Mindfuck

True: Xerxes Break could never resist playing with pretty things, and could especially never resist playing with fire.

He comes back that night, because Rufus Barma is both. It’s a mistake; he’s exhausted, emotionally wrung out after the carriage ride home with Oz, Alice, and Gilbert, and he can still taste blood in his mouth.

The duke can taste blood in Break’s mouth, too.

It goes like this;

He steps out of the shadow behind a door in the theatre, and Barma smiles, head tilting forward slightly, acknowledging his presence. Break has come in behind him, and he’s sure he hasn’t made a noise, but somehow it isn’t surprising that the man knows he’s here.

The fan flicks open, and the duke flutters it lazily, setting his hair astir. His legs are stretched out in front of him, feet propped up on the edge of the orchestral pit. Break starts to descend the set of stairs that leads to him.

“You’re either a masochist or a fool, Kevin,” Barma calls out when he’s halfway down. Something twists tight in Break’s stomach. He tries to make himself smile, but can’t.

“I don’t use that name any more, Sir Duke.”

The man’s head turns gracefully. The impossibly long hair swings when he does, trailing down the seat back. It’s faintly gratifying to see it tangled a little. Still, the duke looks like nothing so much as a courtesan, from the delicate fan, to the shoes with their little heels, the layers of robes. Break is staring, but that’s fine, because Barma is staring right back at him.

“Did you want something, Kevin?” The name is purposeful this time, deliberate and antagonistic. The anger helps. Break’s grin comes back to life, and he tilts his head sideways, making a quick sound of agreement.

“Ah- I need to return Liam’s coat.” Which he’s still wearing, thank goodness, wrapped around his own tattered clothes. He leans on his cane for a moment, folding his hands together and resting them on top of it, bending a little and setting his chin on them. The grin he gives the duke is purposefully impish.

“Well then,” Barma looks away, and reaches a hand out, “bring it here.” The fan folds, and disappears back into his robes.

Interesting. Break straightens and approaches, pulling the coat off as he does. He turns the corner to walk in front of the seats, running one hand along the edge of the orchestral pit and stopping a few feet shy of where the duke’s feet rest. He tosses the coat onto the seat next to the man.

Barma shifts up in his seat, feet falling to the floor as he digs into his sleeves. Break finds himself suddenly very aware of his torn shirt, and not just because of the seal revealed there. It’s been a long time since anyone made him feel self-conscious, but there’s something about the duke’s eyes.

And something about the twist of his smile, too, when he finds what he’s looking for and holds it out to Break. It’s a little wrapped piece of chocolate, in pink paper.

“Candy for your troubles, Kevin?”

Murder hasn’t seemed so appealing in years. But he wants to play, and if this is the duke’s move, he can match it. He sidles forward, and plucks the candy out of Barma’s hand, watching while the duke pulls out another.

The paper twists off easily, and he pops the chocolate into his mouth and bites in. Strawberry cream. His favourite. Given the expression on Barma’s face, he must have known that, somehow.

Break swallows the candy and moves on impulse, swinging one leg over Barma’s feet, so they’re between his legs, and they’re face to face.

“How do you know I won’t keep you now that I have you, Xerxes Break?” The long fingers twist the paper off the candy a little cruelly, threatening, like it’s what they’d like to do to him. Break shrugs and tilts his head back, glancing up at the ornately decorated feeling.

“With all due respect,” his tone implies ‘none,’ “you don’t have me, Sir Duke Barma.” He’s sure enough about it to slide closer, resting one knee on the edge of Barma’s seat, and one hand on the back of the chair next to him. Break, of course, takes the opportunity to steal the duke’s candy out of his hand, right as he’s about to put it in his mouth.

“But I could.”

At this proximity, no one could be fast enough to intercept the duke’s hands. Break isn’t sure he’d want to if he could. Barma has his cane, and then has it behind Break’s back, holding it on either side of him with one hand and using it to trap him close. He’s (almost) sure he could break the hold, with only a little bit of a fight, but again… he isn’t sure he wants to.

