Awakening Sequence Two
The Ocean Washing Over
Irvine�s auburn hair was spilled out over the washed-thin sheets and the both of them, and Squall eased a lock from under his shoulder as Irvine stirred. Lovely hair. Lovely man, prettier than one of his paintings if only because he was real. Squall shivered on a little frission of desire. It was quiet, just the dull waltering waves and a light wind rustling through the two shuttered windows framing the bed like landscapes in a chain hotel. In the late stillness Squall noted the absence of the humming cicadas he�d earlier been able to ignore. So it was just the night, and the ocean, and Irvine. And for all of that, not in the least bit lonely.
His stomach growled again, twisting in on itself acidically; Squall grimaced, eased away from Irvine�s slumbering form, and sat up carefully. The back of his head was still tender, as was the bite-mark, quickly fading, on one shoulder, and he examined both with careful fingers. They�d never eaten dinner, the meal still cooling on the counter, and Squall didn�t suppose Irvine would mind if his guest took advantage of the mostly-cooked food. A quiet toe-curling stretch, a careful manipulation of tangled auburn hair, and Squall eased out of Irvine�s warm embrace, feet cold on the flagstoned floor, the night air raising a shiver as he caught up the lamp and padded naked into the kitchen.
The storm lantern burned low, its flame guttering on a dying wick, casting the carved cabinets and walls in fluttering shadows. The house seemed smaller, somehow more ominous without Irvine�s bright distraction; Squall cast the feeling aside, approaching the counter on unsteady legs to wash hands and belly and thighs at the basin sink, the terrycloth almost rough on sensitized skin. Pleasure lingered in his limbs, a fine lassitude filled with almost palpable memory. It was delicious. He wanted more. He approached the far end of the counter, eyeing the vegetable basket with a glare better suited for a monster of the plains. He�d had little enough to do with plants in his life.
He righted the tumbled basket with gentle, almost fond fingers, remembering why Irvine had been in such a hurry to set the basket aside. Irvine wanted him. Irvine wanted him, had wanted him before knowing who he was and even after. It had been real. A quiet smile curled his lips. He touched an unidentified leaf, gave up immediately, and turned to the stovetop. He could almost see Irvine there, broad-shouldered in the purple vest, smiling quietly beneath warm eyes. The cowboy seemed present as he crossed to the table for a plate, returned to the stove, and back again to the table with his dinner and a glass of wine purloined from the driftwood rack; Irvine was asleep, Irvine was in the other room, but in this kitchen he�d smiled, and accepted, and they�d had sex together for the first time. His first time ever, but he had to suppose Irvine had the greater wealth of experience.
He paused in cutting through to the plate, eyes staring blankly at the knife�s polished cherry-wood hilt, remembering just how that experience felt. It was almost inconceivable. He shivered. Smiled, softly, to himself. Went back to his meal.
Irvine found him there a few minutes later; the cowboy padded naked into the kitchen, yawning and pushing a curtain of hair over his shoulder, so that the flickering lamplight slid golden over the planes and long sliding muscles beneath his bare skin. Squall followed his progress intently, watching with the almost out-of-body sensation of viewing a living portrait. A half-chewed piece of steak got caught in his throat, and he washed it down on the heady plum wine, not daring to take his eyes from Irvine�s forming smile.
�Is it good?� the cowboy asked, adjusting his hair again in a frustrated gesture as though wishing for a ribbon.
Squall nodded. �I�d rather expected fish, though,� he continued, hearing the roll of the sea. Irvine laughed, a surprised sound, and took the seat across from Squall.
�You might think so,� he grinned, eyes gleaming in the angled light. �But you get awfully sick of fish after a while.� He was quiet for a moment. �If you like, we could go crabbing tonight, after it gets dark.�
Squall nodded agreement, felt a returning smile tug at his lips. �Didn�t notice any cows,� he observed.
�Ah,� Irvine murmured, grinning down to glance up at Squall through auburn lashes. �There�s a little ranch a bit north of here, I ride over and help clear out monsters every week or so in exchange for supplies.� The cowboy paused, and Squall took another bite as if to fill the silence. �You could come with me,� he said hesitantly, grin lingering, none of his uncertainty hidden behind a fa�ade.
�Okay,� Squall whispered, not really thinking about it and not really wanting to. He�d have to go home eventually, but �I�d like to,� he said, louder, feeling Irvine�s broad grin beneath his heart.
