so, he looks at Ambrose with wide puppylike eye. "Put my trousers back on?"

With a smile that edges towards laughter, then back to sweetness, Ambrose bends to do just that.

Penthos would be happy to let Ambrose do everything for him, likes how easy it is for him to move him, to do whatever he wants. It makes Penthos feel like a little doll, sickly and pretty and cared for.

Ambrose gives him another kiss as he tucks his clothes in. "There you are. All nice again."

"Just in time, too. You'd best put yourself back together as well." He points at the window, at how they've stopped, and are waiting for clearance to land.

Ambrose gets himself ready quick. Yanks his shirt smooth, fastens his trousers and his sword belt.

Sitting himself up, Penthos watches his cavalier put himself back together. "I suppose we should get ready to land, even if we're waiting up here for a while."

"Who knows what the delay is. Formalities, surely."

"Surely." But he still goes to put the privacy screen down, asking what the delay is. When he's told that there are more shuttles than Canaan House was expecting, his eye widens in confusion.

Ambrose sighs, and sits down on the cases. "Do you think it's the Duchess, somehow?"

"I- how could it be? It's not as if we didn't recieve a letter personally."

"It's not as if we're going back."

"We can't, there's no way they'd spend the money to get us back, not on a clerical error."

"If there's too many of us, they'll have to take too many of us."

The shuttles all start moving, and Pen turns to Ambrose, shrugging. "Must have been what they decided."

"Are you ready?" Ambrose asks. Takes a deep breath, like he's about to go on stage.

"I think we have to be. It's far too late to have second thoughts now." Penthos replies, brushing himself off and taking a seat in his wheelchair. It'll need to come off the shuttle and it may as well come with him when he disembarks, although... "Should I be standing?"

"Can you?" He can't deny it might present a better impression. He knows what others think about the weakness of the Seventh.

"Yes, but I can't promise for how long." He knows he should, but that large bit of him almost wants the rest of the pairs to pity him, just as everyone else does. It's a known circumstance that way, at least.

"I'd offer you my arm, but I probably ought to walk behind you, oughtn't I?"

"A half step, and just slightly to the side, yes." Penthos stands, once again brushing himself off, raises his head high. "Chins up, yeah? Show them what Seventh can offer?"

“You always do look nice dear, I just seek to make sure everyone else knows your nice looks belong to me.”

"All of it does." He looks around, and he accidentally meets Magnus the Fifth's eyes, and instantly looks down at his plate. "Did you know they're married?" He says, apropos of nothing really.

It takes Pen a moment to figure out who he’s talking about, only figuring it out when he sees Magnus still looking at them. “Oh are they? Leave it to the Fifth to break taboos left and right, no?”

"And with such style." He smiles back at Magnus.

“Oh don’t you start with him now too. He’ll not be interested anyhow!”

"Oh, no, he certainly won't. That makes it fun, too, you know?"

He deliberates for a long while, looking between Ambrose, Magnus, and the rest of the table. “I….. suppose it would make the others less likely to catch on if you’re being the same rakish flirt as usual….” It sounds like it physically pains him to say.

"And he's a safe sort. Sitting beside his wife."

“True…. At the most, you’d seem to be trying to join them.”

"Which might net me a fight, and wouldn't that be fun."

Penthos rolls his eyes, though obviously in jest. “So long as I get to watch.”

"Oh, you know I'd never sneak behind your back. Anymore."

His eye narrows at Ambrose. “No, you won’t.”

Ambrose flashes his same flirtatious smile at Pen, quick enough to hope nobody sees, or nobody takes him seriously, at least.

And lord if it doesn’t still make Penthos feel like swooning. His hand tightens on Ambrose under the table. “Careful now.”

"Oh, they'll think I'm disobedient, won't they? Are you done eating? Come, we ought to see our room."

“Disobedience or no, you have to be careful with your flirtations. At least when directed toward me in this House.” He does stand, though, intent on yes, seeing their room.

Ambrose follows him at three calculated paces, head down. Like he ought to.

Once they get far enough away from the group, Pen twists his hand back into Ambrose’s. “Come here, Bry, I miss you.”

Ambrose lets himself be pulled closer. "I'm never far."

“Still to far when I can’t hold you.”

"Hopefully we'll both fit in your bed, won't we?"

“One would certainly hope. Especially seeing as we’ve only been given the one room, and not one for each.” Privately, Penthos is pleased. If he’d had to be in a separate room he think he’d perish.

But the setup of the room gives even Ambrose pause. "Oh, that's old-fashioned."

“What-? Oh…. I take it that’s not how most are?” They’d each had their own wings of the manor, so Penthos truly has no frame of reference here.

"It's dreadfully old-fashioned. The idea I ought to sleep at your feet, sword ready. Like a guard dog."

“I’ll not disagree there.” He sits on the bed, looking up at Ambrose. “You do act rather like a well-trained hound, though, don’t you.”

It makes Ambrose flush, right up his neck to his cheeks. "So, you'll have you me sleep there?"

The way he blushes makes Pen’s stomach clench, heat coiling, prick twitching in interest. “I suppose that’s up to you, no? Do you want to be my partner, or do you want to be my dog?” Penthos would much rather share with him, the pair curled tight together, but he’s not sure enough in himself yet to order as such.

"I'd rather keep your bed nice and warm."

“Then come do that. It is awfully chilled here.”

"Lay down, then, and I'll get our things sorted." He yanks the blankets on the cot loose, ruffling them up like they've been slept in.

Pen does so obediently, getting comfortable, shuffling his shoes off, his trousers down.

Ambrose tugs one of Pen's warmer nightgowns out of the bag. "Here you go. Put this on."

He looks up at Ambrose, turning to lay on his stomach, eye wide and in an attempt of alluring. “Oh, but Ambrose, I can’t seem to reach to undo my lacing~”

It works. With no shame, it works. Ambrose is by his side in an instant, working at the knots, unpicking the laces.

“And to think! The scandal of my being such a helpless little adept, lain out and vulnerable under the touch of such a rakish cavalier~!” The way the words drip free is almost indecent themselves, Penthos wriggling just a bit, utterly shameless in his attempt at seduction.

Ambrose can't help the way it makes him harden. "I could do anything to you."

A pleased little hum and, “Oh and so far from the other rooms…. no one would hear!”

"Nobody would hear you if you screamed, even. It's a good thing I bought something to slick the way, isn't it?"

That makes Pen truly shiver, tilting his hips up just a bit. “Y-yes, your degenerate plans have paid off.”

"You and me, all alone..." He reaches into his case, and fumbles around for the little bottle of lubricant.

“Be… be gentle, please sir, I haven’t— before, I… my virtue is intact…” And he has to hold in a giggle at how silly a line that sounds.

"You'll love it." Ambrose promises, and means it. "I won't hurt you."

Pen nods, and looks back over his shoulder at him. “I don’t think I’d mind hurt, not from you.”

"I won't hurt you more than you'd like." He amends.

He smiles, wide and excited. "Then I suppose I'm at your mercy! I can do nothing to halt your dastardly plans!"

"You can do nothing. Spread your legs."

Now to see how much Ambrose will let him push the fantasy…. Pen shakes his head, pressing his thighs closer together, still smiling. If he wants between them, Ambrose will have to open them himself.

It's a thrill. A guilty delight he hasn't been able to inflict on most of his hookups in the past, but he's wanted something like this. It takes a fraction of his strength, only, to push Pen's legs open.

It makes him shudder, eye blown dark and wide with lust. To have it shown how very easily Ambrose can overpower him…. Lord Undying its bliss. “….fuck—”

Ambrose uncaps the lubricant, soaks his fingers in it. Pushes one up into Pen.

There’s no warning, and therefore, no time to prepare, to brace, and the sound that rips out of Pen is humiliating, high and shrill and choked. He scrabbles at the bed, getting a grip in the sheets. Ambrose might have slicked his fingers but this is still the first time anything has gone in there and Pen’s heart is racing, mostly excitement, but a tad apprehension.

Ambrose pumps his finger in and out, then gives him a second. Slick, not quite really too tight of a fit.

Pen forces himself to relax, to breathe, to push back toward Ambrose’s hand, working him in a little deeper. It’s… a strange feeling, but now that he’s more used to it he finds it not unpleasant.

Ambrose strokes the small of Pen's back with his other hand. "That's it. Take it."

“Take anything you give…” Another high moan wrenches out, and, panting, smiling once more, so does “like I have any choice~”

"You don't." Ambrose reminds him, but he softens the blow with a kiss to the nape of his neck. "Can't wait to get my cock in you."

"S'that going to feel better?" This doesn't exactly feel bad, but it's not good yet either.

"Mm. Yes. It will. You'll see." He crooks his fingers, searching for that spot.

Pen wails, arching back into his hand. Nothing has felt like this before, nothing has been this "good! Fuck-! S'good!"

"There we go." Ambrose coos his satisfaction. "Now you're getting it."

All Pen can do is whimper happily, trying to wriggle enticingly, wanting more.

Ambrose gives him a third finger, before he pulls them out and declares. "You're ready."

He whines at the loss. "Please, Amb- I-"

"Relax." Ambrose orders. "Breathe out." He pours more slick onto his cock before he pushes in.

The breath out turns into a strangled keen, he's so much larger than his fingers had been, Pen feels fuller, like he can't possibly be split any further open. He's trying to relax, trying so hard, but it doesn't work, clenching down on Ambrose as he presses steadily forward, steadily deeper.

"You have to relax." Ambrose insists. "Have to, because I'm not going to stop now."

“What- what if I can’t?” Pen’s voice is a ghost of a thing, thin and strained, face pressing forward against a pillow as he pants.

"Then... how much does it hurt?"

“Not— Not much right now…. Just full.”

"Then you can take it. Bite the pillow if you must."

That makes Pen’s knees go even weaker, struggling to hold himself up at all, makes his prick leak all the more, dampening the sheet below him. Time seems to slow in those few moments before Ambrose starts moving.

He thrusts deep when he does move. Testing Pen's body, testing the give of it.

For as fragile as Pen purports to be, he’s rather stretchy, his hole swallowing down Ambrose’s prick with relative ease, even as tense as it is. Pen, for his part, wails, getting half out before shoving his face into the pillow, biting, just as he was told.

Ambrose gets a hand under him, grasps his prick in a firm grip to stroke along with his thrusts.

He keeps trying to buck forward, into Ambrose’s hand, but it only serves to fuck himself on Ambrose’s cock, making Pen squeal and twitch even more. He’s so full and though it hurts, though he can’t think straight, he’s still somehow never felt better, each bruising thrust shoving into and along that blasted spot, the one that makes him see stars.

Ambrose is biting his own lip almost to blood. This melts his brain apart. How he's dreamed of this. How his skilled, practiced hookups will never measure up.

It takes an embarrassingly short time for Penthos to cum, shooting into Ambrose’s hand, sobbing as everything overwhelms him, only getting tighter around the cock splitting him apart. He feels like he’s going to die, going to ascend, going to dissolve. It’s hell, it’s heaven, it’s everything and he never wants it to end.

Ambrose doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. Though he moves his hand away, mercifully, after a few more strokes. He collapses against Pen's shoulder when he reaches his own peak, breathing hard.

The added weight of cavalier on top of him makes Pen go completely flat, embedded in the mattress under Ambrose, groaning and whimpering in discordant pleasure.

Ambrose eventually rolls off him, kissing his shoulder. "Lord Undying. Fuck."

“Think it’s- safe to say you’ve- soundly taken my virtue as your own…” Pen doesn’t know how he’s going to be getting around in the morning. He’s sore, entirely sated and content, but sore.

"And it was lovely. You've ruined me for anyone else."

That makes a harsh laugh scrape out of him. “As if I was ever going to let you fuck anyone else!” Even if he never decided to, or got around to fucking him, Pen was never going to allow anyone else that privilege either.

"I was lucky, wasn't I, to have such a long leash for so long."

“You were lucky and I was negligent. It’s a damn good thing both of those have been rectified.”

"You don't like sharing?" He teases. As if he's not been told.

Pen musters the strength to turn over, fixing him with a hard glare. “Ambrose Epta if I find out you’ve fucked someone else, from now till eternity I will be taking complete control your dick. Permanently.”

"At least I learned to fuck well while you gave me leave."