Especially not when Barma jerks the cane against his back to drag him down closer, and arches up underneath him to steal a kiss. It’s aggressive, and good, and when it’s over Break is already panting, pressing closer into Barma’s lap.
“Kevin. You taste like candy and blood,” Barma informs him, like it’s a source of great amusement. Break can see him filing the information away in that vast bank of knowledge, and spares a moment to wonder what it must be like. Barma hasn’t aged in years, and has been collecting records all his life. At what point will his mind simply snap under the weight?

Has it already?

His musings are interrupted rather abruptly when he finds himself shoved away as quickly as he was pulled in. Break sprawls onto the floor before he can catch himself, and the duke climbs to his feet.

“If you’re going to use me to punish yourself,” Barma sneers at him, “then you’re going to answer my questions. I’ll know if you’re lying, Xerxes Break.”

The situation is entirely too reminiscent of his meeting with Alice- Oz’s Alice, that is- when she first came out of the Abyss. Only this time he’s the one struck violently with the cane when he tries to sit up.

It forces a cry out of him. He suspects Rufus Barma may actually hit harder than he does.

“Ah, Sir Duke…” and his voice manages to be cheery, despite the pain. The duke’s eyes narrow again, and he fingers the catch to pull out Break’s sword- but doesn’t, not quite yet. Break’s heart is somewhere in his throat. “…haven’t you ever heard of catching flies with honey?”

There’s a few torturous seconds, where Barma turns this over in his head, Break’s cane swinging from his fingertips as daintily as if it was his fan. In the end, it appears to satisfy him, because he drops down into a crouch, and then reaches in to start undressing him, unceremoniously.

Which isn’t really what he meant, but it’ll do.

On second thought, it might not be what the duke means, either. The man stops when he finishes with Break’s shirt, and rests a hand on his chest, flat over the seal. Break lets out a sobbing breath, and arches under the touch, trying to remember the last time anyone touched him there.

Having the evidence of your sin tattooed onto your skin sort of puts a limit on which people you can let see you undressed. In Break’s case, where the truth coming out is a death sentence, that means no one.

Except, apparently, smug, knows-too-much, Duke Rufus Barma.

“You see, I do have you, Kevin. No matter what was said tonight, you need me to keep your secret for you, my red eyed ghost. Oz may be able to save you from the worst of it, but it’d still make being you very, very,” he leans in, and the long hair that brushes against Break’s chest makes him tremble, “troublesome.”

For once in his life, he can’t think of anything to say. The duke doesn’t give him the chance to wait long. Break gasps a little, as Barma rests another candy against his lips.

“Good boy. Stay there.” And Break remembers it, now, the way a man looks when he’s been torn open, neck to hip, guts and ribs and it’s tempting, tempting, tempting, to show the duke exactly why people feared the red eyed ghost. He hasn’t thought like this in years.

Barma can see it in his face, if the tired looking sneer is anything to go by. Break laughs, and gets one of the duke’s long hands wrapped around his throat.

“Now, there are a few things I want to know.” And that other hand is sliding down Break’s chest and to his pants, curling in them at the waist. “And in return, I’ll touch you, dear Kevin.”

“You don’t have a very good understanding of bargaining tactics; do you, Sir Duke Barma?” His grin gets wider. “You’re supposed to offer something me something I don’t already have. You are touching me.”

As Break says it, he realizes the truth. Barma’s smile changes, and his eyes, too.

“No, I’m not.”

Then, the world lurches, and Break almost screams.

Apparently, Barma had gathered enough information over the years to manage a pretty accurate rendition of the world in the Abyss, because it’s just close enough to what he remembers that he starts to feel panic rise in hiss throat. The illusion of the red-haired man (he probably wasn’t real, Break knows now) and the theatre are gone, taste of the candy is out of his mouth. All of it has been replaced with the checkered floor, the mirrors, the broken ceiling.

