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Blacklisted	By : DoveCG Category: +G through L > Jak & Daxter Views: 1135 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Jak & Daxter, nor the places, people, or objects within. I make no money writing this.

Chapter List
- 1-Erol causes a stir
- 1
Author's Note:
I favor using Erol for Commander Erol, and Errol for Cyber Errol, though I don't use the two spellings within the same story, because I feel it can lead to confusion. Also, the love birds look like regular love birds... the idea of tiny little Peckers terrifies me! Even if it is absolutely hilarious.
Tags will be updated as I add more chapters. I'm adding a bunch of stuff at once, to try and push my writing drive back into full-speed-ahead mode. Some of these stories have future chapters already started, but there are gaps in between, or the next chapter isn't complete, so some might end up being updated faster than others? Also, some are just longer than others... and I've been working on all of them off and on. As it is, most of them haven't reached the sex yet or it's unfinished.
I don't have a beta reader. Sorry about that. Suggestions for improvement are welcome.

“...You are hereby banished to the Wasteland for life!”
Count Veger snapped the book shut, after reading the sentencing, and promptly began scrutinizing Erol's face. There probably weren't many prisoners who stood there and smirked in defiance at the Grand Chairman but Erol couldn't help it. Even though he was terrified out of his wits by the prospect of a short, painful future in this fucking desert, Erol wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
“Life? This is a death sentence!” Erol said, “Why not shoot me now and get it over with?”
Then Veger smirked in return, apparently in agreement. Yet his tone was completely sincere, as he idly waved that short, stupid Precursor staff in Erol's direction.
“Have some faith, Erol!” Veger said, “If you ask the Precursors for forgiveness, perhaps they'll have mercy on you.”
The redhead could appreciate the irony in that suggestion. He had survived the crash, from his piss-poor attempt to run Jak over, and it's subsequent explosion, only to find himself arrested in the hospital, sometime between the aftermath of the Baron's death and Ashelin's rise to Governess. They'd waited until he'd recovered first, before officially dumping him, weaponless and without any supplies, in the middle of some desolate, god-forsaken land. How kind of them. Erol hadn't been that devoted before, but how the hell could he believe in the mercy of the Precursors now?
Erol decided to ignore the religious fanatic and focused on glaring at Ashelin instead. She met his gaze, unflinching, and Erol ended up looking away first, angry but powerless. He struggled against his manacle briefly, even though he knew it was pointless. All he felt was a restless anxiety as he observed the emptiness of his surroundings. His former uniform was good at managing the sweat that was already blooming underneath it, but it might not hold in enough heat once the two scorching suns had set. Erol didn't want to get burned to a crisp, especially not with his fair and freckled skin, but freezing to death wasn't any better.
“I know you don't believe me, but none of this is personal,” Ashelin said, “You were protecting the city and I respect that, even if it's no excuse for what you did under my father's rule. I tried to warn you a long time ago, before it came to this.”
“I also warned you!” Veger said, “You're lucky that your most recent adventure with Dark Eco ended this well!”
Erol knew what Veger was referring to, even if Ashelin didn't. The ugly prick had told him that the Dark Warrior Program would be Erol's downfall, and it had been, though not in a manner that either of them had been expecting. That Veger had been correct made no difference; Erol continued to ignore him. The bastard disagreed with almost everything, either because it conflicted with his religious beliefs or because it had kick-started an early onset of crotchety old man symptoms. They were definitely not friends.
Ashelin, on the other hand, had always called her father's decisions unethical, out of some ill-advised desire to protect the weaker, more pathetic citizens during the Baron's reign. Erol had never tried to quell her outright, allowing his sense of appreciation to get the better of him instead. He'd started out in the same squadron with Ashelin, back in boot camp, and she'd been assigned to subsequent squads with him, typically returning as the only other survivor. They had risen in the ranks, side by side, yet he had been the one to benefit from knowing the Baron, while Ashelin had calmly relied on her merit alone and allowed Erol to outrank her. In all that time, they'd been protecting one another on the battlefield for so long that the habit had turned into a more general concern for the other person's welfare, even if they did frequently rub each other the wrong way. Not exactly friendship, but it was the closest that Erol had gotten in years, considering his foolish pride, his hot-headed nature, and a desperate, lingering need to prove his superiority by taunting anyone who wasn't strong enough or powerful enough to ruin his week for trying their patience.
