Dilandau propped himself up on his elbows in the four-poster bed, the pale yellow sheet slipping to his waist, watching his second-in-command writing a letter by one of the large east-facing windows. The warlord's face twisted in bemusement: why did Gatti bother? Although the Slayers could send mail, they were forbidden to receive any; yet he faithfully wrote to his mother in Asturia every week. For all he knew, Dilandau thought sardonically, his carefully written letters were tossed, along with the rest of the trash, into the Vione's main incinerator. What a waste of time.
The morning sunlight shone in, highlighting the cinnamon-brown hair and touching off the long fingers that lightly held the brush. The golden light gleamed off the loosely belted robe he wore, the dark blue color a perfect match to his eyes. Dilandau watched as he slowly brushed the characters on the parchment, the writing almost calligraphic. Gatti was such a perfectionist, he thought impatiently, then slowly smiled. What other kind of lover would be tolerable? His thoughts dwelled idly on his second-in-command, then slid irritably to Miguel. Damn him, how could he be so stupid as to be captured? And murdered by a doppleganger, no less. Fury quickly replaced the irritation and he shook with rage. Incompetent! And he was one of my elite?
Miguel, you baka, he thought bitterly, you were my best. No one else so completely understood the beauty of inflicting pain; the perfect art of destruction. He felt a sudden despair and he gazed at his second-in- command, taking some measure of comfort in the his calm, deliberate movements. The sunlit head was slightly bowed, the large eyes half lidded as he delicately wielded the brush, gliding the ink over the paper without a blemish.
"Gatti," he said and the slayer carefully put the brush down, then looked up and over to him.
"My lord?" he asked, the early morning hour deepening his voice.
"Come here." Gatti got up and came over, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking down at him. Dilandau again felt an incomprehensible sadness, and he looked into the dark blue eyes, seeking... what?
"Kiss me," he said, "Kiss me like the first time." Gatti's eyes softened and he brought his hands over, lightly gripping the sides of his face; carefully avoiding the long scar. He gazed at him for a moment, then bent down and brought their mouths together. Dilandau surrendered himself to the soft lips and gentle tongue, enfolded in a wave of security. Unbidden, a memory surfaced: he was in a bright meadow, a mere child, laughing at a smiling young man with long golden hair. Brother...
He gasped and jerked his head back. Gatti immediately released him, gently sliding his hands down to rest on his chest. The slayer's eyes were almost black now; darkened with emotion.
"I love you," he whispered. It was the first time he had ever said those words to him, and Dilandau stared into the ardent eyes, overwhelmed with sudden confusion. Love? Then his heart hardened and he smirked, pushing aside the confusion with an inner sneer.
"Go back to your writing, Gatti," he ordered, ignoring the fleeting look of pain on his second's face. "Although why you bother is beyond me. Everything you have is here." The slayer bowed his head, his cheeks flushed, then returned to the writing desk and picked up the brush. Dilandau sank back down onto the bed, staring at the stark white ceiling overhead, angrily trying, without success, to crush the unfathomable feelings flowing within him.