“That you did. I’ll be the only one benefiting from it starting now though. You’re not to pleasure anyone else.”

"Wouldn't dream of it. You've ruined me for even wanting it."

He leans over and gives a light flick to the side of Ambrose’s prick. “That includes yourself, you know. Unless I give permission otherwise.”

Ambrose looks sour for just a second, then smiles. "I like that tone from you. Are you prepared to take care of my needs, then?"

“Such dirty talk! In such a public place! You scoundrel!” He has to joke, or the thought of bringing about Ambrose’s end will make him cry, and no one wants to smell that.

Ambrose laughs, though, lets the joke ease the atmosphere. "We have to act right at breakfast."

“I suppose we will… a shame, that.” He wants to lean against Ambrose, place food on his tongue, sit on his lap.

"Who knows who will be about. It was the Fourth and Fifth and the Ninth this time."

It's the Sixth, this time, bent over a scrap of paper between their bowls.

“Ah, seems we likely had nothing to worry about.” But he says it quietly, into Ambrose’s ear.

Ambrose shoots Camilla the Sixth a conspiratorial look, one that they share. A brow arched, a twitch of the lips. A secret shared.

Penthos sees it, he may not quite catch the meaning, but he does notice. “Oh lovely. Now I’ll be competing for your attentions again.” He’s laughing though, happy Ambrose has found the beginnings of a friend, even if he does hate not being the center of his attention.

"I don't mean to cause a competition for her attention. To say nothing of my own." But he sits close by the Sixth, quite naturally.

Much as Pen would like to demand he get food for the both of them, he knows he should try to give at least a somewhat serviceable first impression. “What would you like for food, Ambry? They seem to have quite a bit left.”

"Might I have some bread, please? And some tea."

“Of course.” It’ll be a balancing act to get it all back with his cane, but he can probably manage. …….Manage enough that when Pen inevitably sends Ambrose to get his food it’ll seem like a feeble slip of a man asking for assistance, and not a necromancer demanding his cav act as slave.

Ambrose understands the intention. He's grateful for it. Doesn't want to look debased to a new friend. Doesn't want to look like that poor sap from the Third.

Penthos does manage the tea, and the bread. A plate on top of the cup, rattling with each step, but not spilling, and he gets halfway back to the table of food before he gets too faint. At home, they’d had chaises, loungers, even just low armed, plush chairs he could collapse upon when things stopped working properly, but here there’s no such luck. Before he knows it, Pen’s on the floor. A slow fall, almost, but one nonetheless. The cool tile feels nice, at least. And nothing hurts more than it did while vertical, so he figures he’s fine.

Ambrose gets to his feet in a hurry, breath catching in his throat, but --

Cam is just a seat closer, and a second quicker onto her feet. She's by Pen's side in an instant, cradling his head into her lap. "Where does it hurt?"

Pen chokes out a laugh. “Where doesn’t it?” He brings a hand up under the veil, to his dead eye, wiping away a few beads of vitreous humor that leaked when he fell. “Just got faint, it happens.”

Her eyes are still on him, still tense and worried. "Did you hit your head, when you fell?"

“I don’t think so, nothing hurts extra.” He looks between her and Ambrose, suddenly very aware of where his head is, and feeling a tad embarrassed.

Ambrose gets to his knees beside him. "Lean on me, let's get you up."

To say Pen melts into his touch would be inaccurate. He dissolves. Nothing and nowhere ever feels as good as Ambrose’s arms after an episode.

Ambrose takes his time to help him up. Just cradles him in his arms for a suspiciously long moment.

Of course, Penthos makes it worse, nuzzling into his chest, letting his good eye slip shut for as many blissfully warm and secure moments as they can allow.

Ambrose settles him back in his chair with a lover's touch. "I suppose Camilla has already done the needed examination."

“Mm, yes. It seems she has.” He doesn’t want Ambrose to let go.

So, he doesn't. Not even when they bid the Sixth a cheerful goodbye. He's got a hand still resting when the rest of the Seventh arrive.

And the Duchess looks at them strangely. Not hostile, not quite judgmental. Jealous. Hot

Penthos sees it. He always sees it when it’s directed at Ambrose. His eye narrows, and he lets himself hold Ambrose’s hand. Coverjng it, holding it tighter to him.

And she notices. Her bloodless lips curl into a smile. She looks pale, today. There's blood in her mouth, blood in her teeth.

“You seem more ill, Duchess, gorgeous of course.” Flattery tends to be the best way to deal with royalty, Penthos has found.

She smiles, taking the flattery easily, soaking it up. "Oh, it's a bad day. This awful wet weather. You must understand."

“Certainly. The climate here is rather ill-conducive to our conditions.” Something feels off about her statement. Even if it’s not technically incorrect.

Like she expects a better day. Like she's more upset about the weather than her condition, like it's some kind of betrayal.

"Why don't you lend us your key, then, Duchess, if you're not feeling well?" Ambrose offers.

Pen half holds his breath. There’s no way that’ll work he thinks, but he can hope.

"You'll have to report back to me on what you find. For the Seventh." As if Ambrose works for her. As if he's an agent she's glad to recruit. She holds out the key to make him lean in and take it from her hand.

He holds in the grimace, but barely. “Of course, your Grace.”

She caresses Ambrose's hand as he takes the key, there's no other word for it. No other way to see it but fondling him. And he can’t do a damn thing about it. Ambrose is his yes, but they are subservient enough for refusal.

He can't do a thing to stop it while Ambrose is touched like a thing. He fights his own urge to grimace. "Thank you, Duchess."

Only Pen get’s to touch him like that. But he forces a smile. “Yes thank you. We’ll report back any and all findings.”

The dinner invitation comes later that day. Ambrose brings it to Pen to open, of course. It seems somehow obscene for him to start opening the mail.

“Ah, it seems to be an anniversary.” And directly to us, even if we aren’t the heir and primary.” Pen looks up at him. “Quinn says he’ll be cooking.”

"Sweet of them to think of us. I'd love to try his cooking."

“Then we’ll attend. I’ll not be left out of anything else in this place just because of a ‘clerical error.’”

"It'll be nice to have a pleasant night. A chance to show off."

Oh he’s right. They can show off just how gorgeous the Seventh can be. “Ambrose I have no real ideas what to wear.” He knows he wants to look drop dead stunning, especially for Ambrose.

"Let's have a look. The Duchess is a wilting flower these last few days. We'll outshine her."

The trunk is full of options, all thin layers. All meant to make him look pretty and petite and, in a certain light, a desirable little doll.

"Did you bring that clear little blue thing? You know the one."

He digs through poofy fabrics, ruffles and lace, and pulls put the item in question. “I almost didn’t pack it.”

"You know I love that one, don't you? You look so lovely in it. Like a pearl."

“I’ll have to wear it more often, then. If you like it so.” Pen smiles, always happy to look gorgeous for him.

"And they'll think so, too. But they don't get to take it off you."

He giggles, pulling off the clothes from the day. “No that privilege is yours all alone.”

"Hopefully they won't seat all the Seventh together."

Eugh, Pen shudders. “That would be horrid. Imagine if they went in house order. So boring.”

"Nobody to talk to but her and the Eighth." He gets a wicked smile. "I'm sure I could ask them about the perverse things they must do to each other."

“Oh now there’s a fun idea. Do you think siphoning is like sex to them?”

"Surely, there has to be something sexual about it. Giving your adept your very life."

Pen kisses him, amused but in agreement. “Truly. I’ll bet he siphons while they’re balls deep in each other.”

"Ooh, that'd be a heady thing, wouldn't it?"

“Being full of that hulking mass of a cavalier… drawing his life into you in every possible way…. Yes, I could see the appeal.”

"Have you ever thought of trying it?"

“Siphoning? It’s crossed my mind in the past, but I never say much need.” He shrugs, still very nude. “Why would I need to, when I have a thanergetic battery in my skull?”

"Sometimes I wonder how it would feel, is all."

Penthos sidles closer, leaning against his chest like it’s his job. “Does my little cav have a bit of a fetish for necromancy being used on him~?”

"A fetish might be going rather far, but... I can't say that I don't enjoy it."

“Awww my pretty Rose likes thinkin’ about what I would do with his corpse~”

"That I certainly do like."

It actually catches Pen off guard, not expecting such enthusiastic agreement. He flounders a moment, jaw agape. “r- really?”

Ambrose springs up. Finds that same nice thick nightgown for him.

It's like being shrouded, warm and comfortable and beautiful. When he settle back in bed next to Ambrose he looks rather like a corpse lying in state, gorgeous and gone.

Ambrose stares at him, rather like a man might stare at that same corpse. "You're so beautiful."

"And all yours my dear Ambry. All yours." Pen pulls him into a kiss, just because he can. "You should know that by now."

"And I still can't hardly believe my luck."

"Your luck!? Ambrose, I can't believe mine." Penthos barks a laugh. "I've been pining after you for most of my life, and here you are. In my bed. Mine alone."

"Yours, alone. Like I so wanted."

"Then why all the hookups? Why all the.... everything?"

"For fun. And to block it out, as much as anything else."

Pen nods, slow. "I suppose that makes sense.... Made me think you never would have wanted me in a million years though."

"It was supposed to. You weren't supposed to know my weakness."

"Well, we really just fucked ourselves over huh." He curls closer, relishing in Amb's warmth. "Could have been doing this for years."

"Could've been my first, if you'd asked."

And that's a thought that could bring Penthos to tears. Something he missed out on. But: "I couldn't, you know I couldn't have. It would have been too imbalanced, wouldn't it?"

"That's why I feared to ever let you know. You'd think me too audacious."

"I thought you'd think me pressuring, stifling."

"You? You could never."

"Is that not the worry, though? When adepts ask cavaliers?" He sighs, wriggling a bit to get more comfortable. "Least I was able to give you my first."

"And I'll treasure it." Ambrose promises. "That is the worry. But I trust you."

"Trust you too.... Always." He's already falling half asleep, warm and lose.

Ambrose kisses his lips, and then his closed eyes, and then closes his own.

The next morning when Penthos curls around the warmth in bed, he’s thrilled to find that Ambrose is still there. Apparently, he learned his lesson the day before. He hurts a little less as well. Not a ton, but he’s well versed enough in his own pain to feel a difference. He’s….. happy.

His happiness imbues Ambrose with energy of his own. He feels light and bright, like he's full of bubbles, as he gets them dressed and ready for breakfast.

"Someone is excited about the prospect of a fight, aren't'cha." It's adorable.

"And a beautiful one it'll be, indeed. I'll make you proud."

Pen smiles, kisses him deep and soft. "I know you will dear. You always do."

Even those simple words make Ambrose feel like his veins are gilded inside. He only lets go of Pen's hand as late as he possibly can as they arrive at breakfast.

The food is fairly the same as before, and Pen opts for some kind of fruity porridge, and tea. "You should have some protein, yes? If you're to duel."

Ambrose agrees, carefully selecting out some protein, a bit of sugar for his muscles. Tea, of course.

He nods, approving, and sits at a table with plenty of room, futzing with his food.

Ambrose eats without an echo of shame. Like he's starving. Ready for exertion.

“It’ll be such a fun day, I do believe.”

Ambrose shoots a dazzling smile at Coronabeth across the room, and one far falser to Naberius.

Pen swats him on the shoulder, “Oh I know he’s horrid but your fake smiles are easier to notice then you think.”

"Well, maybe I want him angry. It'll make him fight better. Or worse, perhaps."

“Mmh, I suppose that’s true. Either way I know you’ll do the Seventh proud.” Do me proud.

"I will. I swear." He wishes he could steal a kiss as he walks to the duel. Instead, theatrical, he sweeps Pen's hand to his mouth and kisses that.

Penthos turns a brilliant pink, shoving more porridge in his mouth to stifle the squeak.

"They won't think anything of it." Ambrose promises, swallowing down the last of his tea. "Just a loyal cav, that's all they'll see." He walks to the Third's table with his back ramrod straight, his rapier casually held in hand.

Corona practically giggles at the sight of him. "We can draw out a strip between the tables. Does that suit, Viscount?"

He has to shake himself, but nods. “Yes, your royal Highness, that seems to suit quite well.”

"Would you allow me to referee the first match, or would you think me terribly biased towards my own House?"