The only relationship that was stronger was the one he'd had with Keira. Erol had always been an asshole, he enjoyed tormenting people far too much to quit, but he was an equal opportunity asshole. She had managed to get beyond that and he still couldn't remember how that had happened. Keira was by far the most unusual person he'd ever met, so very different, yet they had come together like salt and pepper. There was no doubt in his mind that they were meant for each other, but that was on shaky ground, ever since he'd lost his temper and tried to kill Jak. The whole banishment thing certainly wouldn't help. No, there was nothing that Erol could do except face the facts and throw caution to the wind. After all, he was never going to see these bastards again. It was the perfect time to tell them off!
“I've made my choices and I'm man enough to stand by them!” Erol said, “You're the ones who got lucky. If we'd managed to get that eco freak under control, our roles would be reversed. The Baron would still be alive and Jak would be on his leash; not yours!”
Ashelin seemed sincerely shocked at his outburst. Count Veger only chuckled, amused by Erol's plight.
“How touching! It's a pity you won't repent,” Veger said, “At least you'll have plenty to think about, while you're suffering from heatstroke.”
Erol finally glowered at Veger, wondering why he was even here. What sort of story had the Count spun to keep the Grand Council alive, after the Baron's demise? As angry as Erol was, he seriously hoped that Ashelin would realize those slimy bureaucrats weren't as indispensable as she thought; preferably before Veger was done taking advantage of her inexperience. Baron Praxis had kept them in line through threats and sheer force of will alone. Ashelin had the will, but not the way.
“I think we've had enough last words. Hurry up and drop the cargo!” Veger said.
Veger turned and walked towards the air train. The two Freedom League Guards took that last part as orders and followed, leaving only Ashelin standing beside Erol. She unlocked the manacle and Erol rubbed his wrists as they were freed. He glared at Ashelin one last time, regretting that he'd been so lenient with her all those years, out of a loyalty that had been deeply misplaced. Traces of guilt finally tugged at her features and Ashelin shoved something into his hand. He hadn't noticed her pulling it out earlier, so she must have been hiding it, for some reason.
Erol recognized it as a beacon, though he couldn't imagine wanting to meet whoever it might summon.
People had managed to survive in the Wasteland. It wasn't a secret by any means; it simply didn't come up often in polite company. Unfortunately, that meant everyone out in the desert was, at worst, a violent criminal and, at best, an unabashed asshole. Erol would fit right in, but that didn't mean he wanted to get acquainted while he was completely defenseless and unprepared for a fight. When he looked up, his fear was finally laid bare, and Ashelin seemed embarrassed for him.
Ashelin said, “Just keep your ego in check and you might make it through this.”
Erol muttered under his breath, as he watched her walk away
“Easy for you to say.”
As the back of the air train closed and it lifted off, Erol was filled with a sense of finality. This was really happening; it wasn't some horrible nightmare that he could wake up from at any moment. No, he was well and truly doomed!
His tattooed ears drooped so low that the tips were touching his hunched and sagging shoulders, before sharply twitching up and back into a fiercely curving arch, as he clenched his fists and bared his teeth. If Erol allowed himself to wallow in despair, then he was as good as lost! Anger would keep him going, long after his body had given up the fight. But what to do, now that he was alone?
Erol surveyed his location, but everything looked the same. He didn't really know what to look for. The plants were sparse and the rock formations were discernible, but useless if they didn't actually mark anything of importance. He'd have to wander around blindly, hoping that he would stumble onto some resources. He didn't even bother wondering what would be for dinner. He had a feeling he wouldn't be eating for a few days and he knew that he could chance starvation, as long as he found some water before he died of thirst. Water before food, always. Erol winced as he tried looking up, shielding his eyes from the twin suns with his hand.
First things first, he needed some sort of shelter from the blistering heat. Once it had cooled down a little, he could try looking for water, if the beacon didn't bring someone who might kill him first. For a moment, he considered abandoning it, but a slight sense of hope kept him from dropping it into the sand, as he started wandering through the unforgiving Wasteland.

Time was hard to keep track of once Erol had become delirious, even more so after he had passed out from exhaustion and dehydration. He didn't know how long it had been since someone had found him. He also had no idea where he was, but he decided that didn't matter the minute he noticed the clear pool of water beside him. He drank from it, bit by bit, by cupping his hands and putting them to his parched lips, until he was sated.
