Chapter Text
Two in the morning was hardly a practical calling time, and yet what better time to beg for something as simple and yet impossible as one’s life and country? He only truly realized what he was doing after he’d been seated in the drawing room— how intimate , he thought, how very coy of him, to have me wait here —and was stuck waiting for Poland to awaken and come to him. Ten minutes, twenty? Perhaps an hour if the man was feeling particularly rude? There was nothing to be done for it.
He fiddled with the dagger at his belt, picking at its hilt without much thought. These days, you never knew; it seemed every week brought another blow. Ostrogiškiai, Podlasie, Volhynia; what was to be next? He would hardly be surprised if half the remaining delegation turned up dead from flu or poison tomorrow morning. Hope was hardly a luxury he could afford himself now, even if it remained within his people. He dropped the dagger into his lap; clearly it was only going to worry him more. He resorted instead to looking around the room.
It was certainly Feliks’, with paintings and bookshelves scattered about the walls like toys in a child’s bedroom. Chairs were set about in a manner lacking any reason Tolys could detect. And, oh, the fireplace before him! He hardly glanced over the carving on the mantle as he fixated on the flames. Flames; warm, comforting, and yet warning, flickering over wood for safety and houses for war. Flames, dual as anything can be; man’s first triumph and yet also his last judgement. How fitting, then, that a beggar should be forced to await his executioner before one.
He looked up at the sound of the door opening. Sure enough, Feliks looked put-together in the way one looked put-together just after getting dressed in the morning, with only the bags under his eyes betraying he wasn’t putting on that type of show. They didn’t stop the smile he gave from being electric, filled with a century of joy but also the poison of politics, balanced so an onlooker cannot tell where one ends and the other begins. Tolys felt himself rise before he’d so much as remembered the word ‘etiquette’. The poison smile softened, sweet like deadly nightshade, comforting like wine.
“It’s good to see you, Tolys! Even though it’s a bit of an odd hour.”
“This isn’t a social call, Poland.” He retook his seat and ignored that Poland remained standing.
“Well, yeah, I got that, thanks. What do you want and couldn’t it wait until morning?”
Tolys looked over to the trailing servant who’d gone to tend the fire. He skittered off at the look and Tolys couldn’t help a small smirk. Despite everything, Feliks still kept servants so easily spooked they would leave the iron in the flames? It was almost comical. “If I waited, you would brush me off. It’s important to me.”
“No, of course I wouldn’t! I care about you; whatever you want, I’ll do it!”
“Make the recommendation to our dear Zygmunt not to push these… reforms through.”
Feliks’ face fell in an instant, smile turned into a sour frown. “No.”
“Please, Poland, you’ve asked too much of me. It isn’t that I don’t appreciate the effort—it’s heartwarming, in a way—but you take my land, threaten my titles, and yet you have the gall to ask for more?”
“I’m only asking for what I deserve—you’re more trouble than you’re worth half the time! And I’m going to be spending resources to keep you safe, it’s only fair I get some privileges out of it.”
“I can keep myself safe.”
“Well, duh! Of course you can, Tolys, the problem is your people . You’ve picked too many fights, you’re going to get yourself hurt! It’s not like you’ll just stay out of it either, I know you’ll be right there with whatever captain’s caught your fancy. I just don’t want you getting yourself killed!”
“The fights I picked helping you out, you mean? The wars you begged for help in, the times I stood toe to toe with Muscovy because you were scared and I was closer? I picked too many of those? Should I have left you to die, Poland? Is that the course of action you would have preferred I take? That is the official line of your king now, that Lietuva is too reckless in defending their neighbour? Well, you’ll pardon my recklessness , then.”
“You say that, but it was reckless! There were better solutions than throwing yourself into wars every three years, Liet!” Tolys went to speak, but Feliks put up a hand to stop him. “No—I don’t really care about that now, I just want you to be safe, as my husband . This is necessary .”
Tolys’ face darkened and his words took a sharp edge. “Are you saying I can’t defend myself?”
Feliks’ face squished up, brows drawn together shielding hesitant eyes. “I’m not saying that exactly— ”
“Then what are you saying, Feliks?”
“Just—you need our help to defend yourselves.”
Tolys leapt and shoved Feliks back. Feliks stumbled with a cry. Tolys slashed at his face, catching the arm of his doublet. It tore with a harsh rip, intense as a gunshot.
Feliks threw a punch. Tolys ducked, pulled back; a coiled spring. He slashed, missed. Something hot hit his hand. Feliks swore—a nosebleed—and stumbled.
“You fucker! After everything, you do this?! I should just kill you!”
Tolys took a ragged breath and flipped his knife around. He rammed Feliks, knocking them both to the ground. Slash; one, two, and crimson accents on pale skin.
A harsh blow knocked Tolys back. Another hit his temple—black, for just a moment. Too long. Feliks sat over him. A sudden heat against his face—they'd fallen near the fire? His chest heaved as he threw back Feliks’ glare.
“Are we done , Tolys?” Feliks’ hand pressed him down, not quite threatening to choke but oh so close, oh so very very close, and Tolys’ breath felt like lead.
But he was Lithuania, he was more than the breath in his lungs, and like Hell was he going down that easily.
He grabbed Feliks and pushed, but fell back. He slashed at Feliks’ chest and caught rough cloth.
Feliks yelped and jumped up. His foot slammed into Tolys’ chest accompanied by a harsh wheeze. Tolys grabbed his ankle and yanked— crash —Feliks fell head-first.
“Not until you help me, you half-wit status climb— agh!” Something collided with his eye, hard enough to see white. Before he could so much as shove himself back up, a hand on his shoulder and—
Agony. Searing, burning, white-blind fire in his eye. Mind-numbingly hot, burning the forests of his iris; eternal, all-consuming, and just as soon—gone.
He collapsed against the floor with his arms curled against his face and his eyes frozen wide open, staring unseeingly at his sleeves. He heard a door slam as if from underwater, a million miles away and half-dreamed even then.
He didn’t move for hours. When he finally managed, weak sunlight washed the floor in pinks and greys. The fire was cold, long since abandoned with the iron laid haphazardly next to it.
He stood slowly, and even then nearly vomited. Everything felt off-kilter, vividly wrong even as nearly everything was in place. He wobbled over to the windows and stared out, but also at himself, reflected in the first rays of tomorrow.
Blood caked the side of his head and matted hair down over his eye. A few lingering bruises marked the side not obscured, grim reminders of just how bitter ‘beneficial’ love could be.
A soft, ragged sigh escaped him and he carefully peeled the hair away from his face. The soft snow of rusted crimson made his nose crinkle, only to smooth back out in shock as he realized.
Oh.
That’s new.
Where once had been the speckled green of his right eye was now a burnt, milky mess; the darkness of his pupil consumed by the horrible oval that now played the role of his eye.
He stared at himself in utter silence, unable to form so much as a whisper of a thought against this information. The sheer contrast of his one untouched eye, a green ring held lovingly in a cloud sea next to the sour milk oval in a blood-red pool betrayed his tongue and bypassed every poetic nothing he’d said of other’s wounds.
All from his husband.