�Good,� Irvine breathed. �Great.� And he just smiled. Just a smile, and so fascinating that Squall couldn�t look away. Irvine licked his lips then, a tiny gesture, pink tongue flickering over pink skin, and Squall bit his own lip in sympathetic response. The cowboy�s eyes were gleaming, a look so new and yet so familiar and Squall almost had to look away then, suddenly uncertain, eyes going back to the safer realm of his plate, to the stained flatware and torn flesh.
Irvine cleared his throat, didn�t catch Squall�s eyes, stood from the chair easily and went to the counter. As though it weren�t the right moment to press, as though there were formalities to be observed. Squall dropped his fork, fingers nervous, eyes darting up to watch the long line of Irvine�s back. He�d just agreed to stay here a week, if not longer. That thought should worry him more.
But the thick light from the storm lantern gilded Irvine�s tumbled auburn hair and smooth-skinned back, all the lovely tanned length of it, strong on the arch of the spine and the lightly freckled skin, paler where the sun never touched. Squall�s fingers itched to trace the path of that light. His cock stirred against his thigh, and of a sudden he came aware of his own nakedness in this man�s kitchen, in the warm night air and the wind off the ocean like the world didn�t end.
He could have been shaking with desire, it felt inevitable within him, but it was muted, it thrummed deep, as Irvine turned back to the table with a full plate and a startled, wakening erection. The cowboy�s eyes were warm, and he walked unashamed and unafraid, glass held carefully against a spill. Squall watched him again, watched him walk and move and ease into the ladder-backed chair with irresistible grace, too taken with watching to really care that Irvine watched him in turn. He felt like he�d been starved all his life.
�You need wind chimes,� he said suddenly, eyes still fixed on Irvine�s and lips barely moving; Irvine arched one dark brow as a question, jaw working as he chewed and Squall remembered where he�d seen the jaw�s flex before. He shrugged, swallowed. �It�s a fine wind,� he murmured. �Just realized what was missing.�
�I had some, a while back,� Irvine said easily. The wine stained his lips. �I suppose a storm blew them down while I was away.�
�Chimes would sound nice,� Squall decided, not really responding to Irvine�s remark at all, or responding obliquely, as he usually had at court. �Lonely.�
Irvine laughed at that. �Lonely�s the last thing I need, Squall.� And stopped then, something honest and real in the moment, and Squall smiled softly, looking down from the naked eyes.
�Wistful, then,� he compromised, continuing as he never had at court, scraping one tine of the fork lightly against the plate to recreate an echo of remembered chiming. Irvine considered for a moment, nodded.
�Wistful I can do,� he drawled, and Squall looked up, already aware that the cowboy�s accent thickened when he felt something more deeply. �s what my whole life has been about.�
�Wistful,� Squall repeated blankly. �Looking fondly or regretfully to the past.� His own past had been �I never fell into the habit.�
�All about the future with you, eh?� Irvine grinned, allowing the slight shift in topic.
�I suppose.� He�d never really thought about it. It was getting later. A sand piper trilled its peculiar, piercing note somewhere down the beach. Irvine started a bit, drew back from the table as if waking from a dream. �Almost morning,� Squall offered.
�You get the best light at dawn, or just after,� Irvine said, apropos to nothing. Squall craned his neck to peer at the shadow of the front room, the long gallery still filled with night. Irvine stood, and Squall, feeling something suddenly slipping away, stared after the other man as he sealed away the barely eaten meal in the ice box and poured another glass of wine. He took down a small copper kettle from a row of hooks hung underneath the left-side cabinets, filled it midway with water, and lit the nearest range with quick, practiced movements, only looking back to Squall when the water had been set to boil. �You want some coffee?� he offered, warm eyes glancing at Squall but lingering on the swirl of rose wine in crystal.
�Sure,� Squall returned, finishing the last swallow of his wine and standing to collect his own plate. He should have been aware of his nakedness, their nakedness, and he knew this, but a part of him refused to do anything other than stretch easily in the dappling light and approach Irvine with a scarcely-realized hunger. His plate went into the sink, not enough left to bother with saving. And it seemed natural to linger beside Irvine while waiting for the water to boil, one hand resting on the counter, his bare shoulder lightly brushing against Irvine�s with every few breaths.