“I would never think so low of you. He bows, and moves closer. “Please, it would be an honor.”

She's smiling like the sun, and Naberius is fighting a scowl. But he waves his sword in as graceful a salute in turn as Ambrose offers him.

“Oh, this will be such fun!” Pen settles down to watch; eyes locked on the pair.

Ambrose fights like he means it. Like he means to make his House pride. Like a snake in the grass, like fire flickering over wood. Fast on his feet.

It’s a true joy to watch, Ambrose has always been a beauty with a sword. When he looks over to Coronabeth, she seems to be enjoying it just as much. Looking back at Naberius, he had to admit, each twitch of the sword was a masterpiece of technique. He fought like clockwork: inevitable, bloodless, perfect, with absolute economy of movement. His advance and retreat were like lines from a manual, fed directly into his feet. Penthos still vastly preferred the way Ambrose fought.

Even clockwork could crack. Ambrose pushed and pushed. Got a few touches against him, but didn't stop until he drew blood. Smearing it across Naberius's jacket. Winded, breathing hard.

Penthos claps, grinning. ”Very good show, Ambrose!”

Ambrose grins in return. "One more bout. I'll not carve up the princess, I promise. Will you referee?"

“Of course I will! An honor, naturally!” He turns to the princess. “If your royal majesty allows, of course.”

Coronabeth smiles. "That should do beautifully."

Pen nods, gives a bow. “Then I do believe the floor is yours.”

She takes Naberius's sword. Not that she doesn't have her own, but it wouldn't do to show off that fact. Ianthe would be furious. She faces up Ambrose the Seventh with only a hint of nerves on her lovely face. He's good, there's no denying it.

Ambrose bows low when he salutes her, as befits her status. He's curious to see how a necromancer does with a sword, it's true. And he really is nervous to hurt her, there's no artifice or mockery in that.

“To first blood. Clavicle to sacrum, arms exception. Call.” He’s absolutely ecstatic to watch this match, excitement rising.

"Ambrose the Seventh." Her lovely chest is his best target, Ambrose realises. And gets ready to press his advantage, weight on his back foot ready to be thrown forwards.

"Coronabeth the Third." Her glee at the name is quite obvious. She wears it like a medal.

Penthos claps his hands together like a starting pistol. “Begin!”

Ambrose grins at first. His instinct is to give her a little bit of slack, frail as a necromancer must be. It's a fatal instinct. He's on the back foot when he really starts to try.

No matter who wins this bout, Pen will be pleased. It’s such a good show, especially with as pretty as the two combatants are.

Coronabeth presses the scrap of advantage Ambrose gave her, until he stops giving it. Forwards, backwards. Two combatants about equally matched. At one turn, her sword clatters from her hand to the ground, and Ambrose gallantly stops to allow her to retrieve it.

Ambrose thinks he's winning. He almost doesn't feel the cut at first. It's a little flick of a thing, tearing through the fabric of his white shirt. And the skin underneath.

But when the red starts to seep, staining the white… “First blood to Coronabeth the Third.” Pen calls, almost gleeful.

Ambrose's smile doesn't fall. He grasps her hand in enthusiastic congratulation. "Well played, princess."

She grins, a little tired, a lot sweaty. Glowing with rude pink-cheeked health that doesn't suit a necromancer well. And she takes his hand. "Well done."

“Yes, very well done! Truly a skilled match. You’re stunning, princess.”

She bows to him with all a practiced cavalier's dignity. "A stunning diversion. Thank you, Viscount."

He smiles, wide and genuine. “You’re very welcome. If the expression on my cavalier’s face is anything to go by, I think it’s a diversion we’d be more than happy to offer again.”

"Absolutely." Ambrose agrees. "A good loss, and no hard feelings."

It’s horrible hard to not kiss Ambrose then and there, reward for both of them, but he manages to hold himself back. Instead looping his arm through Ambrose’s.

Ambrose lets himself be led. "I'm not sorry to have lost." He says, as soon as they're out of earshot. "It was wonderful."

“And a lovely loss to be had. You were beautiful, my dear Rose. Absolutely gorgeous.”

"If I did enough to impress you, then I did enough."

And how can Pen do anything other than pull him into a kiss, loving and warm and possessive. Ambrose kisses back. He kisses and kisses.

It pains him, but Penthos draws back, getting redressed. "We really should get on with joining the others, we probably are dreadfully behind."

"It's only been a day." But Ambrose pulls his clothes back on.

"And I'll bet at least one House has found what those keys go to."

"Well, we can follow in their footsteps."

"I never have been one to forge ahead, get's tangled in my wheelchair."

"Do you need the chair? Or do you want my arm?"

He thinks for a bit. The chair is better, certainly, but these damned halls are poor for it. "Perhaps your arm, but you'll need to carry me if I get too weak."

"Of course." And he extends his arm.

Pen wraps himself around it, perhaps a tad tighter than he needs, and forgoes the cane. He knows he should bring it, but it's so much better to cling to Ambrose, to be entirely at his will when it comes to moving around. Penthos does so adore looking pathetic and needy. And Ambrose is so responsive to it. His touch soft, his steps slow.

As if this is something they've done a thousand times before. A Myriad, even, because they have. The stairs are tricky, as they always are, but they manage, getting Pen settled back on his own feet at the foot of them.

Ambrose gives him a little kiss on the cheek as they do, reasoning there's no-one to see.

Emboldened by their talk of imminent lyctorhood and all the taboo breaking that is sure to come with it, Pen catches his face. Turn it, tilting gently. And kisses hi. the way they’ve been doing in private. Wet and messy and undeniably romantic.

Ambrose gives his lip a little bite as they part. One that will make it swell, look bruised.

“Perfect. My perfect, beautiful, owned little Cavalier. Always know just what to do.”

It's then that they hear the chorus of raised voices, and something in Ambrose's stomach sinks. "There's something wrong."

He clings just a fraction tighter, worry furrowing his brow. “Surely not. Perhaps a little spat?” That’s what Penthos hopes it is anyway.

"We ought to check on who it is, either way. Nothing wrong with playing peacemaker."

Pen smiles a tad. He’s horribly in love with this man, and he’s only reminded now, with his gorgeous gallant cav on his arm. “I suppose you’re right.”

When they get there, when they see the sight that is to be seen, Ambrose's first reaction is to try to push Pen behind him.

It’s not difficult to push him around, and Pen moves easier than he wants to. “Ambrose! Why did you—!?” and then he sees an arm.

"You don't want to look." Ambrose insists.

“What— What is it? What happened, Ambry?”

"They're dead." Ambrose says. Numb, shocked. "Must have fallen, no, been pushed..."

”Who is dead!” Penthos saw a limb but not well enough to identify and he has no clue what’s happened. Is being kept back from it like a child, unable to handle it. He should be upset about that. Should be upset at being treated lesser. Some larger part of him though, just sighs in contentment at the treatment.

"The Fifth." Ambrose, on the other hand, is staring at the scene before him. It's going to burn itself into his eyes.

“….what.” It seems impossible. “But they were just- and we- Ambrose, they just had their anniversary, they can’t be dead.”

Ambrose finally moves aside to let him see. Like he knows that seeing is believing.

“No. No it can’t- What? We should be safe here, I— Ambr, what. What do we do?”

"We help find who did this. It can't have been one of us."

Pen turns and buries his face into Ambrose’s side, playing up the image, even if part of him is wondering how they would work in his experiments.

Ambrose pets his hair, daring. Too intimate, perhaps, but genuine. He doesn't care who sees.

“What about the kids! Oh, lord undying the kids! They were so close with the fifth—“ He breaks off, shoving his face closer to Ambrose.

"We'll take care of them." Ambrose promises. Thinking of them when they were that age. Himself, brash and daring and pubescent.

Pen is well past caring if anyone thinks he and Ambrose are inappropriately close. He just wants his Ambry and he wants to know what’s happened. “You said…. said they were pushed?” A shiver of fear worms through him. Penthos is remarkably easy to push over.

"I think so." Ambrose says weakly. "I hope they only fell."

“From where? And why? They’re not- They weren’t exactly unsteady.”

"Then someone pushed them. Someone meant for this to happen."

He presses into the hand in his hair, getting closer. “Do… do you think they mean for it to happen to more of us?”

Ambrose wants to say no. To say they'll be safe, that it was surely just an accident or a one-off. But he can't. "They might."

“You’ll stop them, won’t you? Keep me from shattering down a staircase?”

"I won't let anyone hurt you." Ambrose promises.

“I can’t do it myself, I need you.” They both know Penthos is a talented necromancer, a capable one. He doesn’t care though, he wants Ambrose to protect him.

"I won't leave your side." Ambrose swears. Cocks his head to listen to the others around them. "They want to call up the ghost."

That makes him perk up a bit. “Really? Who? That was the fifth’s purview and, well…” Penthos hasn’t seen a ghost called in person before.

"The Third, and of course the poor Fourth... and the Sixth, I believe."

“Do you think they’d let us join?”

"Surely they could use more power. You're not primarily a spirit magician, but you've thanergy in spades to lend."

That pleases him even more. “I certainly do!” He loves when his little battery is appreciated.

"I'm sure they'll let you help. All hands needed."

“And we’d be able to watch it happen.” Pen doesn’t bother to try keeping the morbid, horrid excitement out of his voice, even as he stays quiet, to not upset the others.

"It sounds fascinating." Ambrose has to admit.

“Doesn’t it? And we’ll have a front row, hands on experience!”

"Get on over there and offer a hand. They won't take it from me."

Penthos gives him a flash of a smile, before rearranging his face suitably somber, and picking his way over to the gathered adepts. “If you’ve any interest in another set of hands, I’d be willing to assist.” He sways a bit, standing without aid.

He's waved over to help. And Ambrose clings to his side, not liking that sway.

He leans heavily on Ambrose, making it all the more obvious how frail of a thing Pen is. Not quite frail enough for anyone to tell him to sit the spirit calling out though.

No, even Ambrose can see how the thanergy blazes in him.

"I'd like to watch that." Ambrose whispers.

“I would to…” he replies in kind. It seems they’ll both be disappointed though, as Coronabeth starts on about trust and madness. “She’s a natural at this. She’ll make a lovely saint.”

"Won't she?" Ambrose looks at her with a gaze that someone else could mistake for lust. But Pen knows how lust looks on his cavalier's face.

“A diplomat, a great swordarm, and—Lord Undying Ambry—people adore her. She might very well be the best of us.”

"The jewel of the Third. Of Canaan House."

Pen nods, leaning in closer, voice lowering further. “Exactly. And she’ll be far better suited than her sister, I fear.”

"I don't know what to think of the sister."

“She looks rather… well she’d not be out of place at home. Especially compared to Princess Corona.”

"I'd almost worry for her, if she were more..."

“Likable?” He’s being uncharitable, yes, but honestly.

"I was going to say personable. It amounts to the same thing."

“I think she and Tern are tied for ‘unwelcoming prick’.”

"Truly. All the charm went to Princess Coronabeth."

“Between you and her, I think anyone could be charmed into anything.”

"Oh, I've but a sliver of her light."

Pen shrugs, nuzzles a little closer to him. “You didn’t get trained or raised as a diplomat. Not the way she did. Still, you both are stunning.”

"I wish we could have her an ally in all this. I'm uncertain about the other two."

“Honestly, we might have her as one already. She seemed to wish friendship when you dueled.”

"I think it's a good one to pursue."

Another kiss, this time with a smile. “I agree.”

"And the Sixth. I may have volunteered you up for a test subject."

“Oh, did you now?” An eyebrow raises.

"Apparently they've been working on help for the illnesses of the Seventh."

“Huh. Suppose that’s thanks to the Duchess as well.”

"Though it seems she's no longer amenable to helping them."

“Mm, yes, she does seem to be rather unimpressed with any of their gestures.”

"It's quite pathetic to watch."

“He’s trying so hard. It would be enough for anyone else to swoon, honestly.”

"I know! Such care and attention!"

Pen shakes his head, pitying. “And all wasted on her.”

"She's cruel. I hadn't expected that part. She's a real beauty, with a heart of ice."

“Not at all the way the rumors made her sound.”

"The talk back home made her sound like someone else entirely."

“Someone sweet.” Pen hums, thinking. “Something is very wrong, I’m just not sure what.”