Afterward, he took his gloves off and pressed the dripping fabric against his tattooed face, to wipe off some of the dried salt and grains of sand, when he heard boots scraping along the stone floor. Though the torches proved, without a doubt, that he was in some man-made dwelling of rock, he was wary. He stood up straight, looking stern and unbowed, until his host came into view. Then Erol's golden eyes went wide and his eyebrows practically flew off his face. The other man had already had plenty of time to get over the initial shock and simply nodded.
“Damas! You saved me?” Erol asked, “But why?”
“I've questioned that myself,” Damas said, “The beacon you had is the only reason I didn't leave you to die. I assume you've made some enemies in Haven that might be enemies of mine.”
Erol moved closer to the stairs, pretending he had more confidence than he really did, but Damas promptly held out his staff in a defensive manner. Erol paused, not wanting to fight the older man unarmed. Even if Erol lost, it certainly wouldn't show gratitude for saving his life. Instead, Erol put one hand on his hip and motioned vaguely at the large room he was in.
“Where am I?” Erol asked.
Damas smiled, though it did nothing to relieve the severity of his expression.
“Welcome to Spargus and my new palace! You may stay, as long as you don't try to overthrow me again,” Damas said, “But only if you prove useful. We have no room for dead weight in the Wasteland. Our survival depends on a joint effort.”
A harsh stance, but one that Erol could accept. He'd had no sympathy for the weak and useless back in Haven City and he had no sympathy for their ilk out here. Erol was beginning to like this place more and more.
“I don't have a gun,” Erol said, “But you know I'm capable. If you—”
Damas cut Erol off and shook his head, as he pointed the staff in Erol's direction. The older man's expression was calm but fierce.
“Save it for the arena!” Damas said, “You must prove yourself in front of all of Spargus. We'll find you a weapon, when you're ready, and the decision will be made after that. Prepare yourself and you may yet live to see another day.”
Erol scowled but nodded. Apparently he had no choice. Erol liked the idea of proving himself in an arena, that wasn't a problem. Ever since he was small, he'd craved attention from a cheering audience, but he didn't like being ordered around by some kingly has-been. No matter. Once Erol was settled in, and found some damn sun screen for the non-tattooed areas of his poor face (dear Makers, these people better have sun screen), then he could ignore Damas and decide where to go from there.

“Always a show off,” Damas said.
Erol had left his second battle in the volcanic arena of Spargus, extremely pleased with himself. It was a piece of cake, really. Those marauders, whether generated facsimiles or actual prisoners, were nothing compared to him! After a handful of Spargus warriors finished chatting Erol up, he'd slung his rifle over his shoulder and made his way back down to the cool, crisp living quarters of the palace, where he'd naturally run into Damas.
“I call it living up to my potential,” Erol said, “You should try it some time.”
Damas, older and wiser than that annoying (albeit entertaining) young miscreant Jak, didn't rise to Erol's bait. He merely shook his head and walked past Erol, toward what was essentially the dining room and kitchen. Erol had no idea why Damas hadn't insisted that he leave and find his own place in Spargus proper. Evidently, the other man didn't care. The palace in Spargus was substantially smaller than the one in Haven had been. Of course, it was also filled with fewer status symbols taking up space. No, there was plenty of room for guests, so that wasn't an issue, but it was still odd, in Erol's opinion. He followed Damas in silence and joined the king at the stone-carved table for a simple meal. It didn't have much flavor, but it was always hearty. Erol had willingly lived on KG rations for years. This was good, comparatively.
“Who's your cook?” Erol asked.
Damas paused in the middle of holding the utensil in front of his mouth, about to take a bite, and blinked at Erol in confusion, who stiffened as he waited to see what the end result would be. His lightly tattooed ears flicked back uneasily, until Damas snorted with amusement.
Erol had grown curious about a lot of things, since his arrival, but he'd only gotten bold enough to ask about them once he was certain Damas wouldn't kill him for it. Erol couldn't help it; he kept mentally equating King Damas with Baron Praxis. The king was stern and foreboding, yet that was where their similarities ended. Even in complicated situations, where there was cause for concern, Damas was calm where Praxis would have been visibly livid with rage. Erol had a volatile temper himself, and though he had never enjoyed being around the moodier side of Praxis, he understood it well. He simply couldn't fathom how Damas kept his cool all the time.
“I cook everything myself,” Damas said, “No one pays for luxury out here! We have alcohol, because it's so easy to obtain and frequently desired, but that's about it.”