This isn’t really happening. He buries his face in his hands, and reminds himself. It isn’t, it’s the illusions of a stupid, idiot duke who just wants to toy with him. His cane is gone, and so are the discarded, torn shirt and jacket.

“Barma!” None of what he’s feeling carries on into his tone. “Stop this!”

“Stop what, Xerxes Break? For all you know, this is where you really were, the theatre was the lie.”

"Stop it!"

“Lady Cheryl isn’t here to save you now, either, Kevin,” Barma reminds him, silkily. Break whirls and looks up at where he’s standing- upside down, suspended from the ceiling. Or rather simply inverted- his hair and clothes lie like Break is the one upside down, not the duke.

He finds himself turning his head sideways, to try to get Barma right side up again, and for a half second, he could swear he was about to fall.

Then, quite suddenly, he does.

Break lands on the ceiling (now the floor) with a muffled cry, right at Barma’s feet. Illusion or not, his ribs are starting to ache, and the duke’s cool smile is becoming more and more infuriating.

Enough is enough. Break summons a burst of power, and launches it outwards with a scream. The scenery vanishes, and is replaced with the orchestra pit. It seems the fall was him toppling into it. Barma is still standing in front of him.

“Three questions, Kevin, that’s all I ask.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He manages to answer clownishly, even as he leaps at Barma. The man vanishes. The illusion mustn’t have been entirely dispelled, then, which means Break is getting weaker than he’d thought.

He connects with the conductor’s stand, and groans as it catches some of the newer bruises. Barma’s laughter echoes above him, and when he looks up the man is seated on the edge of the pit. His shoes are gone, and his bare feet dangle daintily out from under his robe.

The smile on Barma’s face looks more earnest than it did before; as he tosses Break another candy.

“What do you know about the curse of the red eyes?”

Break catches the chocolate and unwraps it carefully, before popping it into his mouth and sliding it into one cheek to answer.

“Nothing, except that Vincent Nightray believes in it.” Apparently he’s hit on something, because Barma laughs and creates a set of stairs in front of Break, inviting him upwards.

He puts his foot on the first one, feeling his anger disperse. When the stair doesn’t disappear under his feet, he starts upwards. Barma watches him with naked amusement, and leans in when Break comes closer, eventually reaching out for him, catching him about the waist and tugging him in.

It must be said; Break does come a little more reluctantly this time.
Still, Barma draws him close and tips them backwards, onto what’s suddenly a soft bed. The theatre is gone, replaced by a luxurious set of bedchambers.

“Is this real?” Break asks, a little breathlessly, as Barma presses against him and starts kissing his bruises, as dotingly as if he hadn’t been the one to inflict them. His lips trace the patterns of the seal, next, and Break can’t stifle a moan. It’s a little humiliating, really.

“Sir duke, is it real?”

“Does it really matter, Kevin?”

In a few seconds, he’s sure it won’t, which worries him so badly that suddenly it becomes vital that he knows and sees the truth. He grabs Barma’s wrists and pushes him down onto his back. The duke heaves a long suffering sigh, and Break gives one last push at reality, with all his might.

They’re back in the theatre, sprawled together on the carpeted floor of the aisle. Barma’s long hair is tangled around them, his robes are a little dusty, his shoes are still off, and there’s something faintly irritated in his expression.

At this point, Break’s body rebels and he starts coughing, letting Barma’s wrists go and clapping both hands over his mouth to keep from spitting blood all over the ruffled looking duke.

Some of it escapes anyways, and drips onto the silk, and Barma’s skin.

“The second question is easier. Have you done anything to turn Liam against me, or was his little display today honest affection?”

He probably owes that one a real answer, for Liam’s sake, if nothing else.

“I have never said a thing to him to draw his loyalty away from you. We’ve known each other for some time through Pandora.” This is the truth, and it appears to be good enough for the duke, who grabs Break by the back of the neck and drags him down into another kiss.

