Senses Fail
Title: Senses Fail
Pairing: Baldwin/Tiberias
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Men will make due with the tools they are given, and, if none are forthcoming, they will make their own to make their mark.
It has not been a good day, men have been hung for crimes they believed were God’s will, a rogue horse string wreaked havoc in one of the markets when the stallions broke free and Tiberias is tired. It is the kind of tiredness that crawls out of one’s heart and soul and drags down one’s feet and head until you feel you must fall where you stand.
He doesn’t fall though, he never has and he’s beginning to doubt that he ever will. Every battle he has fought, moral, spiritual, physical, he has come out scared and beaten, but alive. This life, this war to come, is chipping pieces out of him, but he is made of the wet earth of England and this heat, and this dust, have simply soaked into him and he’s been baked into stone hard enough to withstand this attrition.
Tiberias has no patience for the young women who attend him, strip him of dusty armor and sweat stiff clothes. He should bathe, the thought of cool water is undeniably appealing, but he stumbles to his bed instead, collapsing face down, where he lies still, letting the cool sheets leech some of the heat from his skin. He shuts his eyes but finds no peace, thinking instead of the man he continues to drag himself through the world for.
The Leper King. Baldwin IV. Unclean, unholy, unparalleled by any other man that Tiberias has met.
They have been politely dancing around the subject for so long that Tiberias cannot even remember when it first began. Who touched whose hand first, if it was Baldwin who dipped red-raw eyelids down flirtatiously over bloodshot blue eyes, or if it was he who smiled and inclined his head. It is nothing that anyone could ever say happened, not without sounding like a fool; “but my Lord, they were looking at each other,” but it is happening and, God help him, Tiberias is looking. He is looking until he almost believes he can see through the silversmiths craft where he can imagine the man the boy has become. It is a flawed image, one of youthful beauty grown mature. He knows better. He knows that under the mask is most likely the ruin of youthful beauty, of scars, and sores, and pain but Baldwin’s voice, muffled as it is, haunts him, seeps into his bones and makes him wish for things he cannot have.
It is that night, of all nights, that their dance ends.
The whisper of silk is the only warning Tiberias is given before Baldwin stands beside him, listing slightly to one side, though his head is tipped to the side in amusement and his eyes are smiling down at Tiberias.
“My Lord-” Tiberias pulls the sheets a little further over himself, sitting up. “You surprise me.”
Baldwin chuckles and waves his hand at Tiberias, indicating for him to move back, so he may sit on the bed. “Am I not allowed to roam my own palace?” he asks, and slides onto the sheets, white against the deep blue.
Tiberias smiles back, but it feels too sharp so instead he shakes his head depreciatingly. “I would ask my Lord’s warning in the future, so I may be in better attire.” He runs a hand through his hair and smiles again, this time ruefully. “So that I may be in some attire at all.”
“If I wished for formality, I would call a council,” is the tart reply. “You know my name, sir, dare you use it?”
They sit in silence then, and their hands are too close on the sheets, their feet almost touching. It is then that Tiberias realizes his mistake. He has been waiting for the man he cannot have to tell him otherwise, but Baldwin is the King, and the King cannot come to a knight, questioning.
Tiberias moves his hand just that little bit further and puts it over Baldwin’s bandaged, gloved fingers. No, he puts his hand over what is left of Baldwin’s fingers. He can feel the twists and bumps of where the disease has destroyed something that might have been beautiful. Next to him, Baldwin goes very carefully quiet. Tiberius slides two fingers up over his wrist, to the crook of his elbow, watching for a response, anything, a sign that he isn’t making a fool of himself. Then Baldwin shudders suddenly.
“Oh,” he says, and the sound is a little startled, a little breathless, as though he had forgotten what it felt like to have someone touch where he could feel. Maybe he has.
“Baldwin.” Tiberias leans in, too close for propriety, and blue eyes are nearly swallowed by their pupils. “Only tell me how this must be done and I will do it. I would not risk your being injured-”
The king draws his arm back, and for a terrible, aching moment Tiberias is sure he has been mistaken and has been dreaming all that came before. Then Baldwin shakes his head, and his eyes are shut, though not in flirtation, but in pain. “I would not risk your life.” He opens his eyes again, and the mask muffles his voice so much, so low is his tone, that Tiberias has to strain to hear him. “I am selfish Tiberias, I had to know…I had to know what could have been.” Baldwin makes as though he will get up and leave.