"Maybe she's a very good liar."

“Maybe… good enough to have the Master Warden of the Sixth offer her a proposal though? He’s got to be one of the smarter people in the houses.”

"You'd think he'd see right through her."

“And if not him, then Camilla certainly would have.”

"She's a clever girl, and protective."

They’re interrupted by Coronabeth herself, looking irritated only now that no one else can see. “They’re still going through with the duel, of course, but at least they’re not trying to kill each other with it.”

"Who?" Ambry demands. "The Duchess and the Eighth?"

“Their cavaliers, yes.”

"I suppose they'll want me for a second... no, I'm in no state."

Penthos near growls, a sound he hadn’t actually known he could make, holding Ambrose painfully tight. “I don’t care if she wants you for anything. We’re avoiding her as much as possible from here out.”

Ambrose smiles in relief. "Yes, sir."

Thankfully, the princess seems unsurprised, and even less judgmental. “I can’t imagine the pair of you have much interest in continuing to attempt an investigation. If you do though, everyone is headed to the freezer room it seems. I have to go deal with my dear sister…. These damn keys.”

Ambrose looks at Penthos. "We ought to go."

Pen’s eyes narrow though. “What about the keys? I’m afraid we’ve been out of the loop over here.”

"You haven't got a facility key? No, I don't suppose you do..." Corona frowns.

“Oh! No actually we do have one. The seventh’s is in our possession, not the Duchess’s at the moment.”

"Oh, wonderful! Somehow, I'd much rather that."

“Perhaps we’ll finally manage to make use of it. I’ll admit we’ve fallen rather behind in this whole hunt.”

"I can't say I blame you. There's been quite some distraction."

He snorts. “An understatement, to be sure.”

"More thrilling than the best parties back home."

“Do those often have double homicides?” Pen asks, sliding his hand into Ambrose’s.

"Oh, double is a bit much."

It sends him into a fit of giggles, especially now that his own color is returning. The transfusion has done him wonders.

"You're rather charming, Viscount. They didn't tell me that part."

“Thank you Princess. It’s not often I get the occasion to be.” His thumb runs over Ambrose’s hand. “It’s usually more within Epta’s purview.”

"Now that was a rumour I'd heard."

“Mh, yes, my charming ‘wayward’ cavalier.” Pen turns his face toward him with a finger on his chin, looking deep into Ambrose’s eyes. “Not much stock in those rumors any more now, is there.”

"Not now." Ambrose promises.

He smiles, wide and genuine at his cavalier, and looks back to Corona. “A kept man as of late. And, if I might say, you a shining beacon of what we all ought to be.”

"He's being good, is he?"

“Exceptionally.” He doesn’t even attempt to hide the satisfied pride in his voice.

"You're very lucky."

“Do you not have someone of your own?” He, diplomatically, doesn’t mention the rumors he’s heard himself. The ones that speak of her and her sister.

"Oh, no, I've yet to be so lucky."

“A shame, truly. Shameful and blind. You’re wonderful, princess.”

"You're very sweet." She takes his unbruised hand and brings it to her lips for a kiss.

Damn it all, but Penthos still blushes. “I’m only being candid. You are, possibly, the best candidate for sainthood. It’s a travesty no one has seen you properly.”

"Yes. There's quite a bit of me that it's rather a shame they haven't seen."

Ambrose thinks long and hard. "You know, now you mention it, I'm not entirely certain."

“I think the Tridentarii have been performing a very complicated act for a very long time, and I think it will kill her if they don’t give it up in the near future.”

"And she could make such a lovely cavalier."

“Wouldn’t she just?” The crown princess reminds him so dearly of Ambrose. In a way that aches if he thinks of it too long.

"And she'd be her sister's most loyal."

“Not that her sister deserves her in the slightest.”

"No. And it's beyond loyalty, with them."

“As we’re beyond loyalty, I would say.”

"Quite precisely, I fear."

He draws back, so he can actually see Ambry’s face. “So long as she’s happy with that part of the arrangement I suppose it matters about as much as the taboo our relationship has.”

"Oh it's not that that I care about. I simply think her sister's awful."

Pen bursts into peals of laughter, tears rising from the force of it. “No, no you’re right. Can’t imagine why both of then are so beloved.”

"She steals her sister's sparkle."

“Mm, yes, she does, doesn’t she. A wonder she doesn’t practice siphoning herself.”

"Oh, Pen, can you imagine?"

“Coronabeth wouldn’t last a month.”

"She seems so vital, like she's got so much energy... but she's fragile. Like a butterfly."

He pulls Ambrose into a kiss, smiling a touch sad. “Rose dear, everything living is.”

"I suppose to your gift it must seem so."

“I can see every spark in you. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Like butterfly wings.” It would be so easy to… Pen rests a hand on his chest, and shuts his heart valves, halting blood flow. Halting everything.

Ambry looks at him in incomprehension. "What..."

“Don’t you feel it? How easy it is to die?” He’ll put it back, of course, but he deserves a bit of fun.

"Yes..." Ambry's voice is a breathless whisper.

Penthos kisses him again, savoring the way he trembles.

Like a leaf, like a little trapped bird.

When it’s just a touch past ‘safe’ he lets Ambry’s heart begin working again, giving it a little nudge to make sure it’s all good. Pressed together as they are, there’s no way Ambrose can’t feel his half-hardness against his thigh.

“It’s so easy Ambry, so easy to put anything in a killing jar.”

"Would you do it? To me?"

“Mh, keep you all gorgeous after. Pinned and displayed like the beautiful thing you are.”

"I'd let you, is the thing."

Pen presses a kiss to his cheek again, running a finger down the bridge of his nose. “I know you would pet. You’ve always been such a good subject for my necromantic whims.”

"I think I'll die at them someday."

“Only temporarily my dear. I need you, in every possible way. I’d combust without you.”

"You'll never be alone."

He smiles, utterly enamored. “No, I won’t.” Another kiss, shorter this time, before Pen offers his arm, the needle, and a pout. “But I’d like to be not alone in bed, take care of this for me?”

Ambrose eases the needle out, and presses gauze over the wound.

“Mmn, so good. Your blood always feels nice.” Penthos’s eyes flutter shut, and a few moments later every wound seals up, cuts and needle stick alike.

"Are you tired?"

“It has been a very trying day. And while we really ought to begin our work, I think it will do is better to get some rest first.”

"I won't have you beginning any work without some."

He batts his eyes at Ambrose, trying to look needy, perhaps a tad alluring. “I might need some help getting to sleep. You did bring that medication, right? Would you do the injection? My hands get so shakey~”

"I would. Let's go back to our room."

Pen nods, a bit weak at the thought of actually getting there. The blood transfusion helped tremendously, but he’s still in agony. The trek up the stairs will be worth it, to sink into bed and have his love slide pure relief into his newly plumped veins.

"It's probably best I don't carry you. In case we run into trouble."

“Yes… you’re right of course.” He steels himself, swinging his legs down, sitting up but not standing, not yet. That’ll just cause a fainting spell—the last thing he needs. “Could you get me some water? I saw Teacher providing beverage at the table.”

Ambrose very nearly actually runs to fetch some.

It’s sweet, cute in a way that makes him feel even more like swooning. When Ambrose returns, Pen’s hands are shaking, not quite able to hold the glass to his lips.

So, Ambrose wraps a hand over his to steady him.

“Swear it all tastes better when you feed it to me,” Penthos mutters, more to himself than anything.

"It's just water, how pleasant can it taste?"

He takes another assisted sip, and some dribbles down the corner of his mouth when he speaks. “As if you’ve been walking through the glass retort, and the water quenches you inside, breathes new focus into you.”

"So poetic, you are."

“Well, one of us has to be, and you’ve never seemed to have much a mind for it.”

"No, I never had the spirit for it."

“Not much time, neither, between me and all your relations before.”

"All that time that will now be dedicated just to you."

He smiles again. “Yes, quite. One more sip and I think I’ll be able to stand.”

"Good boy. You're doing very well."

That makes the smile turn into a beam, probably looking the healthiest he has for a few weeks, if not months. “All thanks to you my dear.”

"Hold my hand. Just in case."

He does, and thankfully the wave of dizziness passes quickly, leaving Penthos upright, if unsteady.

Ambrose grips his hand as they venture through the dark corridors. In protectiveness, not fear. Certainly not fear.

“It feels haunted. Like there’s never been enough bodies for the amount of dead.”

"Like there's something watching us."

He nods, eye darting around the dark. “I can’t tell what through. Or where.”

"Best not go looking."

“I suppose you’re right once again. I am morbidly, dreadfully curious though.”

"I'll make up stories for you, if you'd like."

“Really? Ghost tales about the house at the end of the universe?” It makes him stifle a small laugh.

"You're right. It's in poor taste."

“So is everything we’ve done since arriving. Somehow, I think if our beloved King Undying cared we would have been struck down already.”

"He'll come for us." Ambrose says, with quiet certainty.

“For new saints and the rest alike.”

"To spare us from whatever took the Fifth."

“Would he call them back, do you think? Let them walk among us again?” Pen asks. “Not the way I could, but… truly. As a whole.”

"I can only hope. It would only be right."

A hesitant, tiny hope breaks across his face. “Perhaps thats why we couldn’t raise their ghosts. He might have called them to wait by his side already.”

"Yes!" Ambrose seems to light up. "It must be!"

“The children will be so glad. A miracle for his new saints and for the devout rest who reside here.”

"Those poor children..."

“They… well I can’t say they shouldn’t be here, but I had no clue the Fourth filled their armies so young.”

"I've met just a few before."

“Are they all that young? These two must be outliers, yes?”

"Some are even younger. They order soft drinks at the bar before they ship out, they're too young for beer."

Penthos stops dead in his tracks, staring at him, horrified. “But that’s barbaric.”

"It's horrifying. Makes me sick."

“Does our Lord know? I mean— there must be some mistake!”

"He can't possibly, surely."

His hand tightens on Ambrose’s. “Perhaps he’ll fix that when he arrives to greet his saints as well.”

"Surely. He must. It's pure injustice."

“Impose a minimum age, at least….” He leans against Ambry, eyes still wide. “We have that, don’t we?” It’s terrifying to think he might have lost Ambrose had they not sworn their compact so early.

"I think so. Sixteen, I think."

He grins, sleepy, and nuzzles into Ambrose, nestling into him, breathing him in. Pressing a kiss in return to him. There's some peace in this, at least. Peace and warmth. It almost feels safe, in the circumstances. Like they thought Canaan House ought to be. As it might have been, in another world. Another time without vengeance stalking the halls. Ambrose sleeps on lightly, too watchful.

Pen doesn’t realize at all, not till he wakes in the morning and sees the shadows under Ambrose’s eyes. “Oh.. darling.”

"Couldn't sleep." He complains.

“We have a bit before we need to be up and moving, would you like me to put you down for an hour or so.” Necromancy induced naps are never quite as restful, but they still help tremendously. 

"Please." His voice cracks.

Pen gives him a gentle smile, like there’s nothing he’d rather do. “Close your eyes Ambry.”

Ambrose does. Takes in a shaky, hesitant breath.

He presses a kiss to Ambrose’s forehead, lingering with it, and when he pulls back, Ambrose is out like a light. Pen gives him a gentle poke, just to check his work, and smiles, satisfied. His cav won’t be waking up without necromantic help, not for the next hour.

It smoothes the tension from his face. He looks at peace.

“Fuck you’re so pretty when you’re not stressed.” Fingers trace over slight wrinkles melting them away. “I made these happen. I ought to fix them too.” 

Ambrose breathes deeply, serene in his sleep.

Pen throws a leg over him, fitting groin to groin, just lying there, relishing the relaxed intimacy. The warmth.

It's as if Ambrose is just sated.

His hips begin moving, in a way they probably shouldn’t, but he doesn’t care. He just wants to feel them pressed against each other, feel velvety heat drag against velvety heat.

Ambrose stirs a little in his sleep.

A finger to his forehead, and the sleep is secured, even as Pen keeps rutting against him.

He's perfectly pliant, warm, and unwaking.

“Could fuck you if I wanted. Seems a lot to clean though.” Penthos tweaks a nipple, even though he won’t get a reaction.

Ambrose's eyes flutter, but don't open.