Awareness coiled between them, something familiar and comfortable and yet Squall still felt this nervous tightening in his sternum. Feeling oddly fragile, he traced the tips of his fingers down Irvine�s arm, a tentative, questioning gesture, and the cowboy turned, looking a bit surprised, to smile at him. He bit his lip, watching the smile thoughtfully, fingers paused near the soft of Irvine�s elbow. The kettle began to scream.
The moment should have broken. But Irvine reached behind him, grasping the ceramic handle with nimble fingers to swing the kettle aside, and then Squall was in his arms, turning Irvine restlessly until they were pressed together with the small of Irvine�s back against the edge of the counter. Squall couldn�t kiss him at first, could only press his forehead to Irvine�s shoulder and lower soft murmurs to the pulse in his neck. Irvine�s hand came up to cradle the back of Squall�s head, a comforting grip at the back of his neck. His other hand turned off the range, and then tangled in Squall�s hair. Irvine was breathing deeply, his cock warm against Squall�s thigh and beginning to stir.
�It�s almost too much,� Squall whispered, hands clinging to Irvine�s back, sure to leave bruises. Irvine�s fingers stroked through Squall�s hair softly, petting him. �I�ve never wanted anyone this much.�
�Neither have I,� Irvine said, rocking against Squall�s hip.
�Never?� Squall asked, pulling back to meet Irvine�s heavy-lidded gaze, eyes silvering and intent.
�Never like this,� Irvine moaned. His eyes were dark, the color of a bruise, and he dropped his head down to nuzzle Squall�s cheek. �Like I want to know every inch of you ...� he breathed, arms insistent, dragging him close again.
Squall went willingly, melding the length of his body to Irvine�s, pulling curtains of shining hair over their shoulders, pressing against the heat of Irvine�s cock, fully roused, hard against his own erection. Irvine�s cheek was still pressed to his, Irvine lipping now at his earlobe, tongue just touching the silver piercing and Irvine groaned again, Squall bucking against him, the sensation unexpected and electric.
It was this. This was everything he�d been lacking, Irvine�s breath hot on his skin, voice low and wanting in Squall�s ear.
Squall moaned, feeling Irvine�s cock hot and wet against his thigh, precome gleaming on pale skin in the broken light, his own erection pressed to Irvine�s and his balls drawing up anxiously on a vivid flash of Irvine�s lips pressed to this very root, even as he fed on the cowboy�s crooked smile with teeth and tongue. He wanted to drink the man, trying to speak it all into his throat, clinging to the back of his neck with the hand not creeping between the sweat-slick slide of flat muscle and downed skin. Irvine was pulling on him like he�d never let go, fingers caught in shorter hair, humming pleasure into the kiss as Squall�s hand closed around his cock. He grasped the silken weight gently, firmly, feeling it against his palm warm and quivering with the minute helpless surges of Irvine�s hips, foreign and yet as familiar as the sea and he pressed his own cock to its brother, arching, breaking from Irvine�s sinful mouth to gasp at the feeling of it, the insane pleasure of it.
�Squall,� Irvine moaned, pulling him closer, catching his mouth again and holding him up when his knees tried to go, everything in him focused on the cock stroked warm in his hand, and the feel of his own as Irvine pressed a palm to the underside of the crown and let the very ends of his fingers dabble at the base. The motion raised Squall up on his toes, and he leaned in, feeling like he was trying to climb the cowboy, sliding against all the length of him trapped against the counter, and feeling the almost irresistible urge to wrap his legs around Irvine�s waist, anything to get closer. He gasped into the soft of Irvine�s neck, hand twisting urgently on Irvine�s cock, thrusting into Irvine�s hand, and he moaned, thinking only that he wanted closer, he needed closer, squeezing shut his eyes and breathing Irvine�s name and wanting to just crawl inside the man and live.
And Irvine was biting his shoulder again, same place exactly, sharp pain on old, sure to leave a mark, Irvine was trying to leave his mark, and Irvine was coming in Squall�s hand, spurting warm against the flexing plane of Squall�s stomach, and the thought was so unexpected, so territorial and possessive and right and he shouted into the tangle of Irvine�s hair, feeling everything gathering in him to arch and bite his lip and come in Irvine�s hand.