Tiberias catches hold of one silk sleeve and the back of Baldwin’s neck and he wants the power of the Lord to prove him wrong, he wants the God who abandoned them all to show him his error and his arrogance. He wants the Savior’s grace to bless his mouth, his spittle, so as the Lord made the lame walk, and the blind see, as He made the lepers whole, he wants the same for his King. Baldwin is stiff in his arms, gloved hands on his bare chest as though to push him away and Tiberias is no god, he has no god, and so he leans forwards and kisses the mask as though it is skin beneath his, and not the sharp tang of silver against his mouth. His fingers smooth over the silk at Baldwin’s neck, seeking skin that still has feeling, but for all that Baldwin is now trembling, eyes fluttering shut, those hands still push weakly at his chest, silk clinging to sweat damp skin.
“I cannot not condemn you to death, Tiberias.” And it is strange indeed for him to be speaking, voice a rumble against the mask under Tiberias’ lips. “I cannot demand that of you.”
“You demand nothing that I do not wish to give.” Tiberias releases Baldwin’s sleeve in favor of running his hand over Baldwin’s chest, to smooth down his back, teasing out a choked moan. He tries to remember that the man in his arms has scarcely twenty years to his name but the wisdom brought by birth, and war, and pain make him wonder how many years burden his soul. “And I would give you everything.”
Baldwin shivers but his fingers come up to trace curlicues and lines over Tiberias’ face, and it takes Tiberias a moment to realize it is the same design that graces the mask. “I am not able,” he says, but he doesn’t turn his face away. Eyes the color of a sky before a storm are more tired than even Tiberias feels. “I am not able,” and this time it is the bitter whisper of a man who has lost everything.
“Is there-”
“You can feel my hands, can you not?” Baldwin takes Tiberias’ hands in his own, and Tiberias wants to wince, when he feels the extent that the disease has twisted this body. “Because I can not. Nor my feet, nor my arms, nor legs…” He looks away then. “There is nothing left of me, Tiberias. I have nothing.”
Tiberias gently pushes Baldwin onto the bed, onto his back, skimming fingertips over every inch of torso he can reach, watching his eyes to see where he still could feel. With each breath, he made Baldwin a liar, because he is not yet dead, and his head tips back for Tiberias to lean in and put his mouth over silk, to lick and suck at a neck where a pulse beats under his tongue. The hand that steals between Baldwin’s legs draws no response however and once again, those eyes shut.
“You waste your time,” Baldwin says and it has the tone of a funeral bell.
Tiberias frowns and withdraws his hands. “Stay,” he asks.
Rising from the bed, Tiberias walks, naked, body aroused, hoping beyond hope that this will not be in vain. Baldwin watches, and his breath catches when Tiberias finds his softest gloves, of the smoothest leather, and then the dagger that Baldwin himself gave him years ago as a gift. It is plain, but sharp, and the hilt is smooth. It too is silver, ornamental, and Tiberias tries to smile as he crawls back onto the bed.
Tiberias leans over Baldwin to retrieve oil, long unused from the bedside drawer. “If this fails, then I will let you go.” He pulls the gloves on and covers the fingers of one hand in the oil. It will ruin the leather, but he can find new gloves, there can be no second chance for this.
He undoes Baldwin’s trousers, sliding them down over legs still bandaged, and it is a miracle that the man hasn’t simply expired from heat. His legs are swollen in places, uneven and as gnarled as his hands. The outer robe still covers his body from the thighs up and so Tiberias has to work by feel, sliding his hand into the gap between the bandages, what is left of Baldwin’s cock and testicles brushing over the back of the glove until one finger presses against the opening to his body. Baldwin curls his hands into the sheets and hisses.
“Please.” Tiberias can’t remember ever having heard the king say that before. “Please don’t make me hope.” Tiberias eases the finger in up to the first knuckle and Baldwin groans, though not in pain. “Oh…”
That delightful, breathless sound convinces Tiberias that what he is attempting may not yet be a fool’s errand. So he persists, sliding in, and deeper, finger curling, seeking, until Baldwin’s eyes open very wide and his hips jerk a little.
