A formless hand ran across his thigh, from his hip to his knee, pushing to make room for a warm body to fit between them, press close. Tristan cried out, the pressure overwhelming, and sharp fingertips dug into either side of his jaw, drew blood.
Tristan opened his eyes.
He had fallen asleep in the hidden room, his cheek pressed against the picture of Death and the maiden.
Blood like ice, he slowly lifted his eyes to find Mor standing over him in the dim moonlight. A weak breeze picked up strands of his pale hair, creating a crown of silver around the knight's head.
"That was an awfully strange thing to have said, back there. You can't simply accuse a man of treason without explanation, my Lord." Mor said, approaching Tristan carefully. His eyes were dark and he smirked, wry and lopsided. "So this is where you hide. The men and I wondered. They think you have a woman that you sneak off somewhere with."
He hovered over him and, despite himself, Tristan shrank away until his back dug into the cold, stone wall. He clutched the little book, held it like a shield between himself and the smaller man. His heart was lodged in his throat, a knot of fear and hope tangling in his chest.
"I find it funny. How stupid they are," Mor trailed a long finger up his throat, held his chin. "How blind."
"Please don't—"
"I won't tell anyone, of course. Unless you really are hiding a girl somewhere, the men won't care. The revelation of your little nest up here makes very poor fodder for gossip. Shocking, I know."
Mor smiled triumphantly as Tristan shivered below him.
"Are you afraid of me?" he murmured, watching Tristan tremble, his eyes bright. He looked both incredulous and delighted at the idea.
"You saved me," Tristan forced out, "The day of the battle."
"Did I?" Mor said quietly, tracing the faint scar on Tristan's cheek, "It is my duty to protect you, my Lord."
"No, it isn't. I'm sure my father ordered you to turn the other way, if you couldn't get to me first."
"How morbid. My, I had no idea you were this dramatic. And, mind you, I did have some idea. The way you mope about." Mor paused, frowning, "I think we may have misunderstood each other."
Tristan's head spun, and he put a hand over his eyes.
"Why are you here, then?"
Mor tilted his head. "I thought I made that perfectly clear. And you can't hide from me."
He ran his hand up Tristan's thigh.
"Do you deny it?"
He tapped the book between them. Move this.
Not yet.
"You're right about the men and their talk, Morgan. I know what they say."
"I told you, they're idiots," Mor said impatiently, trapping Tristan's face between his hands. "Tristan. Please don't tell me you really believe... You're the only heir. You truly think your own father wants you dead?"
Mor pressed a pale hand, bisected by a thick red scar, to Tristan's chest. His heart thudded desperately against it.
"I'm sure that he wants you to live."
"But I don't," Tristan whispered, breathless with the confession. His fingers dug into the leather cover of the book with so much force they turned white. "I don't want to rule."
Mor's mouth opened and closed. Then he barked a humorless laugh.
"Ha! Of course you don't! You slink around, afraid to die, but you cry up here hoping for death. Is that it? Ha! Oh, you are truly a miserable thing, just as they say! You'd rather die than become your father. Ha!"
Yes, Tristan thought, Please understand. Please don't be cruel.
"Poor little Lord," Mor crooned, caressing Tristan's burning cheek with the back of his fingers. "Shall I kill you, then? Is that what you wanted from me?"
Tristan choked, staring up at him with wide eyes.
"There's that look again." Morgan leaned into him, so close, "I've been here a month, and you've barely spoken to me. And yet, at every meal, every passing, everywhere I go, you look at me like you need something from me. Very desperately."
Mor held the side of his neck, thumb pressing into his pulse. Golden eyes searched Tristan's, and then, slowly as if not to spook him, Mor leaned down to kiss the breath from him.
"Perhaps I can give you a little death, instead. No?"
Tristan couldn't bring himself to speak, unshed tears burning his eyes. Mor made a breathy little sound, a sigh of exasperation. He leaned back, just a little, but Tristan felt the distance was an abyss.
"Do you understand me? Or are you so innocent?"
"I do. I understand." Tristan finally whispered, overwhelmed, all his edges ripped and raw.
"My Lord. Tristan," Mor's voice was low and deep, like smoke, "Tell me —exactly— what it is you want from me, and I shall give it to you."
Tristan shivered again. He was so cold, he was always so fucking cold, but Mor wasn't. Everything about the knight was warm, from his voice to his eyes to his hands. Tristan wanted to believe, so very desperately, that Mor was telling the truth, that he didn't need to fear him. He wanted to bury himself in the knight's chest and hide, wanted to trust him, wanted him to be the only one to understand. And he wanted, perhaps more than anything, a tiny fraction of Mor's bravery, of his grace and kindness. He wanted whatever it was that made him so warm.
He looked up at the man, his otherworldly hair and golden eyes, shining in a way that nothing shone in the Tower.
"I want you," Tristan gasped, welled tears finally spilling down his cheeks.
Mor smirked, triumphant.
"Then have me."
Tristan let the book of dancing monsters and crying wretches and timid maidens fall to the floor and pulled the man as close as he could come, swallowing the surprised laugh from his mouth.
Later, Mor cried and threw his head back. The arch of his pale neck seemed to be the longest stretch of him without a scar.
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