Author's note: Yes, I went and did it. Everyone's always complaining about the lack of Arislan yaoi out there, so when a friend and I began discussing it, this little fic was the outcome.

Don't look for plot, 'cause there ain't one in here.

Standard disclaimer: These characters aren't mine; I'm just playing with them. I am not getting any richer from this.

Arislan:

"Do you think that fifty years from now anyone would remember who defeated whom on this battlefield?? Killing doesn't last; art lasts."

"And who do you think clears the way for your goddamn museum?? I'm the one out there mucking it with the men day in and day out while you're back here moving us around like playthings!"

"Are you insinuating that I don't risk myself as much as you?"

"Look, you're the one who said it. I'm a barbarian. Barbarian's don't insinuate, we say right out. You're goddamn right. All your talk of art isn't going to get us where we need to go. My sword will."

It is as if the archetypes are right here with you, the Sage and the Warrior, except that you know them. They're real, and they're having a heated argument while we study the map in the war room.

I can tell that we've all long since ceased to pretend to get anything done. The Argument now has captured out attention. I glance up to see Guibu blatantly watching the two on the other side of the room. The minstrel has a half-smile on his face. Pharangese is still looking at the map; I'm not sure if she's really seeing it. Elam has his hands over his mouth, and I know he's trying not to laugh.

"You are such a barbarian. Do you ever use that brain of yours to do anything other than think like an animal?" Narsus shouts. He's frustrated, I can tell, but there's something else.

"If I'm such an animal, why do you even condescend to talk to me?" Darun returns, riding on the crest of his anger.

There's a silence while they catch their breaths. I wonder if I should try to get the meeting back to where it was when the Argument began, but Guibu fills the silence instead.

"Why do you two waste energy in this love-play? Just go and screw each other so we can get something accomplished."

Aghast, I stare at the red-haired musician, feeling my face go hot. Pharangese glares at him; even she couldn't have predicted this straight-forward attack. Elam is opening giggling.

"Minstrel, that was inappropriate,"Pharangese says in her bland and educated voice. I can tell she's embarrassed at his lack of subtlety, yet you can hardly tell it.

Slowly we turn and look at Darun and Narsus, who are standing now, staring at Guibu. Darun's face has gone very white, and even as we watch, floods with color, probably rivaling my own. Narsus, true to form, is looking very calm, very nonchalant.

After a moment of absolute strained silence, Narsus clears his throat. "Why, that is probably the best strategy I've heard all afternoon, Guibu. Thank you for suggesting it. Come along."

Before our stunned eyes, he grabs Darun's arm and begins to pull him towards the door.

"W-wait," Darun is protesting, attempting to pull himself out of the strategist's grip, but even I can tell he isn't using all of his strength. They go out and we can hear Darun's protests continue down the hall.

"What do you think you're doing? We can't do this! The prince . . ."

Narsus' voice is unruffled. "The prince knows very well how we choose to spend our time; he's known since you barged back into my life two years ago."

"B-but . . . " The voices fade.

I slowly look at the others. We are all trying not to smile, except for Elam, who seems to have no control of himself, and who is rolling on the floor, laughing until tears course down his cheeks.

Darun:

I'm babbling on and on, and I know it. I've never been so embarrassed, and I can't seem to stop protesting as Narsus pulls me to his rooms and shoves me into them.

I can't forget the look on Arislan's face. I had never wanted my private life thrust right in front of him. I had wanted to preserve his innocence.

Finally Narsus lets go of me and I turn and face him. Even I tend to forget that although he is treasured for his mind, he is also a master swordsman. He handles me as he would an errant child, with a strong arm.

"Take off your clothes," he tells me in that soft unaffected voice.

"No," I say, and for once I mean it. I don't want to because I know that everyone knows exactly what we're about to do . . . . Arislan knows.

"Oh?"

Inwardly I cringe. How can one syllable send absolute terror through me? That tone seems to imply that what I'm doing is laughable, unadvised and not worth my time, because he'll win. Narsus always wins.

"Are you fighting me?" he asks in the same tone. He pulls the length of his dark amber hair over his shoulder, and pulls at the ribbon that ties it back loosely from his face. The fine straight hair fans loose and I swallow. "Because if you are, you know that turns me on."

It's irresistible, that voice, and that perfect face with its high cheekbones and amber eyes. I'm hard before I know it. He knows exactly what to say, what to do.

I'm lost.

He pulls the sash from his waist loose, and it slides with a hiss of silk to the floor. He shirt, which is merely folded shut, falls open. Like most of his shirts, it is a soft blue and his skin is golden in contrast.

I swallow because I know that slow disrobing is meant to drive me wild. It is. But I don't want to, because . . .

"Take off your clothes," he says again. Reflexively, I shake my head. No. I'm too embarrassed, too rattled to think straight. Too late, I realize that unless I leave NOW, I won't be able to leave at all.

He is between me and the door.

"Are you embarrassed?" he asks in that soft tone. "Arislan knows about us; he has a mind. It's generally a naive one, but he has to be an idiot not to know. Even Elam knows."

"Oh gods," I groan. I don't want to think about how many times we've fucked in the room next to Arislan's, and how many times he might have understood what we were doing.

