Two heads are better than one

[tanks4thememory]

Who: Clu1 and Clu 2 (a_perfect_end)

Where: Their User world abode and possibly other places

When: Some undetermined time post Legacy and after this thread

What: ABO sexytimes and maybe other things; a Clu on Clu catchall

Warnings: VERY NSFW. Multiple kinks, ABO related warnings, sorta incest depending how you view programs from the same User, basically enter at your own risk if you're not into that sort of thing

The life and times- and sexytimes of Clus One and Two in the ABO universe, collected here for the sake of convenience and avoiding page clutter. Multiple scenarios, lots of fun. Mostly of the NSFW variety.

Comments

[a_perfect_end]

Cyr had offered all he was, by choice and with surety, and the 'lam had proved him out. It was good to be watched over, even if for a short--time?

He'd seen what happened to goats or chickens that got into spikeweed, what a scorpion's bite could do to a curious, too-trusting family pet. But the pain he was braced against never came. The darkness never arrived. In its place, that--that taste--rasped over his tongue and dissolved under a few determined swallows. He could not avoid the sudden harsh upwelling of difficult feelings that chased it, sorrow twisting sharp against his ribs, pushed aside in a shocking rush of anger, a thrill of cold fear. There was one small shudder of bitterness, a thing he'd heard too, too often was a male-mother's daily bread, as natural to all his kind as gluttony or gossip.

But the bite of the 'lam reminded him: none of his betters had made this journey. And he hadn't expected to survive it.

And his kind watcher still knelt beside him, bade him rise in a way that had to be ritual, but so tender it half undid him. The priest's gentle voice loosed the tension in his spine and unwound the knot in his throat, and Cyr sobbed outright, one hard, bitter bark of new air.

"I miss her," escaped, wavered out of him like a last breath. "I--oh--"

He hadn't left because of her, or even because of the true-mothers running sick. It had been the little ones: who cried at first with hunger, and then with thirst, and then were too weak to do either.

But he must lay that down. He must let everything he had been go, and find out what this was, that he'd been summoned to.

He felt--so many things, in that moment: it struck him that all his fear was gone. That he did not feel--worry, or shame, or any of the hundred things that had brought him here at last.

He did not know if there was a formal answer for the priest's kindness, and so instead he braced his hands on his knees and stood.

This vow he'd taken was not about death at all, but life. It was time to learn what it meant.

"Can you show me," his words did not falter, "what I must do? I am eager to learn, Brother."

He would not fail them. Even if he must let them go.

[tanks4thememory]

It was ritual, at least for the most part. The line about his prayers having been heard as His own embellishment, though it was a reassurance that made sense in context. The rest, however, was a traditional blessing in response to the completion of the rite. If He hadn't done it, one of the other priests nearby would have stepped in, but He was glad that He had. The one the young male-mother missed so would be waiting for him, He had no doubt. But not today.

He stood when the young male-mother did, His reassuring smile never wavering. "That is well, for there will undoubtedly be a great deal for you to learn," He said. "What and how much depends greatly on what you already know, and what skills you already have; this is the divine residence of the One, but it is sustained not just by His power, but also by the work of many mortal hands. And not just those of priests either, though they are the most visible."

"To begin, I shall introduce you to one of the less visible ones, Dumont, the temple's Keeper of Records. Though you've already been accepted in the eyes of the One, there are still formalities of this world that must be observed and arrangements that must be made for you to properly begin your new life." He placed a hand on the young male-mother's shoulder, gesturing with His other one for him to follow along. "Come with me."