Erol stared as Damas continued eating, then looked down at his own plate. Now he felt weird. He'd already eaten several meals, cooked by Damas himself, and he'd had no idea! Should he be grateful? Should he start cooking for himself, now that he knew? Erol didn't relish that idea; he was an awful cook. He'd enjoyed Keira's cooking, when she felt like it. Any time he went on leave or wasn't eating at the Krimzon Guard Fortress, for some other reason, he generally went to a restaurant. His pay was exceptional and he didn't spend his money on much, besides his zoomers. He'd had no qualms spending as much as he liked on delicious food, that someone else had prepared for him, no matter how much it added up to over time. This was a little outside his realm of experience, though.
“I haven't poisoned it, if that's your concern,” Damas said.
Erol shook his head and suddenly wondered what the hell he was doing here.
“You're being kind to me and I was on the other side of the coup!” Erol said, “I don't understand. Why aren't you holding a grudge?”
Damas shrugged and focused on his food.
“What purpose would that serve?” Damas asked.
Erol faltered. He didn't even know why he was arguing about this, but he couldn't let it go. The apparent lack of passion in Damas unsettled him.
“Why would that matter? I'm talking about... about,” Erol said, “I don't know what I'm talking about! But if I was in your position, I wouldn't be treating you like this. You wouldn't be my guest! You'd be out on your ear in the morning!”
Damas looked amused again and Erol became more frustrated than before. Of all the things not to take seriously, this was the one that Damas had chosen? Erol stood up and Damas immediately rose to his feet, holding out a well-muscled arm to stop Erol from leaving. The king's expression had turned somber and Erol recognized an order when he saw one, even if it hadn't been spoken. He sat back down and poked at his food, his appetite ruined by irritation. Damas remained standing and placed his hands flat on the table, looming over Erol.
“You're young and impetuous! If you had your way, you'd be making several mistakes. Pointless ones, at that! Why does this bother you? Are you so unaccustomed to forgiveness that you can't believe in it when you see it?” Damas asked, “What has Haven come to in my absence?”
Erol didn't answer, assuming it was rhetorical. When Damas sighed, Erol gave him a skeptical glance. Maybe it wasn't? Hmph! Even if Erol answered now, he doubted it would do much good. Clearly they were at odds about this and wouldn't see eye to eye, no matter what.
Then Damas nodded to himself, as if he'd come to some sort of decision. The king straightened up and gestured for Erol to follow him.
“Let me show you something,” Damas said.
Erol noticed that Damas hadn't reached for his staff and hesitated before leaving his own rifle at the table. He didn't think that Damas would have insisted, but Erol was feeling chastised after the way Damas had griped about his lack of trust. Though he was still apprehensive, he followed Damas out into the hallway and up a short, curling flight of rocky stairs that Erol hadn't used before. He'd gotten the impression that they lead somewhere off-limits and he quickly found out why.
The room they entered was enormous. It was easily the largest one in the whole palace, after taking into account the reception room, which could also be combined with the watery vestibule for an even larger space. The area was partially open to the elements and seemed to be naturally carved into the mountain. It was high enough that the sandstorms probably didn't reach that far up, the lava was kept under such control it would never leak anywhere near it, and what little precipitation there was wouldn't last long enough to carry over to that side of the mountain. There was enough shade and elevation that the space was naturally comfortable, but it must have been much colder at night, as evidenced by the pile of pillows and blankets on the large bed that dominated all the other sparsely placed furniture.
Oh... he was in the king's bedchamber. Erol tensed for a moment, unable to take his eyes off the only real piece of furniture in the room. It was disturbingly inviting, even though he was perfectly happy with the bed he'd already claimed as his own. He was about to ask, wondering why he'd been brought somewhere so intimate, when the sound of fluttering wings made him turn his head.
Damas was standing in front of one concave expanse of wall, around a corner, where there was an elegant fence tucked in front of what could have been mistaken for a bunch of thin, reedy shelves at first glance. Instead, it was a large artificial roost for a wide assortment of birds. They were some sort of tiny parrot, in a variety of colors. (At least they weren't Moncaws, like the ugly, loud-mouthed one that the old hag owned.) They had to be tame; Erol hadn't seen them anywhere else in Spargus and several of them were currently landing on Damas, accepting bird seed directly from his hands. Some squabbled over the right to be there and others remained huddled, in pairs, small groups, or alone, waiting for their turn. Erol really had no idea what the hell was going on now and Damas only laughed at Erol's bewilderment, when he noticed it.
“You can try to feed them. The bag is there, but they might not take an interest in you,” Damas said.
