Prices Paid

Fiction short. A man possessed by myriad demons greets his on-and-off lover.

1.4k, M/M. Asmodeus and Hamish MacKinnon! Just a short, sharp little piece between two sad, sharp men. Adapted from a TweetFic.

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The demons swarmed to the window in a leathery cloud of flapping wings, hissing and chittering from the very bases of their neatly segmented torsos, their claws skittering and squeaking on the glass.

It was reinforced, but that didn’t mean Hamish stood for this sort of carry-on.

“Stop it,” he ordered sharply, giving a sharp clap of two plump hands: the sound wasn’t tremendously loud, especially not over the drone of the horde, but they did scatter somewhat, and several of them dropped onto the sills, either trying to look innocent or openly sulking.

He took the most stubborn of them off the glass, peeling them free as they roared little complaints, and some of them took the opportunity to clamber up him, weaselling their way into his cardigan and his pockets, several of them forming a gently vibrating band around his neck.

“I know,” he murmured, too used to them by now to be angry or even frustrated: he stroked their backs, their wings, with his left hand. “It’s a little cold today.” In his right hand he cradled more of them, aware of the way another alastor was clinging to his back.

They’d streaked the condensation on the windows, enough to see into the foggy Nottingham air outdoors.

Someone had stopped him, it seemed, for his autograph: Hamish could see him giving very neat bows of his head, could see the modest smile, as he spoke with two young women.

One of the alastora howled directly below his ear, and he patted it very firmly on the leathery bottom, giving it a scowl.

It crooned a buzzing lament.

“He’s on his way,” Hamish murmured. “No need for any of that.”

Asmodeus let himself in.

Hamish had already opened the bottle to air it out a little, and when he came up the stairs and into the flat proper, Asmodeus went for the wine before he went for Hamish, pouring himself a glass.

“You don’t want any?” he asked.

“Young Ms Kuroda brought me these mousse desserts made with liqueur. I don’t know that they pair well.”

“Mousse and liqueur?” Asmodeus repeats.

“There’s another in the fridge,” says Hamish. “If you must deprive me.”

“I do live to deprive you,” said Asmodeus smoothly, but he didn’t have a great sweet tooth most of the time, and Hamish wasn’t surprised when he did not veer into the kitchen but came to sit on the sofa with him.

If Hamish had been in his armchair, Asmodeus would still have sat this close, would have perched on the arm like a man half his size, but like this, it was easier.

He moulded himself against Hamish’s size, crossed one leg over Hamish’s, leaned in.

He smelt faintly of an ancient cologne he never wears at home, because his brother always fusses about the smell.

Hamish breathed it in, and didn’t allow himself to lean into Asmodeus’ body, the crook of his shoulder.

He basked in his heat from where he was.

The alastora sandwiched between their bodies, several of them shoved haphazardly down Hamish’s jumper, fidgeted — he found it quite funny, the way they all excited themselves at his coming, but became so nervous once he was inside.

Any sudden movements, and they’d scatter.

“Please,” said Asmodeus mildly.

“Please what?” Hamish asked, putting on more irritation than he really felt, and Asmodeus opened his mouth, parted perfect brown lips to show perfect white teeth and a perfect red tongue.

Hamish scooped up a morsel of mousse and fed him, as much as it heated his skin all over, made him feel embarrassed and ridiculous, a grown man feeding another, but as ever, Asmodeus treated ridiculousness with sincerity and gravity.

He took the mouthful, tasting it on his tongue, and Hamish watched the furrow of his neatly groomed eyebrows, the shift of the colour in his eyes as they moved slightly. He was concentrating on the taste, swilling it around his mouth.

He paused for a few moments after swallowing, retaining his verdict until after it had been fully considered.

It was ridiculous — everything about him was ridiculous.

Hamish held back his smile.

“I was expecting a chocolate liqueur,” he said, looking eminently thoughtful. “That’s quite citrusy. Limoncello, is it?”