He led the young male-mother away from the alter, past the statue, and into one of the hallways that branched off from the main sanctuary that was open to visitors. Where the walls of the sanctuary were of marble, meant to impress by their sheer grandeur, the walls of the hallway were of stone that was much easier to maintain. They were no less lovely in their own way though, covered in smooth white plaster and painted with elaborate murals depicting the lives of both gods and men. In this hallway, a group of farmers harvested grain and picked fruit in bountiful fields, then offered it up to the One on one wall. On the other, Kleinram, Keeper of Knowledge and god of scribes, directed those who were storing such offerings away in storehouses, or herding cattle into barns, pen and scroll in hand. Above and below each scene were lines of script describing it in greater detail, though if Cyr was like most from far flung villages, he wouldn't be able to read it.

It wasn't long before they came to a door made of well-fitted boards of dark wood. He knocked to announce them, and a moment later a voice was heard from within. "What is it?", said the voice, clearly a man's but made somewhat querulous with age. "I'm busy, so if you don't have urgent business, I suggest you come back in the morning."

"You're unlikely to be any less busy tomorrow," He replied, His tone taking on a note of mild amusement, "and I'm afraid this won't wait. I have with me one who came here with the 'lam; he completed the rite, and with his previous life ended, his new one must be arranged."

There was a pause, then the muffled sound of a chair or stool scraping against the stone floor. A long moment later the door opened to reveal an old man. His thinning hair had made most of the transition from gray to white, and his skin was lined with age. His clothing, though obviously of fine linen and well kept overall, was stained here and there by ink and smudged with charcoal. His expression was stern, almost annoyed, but it soon softened, and the lines at the corner of his eyes and mouth gave evidence of past smiles as he gave Cyr a look up and down.

"Hmm... so it is," he said. "You're right, this won't wait. Though if I'd known I was to have visitors, I'd at least have put on a clean robe."

He stepped to one side, indicating that they should enter. "Come in then," he said. "You may pull up a stool if you like." He then addressed Cyr directly for the first time. "I imagine you in particular would be glad of a chance to rest your feet after such a long journey."

When they were all inside, he closed the door behind them, then bustled off to find the proper document among the countless scrolls and tablets lining the room's walls and shelves. A number of worktables for copying and examining documents dominated most of the rest of the space; one of them, by all appearances, had been occupied by their host just prior to their arrival. Caduceus pulled a stool from one of the unused worktables and moved it to a more convenient place for conversation, indicating that the young male-mother should do the same.

[a_perfect_end]

He was grateful to have met this man, who stood beside him with a sure and gentle smile. Something warm shivered up his back for that, and Cyr realized it was hope. He listened intently as the priest explained how things worked and where they were going: it made sense that the great temple was a little like a household, with the One at its head. Priests, patrons, scribes, and others of all shapes and descriptions, all sharing the work that made this place the god's home, and their own.

The priest was kind to lead him. Cyr tried to keep from noticing how warm his hands were. He tried and failed.

"Yes, Brother;" with a decisive nod of his head. "I can do some things the first time I'm shown, and more of them the second. I can haul wood, water, and stone, and I clean very well. I mend a little, and the--the children liked my stories." He looked away, sheepish, and finished: "My cooking is very bad."

It was his great shame, besides having no husband. But that was another life, far from this gleaming hall. So Cyr followed, alight with curiosity, interest putting a spring in tired feet that had been leaden only moments ago.

He knew the One, of course, rain-handed and generous in his golden and red robe, who blessed their crops in return for his share. There on the opposite wall must be Kleinram the Wise--see his bright blue tunic, blazoned with the forms of knowledge, and his gleaming silver stylus.

Words chased under and around the frescoes, glinting in the torches fit to dance, but however enticing to the eye, they meant nothing to him. He knew his alpha's name by sight, and three words for water, but that was the grand sum of his skill.

"I'm not lettered, if that's what you mean," he admitted. "I hardly read, and can't write even a stroke. Will that make trouble, with--" trying the shape of it on his tongue, "Brother Dumont? And please," oh, this was daring--"How are you called, Brother?"

Gently, a little warm in the face: "I am Cyr. Or, I was."

Male-mothers kept their infant name until they were wed. Was it the same for priests?