Erol simply put his hands on his hips, waiting for Damas to explain, but it was awhile before Damas stopped paying more attention to the birds than him. Once all of the bird seed was gone, the older warrior rubbed his hands together, as if he were wiping off a fine dust, and he seemed disappointed that Erol hadn't even tried to feed the birds.
“Gifts,” Damas said, “A traveler gave me one pair, from somewhere else, and as soon as everyone heard about it, I ended up with more. I got them to stop, but not before I had this many!”
Erol glared at Damas. This better not be going where he thought it was. The king took this an irritable push to get to the point and continued to explain.
“Compassion can inspire actions that wisdom would deem futile!” Damas said, “These birds had no choice where anyone brought them and I didn't have the heart to let them die. They were from an arid plain, not a real desert. Here they've managed to thrive, in spite of that. I get food and warm bedding for them, even though it serves no purpose. It's my one weakness and the people of Spargus don't mind. They encouraged it, by giving them to me in the first place!”
“I'm not one of your fucking birds!” Erol said.
Damas scowled and Erol turned his back on the older man, infuriated at the comparison. He'd endured a lot of insults in his life, and most of them meant nothing to him, but for some reason this absolutely shredded his pride and dignity.
“No, you're not!” Damas said, “We will use you as we use every citizen. You will fight the marauders, retrieve artifacts, and locate resources. These lovebirds remain here, doing none of those things.”
“...Lovebirds?” Erol asked.
Damas actually chuckled at Erol's surprise and Erol glanced over his shoulder, in time to see Damas shooing them back into their roost, before closing the gate behind them.
“I've been told that's what they're called. They seem friendly, mostly with one another, so I assume that's where the name comes from,” Damas said.
Erol rubbed his prominent chin and squinted his golden eyes. These small birds didn't look all that special, though many of them did have bright splashes of vibrant red feathers. For some reason, he'd always assumed that a lovebird would be larger, with a long, flashy tail and maybe little hearts all over it. He was startled out of his thoughts when Damas put a hand on his shoulder and he turned to face the king with more trepidation than he'd meant to. An image of the bed jumped into the forefront of his mind but... was he truly uneasy or was it something else?
“There's no need to keep someone an enemy when they may become an ally instead,” Damas said, “Anger only turns that which might be useful into something that is definitely useless! It's better to put forgiveness towards a guaranteed benefit, rather than giving mercy after the damage has already been done. Do you understand now?”
Erol turned around, much more somber now. He had known already, but it hadn't been quite so obvious before that the king was only concerned with practicality, first and foremost. The lovebirds truly were an exception to that, though it made Erol wonder what else the king made exceptions for.
“I do prefer feeling useful,” Erol said, “And I'm sure it's a lot less boring than living my life trapped inside a cage.”
Damas smiled, but it was as grim as Erol's frown. When the king pulled his hand away from Erol's shoulder, Erol noticed how much he missed the gentle touch already. He hadn't bothered to make friends with anyone in Spargus, mostly because he wasn't good at it. People who liked Erol, more than their better judgment should allow, just sort of fell into his lap eventually and that was how he had always scraped by before.
Now it was abundantly clear that he needed some form of companionship, beyond the men and women who grudgingly admired his prowess in the arena, and that was the real reason he hadn't left yet. For that matter, Erol was starting to wonder if it wasn't worth aiming higher. He began to smirk, as he pondered how best to go about this. In the end, he decided to be blunt, thinking that a man as practical as Damas might ignore or otherwise dislike anything more subtle. It would also save on time, which Erol had come to appreciate more, ever since his near-death experience in the desert.
“So, how long has it been since you've had sex?” Erol asked.
Damas just stared at him and Erol thought maybe he'd been too direct. No, probably not his best opener, but he wouldn't back down, now that he'd gotten his thoughts out into the open. He put his hands on his hips and tilted his head to one side, one eyebrow arched expectantly. Damas idly scratched behind one ear and furrowed his brow, more thoughtful than offended.
“I've lost track, honestly,” Damas said, “It's rough out here. There's time for it, but a lot hangs heavy on my mind these days. Most of all my missing son and my dearly departed wife. Tell me truthfully, have you seen Mar? Before you were cast out, I mean.”
Ahh. Damas hadn't understood that was an exploratory question, not an attempt to be humorous or to relate to the older man. For that matter, Erol had no idea if Damas even had any sexual interest in men, but asking outright seemed beyond blunt and mostly invasive. Still, Erol actually felt bad, given the only true answer that he could offer, but he owed Damas that much for saving his life.