He wasn�t really aware for several minutes after his release. He was panting into Irvine�s neck, forehead pressed there, one hand still clinging to Irvine�s neck and the other still wrapped around Irvine�s cock. Irvine still mirrored him almost exactly. Irvine had lowered them to the floor at some point, his back to the counter with his legs sprawled out, trapped beneath Squall�s tangled limbs. He�d been caught partially beneath Irvine, and one of his legs was going to sleep from the knee down. He didn�t care. At that moment, he was as content as he�d ever hoped to be in a long childhood of broken dreams. Irvine was warm beneath him, and moved softly, tenderness in all his gestures as he slowly released Squall�s cock and brought that arm up around Squall�s back, licking his fingers clean over Squall�s shoulder. Squall shivered, feeling a sort of tired and sated lust roll through him. The sound of Irvine�s tongue lapping at his own come was loud in his ear. His eyes closed. No. He never wanted to move. Not if it meant ending this.
His arm tightened at the back of Irvine�s neck, letting go Irvine�s cock to slip that arm around the cowboy�s back, holding him close, face still buried against his shoulder. He felt Irvine stroke through his hair, smiled.
�You okay?� Irvine asked softly, licking the bruise from his teeth in a single broad stroke.
�Mm,� Squall affirmed, not looking up or moving or feeling much pressure to do either. Feeling Irvine�s fingers in his hair, wishing he were cat enough to purr.
�Yeah,� Irvine smiled, the curve of his lips pressed gently to the slope of Squall�s shoulder. �Come on,� he murmured, voice warm and happy, stirring down Squall�s length and moving the knight onto his side.
�Don�t want to,� Squall protested, and Irvine chuckled, stretching down on his back and pulling Squall with him, settling Squall�s head on his shoulder in its accustomed place and tangling their legs together.
�Not going far,� he soothed, voice rumbling low in his chest, still absently petting Squall�s hair. �Is not so bad,� he continued, then shivered. �Wish I�d thought of carpet, though,� he muttered darkly.
�Warm,� Squall sighed, almost in a spirit of contradiction, snuggling his cheek pointedly against Irvine�s skin, arms tightening their hold in a brief hug.
�Suppose it would be, up there,� Irvine said, calmly amused. Squall opened his eyes begrudgingly, wanting to see the smile. It shivered in his breast, and he smiled in return, content. The dark was graying, and he closed his eyes again, smile not fading. It would be dawn, soon.
It was dark, only firelight and candlelight to relieve the night. He�d been blindfolded earlier, before, the voices of his masters echoing in high stone rooms and across wide marble floors. He tugged on one restraint, jangled a leather cuff against one bedpost, striking his ankle on the carved wood. He�d carved that bedpost himself, first project, something to do when he wasn�t tied down. He still ached from before.
She was at the door. It seemed like she�d just left, but time behaved strangely when he was tied to this bed. Dilating when she was here and speeding by with unbearable rapidity when she was gone. He knew her voice like no other, loud in the shadowed doorway, silvery sounds of metal striking stone and she strode into the room closely followed by one of the palace guards.
He stared at the pale boy, long raven-dark hair and apologetic blue eyes, hands shaking on the hilt of a sword and the stock of his machine gun. The guard swallowed. He tried to smile for the guard, barely seeing her, barely feeling her presence in the wash of fear. She�d done this before. It had been a mistake, talking to this man. She�d found out. Of course she�d found out. Didn�t she always? Didn�t it always turn out the same?
She ordered the guard to rape him. He no longer remembered the exact words, just the pain in the guard�s eyes, the fear, the desperate desire to keep from hurting him. The guard�s weapon-roughened hands careful on his skin, lips gentle on the bruises and scrapes from a long night with her. She watched from across the room, eyes fixed and staring and captivating as any snake. He tried not to look. Tried to focus on the guard�s touch, on his fumbling attempts to find the best position with his spread-eagled legs taking up most of the bed�s surface. Tried not to enjoy something he�d wanted for so long and so obviously didn�t deserve.
The guard whispered to him, breathed the words against his skin in kisses, trying to comfort, trying to reassure, blue eyes desperate and sad and all the same hungry as he tasted flesh and salt sweat and precome. He�d wanted this. The guard had wanted this. Just not because of her. Couldn�t matter now, his cock straining up into the wet slick of the guard�s mouth, inexpert lips almost tender, throat flexing against him, hands clutching at his hips. He�d been on edge for hours, and the guard was something he�d wanted for far longer, and he felt it begin with the curling of his toes, the guard�s tongue fluttering against the veined underside of his cock, and he whined, eyes fixed on raven hair, the pleasure almost lost in a wave of longing.