“Shall I stop?” he asks, teasing, a little cruel judging by the way Baldwin shakes his head, one hand releasing the sheets to cup the back of his head. He adds another finger instead, scissoring gently, pressing against the place inside Baldwin that has retained all its feeling and draws soft moans and whimpers from behind the mask. “Only tell me if I hurt you.” He removes his fingers and instead oils the hilt of the dagger. “You must tell me if I hurt you.”
Baldwin’s legs splay open and his chest is heaving. “You will hurt me if you stop now.” He is smiling though, breathless laughter as Tiberias eases the hilt in where his fingers were. “You will kill me if you stop now.”
His white gloved hand beckons, as he curls up his legs with a little wince, the hilt of Tiberias’ dagger slipping deeper inside him and he wraps silk clad ruins around Tiberias’ prick and Tiberias slumps forwards, mouthing over Baldwin’s neck.
It is not skin, it is not a true lover’s touch, as Baldwin arches and cries out beneath him, half finished pleas for more and those tiny ‘oh’s’ that wrench something wound tight in Tiberias’ chest. It is not perfect, it is not enough, not truly, but Baldwin writhes on the hilt of the dagger until dampness stains the front of his robe and the surprise and disbelief in his eyes alongside the gratitude and what would be love if it weren’t so hopeless, breaks Tiberias’ heart at the same time it soothes him. He shudders against Baldwin’s hands and comes, rolling over so as not to hurt his king. His. For this moment, he has played god and healed the sick and given the sightless vision.
Baldwin winces a little as he withdraws the dagger, but curls up around Tiberias, resting dirty gloves against a dusty, sweaty chest. The mask is warm against his skin.
“If I die tomorrow,” Baldwin whispers, “I will know that I lived, in this moment I was a man and not a king. Not a leper, nor a legend, but a man.”
“If you die tomorrow,” Tiberias replies dryly, “then you may tell God, from me, that he has a wretched sense of humor.”
It is the fact that he makes Baldwin laugh, dirty and sated, in his arms, that Tiberias will remember forever.
Pairing: Baldwin/Tiberias
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Men will make due with the tools they are given, and, if none are forthcoming, they will make their own to make their mark.
It has not been a good day, men have been hung for crimes they believed were God’s will, a rogue horse string wreaked havoc in one of the markets when the stallions broke free and Tiberias is tired. It is the kind of tiredness that crawls out of one’s heart and soul and drags down one’s feet and head until you feel you must fall where you stand.
He doesn’t fall though, he never has and he’s beginning to doubt that he ever will. Every battle he has fought, moral, spiritual, physical, he has come out scared and beaten, but alive. This life, this war to come, is chipping pieces out of him, but he is made of the wet earth of England and this heat, and this dust, have simply soaked into him and he’s been baked into stone hard enough to withstand this attrition.
Tiberias has no patience for the young women who attend him, strip him of dusty armor and sweat stiff clothes. He should bathe, the thought of cool water is undeniably appealing, but he stumbles to his bed instead, collapsing face down, where he lies still, letting the cool sheets leech some of the heat from his skin. He shuts his eyes but finds no peace, thinking instead of the man he continues to drag himself through the world for.
The Leper King. Baldwin IV. Unclean, unholy, unparalleled by any other man that Tiberias has met.
They have been politely dancing around the subject for so long that Tiberias cannot even remember when it first began. Who touched whose hand first, if it was Baldwin who dipped red-raw eyelids down flirtatiously over bloodshot blue eyes, or if it was he who smiled and inclined his head. It is nothing that anyone could ever say happened, not without sounding like a fool; “but my Lord, they were looking at each other,” but it is happening and, God help him, Tiberias is looking. He is looking until he almost believes he can see through the silversmiths craft where he can imagine the man the boy has become. It is a flawed image, one of youthful beauty grown mature. He knows better. He knows that under the mask is most likely the ruin of youthful beauty, of scars, and sores, and pain but Baldwin’s voice, muffled as it is, haunts him, seeps into his bones and makes him wish for things he cannot have.
It is that night, of all nights, that their dance ends.