The hand shifts down, loosely wrapping around both their members. “This will have to do, I suppose. At least this time.”

Even in his sleep, Ambry's body takes notice.

“Mm, there we go love. A shame you’ll not get dreams.” The strokes start soft, gentle things, more caressing than actual masturbation.

Ambry's lips part, drawing in air.

He speeds up, tightening his grip, closer now to how he likes it when taking just himself in hand, thumb playing with Ambry’s slit almost absently.

Ambry's cock leaks into his hand.

Pen mouths at his neck, humming oh so softly. “That’s it Ambry. Come for me, mh? Make a mess for your adept.”

Ambry does, his hips twitching pathetically.

He follows only a few heartbeats later, adding to the pool on Ambrose’s stomach with a groan. Falling to the bed at Ambry’s side, licking his hand clean as he watches his love sleep.

Even in pleasure, he's so very peaceful.

Penthos gives himself a quarter hour to relax, to rest and watch, before cleaning Ambrose up properly, and dressing himself. Before undressing himself again. Pacing the room, until that gets to be too much, and he settles back on the bed, nude, to curl into Ambrose’s side. To bask in his warmth the rest of the hour.

Ambrose is so deliciously warm. Like home.

It’s almost painful to wake him, a kiss to his brow to lift induced sleep. “Our hour is up, dear Rose. We’d best get ready to find a trial.” Still, he speaks softly, loathe to break the quiet peace.

Ambry's eyes flutter. He groans.

“I know love. I know…” he sighs, looking at that peaceful face. “Oh, a few minutes more.” Of natural rest though, that Ambrose can rise from at his will.

Ambrose cuddles to him, arms wrapped around him. It’s hard, to stay awake himself, even as Penthos knows he must keep an eye on the clock. He gives in enough to hold Ambry close though, pressing a kiss to him.

When Ambry wakes again, he's not quite so fretful.

“How do you feel, dear?” Pen asks, from where his slight frame is tucked under his arm.

"Better for the sleep."

“You’re right of course. I simply don’t wish to be forced to sit and not touch and hold as we want.”

"I know. It's tragic."

“I want to enjoy my food from your lap, not across the table,” Pen whines.

"I could claim you're feeling weak and feed you."

“It might cast suspicion on why we’re venturing into the trials but…. Oh damn it all I don’t care. You’ve seen how everyone else acts around here. The only ones I worry about knowing of us are Eighth, because they’re odious old cooks, and the rest of Seven.”

"We'll see who's there."

It ends up being the Second and part of the Third, both engrossed in conversation of their own. “I think us fine.”

Ambrose holds out his arms in offer to Pen.

He takes them, grinning. “Eggs I think today tea, bread and jam…. Ham if they have it?”

"Let me go have a look."

“Thank you dear,” Pen coos, sitting on the table itself until he returns.

Pen comes back with eggs, and bread and jam, and some tea. "No ham, I fear."

He sighs, mostly affected. “It was a long shot. Thank you dear.”

"But I got you everything else you asked. You're hungry. Good."

“Not as much hungry as I know we’ll need it. I would pass away of embarrassment if I fainted because of that in a trial,” Pen says, settling onto his lap.

"You're right. It would be terrible."

He loads some of the eggs onto his toast and takes a bite. “Mn, a bit rubbery. Yours are far better at home.”

"Well, I don't have to cook for so many people."

“No, I suppose not. You also aren’t a skeleton, which doubtless helps matters as well.”

"Sure. I've got fleshy bits."

“Like a tongue.” A tongue which Pen places a torn off piece of bread upon. “That helps quite a bit in the cooking processes.”

"It does. I can taste what I make."

“And it tastes lovely when you do.” He forces himself to eat more of the eggs, scowling at them.

"But you do need your strength."

Pen pouts, but forces himself to eat more of them, leaning into Ambrose’s cheat the whole while. “We both do, I’ve no doubt.”

Ambrose picks at his own eggs.

Fine then. he bats Ambry’s hand out of the way and gets a fork full of eggs, holding them up to Ambrose himself.

Obediently, as if he'd never consider being anything else, Ambry opens his mouth.

“If I have to eat the sub-par eggs, you do as well, I’m afraid.” They’re deposited on his tongue, and he’s offered tea to wash it down.

He gratefully takes the tea, but he's smiling.

A bite to Pen, and another to Ambrose, before a bit of bread. “We’ll get through as much the plates as possible, and then head down into the facility, yes?”

Ambrose agrees, and picks up his own fork again.

And, well, Penthos gets through more of his plate than usual. Still only about half the eggs, but the rest disappears into him. “It’s easier, being on you for this. Not sure why.”

"Lifts your mood."

“You lift many things for me~” he says, a ridiculous eyebrow wiggle accompanying the statement.

"Not at breakfast, sweetheart."

“Oh I know that, but aren’t I allowed to tease?” Especially as Pen grinds against him just slightly.

Ambry groans. "I can hardly stop you."

He grins, leaning more heavily against Ambrose’s front. “You really can’t. That’s part of the fun!”

"You'll get me all hot and bothered in public."

“Mhm. And then we’ll go downstairs and you’ll be all hot and bothered in a death chamber.”

"At least I won't have the eyes of the Second on me."

“Not just them. The crown princess is taking her breakfast with them as well.”

"Which one?"

“Corona, of course. I suppose she and her curls were hidden behind starched uniforms while you gathered food.”

"That's an interesting match."

“Is it? They would have grown up near each other, wouldn’t they?”

"Yes, but... I wouldn't think they'd get along."

“I wouldn’t have thought the nuns do either.”

"Well, as far as I can see, they don't."

“You don’t think there something there?” He steals a sip of Ambrose’s tea. “Or even, the Reverend Mother and the Warden have become a form of friends.”

"There's something there, but it isn't friendship."

“Who’s to say there isn’t more than friendship between Second and Third as well?”

"You spin a fascinating potential."

“Absolutely nothing to back it up, but wouldn’t it be a coup!”

"It would be lovely, I do think."

"They wouldn't have done the same to the Duchess."

“Clearly they didn’t. Else she’d be suffering alongside us,” he grumbles, sitting up unhappily.

"Can you manage it? With some help?"

He nods. “Between you and my cane, yes I think so.” He’ll have to get clothed first though. Something comfortable.

As if he anticipates just that, Ambrose starts bringing him his most comfortable clothes.

“You should get changed as well, you’re covered in blood and who knows what.” After a moment, his eye goes wide, a bit apologetic. “Your shirt! I’m sorry Ambry.”

Ambrose looks down, a bit surprised. "It's alright."

“No, I mean the one I was wearing. It’s dissolved, and so have your socks….” Not to mention his only eyepatch. It seems a veil will be in order for the rest of their time at Canaan House.

"I gave it away not knowing what might happen."

“Still, I’ll replace them once we’re home, I promise.”

"I trust you will."

“I’ll get you something pretty in addition to them. Anything you want.” The soft stockings slide on easily, before comfortable shorts follow. Garters buckle into place, and Pen smiles as he slides his arms into the blouse.

"There you are. Looking much more like yourself."

“Would it be terribly bad to do some sort of corsetry? Not tight, I know that’d be foolish, but….”

"No, it might even be supportive."

“Once you get dressed would you lace me in then?” He asks, kicking his feet lazily.

"I'll do it right now."

“The deep green, I think. To break up all the cream and whites.”

"You'll look quite lovely." He fetches that corset.

“You will too, once we get you cleaned up.”

"I could use a quick turn in the sonic."

Penthos pulls him into a kiss, but hums in agreement. “Yes. You were swearing blood, Amb. The way no one but an adept should.”

"I didn't know I could do that."

“Yes, well.” Really no one should be doing it, but necromancers know they walk the border between life and death. Most do so with a smile (or a grimace that passes as one).

"I'm sure you'd love to study that."

Is it worth worrying him more? Yes. Of course it is. “Anyone can sweat blood, under bad enough physiological conditions,” Pen admits.

"Mine must have been awful, then."

“Ambrose. You almost died. If I had not been in possession of another power source, you would have. Your physiological condition was being beaten into the baseboards.”

"I didn't much enjoy it, either."

Another kiss, and Pen rests their foreheads together as the corset is wrapped round him. “We’ll endeavor to avoid such circumstances in the future then.”

"It felt like being beaten, a bit."

“And not in anything approaching a fun way, I would hazard a guess.” Pen laughs.

"No. On beyond the worst bar fights."

“You know dear, if you simply stayed at home with me, you wouldn’t have been in any bar fights.”

"They were awful unpleasant. I've had some cracked ribs I wished I could ask you to patch up."

That makes him laugh far harder. “Ambry. I knew. I always knew. Half the time I healed the bone itself without you asking. I just let the rest of it go normally.”

"To teach me a lesson."

“Well, yes. Otherwise you’d have had no incentive to stop.”

"Do you not think your lovely self an incentive?"

He looks down, a slight pout on his face. “I must not have been incentive enough. You didn’t ever stop.”

"Thought I couldn't ever have you."

The rest of the party seems unconvinced. Term rolls his eyes and pulls Colum into a conversation regarding the duel with the other half of the Seventh as they leave. Despite her seeming concern, Lieutenant Dyas gives a small shrug, wiping her hands on her neckerchief. “I’m off to find my partner. We’ll likely see everyone at dinner.”

Ambrose looks at Pen. Pale, dizzy, nauseated. Realising, once again, his own lack of power.

He wraps an arm around Ambrose, doing his best to make soothing sounds. Corona looks just as upset, growing even more-so when Isaac speaks. “I keep seeing things, out of the corners of my eyes … when it’s nighttime. I keep waking up and hearing something moving … or someone standing outside our door.” He trails off when Jeannemary pulls him close.

Ambrose fights himself loose, goes to put a hand on Isaac's shoulder. "Does she see it too?"

The teens look between themselves a moment, and nod. “Something is hunting.”

Ambrose opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "I believe you."

Both of them seem, for a moment, like loosely strung puppets, sagging under their own weight. Impossibly old, despite their youth. She looks first at Coronabeth. “Magnus liked you. So you get the warning. Don’t say I didn’t tell you.” Then Jeannemary leads Isaac away, looking like an expectant prey animal.

"I do." Ambrose says, bolder now. "I believe them. Poor kids."

“This isn’t just Fourth House theatrics,” Corona agrees. “I don’t think they’re being reckless here. I think we’re actually in trouble … a lot of trouble.”

"Terrible trouble. And someone else has been murdered."

Finally, Pen speaks: “I suppose Tern was right about that much at least. Whoever is missing…” 

"I truly hope it isn't the Sixth. Or the rest of the Seventh..."

“We saw our compatriots not too long ago, I doubt they’d have run into trouble since the trial.” But of course, it’s been more than a day, nearly two, since they laid eyes on the other half of their House.

"But I do worry. For Protesilaus, at least."

Pen nods, watching the princess close and lock the incinerator grate. “He’s a capable man, I’m sure he’s alright.” As alright as he can be, for being so off.

"I've been worried about him the whole time we've been here."

“More than just the strangeness?”

"He's not been like this when I've met him in the past."

Despite himself, Pen startles. “I’d forgotten you were acquainted.”

"I knew him as a friendly man. I'd venture to call him jovial."

“Oh, he was the one with the roses, wasn’t he?” One of the few times Penthos had been given flowers by an older man without being skeeved out. The cavalier had been handing them to everyone coming out.

"He loved those roses."

They have a silent moment, before Pen takes his hand again, and tugs him closer. Towards the exit. “Do you want to watch him duel? We’d know for certain he and the Duchess are alright, along with the other half of the Eighth.”

"Yes. Please. It would set my heart at ease."

“Let’s find them then. And some clothes.”

"Yes. Run by the room quickly first?"

“I suppose so. A skeleton will bring up our belongings from the pool.”

"I'll fetch clothes. I'll be faster on my own."

He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t want to be separated, but Ambrose is right. “Alright…. Just—be careful okay?”

"I'll be back so soon you'll barely know I was gone." And he is, out of breath, with Pen's clothes in his arms.

He can breathe again, when Ambrose is back in his sights. “I may as well just change in an alcove, no one is here,” Pen says, trying to wriggle out of sodden clothes.

"I'll keep a watch." Pen agrees.