And then he was gone. And she was gone, alarms wailing and the guard pulling away with regret shining pure in his eyes, lips reddened, shining with precome, and then leaving. Turning and running into battle, and he was screaming after them, bellowing words he would never remember, tearing at restraints that broke apart like paper except for the splash of blood and tearing pain. They were gone and someone was attacking, alarms wailing, and he was trapped, fucking trapped, tied to the bed by one wrist, one last cuff that wouldn�t tear and wouldn�t break, his blood flowing scarlet down limbs trembling with weakness and fatigue and a lingering lust. He was still hard. Laguna was gone and the alarms were screaming and even in the present he knew he�d never see him again, knew it with a rage swelling in his breast, long hair clinging to his neck, sticky with sweat, and he was tugging at his trapped wrist like an animal, ready to start chewing.
The soldier that ran in and drove a hypo into his neck was almost incidental. Even before he was drugged and carried away, it was over. It was all over.
It was all over.
Squall woke alone on the floor with a blanket tucked carefully around him and an awareness of low singing in the next room. It was late in the morning, the light bright and gold in great washes across the white ceiling and white cabinets and carved white walls. He blinked. The cabin was a different place in the daylight, brighter, more open. And there was the singing.
He sat up slowly, stretched, deciding that the cool of the tile floor felt almost good as the heat of the day pressed down on him. It would be cooler outside, in reach of the wind off the ocean. He thought it would almost be worth going down to the beach, but climbed to his feet instead, feeling the same unsteady leaching pleasure that staggered him to the sink. His plate hadn�t been washed, he noted, dragging a fresh cloth from the drawer and wetting it beneath the arched faucet. He was glad. It was like evidence that he�d been here, aside from his things still beside the door and Irvine�s come dried on his heat-flushed skin. Dismayingly transitory evidence, but evidence nonetheless.
He finished washing quickly, staring at the blue sky through the window over the sink but not really seeing it, listening for the continuation of Irvine�s song. The sound had lowered to a quiet murmur, almost a whisper of concentration, and Squall could no longer follow the melody over the constant susurration of the waves. He wrung out the rag, pressed it to his face to feel the cool wet water. He felt flushed. Somewhat uncertain as he hadn�t felt waking in the cool dark of the bedroom. The light made things uncertain.
The blanket he wrapped loosely over one shoulder, dragging a length of it behind him across the sandy flagstones into the front gallery. Irvine was painting. He�d expected to find Irvine painting, and stood silently in the doorway, simply watching in profile the older boy�s bemused scowl of concentration behind a slanted easel. Irvine was still singing, so softly now that even standing in the same room Squall couldn�t make out the words; occasionally he pressed his lips together in a thin line, or gnawed restlessly on the lower one as though thinking. His eyes were fixed on the canvas, dark and intent and he stood in a wash of clear light and Squall could only remember that Irvine�s eyes had been that exact color last night in the kitchen. It was almost reassuring.
Irvine suddenly smiled, flicking brush against canvas in an almost careless gesture, so sure of the final strokes, and his clear tenor broke on the chorus of a song that had been popular when Squall�s mother was alive. Squall stiffened, arms tightening in their self-protective hug as he listened to the dimly familiar words, Irvine smiling faintly as he finished �To everything you've left behind, it's even more a part of your life now that you can't touch it ...�
The brush stopped moving, his voice fading on the last words and a look in his eyes like he�d almost forgotten what part of the song came next. Squall fought a chill, dragging the blanket forward into the light-filled room, feeling a definite relief when Irvine caught sight of him, and smiled. Doubt vanished from violet eyes, and Squall let the hope rise in his breast, all of it clearer in daylight, and Irvine stepped back from the canvas as though inviting Squall to share his view.
It was � It was him. He must have made a sound, saw Irvine�s brows lower with worry as he stepped forward to peer at the wet canvas. Irvine had painted him asleep, the details indistinct, almost fuzzy except for the sweep of his lashes and the gentle curve of his lips. And he looked beautiful. In spite of everything he knew to be true, he looked beautiful. Like all of Irvine�s paintings, as though the man couldn�t paint anything else.