"If it makes you feel better, I'll apologize to him later, but Darun --" His pleasant voice looses its patience. "-- if I have to take those clothes off myself, I will not be gentle."

It's a warning I should be heeding. No one pushes Narsus. I've dared greatly in public, but in private I know who is in control. We began with me trying to win over him; it was pathetically useless. He is not only powerful, but smart. He uses his knowledge of the human mind to best his opponents, and he sees bed play as just another battlefield where he can use his strategy.

I used to see it as a battlefield, and tried to use brute strength. He made me regret it. When he yields, he yields under truce, or not at all.

But I'm not too bright tonight, and before I know it, he's backed me up until my legs hit the bed. I don't want him to touch me, because that's the beginning of the end. But for now he's playing with me. He lets one of his hands casually caress his own chest. It wanders down to the waist of his trousers, plays with the drawstring there, slips a little and traces under the waistband. It's tantalizing, like putting a banquet in front of a starving man. It's worse for me because it's a banquet I've come to know and love, all my favorite dishes being offered.

All I have to do is surrender.

"Darun--" he whispers.

My panicked eyes focus past his shoulder to the door. Not so hard, really, if I move quickly.

I don't even have time to take the second step.

He's grabbed me under the elbow, used my momentum to swing me around and I'm face down on the bed before I know what's happened, his knee in my back. I grunt at the impact, momentarily winded.

"That was ill-advised," he murmurs. He pulls the collar of my shirt down in the back and I feel the nip of teeth. Oh no, not that, my mind jabbers, knowing what comes next. He pulls the bottom of my shirt from my pants, exposing my back. I feel the softness of his lips on my spine, then the gentle scrape of teeth. I can see defeat swiftly approaching, and I know there's no way to avoid it, but I have my pride. I attempt to throw him off by pushing back with my arms and almost get to my knees when it happens.

His nails scratch down my spine.

Narsus:

Is it the warrior in him that makes him so bull-headed? The minute he is on the bed, we both know the outcome of this battle, because we have played this game a thousand times, it seems. I know his weaknesses, as he knows mine.

He is struggling out of misguided pride, and I do my best to allow him to parade his insecurities before me until I am no longer willing to watch.

It is this combination of male stubbornness and strength that makes me want him. He is the immovable object against my irresistible force.

And he is beautiful. Just the thought of having him under me makes me feel . . . stronger. Because on one level, he is never really conquered, I feel like the conqueror every time he gives into me.

As I pull up his shirt, I can feel the hardness under his dusky skin. So hard, but the skin is soft here. My hands look very light against that darkness and the darkness of his shirt. He wears black silk tonight, with only a little red and blue embroidery along the hemlines. He wears no jewelry like the rest of us; I think it makes him more beautiful to be unadorned. Primitive, maybe.

He is waiting to see what I do, tensing. Yet he knows what I will do, so I kiss along the channel of his spine, then bare my teeth and follow the path again.

There is panic in him. He recognizes, through his meandering thoughts, what comes next. I know what he is thinking, and am ready for him when he tries to buck me off.

All I have to do is scratch ever so lightly down his back, and he is mine.

With a groan, he sinks back down onto the bed. He won't pretend to fight me now unless it's what we both want, and I find myself smiling.

"Take off your clothes," I say again, trying not to sound triumphant, and I back off. He gets up on his knees, turning a little to see me. "Slowly," I remind him.

There is struggle in his face, but it is a struggle I recognize. He has never wanted to show what he feels, so when he wants me, he fights not to show it. It is a defeat to give into it.

I truly understand him, because I am the same. I will seduce him, but I will not let the indignity of surrender show, even in the midst of truce and defeat. Maybe there's a bit of warrior in me as well.

He takes the shirt off first, slowly. I watch, and it is difficult not to lick my lips. He is so wonderful, so extraordinary, the strength in him. Muscles flex under that dark skin, and his nipples are already hard. He is watching my face, and those changeable eyes are now dark blue. I call him rude, barbarian and animal, but he doesn't realize that he is also the finest work of art I have ever beheld.

Next the shoes, which he removes after sitting on the edge of the bed. When he glances up, I reward him with a small smile and a teasing grope down my own pants. I see the pulse in his throat and the flush that rises in his cheeks. His leisurely divestment is now deceptive. I marvel at his ability to unlace his pants which must be torture at this point. He cannot hide his hardness now, just as I cannot hide mine.

When he is naked, he stands, waiting. His stillness is also deceptive. It is like a panther waiting, crouched.

I walk up to him, trying to gauge how far I can take him before his control snaps. He has a lot of strength left, thankfully. Our arguing and his resistance seem to have given him a reserve of endurance.

"Yes," I say, because I know what he wants to do. He kneels down in front of me, and with shaking fingers unties the knot in the drawstring of my pants. I try to keep my breathing even, but the sight always makes me want to cry out. Instead I unclip my earrings and toss them onto the pile of his clothing there on the floor, trying not to watch him.

He gets the knot undone but pauses, as if considering something. I wait. His big hands settle on my hips and pull them slightly forward and suddenly I understand his intentions. He has never done this before, but I have done it to him. He knows what it feels like.