Was a priest what he would become?

He felt--shy--when they stopped at the door, but the priest leading him knew Brother Dumont well enough to tease him for a greeting, and so Cyr straightened his back, summoned his courage, and followed him through. Brother Dumont stooped a little under the weight of all his knowledge and the sum of his years, but the eyes in that stern face glinted with keen insight and amusement, and the crease of his lips said he laughed well, if maybe not often--the kind of rare humor that would be a gift and a joy.

He didn't quite smile at Cyr, but then Cyr was used to reading even the tiniest expressions of his betters, and there was nothing mean in this man, however he might grumble at having visitors.

And he must surely be as wise as he seemed advanced in years--had he really read all these scrolls? To say nothing of the stacks and shelves of folded ones; those must be books, like he'd heard they used across the sea, or further east, up the great trade roads. Riches from places he'd never been, a wealth of knowledge currently closed to him.

Maybe some had pictures?

...He was staring at another man's riches. He bowed to cover it.

"Thank you," was what he said, and then, trying it out: "It was a long walk. I'm most grateful."

But Dumont was already off after the correct parchment--somehow he knew just where to go--perhaps the shelves were labeled? Maybe he could learn to fetch and sort, if not read them himself someday.

New life, new things, and already three daring things had left his tongue in one day. Cyr dragged up a stool, and sat as comfortably near the priest that had led him in as he dared.

Having a lot to learn sounded like a challenge, but a promising one.

"And thank you," with a small smile, ears hot, "Brother, for bringing me."

[tanks4thememory]

He did tend to be warm. Part of that was simply the environment; even with the sun setting, the air was still warm and would be for awhile, as night's chill was slow to creep in at this time of year. But part of it was His divine nature subtly showing; filled with energy and life and the power to quicken it, His current human form couldn't fail to be equally warm and full of life.

He listened as Cyr described not just his skills but the areas in which he was lacking, and nodded both in understanding and approval. Some might have talked themselves up or deliberately neglected to mention weaknesses, but Cyr's honesty did him credit. "You may call me Caleb," He said. "And Cyr will serve for the present, unless you truly wish to change it. Only senior priests are required to take a both a new common name and a sacred name."

A common name was, as the term implied, meant for daily use; it was what one was called when meeting others, and was how one was named in most records and correspondence. A sacred name, by contrast, carried far more weight, both secular and religious. It was needed for certain prayers, ceremonies, and invocations and added weight when signed to temple edicts and official documents. It was always written in sacred script, unlike common names or indeed most words with could be written in either the common or the sacred.

And both scripts could be found in Dumont's records room. He likely had, at one time or another, had occasion to read, copy, or add to most of them. Many were in the language of their country, but some were not. Part of the work of temple scribes was in translation, copying such texts into their own language to both preserve them and make them more accessible to scholars who might have need of them. They contained everything from fantastic tales of distant lands, to treatises on religion, medicine, and other scholarly topics, to common records of people and goods.

It was to the latter Dumont went now, retrieving a scroll whose wooden handgrips told the story of long use even better than its contents; where once they had been lacquered, much of that was now worn away by much handling, leaving it somewhat resembling its keeper. Dumont brought it to a vacant worktable near where they sat, and retrieved the quill and pot of ink from where he'd been working previously.

'Caleb' smiled at Cyr's thanks. "It's simply my duty," He said, "but I won't deny that it's one that I enjoy. You're quite welcome."

"And speaking of duties," Dumont said, settling onto the stool before the new worktable and unrolling the scroll, "I'd best be about mine as well." His eyes scanned down it with practiced ease til he came to part which currently bore no writing, something that was about to change. He dipped the quill into the ink and began to write, asking Cyr for his name, the names of his parents, his Alpha, and the village of his birth. He was asked to confirm that he was indeed a male-mother, and to provide a rough schedule of his heats, if they conformed to any, so his needs could be provided for during such times.

