⬩ a kiss on the hand ⬩ Jericho & Henry
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Jericho has convinced a tavern owner to let him perform on her stage tonight and finds an unexpected stalker in the audience.
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An OC fanfic based off a list of kiss prompts, here: X, that @doctor-bus sent me a while ago!
Link to Ao3: X
Believe you me that Jericho will kiss almost anyone on the hand -or at least, he’ll hold their hand up to his chin and kiss at their hand and he will wink so prettily for them that they don’t notice- but Jericho would kiss Henry anywhere that man asked, and anywhere else he wouldn’t. He’s been kissing Henry for their entire friendship -just as long as he’s been singing to him and pulling him in circles around the floor. So of course-
He can feel the eyes on him: his adoring crowd, the woman who owns this fine establishment watching as she realizes she will not be regretting her decision to allow him the stage tonight, the musicians that accompany him kicking up to match the energy buzzing around the room, happy to have a bard to match their proficiency in their chosen, beloved instruments!
And, with all the bittersweet affection in his frozen heart, him.
It’s rare that Jericho gets his own glimpse of the creature stalking him. Usually, his predator keeps inventory of Jer’s movements from afar, behind curtains, in bustling crowds, and through puffs of smoke; enovys return to his den with useless clues gathered through the night and day -useless because nothing Jericho has done -for the last decade at least- is the kind of interesting his hunter is vying for. No traceable murder, no salacious seduction of women found exsanguinated in alleyways. Jericho has put on some fantastic shows over the years, mind you, enjoyed by every spy and would-be assassin. His stint in the circus brings particularly fond memories to mind -he’d really enjoyed learning silks and had gotten quite good at juggling swords! It was a shame that his stalker never made an appearance in those crowds. He could have gotten him very nice seats.
Ah well. A little stage in a low-ceiling tavern will have to do.
Like he said, he feels it when Henry sets his eyes on him from the far corner of the room. He glances quickly, while the band set their tune and start the melody drifting out over the crowd. He’s easy to find, for someone like Jericho with eyes to see, even tucked up behind a beam trying to hide like the skulking vermin he makes himself.
Jer chooses a song for him.
An ode.
A devotional.
A particularly good riff as he steps off stage into an adoring crowd. Jericho doesn’t have the charm his sister does, but he can bend a room to his will with the more mundane magic of music and he’s working his way around.
A prayer.
A tease.
A plea that weakens knees and plucks heartstrings about love lost and longed for, sang to a single soul in the back of the room. Lyrics a joke between the two of them hidden behind common innuendo to outside ears, set to the music of a song they both know every step of.
Jericho catches his eye when he’s almost to the table where Henry sits nursing a whiskey. Only a few steps away, he can see the wrinkles under Henry’s blazing red eyes when they narrow, close enough to touch- He smiles and turns on his heel, prancing back into the crowd, despite how tightly the chord in his chest snaps trying to reel him back in.
What a beautiful, devilish, creature Henry is. As much of a vampiric temptation as he is any day, with all the predatory magnetism trying to lure him back into claws and teeth.
Jericho dips in front of a pretty young lady, offers her his hand, and pulls her into a giggling spin in the middle of the room with him as the song works the crowd higher. He twirls her into the arms of a handsome boy who looks a bit too jittery, like the poor lad wants but can’t reach. Not to worry, Jericho guides him into the steps with a hand on his back, offers them a particularly lecherous lyric and sets a spark to tinder. The crowd pairs off into swirling hedonism, ordering wine and whiskey and earning him a few extra coins from his patron for the evening, and Jericho melts into the joy of the dancefloor.
Voice thrown off into some other corner, he paces the shadows until he’s back in range, until the kickdrum in his soul is hammering in time with the hunt, with the music, loud enough to hear outside of his chest for anyone with ears to listen - really, only for the one set. High on a high note, he moves too fast, suspiciously fast, if anyone but Henry were paying attention -and they aren’t, he made sure to whip them all into a bacchanalia- to take the man’s grisled arm, pulling hard enough that he can’t fight it.
