Chapter Text
He was a mask. He didn't have instinct. He was crafted. Moulded by the hand that formed him, that penned his script.
A refined thing. Even if the hand that wrote his story was now his own.
A mask wanted to be worn. A prop wanted to be used.
Neither had standards or desires for who it might like to wield it.
Not usually.
Neither usually had wants either, when one came down to it.
It made him feel guilty that he had. That sometimes when he was dealing with the mess of having a body he thought of who he could be on the face of. Who he wanted to be connected to in such an all encompassing way.
Beyond intimacy.
This world was built on blasphemy. He himself was a blasphemy.
But this. This would be an act of true evil. A sin to everything Bolaire knew as good.
To claim him.
And yet… he dwelled in that sweet sin. Dreaming as much as he can dream. To be cradled against Hal's face. To know there would be nothing between them. Thoughts, secrets, all exposed to one another.
And never to be sundered.
“If he only knew,” Thjazi muttered to himself one day. One of the few times they were doing the hand off face to face.
“But you won’t tell him,” Bolaire said, voice perfectly neutral, even as he felt his body’s blood boil in reaction to his rage.
Thjazi looked up at him sharply. “No,” he said. “Not as long as you remain useful.”
Bolaire sarcastically bowed. “As ever, I am forced to be at your service.”
Thjazi’s mouth twisted.
At least he resented their little stalemate as much as Bolaire did.
“As long as you keep playing the part you’ve given yourself, we won’t have a problem, but the moment that changes–” Thjazi cut himself off and shook his head in frustration.
The moment that changes you’ll be dead, Bolaire thought darkly. Dreamed about it, sliding his blade through Thjazi Fang’s gut. No hesitation, no guilt.
But it was impossible.
The only way such a scenario would be possible was if he lost everything else.
If he lost Hal.
The thought clung to him. That loss. That grief.
Whenever he was in Thjazi’s presence, doing his bidding, he felt that loss. Knew that the stalemate wouldn’t last.
Bolaire wasn’t a fool. He knew better than anyone the cycle of use, from both sides. It was finite. One day, Thjazi’s need for him would end, and Thjazi would dispose of him. Gladly, have him locked away somewhere deep and dark. Or perhaps passed on to one of his buyers, nothing but an expensive arcane object.
Just as Thjazi has always seen him. As far away from his brother as possible.
So, it wasn’t a question of if one of them would strike the other.
It was when.
And Thjazi had the upper hand.
Because killing him would break Hal's heart.
Bolaire couldn't do that to him. Not directly. Having the man's blood on his hands would be would be sweet until the moment he saw his friend's face.
He wondered if his own loss would break Hal's heart.
If it would, he knew Thjazi didn't care.
He'd let Hal suffer if it meant maintaining control.
(If Bolaire had control no prize in the world would be worth gambling with Hal's wellbeing.)
“Are we done?” Bolaire asked smarmily. “I do have actual things to do today.”
“Yes, you need to pick out a new one soon, I’ve noticed. Mersen or Obrian?
“What?” Bolaire froze.
“They’re the right height,” Thjazi said casually. “And no one will miss either of them. Mersen owes me money though, so you’d be doing me a favour if you chose—”
“Silence,” Bolaire ordered, raising his hand sharply.
Thjazi shut his mouth, but it curled up into a smirk.
Bolaire’s face twisted in anger. He knew. He was watching he—
The spell broke.
“Although Mersen has the kind of waist you prefer, doesn’t he?”
“Shut up.”
“Which do you think my brother would prefer? Do you think about that? I suppose the point is him not noticing.”
“You–” Bolaire snarled.
“But I’ve kept you too long as it is,” Thjazi said. “We’ll be in contact.”
He imagined it. Not a hunk of flesh. Pain, weight, disgusting bodily functions. Not the screaming, and begging, and despair.
Hal. To be connected to Hal. In Hal’s mind, nothing able to separate them, letting go.
Letting go of Bolaire Lathalia and being a mask. Hal’s mask. Giving him his power.
Surely, if it was Hal, he wouldn’t waste away like the others.
Or maybe holding on to Bolaire Lathalia and just both of them together.
That sweet blasphemy. He gazed at his friend as he happily spoke on traditional orcish poetry washing the feeling of Thjazi's Fang's grip off him, even as sour guilt and chilling loss pressed against his stolen chest where his stolen heart presided.
But that lovely low voice, rumbling against his clay. Talking as they were now with complete understanding.
Just closer. Just … safer.
“Bolaire?”
“Yes, Hal?”
His friend smiled softly. “It's hard to know when I'm boring you.”
“When have you ever bored me?” Bolaire’s mouth pulled into a charming smile, but he knew his inattentiveness had been noticed.
“Right now? You seem dazed. I don't blame you, the intricacies of orcish rhyme schemes isn't what most people would call fascinating,” Hal said with a self deprecating smile. Would he feel that smile against him? Would he just know?
Would he feel the spark of Hal's happiness against his own?
“Except for you,” Bolaire said fondly.
Hal's responding chuckle held no bitterness toward his friend's lapsed concentration. “Except for me,” he agreed.
Bolaire sighed. “I'm sorry, Hal. It's been… work has been challenging.” Your brother has been challenging.
Another half lie.
“Copper for your thoughts?”
Bolaire shook his head. He longed to. Even if Hal would hate him, at least he'd know. At least Bolaire wouldn't have to feel so fractured.
“It's my thoughts I want to get away from. Talk to me about orcish rhyme schemes, I'll be completely present this time. Although I don't have any kind of fluency, I think the idea of an anti-rhyme is fascinating. Purposeful dissonance to draw attention.”
“Ah, and here I thought you weren't listening.”
“Not as closely as was deserved.”
Hal stirred his coffee. “There would be poems of dissent crafted so intricately. By itself it would sound like a flowing poem, often about service to Azgra. They would be written in pairs. If you read off one line then the next there would be no flow, dissonant, hard on the ear, instructions for meeting places or gatherings. Two different people with half the poem, reciting line by line.” Hal leaned forward eagerly and Bolaire had the strangest impulse to grab his hands, just to hold them. “The rhyming made it easy to remember your half. The dissonance ironically showed that the halves go together. It's a very… peculiar feeling. Something that should fit together, but doesn't. Makes my ears buzz. It doesn't quite carry over to Common, but discordant musical notes have a similar effect.”
Something that should fit together, but doesn't.
Like you and I, he didn't dare say.