“Oh I’m sure you will,” he says with a wink. The shorts come off first, landing in a pile, followed by bloomers and blouse. Pen shivers, gooseflesh raising as he shakes himself dry as best he can.

Ambrose wishes he'd thought to bring a towel to help.

“How are you not shivering dear? You’re in just your underthings, and as wet as I.”

"My iron self-control, must be."

When Pen’s head pops out of his new shirt, he takes a long look at Ambrose. He is trembling, but Pen can’t tell if it’s cold or from the ordeal. “…must be.”

Ambrose sets to pulling his own bundled clothes over his sodden underthings.

“You’ll get the new ones all wet too!” He exclaims, yanking new shorts the rest of the way up with haste, and reaching for Ambrose.

"I can't go around with nothing on underneath!"

“You could have grabbed dry ones for yourself!” He’s already tugging at Ambry’s underclothes.

Ambrose relents, lets him pull them off. "I didn't think."

They join the pile of Pen’s discarded wet garments, and he allows himself just a few moments to enjoy the view. “Well, now you get to have a little secret for the rest of the day.”

"Mm. Let's just hope it doesn't chafe."

“It’s nearly dinner time anyhow, I doubt we’ll be out and about much longer.” Dry clothes get pulled onto Ambrose, and Pen busies himself smoothing out the fabric. “Spectating a duel and eating shouldn’t be too much.”

"No. And I do remember Pro being a wonderful duelist to watch."

Both dressed again, Penthos gives him a quick kiss. “I’m sure he is. Do you know where the duel is to take place? It looks like rain soon.”

"Probably indoors, in the hall, then."

“Let’s head there then. We can swing by the pool and get our shoes on the way.”

"I'd appreciate that. Don't much fancy going barefoot."

It’s a bit circuitous, but they do make it to the hall in time to see the Eighth readying themselves. The Sixth and Third are already there, ready to watch and officiate.

Ambrose is keen, he has to admit, to watch. Always enjoyed the thrill of watching a duel.

“Oh look, there’s a few chairs as well.” He pulls Ambrose toward them, settling the pair down.

Ambrose happily sits beside him. For just a minute, the fog of worry eases.

But then the rest of the Seventh don’t show. Longer and longer after the set time, and everyone is more and more restless, matching the growing intensity of the rain outside.

And the fear rises up in Ambrose again. "They're hurt. Worse."

“I’m sure they just got held up. Or perhaps the Duchess had a flare, or…” he looks over at the Sixth, and Camilla is looking right back, eyes tight.

"Wouldn't they at least send word?"

“One would hope…” Camilla leans over, still looking at Pen. “I’m going looking, would you stay with the Warden?”

"We will." Ambrose promises.

She hesitates, and nods, standing to stalk out the door.

"She's a fine cavalier." Ambrose murmurs as she leaves.

“That she is. She reminds me of you, a bit.”

"In a flattering way, I should hope."

“Naturally. You both do everything you could ever be asked to. Do everything for us. It’s admirable.”

"We're good at our job, and we... care for you."

“I should hope so. A lifetimes spent alongside someone would, one hopes, breed some kind of affection,” Palamades says, looking remarkably tired.

Ambrose nudges his head against Pen's arm. "Well, I daren't speculate what the right word for them is.'

Pen hums agreement. “No, I think that might get you set upon.”

"So I can only devise something all-encompassing."

“Not so different from us then, I suppose.”

"No. I find I don't think they are."

It takes about an hour but when Camilla returns it’s with Gideon, who’s cradling Duclie in her arms. The Duchess is far worse for wear, and unconscious. The Sixth cavalier is holding her crutches in an iron grip. “Warden! We found her, you’re needed.”

Ambrose gets to his feet to follow. He doesn't have the skill the Warden does, but he's a Seventh cav.

Pen shakes his head. “She just didn’t have the keys. We did.”

"Oh. Yes, that."

There’s a commotion happening with the rest of the party, everyone seated and gathered round one of the long tables now. Penthos’s head shoots up when he hears one of the teens screech: “Duel the Sixth? That’s not fair!”

"Hang on!" Ambrose shouts out. "Who's dueling the Sixth?"

Corona slaps both of her hands down on the table: “Judith, you coward, pick on someone your own size—”

"It's all gone to shit." Ambrose says quietly.

The teens voice a similar opinion. Teacher leaves. “I think it’s been hanging by a thread for a while now,” Pen says.

"Is having seconds in a duel only a Seventh thing?"

“I don’t know, I—“ More arguing, as the Third fights over whether or not they’ll represent Sixth in the duel.

"I'd volunteer." Ambry hisses. "If I'd not just fought."

“I know you would. I’m sure the Sixth does as well,” he whispers back. “Default, Warden,” says the captain. “You are a good man. Don’t put your cavalier through this.” “No, we’re doing this,” he says abruptly. “I pick here.”

The captain says, “Sextus, you’re mad. Give her some dignity.” “Oh I am.” The warden crooks a finger at Camilla, eyes flinty. “Cam?”

"Oh." Ambrose whispers, eyes rooted to the scene. "Oh, of course she'll go."

And she does, stepping onto the table with a fluidity some train their whole lives for. Lieutenant Dyas joins her, the table creaking its displeasure.

Ambrose's eyes are glued to the pair.

Both draw, and Corona calls miserably: “Clav to sac—?” Judith’s eyes narrow a fraction. “Hyoid down, disarm legal, necromancer’s mercy.” “Sextus do you agree to the terms?” Corona asks, sucking in a breath. “I have no idea what any of that means,” he answers.

Ambrose gets up from his seat. Limping slightly with a cramped muscle. "She wants it rough, Sextus, is what she means."

Corona nods. “She can hit your cavalier anywhere below the neck, and it only ends when you give in. She’s being an absolute cad.”

"It's unfair terms."

“She’s trying to make an example of you. Picking on you like a bully kicking a dog.” “So you’re saying her cavalier can do more or less anything to my cavalier, all in the name of making me cry uncle?”

“Yes!”
 From across the table, Captain Deuteros calls sternly: “No more waiting. Default or fight. Corona, if you insist on arbitrating, arbitrate.”

"Fight." Ambrose urges. "Don't give in to her."

Sextus nods. Corona raised her voice reluctantly: “To the mercy call. Hyoid down. The neck is no exception. Point, blade, ricasso, offhand. Call.” “Marta the Second,” called Lieutenant Dyas.
 Camilla did not call. She looked down at her necromancer and said, “Warden?”
 “You can’t hit her in the head,” he said. “I think. I choose when you’re done.”
 “Just tell me how to play it.” Camilla raised her voice: “Camilla the Sixth.” Corona is saying, “Two paces back—can’t turn, damn!—this is so hard to do on a table—”
 “Cam,” Palamedes said. “Go loud.” “—and begin,” Coronabeth says.

Now, Ambry is riveted watching. It intrigues him, what exactly that go loud means.

It takes little time for the Second to realize she is in trouble. Lieutenant Marta Dyas was in every line of her a smart, efficient fighter: not given to folderol or showboating, at the very peak of her fitness. Unlike the Third, she was a soldier, far more used to fighting people who weren’t moving to a playbook of legal dueling moves. She had trained her whole life with the front in mind, with veterans and bloodthirsty recruits. Her sword arm was balanced and light, her posture neat but not starchy. She was incredibly reactive, ready for any gambit her opponent could bring.
 Camilla hits her like a hurricane. She explodes forward with her rapier wide and her butcher’s knife held close, knocking the lieutenant’s hurried parry out the way and sliding away from a belated lunge with the dagger. She slices a red gouge down Dyas’s immaculate white jacket and shirt, bashes her across the knuckles with the hilt of her rapier, and kicks her in the knee for good measure.

"Oh." Ambry murmurs under his breath. "Oh, that's gorgeous. I'd kiss her, I really would."

Pen shoots him a look, half unamused. The kick was Cam’s only mistake. The pain clearly sets every neuron in Dyas’s body shrieking with adrenaline. The Second keeps her wits about her—she takes the pain with a stagger, keeps her footing and holds her blade, and parries another sweeping blow from Camilla’s knife. She moves back for breathing space—Camilla harassing her with strike after strike to get back inside her guard—until she can move no more: she is, after all, fighting on a table. Camilla’s foot lashes out to her offhand, and the dagger clatters to the ground. The Second, with an honestly beautiful dodge and a perfect reaction, takes her one opportunity and lunges. Dyas is desperate, and Dyas is of the Second House. Cam fights like a grease fire, but she leaves herself too many openings. Dyas’s thrust would have pierced a lesser fighter right beneath the collarbone and run her through. It catches Camilla Hect low in the right forearm as she nearly dodges it—piercing the meat next to the ulna and making her snarl. She drops her cobweb-light rapier, grabs Marta’s wrist, and yanks. The arm dislocates with a bright pop.

Ambrose shoots a look at the Captain. She's got to call off now, she has to.

Lieutenant Dyas doesn’t quite scream, but she gets most of the way there. She windmills at the edge of the table. Still holding the wrist, Camilla steps past her, kicks her legs out almost dismissively, and drives her down facefirst into the wooden boards with a crunch. This leaves Camilla standing over her opponent, one foot pressing into the back of her neck, the dislocated arm pinned up at an angle that looked seriously uncomfortable. Dyas makes a strangled, agonised noise, and Judith Deuteros snaps: “Mercy!”

“Mercy called, match to the Sixth,” says Coronabeth, as though saying it faster would make it over sooner.

"I said it would get rough." Ambrose says, to nobody in particular.

Penthos has to stifle a snort of laughter. Palamedes is already standing beside the table, and with another excruciating noise he sets Marta’s arm back inside its joint. This time she really does scream. Captain Deuteros watches, face absolutely blank.

“Your keys,” he says.

“I don’t have—”

“Then your facility key. Hand it over.”

“You have its exact copy.”

Palamedes rounds on her with a sudden fury that makes everyone jump. “Then maybe I’ll throw it out the fucking window,” he snarls. “Two good cavs hurt, yours and mine, all because the Second tried to beat up the weak kid first.” He jabbs a finger at Judith’s immaculate waistcoat with intent to impale; she doesn’t flinch. “You have no idea how many keys we’re holding! You have no idea how many keys anybody’s holding, because you haven’t paid any damn attention since the shuttles landed! You picked on us because the Sixth aren’t fighters. You could have fought Gideon the Ninth, or Ambrose the Seventh, or even Naberius the Third. You fought Camilla because you wanted a quick win, and you didn’t even watch her first, you just assumed you could take her. And I can’t stand people who assume.”

“I had cause,” says the Second, doggedly.

“I don’t care,” said Palamedes. “Isn’t it funny how it took the Second, of all houses, to blow this whole thing open? You’ve stuck a target on the back of everyone toting a key. It’s a free-for-all now, and it’s your fault, and you’ll pay for it.”

“For God’s sake, Warden, you misunderstand my intention—”

“Give me your key, Captain!” roars the scion of the Sixth. “Or is the Second faithless, as well as dense?”

Ambrose puts a hand to his mouth. Oh, he's watched duels turn messy before. Affairs, personal insults, all of it. But not to this extent. He's never seen it like this.

Pen leans in, whispers in his ear. “This isn’t normal, is it?”

"No." Ambrose whispers back. "This is the sort of scene you generally only see after a few affairs and a couple bottles of spirits. And they're stone-cold sober."

“I don’t blame the Warden… He seems rather right.”

"No. I don't blame him at all."

“Here,” says Lieutenant Dyas. She’s mopped most of the blood away from her mouth and nose, although her once-white shirt is drenched with scarlet. She fumbles in her jacket pocket with her unhurt arm and holds out a key ring, adorned with a single key. Palamedes gives her a curt nod, plucks it from her fingers, and turns his back on them both. Camilla is sitting on the edge of the table, her hand clapped over her wound, blood seeping freely from between her fingers.
 “Missed the bone,” she says. “Remember that you’re using a rapier, please.”
 “I’m not making excuses, but she was quick as hell—”

A voice interrupts: “I challenge the Sixth for their keys. I name the time, and the time is now.”

"My sweet Emperor." Ambrose says. "She's bleeding!"

“It went through her arm! She’s in no fighting shape!” Pen adds, horrified.

Ambrose has only moments to decide. And decide he does. "The Seventh will stand for the Sixth!"