Such basic information Dumont wrote down with a neat and practiced hand on the scroll. "It'll be too late to get you settled in the servants' dormitory tonight, by the time all's done and said," he said as he got down the last of it, "so I'll make arrangements for you to stay in one of the heat rooms tonight, as none of them are currently in use. But after tonight, I hope you have no objections to sharing sleeping space. You'll be quartered with a group of other male-mothers, and will bathe and take your meals with them as well unless you're told otherwise, so you'll likely get to know them fairly well."

"Now then, I don't expect you're lettered?", he asked. Upon confirmation that he was not, Dumont nodded. "I hope you've no objections to learning, then, as all those who live and work here are expected to be able to read and and write at least the common script to a minimal standard. I'll make note that time is to be allotted for lessons among your daily tasks. Given that you were looking at the records in my keeping the way a child looks at honey cakes, I suspect you'll be a diligent student, which I'm sure your instructor will find refreshing." He gave Cyr and 'Caleb' a bit of a wry smile; clearly the temple's instructors often found their students' efforts lacking.

He then asked about the skills Cyr did have, noting them down, and also noting that he wasn't to be tasked with cooking. A few more notes were added as well; the dormitory where he was to be housed and what was to be initially provided for him from the temple's stores in the way of clothing and the like. When the last bit of it had been scratched onto the parchment, Dumont inspected his work to make sure he made no errors before nodding in satisfaction. "That ought to do for now," he said. "You're now officially on the temple rolls. I'll see to making arrangements with the appropriate individuals, and you can get on with the other necessary formalities." There was a twinkle of amusement in his eye as he glanced between Cyr and 'Caleb'. "I expect there are people you'd much rather be spending time with than a crotchety old man."

[a_perfect_end]

Without quite meaning to, Cyr bent toward him a little, much as noonday flowers extended their faces to the sun. Perhaps it was simply the length of his journey, tiring him at last, or a touch of that weakness for comfort male-mothers were known for. Maybe it was simply that, with one thing and another, that slight touch was the friendliest he'd known in a while.

Maybe it was all those things. But there was something else, too, that drew him in, that loosed his tongue and let him tell the truth: the priest was listening to him. Had waited for him to find his words.

Cyr tilted his head in thought. Only the other mothers and their little children really paid him any attention--and then usually only when he had a story to tell, or a kiss to give, or in richer days a sweet in his pocket for the best-behaved.

No one had taken him seriously, much less asked what he was capable of or what he wanted. So he made the effort to answer true.

"Thank you," softly, "Caleb." Remembering: "Brother. But I think--" the door to the old world was shut, but he'd stepped through it as himself. "Cyr will do. It's who I am."

He was very sure he'd never make a senior priest, at that! He had so much ahead of him--a great deal to know, and do, and learn. Maybe on some far off day.

The priest had taken him seriously, and led him through Brother Dumont's door in good and patient humor. And now that they sat together, it was an effort of will not to reach out greedily for his hand, just resting there on the table.

So Cyr sat trying valiantly not to fidget, not to stare after the laden shelves, and not to gawk too openly at the sheer speed with which Brother Dumont's hand moved.

He tried not to stare at all of it.

Cyr grinned at Caleb, bigger than he meant, going broader under the combined attention of not one, but two men new to his acquaintance who hadn't instantly brushed him aside. This much company wasn't proper, normally, not without a train of uncles and sisters and wives.

He wasn't frightened at all--they were very kind--only, it was a bit intense, to be noticed so, when he was used to the hearth and the nursery. To invisibility, of a kind.

And he tried, tried, not to let his eyes wander after Caleb's bright gaze whenever a question gave him pause, but--the priest had also said he found his duties enjoyable.

"Oh, I--" his treacherous, greedy tongue curled against the back of his smile. "Then I'm happy you do, and lucky besides."