“No,” Erol said, “Whatever spies that you have were telling the truth; he disappeared into thin air. We searched everywhere, non-stop, after the Baron took over.”
Damas nodded, not the least bit surprised by that information. The king had obviously wanted to know if his little boy was being treated fairly, and Erol did remember hearing some rumors that one or more of the Wastelanders might be spying for the dispossessed man. It certainly wasn't unreasonable to be worried. Erol had willingly served the Baron, but he also knew that unwavering, iron fist very well.
“I'll admit,” Erol said, “I got a little slack about making certain the patrols were actually looking. Hell, I gave up personally, after about a year, but the Baron was determined to leave no stone unturned. There's just no excuse for a child that young being that hard to find! If the Underground had him, they hid him very well.”
Of course, some of that lack of effort had been a change of concern, what with Keira being so compelling, Jak being so frustrating, and the Metal Heads killing so many of his men, as compared to a lax work ethic. Besides, how long could anyone scour the same city and not run across something they had missed before? The Underground had to be changing the kid's placement regularly.
“After the Baron's death, I was stuck in a hospital,” Erol said, “Then labeled a traitor! None of which fed me a network of information, ripe for the picking. I don't know what happened, when Ashelin took over, but she's always had a soft spot for Mar.”
“Yes,” Damas said, “She insisted that he's safe, but won't give me any details. Hence, why I asked. I believe her, but I would rest easier knowing more.”
They fell into quiet contemplation and Erol wondered if Mar had actually been found. Why else would Ashelin be so vague? But that only raised further questions. She'd had ties to the Underground; the Baron knew about her feelings for Torn, and had ignored them, because he knew it could be used as a future bargaining chip. Did the Underground manage to lose the little brat too? Why the hell did anyone have children, if they were this hard to keep track of and care for? Erol shook his head and glanced at Damas, who was currently more sorrowful than stoic.
There wasn't a lot that moved Erol, but he truly was sympathetic for the older man. Erol might not have had a child or a wife, but he'd had something oddly in-between with regards to Keira. He'd looked out for her, helped her get on her feet, and been her shoulder to cry on when it was all too much. He'd done it for selfish reasons, but he'd never asked for anything besides honest affection. She'd stolen his heart before freely giving him the only thing he'd had so much trouble finding on his own; love. But she'd been so young that he wasn't certain what exactly their relationship could be called and he'd waited to find out. Erol could be patient, when it suited him, and he had absolutely no desire to hurt her.
Now he'd never hold her in his arms again or gently tease her or tell her how much he cared. Even if by some chance Erol could sneak back into Haven, it wouldn't matter. He had lost her to Jak when he'd lost his temper at the end of the Class One race. For the first time in his life, he knew some of what Damas must be feeling, and for that reason, he decided to plow forward with his initial idea. Perhaps Erol could offer comfort to someone besides Keira. He reached out to touch the king's shoulder and the older man, though receptive, arched an eyebrow curiously, which caused Erol to smile.
“I don't know how you feel about other men,” Erol said, “And if you're not open to that frame of mind, I won't bring it up again. But if you're willing, I want you to use me.”
Damas blinked and his brow furrowed, as if he were trying to work out what Erol was suggesting. The redhead chuckled and looked at the king's bed.
“Between the sheets,” Erol added.
When he turned to face Damas, the other man's recognition was evident. The king simply looked at him, searching Erol's face for something, probably sincerity, before nodding.
“I see,” Damas said, “I am... open to that possibility, but you'll forgive me if I'm a little reluctant right now. However, I'm all for cuddling if you don't have anything else in mind for tonight.”
Erol wasn't certain how to respond at first. He had been expecting a yes or a no, and this was neither. In the end, he nodded, but remained unmoving. Erol had slept with men and women before, sometimes both at once, yet he had been mostly unfriendly, outside of touching with the intent to arouse. He'd snuggled and kissed Keira purely for the sheer joy of being in her company, which might have accounted for the difference in their mood together, but his impression, accurate or not, was that family was for hugging, friends were distant, and lovers were for fucking. It had been hard on him, but that was his own fault. She was too young for anything, but kid gloves. He'd made certain that Keira initiated all closeness, which was how he'd ended up anywhere at all. She was unready to go all the way, and he had never insisted on more than what she was prepared to offer him. Now he wasn't quite certain how to take the king's suggestion, so he waited for Damas to act on his own suggestion.