Pen’s eyes go wide, slapping him. “You’re hardly in fighting shape either.” Naberius Tern, had issued the challenge. He vaults to the table in one lustrous movement, swinging himself up to stand on it, even as Judith Deuteros very carefully eases her cavalier down into an empty seat. “No, you don’t,” said Coronabeth faintly.

“Yes, he does,” said Ianthe, rising to stand. “You need a facility key, don’t you? Here’s our chance. I suspect we won’t be given a better.”

“You have no cause,” the Secon says.

“Neither did you, if we’re all being honest with ourselves. Sextus was perfectly right.”

“If you want to cast me as the villain, do it,” said the captain. “I’m trying to save our lives. You’re giving in to chaos. There are rules, Third.”

“On the contrary,” Ianthe said, “you’ve amply demonstrated that there are no rules whatsoever. There’s only the challenge … and how it’s answered. And it does sound like it has been answered.”

"I'll be alright." Ambrose insists.

Pen opens his mouth to protest again, but— “The Ninth House will also represent the Sixth House,” Nonagesimus says, sounding cold and bored. Ianthe just looks a little amused. “The plot congeals. Since when has the Ninth been bosom with the Sixth?”

“We’re not.”

“Then—” “Death first to vultures and scavengers,” she intones. The Fourth, then, also jumps up. “Once you face them, you face the Fourth House. Fidelity and the Emperor!”

"Oh." Ambrose says softly, and he makes eye contact with Gideon the Ninth.

It seems no one agrees with the bullying happening. Naberius sheathes his sword, and sighs explosively. “I should have stayed home and gotten married,” he says, rolling his eyes. “As if anyone was even offering,” Ianthe snaps, eyes furious.

Poor man. Ambrose thinks. He'd hate to be in service to her.

Penthos leans closer to him, grip tightening around his arm. The Eighth, meanwhile, give some shite about searching for Protesilaus, before sweeping out of the room.

Ambrose leans to Pen with an exhausted sigh.

The Second leaves not long after, staggering out.

Can we go back to the room? Ambrose means to say. Instead, what slips out is, "can we go home?"

In all their years together, Penthos has never heard him sound so defeated. So grief-stricken. It pains him to shake his head. “We can’t. They won’t let us leave the planet, I’m sorry.”

"Can we go lie down, at least?"

“Of course.” The rest of the party has become a discussion of keys, and Penthos barely thinks to toss out: “we have the Seventh’s. Just the One.” Before they leave.

Ambrose collapses on the bed when they get there. Barely manages to take his shoes off. He's listless in a way that is so unlike him.

“Ambry?” Penthos has never been this worried for him. 

"I'm tired." He says simply. As if that explains it all.

“Is that really all?”

"No. Everything's gone wrong."

“Is…. Can I do anything?” He kicks off his own shoes, and shucks half his clothes as well, leaving him in underthings when he crawls onto the bed beside Ambrose.

"Hold me. Let me pretend we're back home, and safe, and normal."

Pen’s arms are slipping around him before he even finishes speaking. “Of course. Of course I will.”

Ambrose nestles into him. "We shouldn't have come."

“We couldn’t have denied a summons from the Emperor himself.”

"No. We had no choice."

“I’m sorry your loyalty has come to this, dear Rose.”

"At least I'm here with you."

“Yes…. At least we’re together.” He nuzzles the back of Ambrose’s neck, pressing a kiss there. “We’ll not be parted.”

"No matter what, I can at least promise that."

Another kiss. “But you said you wanted to pretend we’re back home, yes? Let’s see then….. oh! Did you see that Leticia wants to renovate?”

"I didn't!" Ambrose brightens, just a little. "Tell me more?"

“She got back from a trip to the Third, and decided their style would be ‘more aligned’ with how she wishes to be seen. Of course I can’t imagine she’ll be allowed, her house is—“

"Already too lavish by half. Can you imagine it done up like the Third?"

“It’d be hideous!”

"An eyesore, I think. Ruining the lakefront."

“We would have to move. There would be no choice,” Pen says, laughing.

"Maybe to the higher installments."

“Mmn, yes. That could be nice….”

"You might get nosebleeds."

“Eh, I get those anyway. Why not have a nicer, more private home for it?”

"Would you like it? A loftier home?"

“I’d like anywhere with you,” he says, not answering the question.

"I quite like our estate, though."

“Then we’ll stay right there. Maybe put in a privacy hedge…” It wouldn’t do to give their neighbors a free view of how a saint makes love. 

"Mm, yes. One with flowers."

“Whatever flowers you want, Amb. Whatever you want.”

"I want white flowers. You know, classic."

“Them white you shall have.” Pen presses another kiss to him, tender and warm.

Ambrose smiles, weakly, though there's still tears glistening in his eyes.

“I would do anything for you Ambrose. You know that, right?”

"And you must know it's returned."

Pen’s hold on him tightens, drawing them closer. “I always have known.”

"I'll get you through this. I swear."

“We’ll be home again before you know it. I think things are drawing to a close here….”

"They've got to. This can't go on."

“Someone will ascend soon, I’m sure of it.”

"And, with the Emperor's blessing, it will be you."

“And I’ll bring you home. We’ll go home Amb, I swear it.”

"Go home in glory..."

“Exactly. To be left in peace unless the Kindly Prince has need.”

"It will be beautiful."

“It’ll be ours.”

"And we'll have a pretty wedding."

“The prettiest. Everything will be perfect!”

"Maybe several of the Emperor's new saints will be there."

“Oh wouldn’t that be a coup! Not just a royal wedding but a holy one.”

"It would. It would be perfect."

“Imagine if the King Undying himself were to attend.”

"Oh, that's a beautiful dream."

“I doubt he has many to attend. Why not join any of his saints if they get married?”

"Surely, even he must need a chance to relax."

“And where better to relax than his joy, the Seventh?”

"We'll bring him joy."

“We will, I’m sure of it.”

"Can I go to sleep? Will things be alright?"

“Oh darling.” Penthos presses another kiss to him. “Yes, sleep. I’ll be alright. We’ll be okay till morning.”

Ambrose coils around him like some serpent, and falls asleep like that.

Sleep does not come as easy for Penthos. No, he spends hours yet holding and caressing his cavalier. Worries and hopes floating through his head. When he does eventually drift off, it’s an uneasy sleep.

And in the end, he still wakes first. Ambrose is exhausted.

Pen, despite knowing better, extricates and dresses himself, picking crusties off his dead eye. He shambles his way down the stairs, in more of a controlled slide than he’d like to admit, and leans heavily on his cane while making his way into the House proper. There is no one at breakfast. No one out and about at all, save the skeletons. It’s strange. He eats, mostly picking at porridge, and collects a bowl of food at random for Ambrose. Snapping his fingers at a skeleton and bidding it follow with the tray & tea.

Ambrose is just starting to wake when he gets back. Just starting to panic.

“I didn’t see anyone! But I have food for you. And tea for the both of us.” He points at a side table, and the skeleton sets its burden down. The tea in question is the entire pot, still hot.

"You're alright, though? You're not hurt?"

Pen flops onto the bed beside him, head cocked. “No? Why would I be hurt?” 

"You disappeared! I woke up, and you weren't there!"

“Oh. I wanted food, and you needed sleep, so…”

"You shouldn't have gone out alone! But... thank you."

“I wasn’t going to wake you!”

"You're too kind to me."

“Perhaps.” Pen wrestles himself up again, and fixes a cup of tea. “Eat your food, love.”

Ambrose digs in with a surprising gusto, despite his turmoil of emotions.

A pang of guilt shoots through him, for having caused this. For having had to siphon Ambrose at all. Pen makes him tea, just the way he likes it, and sets it beside him. Small penance.

Ambrose lays his head against Pen's shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to worry you.”

"In days like these..."

A hand comes up to rest on Ambrose’s head, petting at him. “Truly I only thought to provide for you.”

"You're forgiven. For your sweetness."

“Good. And I won’t leave your sight the rest of the day, how’s that sound?”

"It sounds perfect. I can breathe easier."

“You can even set the day’s schedule, if you like.”

"Have you seen anyone else?"

“Just the skeletons. It was deathly silent downstairs, and just as empty.”

"We should go looking for them, then."

“Yes, I suppose we should. Allow us a cup of tea each in peace first?”

"Yes. Of course. Who knows when we'll next have a moment."

Pen turns his head and kisses Ambrose, the first time that day. “Thank you dear.”

"I'd hate to miss breakfast with you."

“It is part of what makes life worth living.”

And he knows he shouldn’t but oh, how he wants to coax Ambry into the chair with him so he can sit on his lap. Complaining that he's still cold, the cold is like nothing else, and the chair isn't comfortable, and how “really, Ambrose, it’s your duty to make me comfortable.”

And Ambry shouldn't, but he's perfectly happy to pull him into his lap. Where Pen is much happier now, even though he’s still complaining and fussing about everything else. That he has a funny taste in his mouth, like metal, and he can feel it moving through his veins, can feel the cannula and the iv tube in him too and it jostles every time he moves his arm. A feeling he loves and hates at once. If he stares at his arm long enough, he convinces himself he can see the tube in his vein. That bit he dislikes. It gives him the creeps, but he can’t look away. Eventually Ambry has to cover his eyes and turn his head away physically. Kiss his cheeks, his mouth even as they both feel the pressing danger of being seen, knowing they're taking liberties. Especially when Pen keeps letting out happy, sensual gasps and moans against Ambrose’s lips

Ambry puts a hand over his mouth, which, of course, only makes him be louder, and he can lick Ambry's fingers. Lick them, nip at them, try to suck at them, get them in his mouth and tease, one of his favorite pastimes. it's a promise for later, for when they’re back home and he’s a tad woozy and still acting just the same amount of fussy brat. Wanting to be helped and carried still, demanding it, even. Because ‘I can't walk on my own! See how helpless and weak I am? I just can’t do it myself! I'll shake apart! I'll fall! Can’t see how much I need you Ambry?’

And of course he can, he can. Ambry scoops him up Which is probably pen’s favorite place to be. in Ambrose’s arms. Held safe and warm and knowing he won't fall. And its with Ambry, which is, of course, the most important bit

Pen does fall too often, it’s why he has the chair. He tumbles and hurts himself, and he bruises so easy, and gets so faint. Falling and bruising and crying, unable to get up, curling up and wincing every time he moves because it aches everything aches. Crying for Ambry, and they’re so far apart, it takes so long to find Pen.

He’s even annoyed, wondering where Pen is, getting short-tempered at him, all frustrated why he’s disappeared. Wandering long halls, calling out for him, traversing the whole manor, almost, and then he finds Pen, and he's rushing to his side. "Are you hurt?"

“It- I- Ambry—!” He’s sobbing and trembling and he’s in all disarray.

Ambry drops to his knees. "Did you faint? Or trip?"

One stocking is all dirty and no matter how hard he tries he can’t seem to sit up on his own, far too dizzy. “My legs just….”

"Hold your arms up to me, can you?"

He raises his arms, trying to hold back another wave of tears.

"I have you." Ambry murmurs, tugging him up into his arms.

"I was walking and then they just.. I fell."

"Landed hard?"

He nods, miserable. "My hip. And everything was spinning, and now it all flexes when I try to sit up."

"Then close your eyes. Let's get you to bed and check you over."

Penthos does, letting himself surrender to the softly swaying black. Ambry gathers him up, a precious burden. What was he doing so far from bed or a chair with no cane or chair?

"I just... For once I wanted to be able to get from one end of the house to the other on my own." It's so far from how he usually is about his illness. So far from the waifish invalid Penthos usually acts. "I never have, you know. Even as a child it was too far."

"You've never?" Ambrose sounds heartbroken.

"Nope. I wasn't able to walk yet before the illness took proper hold. And after that it was too far. Someone always had to help, or I'd use the crutches."

"I don't blame you for wanting to walk without them."

"It was a stupid choice. A stupid thing to want. I just..." I wanted too, before it gets bad enough, I can't walk hardly at all. But he can't say the words out loud. And in the morning, he'll be back to his usual self, almost relishing in needing others to care for him.

"You got this far. You did well."

Penthos just sighs. "This is the side I started on, Ambry. I thought it would be prudent to collapse into bed after."

"Ah. Well, I'm taking you there now."