�Is this really how you see me?� he whispered, feeling Irvine close at his side, hovering as though he ached to fold Squall into his arms. The cowboy relaxed a fraction, breathed out slowly at words spoken in abstract wonder.
�That�s what I see,� he returned. Squall could hear the smile in his voice. �I know you said you didn�t want to model for me, but I was watching you sleep, and I couldn�t resist. Forgive me?�
�Yes,� Squall whispered, not really responding to the teasing words, still staring at the image of himself. At the fall of the light and the tangled hair and the arms that encircled his waist. �You�re there, too.�
�Of course,� Irvine murmured, stepping forward and easing his arms around Squall to mirror the painting. Squall leaned back into his arms, something very warm and unfamiliar welling within him. He bit his lip, pressing his head back against Irvine�s shoulder.
�You never do self-portraits?� Squall asked, staring at the sun-browned arm in the painting, then down at the sun-browned arm around his own waist.
Irvine stiffened, and Squall shifted to grip Irvine�s forearm, holding him in place. �It�s okay if you don�t want to talk about it,� he whispered, squeezing Irvine�s arm gently in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.
Irvine breathed out a little laugh, pulling Squall against him and resting his chin on Squall�s shoulder; they stayed there for a long moment, staring at the painting together, Squall feeling again that strange fluttering rise in his breast. �This really means something,� he whispered. �This moment.�
�What do you want it to mean?� Irvine asked, his voice low and thrumming in Squall�s ear. Squall shivered.
�I�m not sure yet,� he breathed, tightening his grip on Irvine�s arm until his fingers flushed white and dimpled the corded muscle. He drew a fluttering breath, staring at the painting, his heart almost painful in its panicked beating. �I just � I just know I don�t want to let go.�
Irvine laughed. Pressed his chin to Squall�s shoulder and tightened his own grip. �That�s fine with me,� he said, smile in his voice. �More than fine.�
�Good,� Squall whispered, then again, �Good,� voice louder now, more certain. It was all there, the painting, the song, his mother and Irvine�s arms, and he blinked, and relaxed in Irvine�s grasp. �Don�t want to leave.�
Long-muscled arms locked around his chest, a tension seizing Irvine for a moment. For a long, breathless moment, Squall waited, feeling something in him begin to cringe away from Irvine�s hold.
�You can stay.� Irvine spoke slowly, as if wondering aloud. �You can stay as long as you like.�
The relief was dizzying. Squall had never felt this before, any of it. Like he couldn�t breathe for wanting. He turned restively in Irvine�s arms, felt them settle around his back like they belonged, looked up into violet eyes that were warm and uncertain and softening a little, and afraid.
It helped, to know that Irvine was as afraid, as confused. Irvine cocked his head to the side a bit, questioning. Squall smiled a little, leaned into the easy embrace, twining his arms beneath Irvine�s to curl around the cowboy�s back.
�Irvine, I ��
The words wouldn�t leave his tongue. He shifted in Irvine�s arms, pressed a soft kiss to sun-warm skin and turned back to look at his own sleeping face as though possessed. It was like. It was like he�d never seen himself as anything else, while in Irvine�s arms. He made a low sound, leaned back into Irvine�s tightening embrace. A kiss pressed to his hair, and he looked away from the painting and down until it was just a gleam of dawn on canvas in the corner of his eye. �Irvine, can we go to bed?�
Irvine laughed, a low, warm rumble through his broad chest that Squall felt to his center. �Sure we can,� he said easily, no hint of rejection, and something in Squall relaxed.
Neither of them moved. Squall looked up, squinted at the painting until even the clear lines of his face blurred and ran. �Irvine,� he said, voice very soft. �Can we go to bed now?�
Irvine laughed, louder and brighter, and Squall hugged the arm wrapped around his belly, finding himself squeezed warmly in return. �Of course we can, sweetheart,� Irvine said. Squall could hear him smiling, broad easy grin. �We can go to bed anytime you want.�
Perhaps this was teasing, Squall decided, as Irvine stepped to his left and shifted one long arm to wrap it around Squall�s shoulders to guide him through the bright rooms. A different kind of teasing, as Irvine lead him through the low wide door into the kitchen, Squall�s grip tight on the corner of the blanket, Irvine pacing naked beside him across the cool tiles. A kind of teasing a little bit more like love, and Irvine ushered him into the bedroom, there was no other word for it, arm warm and sure and protective over Squall�s bared skin.