The whisper of silk is the only warning Tiberias is given before Baldwin stands beside him, listing slightly to one side, though his head is tipped to the side in amusement and his eyes are smiling down at Tiberias.
“My Lord-” Tiberias pulls the sheets a little further over himself, sitting up. “You surprise me.”
Baldwin chuckles and waves his hand at Tiberias, indicating for him to move back, so he may sit on the bed. “Am I not allowed to roam my own palace?” he asks, and slides onto the sheets, white against the deep blue.
Tiberias smiles back, but it feels too sharp so instead he shakes his head depreciatingly. “I would ask my Lord’s warning in the future, so I may be in better attire.” He runs a hand through his hair and smiles again, this time ruefully. “So that I may be in some attire at all.”
“If I wished for formality, I would call a council,” is the tart reply. “You know my name, sir, dare you use it?”
They sit in silence then, and their hands are too close on the sheets, their feet almost touching. It is then that Tiberias realizes his mistake. He has been waiting for the man he cannot have to tell him otherwise, but Baldwin is the King, and the King cannot come to a knight, questioning.
Tiberias moves his hand just that little bit further and puts it over Baldwin’s bandaged, gloved fingers. No, he puts his hand over what is left of Baldwin’s fingers. He can feel the twists and bumps of where the disease has destroyed something that might have been beautiful. Next to him, Baldwin goes very carefully quiet. Tiberius slides two fingers up over his wrist, to the crook of his elbow, watching for a response, anything, a sign that he isn’t making a fool of himself. Then Baldwin shudders suddenly.
“Oh,” he says, and the sound is a little startled, a little breathless, as though he had forgotten what it felt like to have someone touch where he could feel. Maybe he has.
“Baldwin.” Tiberias leans in, too close for propriety, and blue eyes are nearly swallowed by their pupils. “Only tell me how this must be done and I will do it. I would not risk your being injured-”
The king draws his arm back, and for a terrible, aching moment Tiberias is sure he has been mistaken and has been dreaming all that came before. Then Baldwin shakes his head, and his eyes are shut, though not in flirtation, but in pain. “I would not risk your life.” He opens his eyes again, and the mask muffles his voice so much, so low is his tone, that Tiberias has to strain to hear him. “I am selfish Tiberias, I had to know…I had to know what could have been.” Baldwin makes as though he will get up and leave.
Tiberias catches hold of one silk sleeve and the back of Baldwin’s neck and he wants the power of the Lord to prove him wrong, he wants the God who abandoned them all to show him his error and his arrogance. He wants the Savior’s grace to bless his mouth, his spittle, so as the Lord made the lame walk, and the blind see, as He made the lepers whole, he wants the same for his King. Baldwin is stiff in his arms, gloved hands on his bare chest as though to push him away and Tiberias is no god, he has no god, and so he leans forwards and kisses the mask as though it is skin beneath his, and not the sharp tang of silver against his mouth. His fingers smooth over the silk at Baldwin’s neck, seeking skin that still has feeling, but for all that Baldwin is now trembling, eyes fluttering shut, those hands still push weakly at his chest, silk clinging to sweat damp skin.
“I cannot not condemn you to death, Tiberias.” And it is strange indeed for him to be speaking, voice a rumble against the mask under Tiberias’ lips. “I cannot demand that of you.”
“You demand nothing that I do not wish to give.” Tiberias releases Baldwin’s sleeve in favor of running his hand over Baldwin’s chest, to smooth down his back, teasing out a choked moan. He tries to remember that the man in his arms has scarcely twenty years to his name but the wisdom brought by birth, and war, and pain make him wonder how many years burden his soul. “And I would give you everything.”
Baldwin shivers but his fingers come up to trace curlicues and lines over Tiberias’ face, and it takes Tiberias a moment to realize it is the same design that graces the mask. “I am not able,” he says, but he doesn’t turn his face away. Eyes the color of a sky before a storm are more tired than even Tiberias feels. “I am not able,” and this time it is the bitter whisper of a man who has lost everything.
“Is there-”
“You can feel my hands, can you not?” Baldwin takes Tiberias’ hands in his own, and Tiberias wants to wince, when he feels the extent that the disease has twisted this body. “Because I can not. Nor my feet, nor my arms, nor legs…” He looks away then. “There is nothing left of me, Tiberias. I have nothing.”