“You should finish dinner first,” Damas said, “I don't allow for empty bellies, when nourishing them is possible. You're going to need all your strength if you wish to be of service to anyone.”
That also wasn't the answer that Erol was expecting. He rolled his eyes, feeling like a petulant child who'd just been scolded by their father, and idly wondered where the hell Mar was. If the former commander hadn't spent the last couple of years looking for the little brat already, Erol might have offered to find the boy himself, in order to curb Damas's evident need to nurture someone. At least he'd been offered some warm, gentle human contact for his troubles so far. That was the only thing that kept him from being snippy as he turned on his heels and wandered towards the dining room. That and the way his stomach grumbled, after being reminded that it hadn't been filled yet.

Erol yawned and stretched, as he was made aware that someone was yelling. He all but purred in response when he realized who it was. Casually, Erol tucked his arms under his pillow and rested his cheek against it so he could tilt his freckled face to see the fat, annoying bastard who ran the Spargus garage. Erol had fallen asleep on the edge of the bed facing the doorway, initially snuggled up against the king's side and enjoying the shared warmth under the blankets. Sometime in the night he'd rolled over onto his sturdy abs and the covers had been tossed aside.
“Gah! Cover your bum!” Kleiver said, “I won't ask again!”
Beside him, Damas stirred under the covers and groaned softly, rubbing his eyes in annoyance at such a rude awakening. Erol grinned at Kleiver, who was so much fun to piss off. He hated the much older, taller, and flat out disgustingly overweight man. Not as bad as Krew had been, granted, but still not anyone who had the right to take offense to seeing Erol in all his naked splendor.
“Why should I?” Erol asked,“My ass is glorious!”
He climbed off the bed and stood up, knowing the sort of delightfully angry reaction it would create. Kleiver scowled and backed up a few steps, holding up his meaty hands to block Erol's genitals from view. Erol began strutting towards the ugly mustachioed man, the evilest grin possible on his fair face.
“Fuckin' hell!” Kleiver said, “Bad enough it adds to me mental pi'ture of what you've been up to, but another bloke's bits ain't what I wanted to see first thing in the damn mornin'!”
Erol smirked and pressed up against the door frame suggestively, his morning wood tingling against the chilled stone, but it was worth it to wiggle his well-muscled buttocks right in front of Kleiver, before stroking them tauntingly. Kleiver became curious, when Erol didn't say anything right away, but he promptly regretted it. The ugly jerk averted his gaze, his arms crossed in front of his chest, and his jowls quivering with outrage.
“So... Only in the morning, is it?” Erol asked, “Would you prefer seeing me in your bed tonight?
“Fuck no!”
Kleiver gave Erol a quick, downright horrified glance, before mentally kicking himself and looking away again.
Erol chuckled. Ahhh, he loved tearing people down like this. It was going to be a great day after all.
“Then why are you here?” Erol asked.
He knew it was a mistake as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Kleiver growled, but smirked as he found an opening to get back at Erol.
“I knew you were a real bastard, but I didn't realize you had shit for brains too,” Kleiver said, “I've got news for Damas, ya puny little knee-high nipper! Now make like a kangarat and get eaten by a leaper!”
Erol straightened up, scowling at that. He turned and walked away, towards the king's bed, flipping Kleiver off as he went. The only things that consistently got on his nerves were being called stupid or short. Invoking both was the quickest way to make Erol lose interest in playing with his enemies. He might have let himself get more riled up, and actually threatened Kleiver for that, but he knew Damas would be furious if he started a fight in the older man's bedroom, of all places.
“Learn how to knock some time,” Erol said.
“Ah, sod off, ya gingy wanker,” Kleiver said, “I hope the twin suns make ya their ruddy bitch!”
Damas was sitting up and leaning back, after rearranging his pillows, though he was also shaking his head and sighing. He held out a hand, beckoning for Erol to rejoin him.
“Sweet Eco, you two are acting like children! Come here,” Damas said, “What news, Kleiver?”
Erol found that idea quite agreeable and straddled the king's covered lap, as he climbed back into bed with the older man. He snuggled against the king's chest in contentment, the rest of the world briefly forgotten as he nestled into the king's well-muscled arms, until the fat bastard at the door made a sound of disgust. After being pissed off already, that actually annoyed Erol, but he still took some pleasure in the shit head's discomfort.
“Ahem... Sig 's back! I thought you'd want to know, soon as he arrived,” Kleiver said, “He's waitin' downstairs for ya.”