Squall let the sheet drop, slither to the floor, barely seeing the room as if Irvine�s solid presence were all that mattered. A shiver ran through him, sheet puddled around his ankles, and Irvine�s arm tightened, drawing him tucked into a curve of neck and bone. Lips pressed to his hair, and he was rocked gently, his hands creeping up to cling to broad shoulders. He pressed his cheek to Irvine�s skin, breathing him in skin and sweat and a fainter tang of paints and turpentine and salt sea. His tongue flickered out, tasting, taking, and Irvine moaned, nuzzling into sleep-soft hair, arms tightening convulsively. �C�mon,� he murmured, pressing himself against Squall, coaxing him back step by step with skin and rousing cock, and ducking beneath Squall�s hair to laugh a nipping kiss into his ear. His hands slid down the sleekly-arched back, smoothing down curves and tangling in lines of muscle to press the length of one finger flush to the seam of flesh just behind Squall�s hole.
Squall gasped, pressed forward with wide eyes and Irvine�s finger circled the tightening, grasping muscle until he was up on his toes, a little breathless and aware of Irvine�s gently-laughing eyes. His neck arched, head flung back until he tucked it, hiding, into the side of Irvine�s neck beneath the curtaining hair, panting open-mouthed against damp skin. Irvine�s finger was dry, warm, the cup of his palm almost reassuring against the curve of Squall�s buttock, as he shivered and felt Irvine grin into his hair and tightened his arms around Irvine�s back as though that would keep him upright. He could feel Irvine opening him, through persuasion alone, just a light constant circling pressure that was drawing the sensation from his legs and he closed his eyes against the idea, having never considered.
Irvine slid the hand back up his spine, Squall murmuring some needy little sound and Irvine pressing his cock against Squall�s thigh and licking the bite-mark on his neck (possessive if nothing else) and purring, a low rumble deeper in flesh and bone. A real sound. Lust shivered through breastbone and lower, turned his kisses hungry and wanting as he bit at the sun-gold skin, leaving his own mark for the first time, feeling with Irvine�s assenting moan allowed. Needing to feel allowed. Not wanting to let go even as Irvine turned in a waltzing step to pull him down to the bed, letting go only briefly to scrabble for purchase following Irvine up onto the mattress straddling the lean-scissoring thighs and rubbing down Irvine�s erect sex into the flat of his belly, shifting impatiently, remembering stronger feelings and trying to move closer, Irvine�s fingers tightening in the skin of his back almost painfully but he didn�t have time to feel anything but the surging pleasure. They were finally fully on the bed parallel to the sides, not sure why it meant so much except it seemed realer than the kitchen table or floor. Melancholy creeped into his heart and he wasn�t sure why but pulled back to watch Irvine�s face, to watch the delicate-closed eyes and the skin-memory of strong teeth biting into lower lip, flexing his hips to watch the shiver through skin and tendon and the flaring purple eyes.
�What do you want?� Irvine asked, writhing beneath him in a testing, luxurious stretch, smiling up at Squall�s thoughtful frown.
�Anything,� Squall returned, feeling his breath shortened and the desire filtering through all the uncertainty he�d never wanted to feel. �Everything.� And with this man, this beautiful rare man it was true.
�We can manage that,� Irvine said, something like amusement and affection thrumming low in his throat, Squall humming as if in response and ducking down to kiss the dip between collarbones spread out like wings. Irvine arching up in response with a pretty moan and rolling them over onto the center of the bed to look down into Squall�s (startled) eyes, very blue over a soft smile, Irvine grinning in return and thrusting against him. A hand sudden and warm around his cock and his throat closed on the suddenness of it, eyes squeezing shut Irvine�s hand warm and broad and calloused on the thin skin, his own hands trembling on Irvine�s shoulders, nearly incoherent enough to forget Irvine�s need but sliding a hand down to grasp Irvine�s cock at the root, to feel it blood-warm and heavy in his strong-fingered grip, the head wet and leaking against the inside of his wrist and he thrust up against Irvine, into the flexing tunnel of his hand and bit his lip and stroked against Irvine and came.