"Thank you..." One knee is all scuffed up, and a shoe has somehow come undone. Why oh why had he decided to wear shoes for this venture?

"Get some antiseptic on that scrape, some cream on that bruise."

"Kiss it better too?" he asks, juvenile and pitiable.

"Kiss you all better."

"Like prince charming, I suppose?" It's a beautiful fantasy. Almost as pretty as the other fantasies he has about what Ambrose could do to his unconscious body.

"Like a prince from a fairytale, if I may aim for it. I'd kiss you awake, too, if you'd hit your head."

I'd rather you do more unspeakable things.... But what Penthos actually says is much closer to proper. "So chivalrous for a rake of a cav."

"Who said I wouldn't do worse when you woke up?"

A shiver runs through Pen's body, and he hopes it looks only like a muscle spasm, instead of the jolt of lust it truly is. Pen licks his lips, cracking one eye open to look up at Ambrose. "Then I suppose your reputation would trend down."

"Oh, my reputation is already out the window. I'm sure half of society thinks I take advantage of you on a regular basis."

I wish you did… His eye slips back shut, head nestling closer to Ambry’s chest. He can hear his heart like this. “I rather thought it was the other way around, no? Aren’t all us Adepts supposed to be spooky and sinister and power mad? Or is that just what those outside the Houses say?”

"Depends. Those with necromantic power gossip different than those without."

"Ah. So, you mean all of my ilk think you're taking advantage of me, and all of the common folk think it's the other way around?" It's a rather funny thought.

"Indeed. I was accused to my face the other night."

That makes Penthos' eyes fly open, much to his immediate, nauseated regret. "You were?!"

"Of being too much a rake, taking advantage of my position to take advantage of you when you're unwell."

"They know you've been here since we were children, yes? And that you frequently go out to meet ...companions... yes? If you wanted something to- to debase it's not as if you don't have plenty of vying suitors."

"But it would be such a victory to debase my adept, wouldn't it?"

Pen chews his cheek for a few steps, thinking. "I suppose it could be. Though I wonder what merit victory has when it's over something so pathetic."

"You could kill me easily."

"Ambrose, I couldn't even walk the length of my own home. No one who does not know us personally would think I could kill you, let alone easily."

"But we know."

"We do. We also know I would never."

"You'd never hurt me. And I'd never hurt you, not without it being willed."

"Well...." He drawls. "I wouldn't say I've never hurt you. Sometimes you misbehave horribly and a slap isn't amiss." Nevermind that such thing hasn't happened, despite the numerous times Ambrose has acted outside of propriety over the years.

"I've been waiting to earn one, if I'm to be honest."

"Is that why you keep doing more and more things that you know upset me?"

"Hoping I'll earn a slap? Perhaps in part."

"And the rest?" He hopes it'll be something pleasant, but Penthos knows that Ambrose Epta has never looked at him the way he looks at his Ambry, no matter how much silly flirting the man does. Much as Pen wishes it weren't the case.

"Well, I chase what I want."

"Ah... Of course." And what you want is me upset, while you go off and fuck other people. Good to know, I suppose. Not that it doesn't sting.

I'd chase it at home, if you'd let me. "I don't usually mean to upset you."

"Naturally." What else would leaving him alone to go get the one thing no one wants from Pen be.

"I don't like it when you're unhappy."

But you keep causing it. "There's that chivalry again."

"You're having a bad day. I know."

"I am, I'm sorry." He lets his eyes slip back shut, leaning into Ambrose. Pretending the way his heart speeds up is for him.

It is, of course, it always is. "How can I make it better?"

"I don't even know. I just ache, and my ego is as bruised as I am."

"We'll lie down, I'll give you some iron and tend those wounds, and I'll read to you."

That sounds nice. Sounds better than most things. "Help me get changed too? I don't want to be in what I hit the floor in anymore." And I want, for at least a few minutes. To pretend that you undressing me and redressing me is anything other than pity for an invalid.

"No. You ought to have something clean and soft." And he pretends his hands won't shake when he does it.

"Thank you Ambry. You're the best cavalier a man could hope for."

"You flatter me too much." He lays his precious burden down in the silk ocean of his bed.

"And yet I would never want anyone else. No one would be better suited." Pen takes a moment to just lie there, limp, boneless, before trying to move a leg. It's mostly just pins and needles, and an undercurrent of pain. "Shoes off please?"

Ambrose kneels before the bed to unlace his shoes, judging it the easiest way.

"New shoes, and one is already scuffed. Serves my folly right, I suppose."

"I'll get it polished out."

He smiles, rolling his head to watch. "My hero~"

Ambrose sets the shoes carefully aside, paired. "Let's get you cleaned up first."

"Please do." Toes point at him, wrapped in soft stockings, wiggling a little, as if saying hello.

Ambry tugs the stockings off slow and careful, like he's unwrapping a gift In a way, he is. No one else has seen Penthos naked since he came of age, since his nurse and his doctors got sent away. Since it became a household of two. And Ambry enjoys the sight every time. More than he should.

Just as Pen enjoys being striped like this, far more than he should either. Leagues more than he did when it was a nurse doing it. He flexes his toes, letting them breathe for a few minutes now they're uncovered.

Ambrose's eyes are fixed on pale skin bared for him. "Lift your skirt."

He does, trying not to shiver in excitement. Trying even more to not start getting hard.

Ambrose's fingers ghost over his hip. "That's one nasty bruise." Cruel, wicked, he presses down a little.

Pen gasps, hoping with all his might that his prick didn't twitch. "Yes, it- It was a rather nasty spill as well."

"Red already. It'll come up black. You need some ice."

"Must I? I'll get all chilled." He whines, already pouting.

"Doesn't it feel hot?"

"It does, but if you put ice on it, then I'll get all chilled. Down to the bone."

"I'll get you some blankets, how does that sound?"

Pen would really rather have Ambrose pressed against his side, but blankets will have to do. "And a bed warmer."

"Of course. Anything you want."

"New clothes first? I'll let you do everything to the bruises and scrap before we put them on, but I would really like to get out of these. They're covered in dust and dirt and tears."

"My poor boy. Nightdress, I think. Pink ribbons, or blue?"

Which does Ambrose like him in more…. Pen tries to remember but comes up blank. The brain fog has been getting worse lately, and that’s the one bit that truly frightens him. He can’t do necromancy if he can’t even remember what day it is.

"Blue it is, then." Ambrose decides.

“Thank you.. Sorry, the words all…. Well, they flew right out of my head, it seems.”

"No need for them. I know how to get you looking pretty."

“You always have. Always make me so sweet, so perfect.”

Ambrose shakes out the frothy nightie in question, then bends to tug the dress Ambrose is wearing over his head. It slides off easily, lose and simple, revealing his corset, and cream combinations. Even light off white makes him look even paler. His pallor seems to glow. Ambrose can't help but adore it as he starts loosening laces. Each loosened tie makes it easier to breathe. Silk shifting under the corset. A picture of almost-fainting beauty. A portrait of ill-advised fashion, decaying joy.

There are marks on Pen's skin, even through his chemise. Ambry traces them with a hiss.

“Are they quite bad?”

"They'll last a few hours at least."

“Then I suppose it’s good I have such a lovely caretaker.”

"Isn't it?" For once, Ambrose takes the praise without faking demure.

“Always taking care of me, of what I can’t do.” He smiles at Ambrose, immensely happy to have him.

"See? There's no need to simply push through a bad day, is there?"

“No, not at all.” Pen sighs, rather disappointed in himself. “I really don’t know what came over me, I’m sorry.”

"You're forgiven." Ambrose assures him. "As for all your follies."

A smile, and then he starts wriggling, trying to rid himself if the chemise too. Ambrose is quick to help, tugging it up and off. Penthos shivers, bare now, atop the silken sheets of his bed. Looking just the picture of ephemeral beauty.

“Thank you, Ambry.”

Ambrose could stop and stare his fill, if he wasn't concerned about getting something warm onto him. He can feel those eyes on him. Pretends they’re wanting, instead of anything else. Pretends Ambrose looks at him the way he looks at every other pretty thing he sees walk by. It’s a beautiful dream.

"Sit up. I need to get your nightie on."

But no, Ambrose just wants him covered as soon as possible…. Penthos complies, sitting up and lifting his arms, the way any good little invalid would.

It feels a shame, to cover up such beauty. "Wait." He says, not a little selfish. "I ought to tend to the bruise first."

“Oh, yes, you should…”

Any excuse to keep him bare a little longer. He fetches a pot of cream.

Pen lounges as he waits, secretly giddy at being seen longer. A nasty, deep part of him thinks he ought to be injured more often if it means Ambrose sees him like this.

Ambrose steals looks, he can't help himself. Guilty little glances through his eyelashes. Pen stretches, putting himself even more on display, until the bruises pull too far, and Pen winces, hissing as he curls back in on himself. He’s so delicate. Like a sick porcelain doll laid out and forgotten.

"The cream might be cold." Ambrose warns, starting to rub it in. Penthos whimpers a tad, but it’s mostly put on, a show for his caretaker, for his handler. A show enough to make Ambrose cautious. "It'll feel better after, promise."

“You said you’d kiss it better too…?”

Ambrose bends his head to press a kiss on the bruise.

“Perfect.” He prays his prick behaves, but Penthos wants to feel this every day. Wants to feel Ambrose’s lips on him in other places as well. “It’s feeling better already.”

"Just needed a bit of care, didn't you?"

“From you? Of course.”

"You can always have it. Have only to ask." And he feels a pang of guilt for being unavailable.

I can’t though. Not the kind of care I really want. He smiles, soft. “You seem to just know even when I don’t.”

"It's my job to know what you need."

“And you do it oh so well, Ambry.” He shifts, letting the man continue his ministrations on the other abrasions. Pen is smiling now that he has Ambrose’s hands on his bare flesh. Ambrose is touching perhaps more than strictly necessary. Letting his hands wander, stroke bare skin. Pen hums in contentment, letting his eyes slip shut. “Feels so nice… like you’re moving my blood around for me.”

"You need a proper massage?"

One eye cracks open, looking at Ambrose all wet and pathetic. “Perhaps…”

"Do you think you feel too tender for it, or ought I to give it a go?"

He probably should say no; it’ll likely make the bruises worse but- “Please? It might help the tingling in my legs go away.”

"Turn on your stomach." Ambrose returns to the vanity to fetch some sweet body oil.

Pen is glad for it. Now anything his cock decides to do will be hidden. tucked under himself and pressed into silk. He rests his head on the pillow so he can watch Ambrose. The man looks so beautiful when candle lit, the same warm glow the sun gives him.

He approaches slowly, carefully. Something of ritual to it. Like a worshipper. And truly, this is something worth ritual. Penthos' frail, light body laid out specifically for him, every dip and curve on display. Pale, small limbs you can almost see the veins through, dark hair thin on his head, and the bare plane of his back leading to a small (if pert) behind. Ambrose would love to press a kiss there. He doesn't dare, but he does dare knead his fingers into the muscle.

Penthos lets out a deep groan, sinking into the mattress. "That’s the stuff."

"No wonder you're sore, you're tense as a bag of rocks."

"You try living in constant pain, see how tense you are afterward." It's half muffled by the pillow, but the lack of real bite is still audible.

"I couldn't imagine it. I'd be nothing without my sword arm."

You got lucky, to be born free of this. "That would be a shame. You're more than just that though... We both know that."

"Hardly. A pretty face."

"And an intelligent man. A deft hand at medicine, after taking care of me for over a decade. And, well. Not that it necessarily matters, but I doubt you'd have near as many night companions as you do if you weren't talented there as well."

"Oh, I don't dare brag of those talents." He digs his fingers into a knot in Pen's thigh.

Pen yelps, and it morphs into a pleased sigh as the knot works free. "Mmmhg, yes but you still have them. And the other things besides."

"You've plenty yourself."

"A title and a small fortune and a pretty face that no one wants. Necromantic ability does no good if I can't get anywhere to use it."

"What do you mean, nobody wants your pretty face? You must have suitors."

Pen scoffs into the pillow. "Darling the only ones who have any interest are creeps who want me to be a pretty baby doll for them to play with. I'm ill, I'm small, and I need help with a lot, I'm not actually seven.

"Oh, I certainly know that. Let me know if you need me to get rid of them."