“You’d know better than me,” Hamish said. “She keeps bringing me pastries and so on. Assumes I like that sort of thing.”

“You do like them,” pointed out Asmodeus.

“Yes, but she assumed I did because I’m a fat old man, not for any other reason.”

“What other reason would a young woman have to bring you desserts, Hamish?”

“Don’t be so sensible at me,” muttered Hamish. “It ruins my momentum.”

Asmodeus laughed, the sound low and resonant and heavy on the air: Hamish could feel it pleasantly in his rib cage, but it made the alastora crammed between them wriggle free, rushing to join the rest of the swarm on top of the fire, gathered in a pile on the guard.

“What happened to the basket I sent for them?” Asmodeus asked, without anger.

“It lasted a good few months,” said Hamish. “And then, mostly, they ate it.”

Asmodeus laughed again: Hamish looked at the warmth, the affection, on his face as he watched the alastora in their pile.

“Waylaid by legions of your adoring fans?” asked Hamish.

“Fans of the ballet,” said Asmodeus softly, smiling in that faint way he had. “She’s only fifteen, currently preparing for a recital. Was inspired by my Ondine.”

Hamish’s lips twitched.

“And things at home?” asked Hamish.

Asmodeus inhaled slowly through his nostrils, and then leaned his head in closer, buried his nose in Hamish’s thin hair, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“That well, hm?”

“The same as ever.”

“You chose your holiday.”

“I know.”

“And you’ll be imposing on me for how long?” asked Hamish. Asmodeus didn’t stiffen, didn’t flinch, didn’t lean away, but Hamish could see the slight shift in his face in his periphery, without turning to look.

“Only two days,” he promised.

Hamish didn’t say, “I’ll hold you to that.”

He didn’t need to.

“Reading your book?” asked Asmodeus, picking it up and thumbing over the bookmark.

“I was going to finish this and then go to bed, actually,” said Hamish, and Asmodeus nodded, putting the book down.

He leaned closer.

He didn’t pull Hamish to him, almost never did, but worked his way into Hamish’s gaps the same way the alastora did.

A part of Hamish, quite unlike the part of Hamish that craved this, that yearned for it when Asmodeus was gone, found it pathetic, and he tried to focus on that.

Asmodeus’ arm curled around Hamish’s shoulder, his breast warm against Hamish’s arm, his knee in Hamish’s lap.

“A massage?” asked Asmodeus. “Before I fuck you? Or after?”

“After, I think,” said Hamish.

Asmodeus said nothing, but took a long sip of his wine, and then set the glass aside.

There was a soft, aching tension in his voice, when he said, “Let me take you to bed.”

“I dislike to be rushed, Asmodeus.”

Somehow, Asmodeus’ silence was even softer, even achier, than what he’d said.

Hamish counted it as a point won, although the blade cut him as much as it did Asmodeus.

He wished he had it in him to be crueller, on nights like these.

When Hamish stood up, Asmodeus said against his hip, “I’m recording a new record for you, you know.”

Hamish stood very still for a few moments — it made him feel incredibly warm, and immediately, really quite angry.

“How kind,” he said coolly.

Asmodeus dropped his head against Hamish’s hip, and Hamish pulled away from him.

“I’ll join you in a moment,” he said, making his voice as cold as he could. “I just need to wash this up.”

“I can do that for you,” said Asmodeus.

“I won’t be a moment,” replied Hamish.

Once the two of them were in the dark together, Hamish weakened, softened, let Asmodeus hold him as he pleased.

He weakened enough, in fact, to hold him back, for a little while.

“I feel like I’ll pay for this in the morning,” Asmodeus said, and Hamish loosened his grip.

“Yes,” he admitted, feeling the weight of Asmodeus’ body, heavy and solid and full of muscle, blanket his, Asmodeus’ cheek on his chest, his fingers pressing into Hamish’s sides.

He murmured, “I’ve paid higher prices for less.”

As always, he fell asleep before Hamish did.

FIN