Difficult to breathe again and Irvine gentling out the last pulses and Squall gasped in a breath and looked up into Irvine�s need-closing eyes and drew Irvine against him in a full-body embrace, wrapping a thigh around his hips and holding him as he came in an almost surprised fluttering of almond-pretty eyes. He drifted for a moment, filled with a languid sort of pleasure, his hand still sliding over the semen-wet slick of Irvine�s softening cock, Irvine relaxing over him, slowly, as though afraid to fall. Digging his heel into Irvine�s thigh and ghosting his hands up to coax Irvine over onto his side. The cowboy landing with their legs still tangled, eyes still closed with the dark lashes trembling against the sun-pale skin, golden and fine-grained in the dappled sunlight. Nothing like his own skin, darkly pale and somehow foreign, nothing that would bake golden and lovely in the sun. His skin remained the same almost-translucence, perhaps in the sun going a darker shade of pale that spoke of underground and untouched and unlovely.
Irvine stirred against him, sliding a lax-muscled arm across his belly, ignoring the sticky drying slick of semen that marked the strain-trembled flesh. �Later,� Irvine murmured. �Later. We�ll go down to the water. Want to see you in the waves,� and an unconscious smile, and Squall watched him until his breathing slowed and steadied and until his arms tightened as though clutching at safety. He curled into the touch, distantly watching the play of light on skin, gaze drifting unfocused to the whitewashed stone walls and the redirected morning light, insinuating himself slowly and more surely into Irvine�s sleep-muzzled embrace. He thinks that he�s only known this man for two days. He feels a sort of unfamiliar something beneath his skin that can only be contentment. He doesn�t think about the palace, or any of the other places he should call home. He just breathes in Irvine�s sun and salt scent, tucks his head into the circle of their arms and searches out the last tang of turpentine not lost to their spilled seed, licks the place he finds it (in an unconsciously claiming gesture) and allows himself to fall back into sleep.
It would have been enough.
He woke some time later, the light indefinably later, closer to midday perhaps and Irvine had not stirred from the tangle of limbs. Squall smiled, stroked the muscled curve of the arm within reach of his trapped limbs, stretching cautiously, knowing that Irvine had slept less the night before in order to paint them in a similar pose. It was unfamiliar, this feeling. Almost a knowledge that he could be happy here. He smiled to himself, secure in their shared cocoon of warmth. He would return to sleep soon enough, he knew, and was content to simply drift through pleasant thoughts of perhaps trying to practice on Irvine some of the things the cowboy had done to him.
Irvine roused in his sleep, snuffling in a deeper breath and rolling on to his back, Squall still firmly clasped in his arms so that he found himself sprawled atop Irvine�s broad chest. Not an unfamiliar position, and he merely resettled his arms, laying his cheek on Irvine�s breast to listen to the strong, steady heart.
In this position the headboard was far more noticeable, and he glanced up after a few moments, remembering the shadowy glimpse his trip through the room had afforded the night before. The daylight revealed � something, some sort of thing he�d never seen before. The carving was intricate, depicting a sort of beast, like a dragon, though slick somehow and twining in the satiny wood. He levered himself up onto his elbows, careful not to disturb Irvine, staring with an almost morbid fascination at the more intricate details of the carving. There was also a man in the painting, though more hint or illusion than solid reality, entwined with the dragon-like creature in something like an embrace, the man�s long hair (waist-length or longer, like water-weeds, like some kind of mermaid only a man) echoing the sinuous motions of the monster. Squall frowned, cocked his head to one side, the image teasing at a memory or an old dream, something in the aquatic nature of the scene distancing it from any tale or dragon lore he�d learned. And a sense of power. There was also, like a shared, like a sense of shared power, as though the man and the beast had become one creature, or as though the man had been subsumed by the creature.
He shivered, foreboding crawling down his spine, and he lay his cheek carefully to Irvine�s breast. The carving was eerie, almost transporting, but it was simply a product of this Artist�s powerful imagination. That was all he sensed. He shivered again, just a single shudder like his hackles settling, and shifted just to feel Irvine�s arms in their clutch directly above his hips. He could almost believe it didn�t matter.
It was what he wanted to believe. The thought remained as he drifted back to sleep, an unconscious reassurance in Irvine�s (surely possessive) grip, a last fading determination to discuss the carving (and the imagined beast) upon waking.
A/N Title taken from Jeff Buckley�s �Dream Brother�. The song that Irvine sings is "The Nurse Who Loved Me" by A Perfect Circle.
Many thanks to Scribblemoose for her work as first-reader and beta.