Shamless! The elders would've pinched an ear for that, for sure. But Caleb didn't seem to mind, or even necessarily to notice--which was good. Cyr shouldn't be trying to flirt with someone who was obligated to help him by temple rules.

He knew better. He should do better. His mind should be on the Record Keeper's questions.

Dumont was kind to explain when Cyr asked, and listened well when he answered: for family names, for his Alpha's name, for their village. Cyr looked down at his hands when confirming his alignment, feeling suddenly aware of himself: of how thin he must look, and how--well-traveled--with only his hands and feet clean.

His heats were always the same: every one hundred and forty days. They'd stopped as he'd gone hungry, and his lunar blood retreated the same way. Their wise one said it was only natural, Cyr's courses flowing backward to protect his heart and lungs against privation, and that they should return with better food.

The One grant it were so--assuming He also willed Cyr would ever have need of such.

He did already miss the little ones.

No, Cyr had never been wed or bonded. He was entirely unscarred and had never broken a bone. His only illnesses had been in childhood, though he was still young.

(And oh, Cyr had fidgeted then; it wasn't respectful to remind one's elders of their age.)

He was relieved to be bedding with other male-mothers. It was a bit like home, though the red-handed tent was only temporary, a place where those few undergoing a first heat--or those, like Cyr, whose next few had passed without a wedding--could shelter and care for each other, and help each other through.

Otherwise, all the families pitched their long tents together, grouped by bloodline rather than alignment. Alpha's was greatest, in the center, the others arrayed around it like the spokes of a wheel, their crops forming another, greater wheel around them in turn. In better times, the barley glowed like a sea of gold in the high wind, runner beans holding it down and making good food for their chickens and sheep--though that, that caused feuding--farmers ever scrambling after their share of the beans they'd planted with their own hands, and the shepherds insisting that some free rein was their due, and only fair, for their yarn and cheese and once in a while a great, fluffy skin of one they couldn't save.

Mostly, marriages kept such spats at a dull simmer.

His village was small and sleepy, and their problems were insular ones. The gatehouse at the edge of their territory had sat empty for at least two generations, and neither princes, nor lords, nor tax men had come up that slim road of pale, broken stones for even longer than that.

Cyr was--a bit intimidated, but intrigued. What would it be like, to live among his own alignment all the time? Peaceful, maybe.

And as for reading:

"No, I'll be glad to learn!" Not least because he was often certain that their wise one didn't know everything, and had made up things to fill those gaps. The sun couldn't really have wings, and fourteen was just a number. "I've seen great men with these, whose voices ring when they recite, and rich men with long scrolls of figures, who keep from being cheated." Softly, head down, looking at hands whisked down from the table and curled tight around each other: "They don't share what they know, but that won't matter if I can do it, too."

He blinked hard, for that, trying to imagine a world where someone didn't want to know everything. He had to hide it, of course, couldn't make anyone uncomfortable, but that didn't stop him wanting it, like--well--

Like honey cakes.

He cleared his throat. "Anyway, I'll, do my best."

And as for who he would rather spend time with, oh.

Was he so very obvious? Oh, oh dear. He was going very red. His hair was warm with the force of the blood in his cheeks and trying valiantly to climb all the rest of his skin, too.

"You're too clever," he squeaked, trying for a rich hum of flattery and failing by the proverbial country mile. He cleared his throat. "I will have to study very hard, Brother Dumont, to even hope to catch you someday, but you're--"

He didn't falter, so much as pause to think about it. "You've been very kind."

Still: "I wouldn't mind knowing--or learning--where to go."

He did not say, I thought you were busy, though it shimmered at the edge of his tongue. Sometimes he teased too roughly, and he knew better than to try it with men he'd just met. Even kindly ones like Brother Dumont.

Besides, Cyr didn't want to hurt his feelings even in play.

Though he did very much wish to follow where Brother Caleb might lead. He realized that he was exhausted, and a place to sleep sounded perfect.