Tiberias gently pushes Baldwin onto the bed, onto his back, skimming fingertips over every inch of torso he can reach, watching his eyes to see where he still could feel. With each breath, he made Baldwin a liar, because he is not yet dead, and his head tips back for Tiberias to lean in and put his mouth over silk, to lick and suck at a neck where a pulse beats under his tongue. The hand that steals between Baldwin’s legs draws no response however and once again, those eyes shut.
“You waste your time,” Baldwin says and it has the tone of a funeral bell.
Tiberias frowns and withdraws his hands. “Stay,” he asks.
Rising from the bed, Tiberias walks, naked, body aroused, hoping beyond hope that this will not be in vain. Baldwin watches, and his breath catches when Tiberias finds his softest gloves, of the smoothest leather, and then the dagger that Baldwin himself gave him years ago as a gift. It is plain, but sharp, and the hilt is smooth. It too is silver, ornamental, and Tiberias tries to smile as he crawls back onto the bed.
Tiberias leans over Baldwin to retrieve oil, long unused from the bedside drawer. “If this fails, then I will let you go.” He pulls the gloves on and covers the fingers of one hand in the oil. It will ruin the leather, but he can find new gloves, there can be no second chance for this.
He undoes Baldwin’s trousers, sliding them down over legs still bandaged, and it is a miracle that the man hasn’t simply expired from heat. His legs are swollen in places, uneven and as gnarled as his hands. The outer robe still covers his body from the thighs up and so Tiberias has to work by feel, sliding his hand into the gap between the bandages, what is left of Baldwin’s cock and testicles brushing over the back of the glove until one finger presses against the opening to his body. Baldwin curls his hands into the sheets and hisses.
“Please.” Tiberias can’t remember ever having heard the king say that before. “Please don’t make me hope.” Tiberias eases the finger in up to the first knuckle and Baldwin groans, though not in pain. “Oh…”
That delightful, breathless sound convinces Tiberias that what he is attempting may not yet be a fool’s errand. So he persists, sliding in, and deeper, finger curling, seeking, until Baldwin’s eyes open very wide and his hips jerk a little.
“Shall I stop?” he asks, teasing, a little cruel judging by the way Baldwin shakes his head, one hand releasing the sheets to cup the back of his head. He adds another finger instead, scissoring gently, pressing against the place inside Baldwin that has retained all its feeling and draws soft moans and whimpers from behind the mask. “Only tell me if I hurt you.” He removes his fingers and instead oils the hilt of the dagger. “You must tell me if I hurt you.”
Baldwin’s legs splay open and his chest is heaving. “You will hurt me if you stop now.” He is smiling though, breathless laughter as Tiberias eases the hilt in where his fingers were. “You will kill me if you stop now.”
His white gloved hand beckons, as he curls up his legs with a little wince, the hilt of Tiberias’ dagger slipping deeper inside him and he wraps silk clad ruins around Tiberias’ prick and Tiberias slumps forwards, mouthing over Baldwin’s neck.
It is not skin, it is not a true lover’s touch, as Baldwin arches and cries out beneath him, half finished pleas for more and those tiny ‘oh’s’ that wrench something wound tight in Tiberias’ chest. It is not perfect, it is not enough, not truly, but Baldwin writhes on the hilt of the dagger until dampness stains the front of his robe and the surprise and disbelief in his eyes alongside the gratitude and what would be love if it weren’t so hopeless, breaks Tiberias’ heart at the same time it soothes him. He shudders against Baldwin’s hands and comes, rolling over so as not to hurt his king. His. For this moment, he has played god and healed the sick and given the sightless vision.
Baldwin winces a little as he withdraws the dagger, but curls up around Tiberias, resting dirty gloves against a dusty, sweaty chest. The mask is warm against his skin.
“If I die tomorrow,” Baldwin whispers, “I will know that I lived, in this moment I was a man and not a king. Not a leper, nor a legend, but a man.”
“If you die tomorrow,” Tiberias replies dryly, “then you may tell God, from me, that he has a wretched sense of humor.”
It is the fact that he makes Baldwin laugh, dirty and sated, in his arms, that Tiberias will remember forever.