This one is a little softer than the ones before, and Break forgets himself and grabs the front of Barma’s robes, leaving bloody handprints on the silk. The duke starts laughing at him, and it gets mean again, both of them tearing at each others clothes and tipping sideways, wrestling to get closer to each other.

Finally, Barma is on top of him, pressing between Break’s legs and reaching somewhere into his robes. When he pulls out a vial of oil, Break knows he should be objecting, but he just closes his good eye and lets the duke remove the rest of his clothes.

“What was her name?” Barma’s slick fingers press inside and curl, sending an uncompromising jolt of pleasure soaring through him. Break shouts in shock; he didn’t remember it being like this. It’s been so long…

“The little girl. The Sinclair.” The fingers scissor, but that doesn’t stop Break taking a swing at the Barma for asking. The hit echoes in the room, and now there’s some of the duke’s own blood on his lips, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and he hasn’t shown any intention of stopping.

Sir Rufus just kisses him again, brushing the violence aside like it means nothing. He curls a hand around Break’s cock, to distract him from the pain when he pushes inside.

Break is so far gone he barely feels the burn of the stretch, drunk on lust and proximity, rage and frustration. His hands claw at Barma’s robes, yanking them off as much as he can, legs curling around his waist to draw him closer. He hates him. He never wants it to stop.

“Is it real? He hears himself growling into the kiss.

“It’s real. I have no more illusions to throw at you today, Kevin. You’ve worn me out, with your formidable bag of tricks, hatter.” His voice is just offensively even, given how quickly Break can feel himself falling apart.

“Isn’t that the sort of ting youre supposed to say to get me like this, not once you have me?”

Barma laughs, and each jolt of it sends currents of pleasure through Break’s skin. It makes him realize exactly how still the duke is being, ahd how badly he needs him to move.

Barma picks up on it, or takes the right meaning from the high, needy, whining noise Break makes. At this rate, the humiliation will kill him before the strain from his contract does.

“Stop thinking, Kevin. Xerxes.” Barma orders him gently, and goes about making him stop, and reminding him how very real what’s happing actually is. Nothing could be quite as convincing right now as the press of their bodies, and the smooth glide inside him.

Rufus Barma tastes like jasmine. Not his mouth (which is stained red with both their blood, now) but his skin. Break mouths along the pale jaw, and licks his throat. It earns him a gratifying sound, and the pace gets a little more frantic.

Break feels his hair fall to the side, and he knows Barma will be able to se the ruin of his eye, but somehow he can’t quite bring himself to care, and the duke certainly doesn’t seem to.

“If you’d just complied to begin with,” he hears him whispering, voice nice and low and choked with pleasure, “you wouldn’t have been punished like this.”

“I can promise you one thing, Sir Duke Barma,” Break grins; bares his teeth, really. “I will never ‘just comply.’”

The duke laughs then, a loud, purring sound, and moves in a new way that Break decides is probably illegal in several local towns. As much as he wants to last like this forever, his body is exhausted, and he trips accidentally into his own orgasm, mouth falling open as he shudders under Barma’s insistent thrusts.

It seems to go on for a long time, after that. Break is limp on the floor, wrung out and on the verge of passing out. Barma seems to try to hurry, to his credit. His hands tighten hard on Break’s arms when he finishes, giving him a few more bruises to add to the collection.

Xerxes Break is the one to leave first, getting up to dress, moving as smoothly as he can, refusing to allow the duke the satisfaction of seeing him limp.

“Are you going to tell me her name?” Barma asks, lazily, still sprawled on the floor, resting on his robes, all sweaty skin, flushed lips, and tangled hair. Xerxes stops to look at him, for a moment, and is almost tempted to give up, lie back down and rejoin him.

Needless to say, he doesn’t.

“What do you take me for, sentimental?”

Barma smiles, and is suddenly seated, dressed, back in the chair where Break first walked in on him. ‘No illusions left?’ The liar. Break snickers, mostly to himself, wraps himself in the tattered remains of his clothes and goes to fold himself into a shadow, and home, for some much needed rest.

(Her name was Emily, of course.)