"I have always hated you," Orlouge tells him, not mincing words for once.

There is a time and a place for everything, and Virgil, the Ring Lord of Mosperiburg, has never been one to grasp that, Orlouge finds. Where Orlouge decks his court out in bright colours and elegant finery, Virgil wears skintight black and draped red and has no court at all. Where Orlouge focuses on the delicate and the delicacies, Virgil always handles only the harsh and unyeilding.

Both have a fire god beneath their realm, but Kurenai speaks only to Orlouge while Virgil warms and lights his palace with his, the volcano's mouth bubbling behind his throne. Orlouge has fifty princesses kept in coffins for his pleasure. Virgil has graves surrounding his throne.

And Orlouge cannot defy Virgil.

They are both ancient, ancient Mystic lords; both have held their realms against outsiders for as long as time has passed. But Orlouge cannot defy Virgil. Virgil is willing to make a spectacle of himself, to open his doors to the public transit system, to let IRPO patrol his borders and let tourists walk up and down his stairs. Virgil has nothing to hide.

Orlouge values his privacy, but he cannot keep it. He has blocked the realm off from outside access, but Virgil can always access it. Virgil sends young men and women in to shop in Rootville, to buy goods commissioned for Orlouge's court, to cause trouble. Rarely, he comes himself. He cannot afford to leave his realm for too long - he is, after all, a Realm Lord, and he must maintain himself.

But sometimes Virgil comes.

Orlouge has dismissed his court entirely, sent them off. Ciato will guard the stairs to his private chamber. Rastaban will check on the princesses. Ildon will practice his swordplay in the arena. The handmaids and servants will head down from the Chateau to torment the people of Rootville.

He is alone, but for the Ring Lord.

"I know you do," Virgil said, and his buck's antlers point to the ceiling, arching proudly from his brow. He is indecent, crude, and beautiful, the dirty underbelly of Mystic life. "It does not matter."

Orlouge is silent, because it is true. He offers a hand to Virgil, who goes to his knees before Orlouge. It is not a bow and cannot be mistaken as one. Virgil crosses his arms over Orlouge's thighs, leans forward, parts Orlouge's robes with his teeth. His antlers butt gently on the underside of Orlouge's chin. Orlouge would not look down if he wanted to, would not give Virgil that indignity. He has Virgil where he wants him.

"Well now, Charm Lord," Virgil says, breath firey-hot on Orlouge's skin. "It has been a while."

"You've missed me," Orlouge says, gaze distant on the back wall. "Haven't you."

Virgil closes his eyes, rests his cheek against Orlouge's chest. "You are old, Orlouge." He nuzzles young skin. "You are tired."

"I dislike your games," Orlouge says. "If you have come for sex, let us have it. If you have not, please leave. The Charm Lord has no interest in anything more."

"I've noticed that," Virgil says blandly, non-judgmental. "Very well, then."

Virgil lets Orlouge bear him to the floor and turn him over and that is what stings, really. Orlouge cannot charm him, cannot strike him with fascination, with obsession, with need. Everybody wants Orlouge except Virgil and Orlouge cannot deny Virgil access to him because of it. When he does this to Virgil, it is entirely because Virgil permits it. If he did not, Orlouge would not have it. He wants everything, wants everything, presses his lips to the nape of Virgil's neck.

This has never changed.