Henry is extracted out of the shadows with a hiss like he was the one between them prone to burning -into the middle of the crowd right to the front of the stage and Jericho stops throwing his voice, drawing attention and accompanying revelrous cheers that he’s got a person in his arms. Now he is singing to Henry, in front of too many eyes for his beloved murderer to make a move for his mortality.
A bard’s muse given the spotlight.
An octave lower.
A dance they both know. Hands move to their places, and even though Henry is glaring daggers, whispering death threats and cruel jokes, Jericho sweeps him off his feet and lifts them both up onto the stage. Neither miss a step. In happier days, he remembers Henry’s laugh when he did that, the soundtrack to his own promise that as soon as he learned how, they’d dance on the ceiling.
The fingers on his waist dig in, but there might just be echoes of the love lost in them still. They lead him around the stage in familiar turns, even though Henry is stiff. He doesn’t dance anymore, as far as Jer knows. Doesn’t attend any balls or galas to use any of the lessons Jericho made sure to drill into him when they were both young men. Though, to his credit and Jericho’s as his teacher, he doesn’t step on any toes. Even rusty, there is grace in his hunter.
It’s all etched too deeply into their psyches to ever forget, no matter how grown over the bones of them might be.
And here on stage, in front of so many witnesses, Henry can’t risk acting out. Any spray of blood would make far too much of a scene and the hilt of his dagger would glint too brightly under the chandelier lights overhead. He’s stuck in place, in step – so Jericho makes the most of it.
Grinning, he dips himself –though, delightfully, Henry’s grip on his back doesn’t falter to drop him– to signal the band to kick up a key. Everyone loves the drums. Jericho’s heels click on every other beat, Henry’s boots bump the others, and the party rages to match the irritation on his darling enemy's glowering face when he looks over his shoulder. Henry hisses insults into the singer’s ear, breath hot on cold skin, nose curled, fangs bared, and the bard’s dead heart would flutter if it could. Jericho steps into the hands turning him, eager to get his arms around Henry’s neck.
A dance that doubles as a fight – every step forward forces Jericho backwards.
A fight that requires foreplay – Jericho doesn’t miss a mark even once.
If he did, Henry might just take the chance to slip a knife between his ribs.
So he doesn’t, and they make quite a show for the crowd. Some of them whistle, some bark, some cheer. Jericho sings his little heart out in the arms of a man who wants him dead, who he’s meant to be avoiding for the next forty years until Henry’s pretty little heart gives out… But Henry calls to him, almost as beautiful a song as he sings, almost as alluring as the rushing blood in the veins around the room, and Jericho is a hedonist.
As the song ends, drunk on the high wafting around the room and aware that he needs to make a swift exit, Jericho steps back and bends himself in half to plant a kiss on the back of Henry’s hand. He is staring up through his lashes, fighting a smile that threatens to break the kiss before he’s ready, as Henry’s pupils shrink down to pin pricks and his other hand starts to reach for his side, for the dagger-
“Thank you everyone! A hand for my lovely partner!” Jer jerks him around, showing him to the crowd who cheers. Poor Hen is a deer in lights, blinking, calculating, gripping his hand too hard because he knows what’s happening, but he’s too slow as Jer walks him across the stage to the stairs and every eye in the tavern follows them.
“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Jericho bows, skipping over to show off the band to bow for them himself. “A hand for our musicians! Beautiful work, darlings. Couldn’t have done it without you.” Cheers roar, and he tosses a little magic in the air, just enough to distract any stragglers as he throws his voice over behind the bar and slips behind a curtain with a final, “Patrons! Lovers! Your bartender!” As the crowd cheers again.
He scrambles up into the rafters and sneaks out with the rats just as Henry slips silently –only given away by the briefest flash of light where he snaps the curtain back after himself– into the back, knife at the ready.
Jericho crawls into the window of his room for the night and locks it behind himself, content that the noise through the floorboards means his employer should be making nice profit off his induced revelry and he would have enough gold in the morning to board the next ship to Tipland.