I bite down a moan as the heat from his breath warms the fabric that covers me. He mouths the cloth and my hardness, feeling me. His hands shift to my behind and clench. The mouth comes down harder on my shaft, testing me, and I cannot stand it any longer. I clutch at his black hair and pant. I want to come, but I know I will not give in.

He backs off, and glances up at me. He sees something because he smiles a little, releases me and loosens the waistband before pulling the pants down carefully.

"I want a truce," he breathes. His voice is ragged. He is still kneeling, although I am not keeping him there. I know what he wants. He wants me to surrender.

He wants us both to surrender.

It is rare that he asks and rarer still that I grant. Tonight is one of those infrequent nights where I am willing to consider it.

"The terms?" I ask. I want him to stand but he does not, and this troubles me . . . no, it frankly creates a need in me. To give in.

It is difficult for him to choose the right words, and I am flattered that he considers carefully before voicing them. "I . . . need" -- not want -- "I need you . . . to be kind . . . to me. I need . . . "

That is all that he has to say; I understand completely. Because I love him, I know what he needs tonight. He is still smarting after the shock of this night, and his resistance is real . . . . because he feels he cannot surrender completely. He wants equality.

I breathe in and before he can form another sentence, I cup my hands under his chin and look down into his eyes. They are paler now than I remember. His eyes are always changing, so strange for someone who changes so little. "Stand up," I say and he obeys after a deep breath. I am so used to hiding myself, that he does not know that he has won.

He is taller and bigger and if he wanted to, could have me with barely an effort, not only because he is stronger, but because he is my weakness. He does not understand that I need him too, that on a deeper level it is me who is conquered every time we make love. It is not stupidity; it is insecurity.

"Truce," I say, and kiss him, or begin to. His mouth is hard and hot on mine, and his arms crush me to him. This manhandling is incredible and I find myself whimpering from need just from the feel of his body pressed against mine. He lifts me and I twine my legs around his waist and still he kisses me, as if I am the spring of water he finds in the desert.

He walks to the bed, and I am expecting him to throw us down, but instead he sits. It brings us in contact with each other more intimately and I throw back my head, trying to stave off the pleasure. It is usually me who drives him wild, not the other way around. This is what he means by "truce."

His lips trail down my throat, his hands down my spine. It is a double indemnity of pleasure and I try not to writhe in response, but it is impossible. His teeth close on a nipple and his tongue stabs at it and at the same time his finger slides into the cleft of my buttocks, teasing at my opening. I almost cry out but manage to bite down on it. He knows exactly what I like, although he rarely is the one to initiate.

Darun:

I'm not sure at first if he will let me, and I fight hard to drown him in pleasure so he will let me do it my way. We both like to penetrate and be penetrated, "both sides of the equation" as Narsus calls it, but underneath it all, I know he prefers to be taken. He calls me "barbarian" and "animal" and truly despises those parts of me, but in the end we know . . . he likes being fucked by the animal.

He is squirming in my lap as I tease at his hole. I press my fingertip in just a little and he gasps. "You want it?" I ask in his ear. I am always surprised that he enjoys being talked to, the dirtier the better. Sophisticated Narsus, whose tongue would never utter such base stuff. "You wanna take all of me?"

He says nothing, but the desperate sounds coming from his throat, and the little movements he tries to stop tell me everything. It's a shame, but I have to stop and find oil. Narsus is unnaturally tight and sensitive. When I shift, however, he hisses, "No," in my ear. My breath stops. I can hardly believe it. He's truly giving in, even to the point of wanting the pain as well.

I don't ask him if he's sure; he wouldn't have said it if he wasn't. Instead, I cup his ass in my hands and lift him. He groans deep in his throat as he is impaled on my cock. I know it must be agony because he shuts his eyes and begins to breathe irregularly. I'm concerned for him, but his tightness is so fantastic, so distracting that I concentrate on that, holding him and thrusting in and out of him. It's an awkward position but I like being almost nose-to-nose with him as we fuck. His arms are around my neck and his face drops to my shoulder; he bites me when I stab up into him hard, and I curse.

"Lay back," he whispers in a voice made faint by desire. I do, moving us further back on the bed, and he brings his knees under him so he can ride me. I grasp his hips and watch him. He arches back and his hair falls behind him. We are both slick with sweat and flushed with effort. His cock is hard and proud and I grasp it with one hand, making him writhe even more. "Uh . . . D-darun . . ."

I am so awed by his obvious enjoyment, my own seems to be of less importance until our pace quickens. He is close. His chest heaves and gleams and his mouth falls open; he is abandoning control, and that, more than anything carries me to the edge. I grasp his hips hard, brace my feet flat on the bed and push up hard and deep.

His scream is so loud that I wonder if the others hear it in the war room.

Narsus:

We lie together, too tired to do anything but breathe into each others' hair. Darun is silent, his eyes closed, but I am thinking about what has happened today. It is something new for me . . . giving into myself.

Finally, Darun stirs. His voice is husky as he murmurs: "There's just one thing I want to know."

"Oh?"

"How the hell are we going to get back at Guibu?!