Erol looked up into the king's face, wondering what that might mean. The former KG commander knew little about Sig, other than the most well known facts: the tall Wastelander had worked for Krew and the Baron had left him alone. For all Erol knew, the enormous dark-skinned man might have been banished from some other city, instead of Haven, or was possibly born in Spargus.
Whatever the details were, Damas was intrigued by the information, one thick, hairless brow arched and his ears straight up and forward. The king hummed, then glanced at Erol, noticing the questioning look for what it was.
“We should have breakfast with him,” Damas said, “Thank you, Kleiver. You may go.”
“I certainly will,” Kleiver said, “And tell that creepy tosser that he won't be usin' any of me vehicles if he don't get his act together! I don't need this shit. Heh. 'Specially not from the likes o' him.”
Erol didn't even watch the fat piece of shit go. He simply remained where he was and kissed the broad, flat tip of the king's short nose instead. That got him a surprised, but not displeased, look from Damas, complete with flared nostrils.
“Don't give me that innocent look,” Damas said, “I know he isn't an easy man to get along with, and his motives are often selfish, but you can't behave like a spoiled brat when someone disagrees with you!”
That brought out another pout, before Erol cringed. Damn it! He made his expression as neutral as possible, drawing on the polite disinterest and smug charm that he'd had to learn when dealing with Haven's nobility.
Damas would have none of it. He returned the kiss to Erol's longer, narrower, slightly upturned nose, which did take him by surprise. The king's scowl didn't.
“It isn't a matter of pleasing me,” Damas said, “I'm trying to keep your arrogant ass out of the fire! The people of Spargus tend to have little patience with impudent whelps. If you go looking for a fight, they'll give you all that and more! Try to look past your own pride for once, and you may find that your stay here is strangely welcome.”
Erol grumbled, looked away, and let his arms fall to his sides, before sitting upright.
“It's all I have left.”
“No, it isn't,” Damas said, “Now get off of me! The faster you do, the faster you'll eat.”
Erol narrowed his golden eyes at Damas, and found his chin suddenly cupped in the king's hand, as he was turned to face him again. It was oddly sweet, but it also reminded him that he still needed to shave. Damas was still frowning, and also looking legitimately concerned. Surprisingly, there was nothing hard or dominating about his grasp.
“I am sincerely trying to help you, but I can't do so, if you won't let me,” Damas said, “You came to my bed for a reason. I don't know what that reason is, but if you trust me enough to sleep beside me, and possibly with me, the least you can do is trust my intentions. I'm not forcing you to give respect where it isn't due. I'm only asking that you to treat others with some semblance of maturity! You're a grown man and a brave one at that. Don't act like a child and they won't treat you like one.”
“How is humping the door frame child-like?” Erol asked.
He couldn't help it. He felt warm and cheeky, after realizing that Damas really was doing all of this because the older man seemed to genuinely like him.
Damas remained as stern as ever.
“More like a crocadog in need of neutering then,” Damas said, “My point is that even my tolerance has a limit. Now show me that you can behave, by being nice to Sig, and perhaps I'll reward you.”
Erol grinned at that. He had a pretty good idea what Damas was insinuating, especially if that was more than just morning wood Erol was currently sitting on. Unfortunately, Damas looked unimpressed and gently tried to push Erol off of him, so the redhead crawled off the king's lap and climbed off the bed once more, shivering a bit as he stood. The stone palace took awhile to heat up, after the cold desert nights, and he began pulling on his clothes in a hurry, now that the heat he'd been sharing with Damas had dissipated.
He still hadn't replaced his former uniform/racing suit for something that stood out less, but truth be told, Erol was strongly attached to it. Damas had recommended cutting off the sleeves at least, but Erol had decided that his poor, easily burned skin was better off being protected from the sun than being cooled. Besides, it had been hard enough getting something resembling sun screen from those damn Precursor monks. Erol was going to make the small glass jar last as long as possible, by only using it on his face, neck, and ears. It did mean he sweated worse than most. While the uniform was good at drying it quickly, he still desperately needed a shower or bath, but those were in short supply. The fresh water spring inside the palace was mostly used for drinking and cooking through-out Spargus. Bathing happened once a week, with as little water used as possible.
Oh well. Food first. He'd probably have an easier time suggesting a bath after sex anyway. Erol would just have to do what didn't come naturally and remain polite. If he could talk to Count Veger without getting snippy, back in Haven, then he could doubtless handle Sig for the duration of one meal.
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