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As the water cascaded over Clive’s head, leaving faint trails across his fine eyelashes and his hair flat across his skull, there was no small amount of chaos below their window. Raised voices were a to-and-fro. Boxes clattered wherever they may have been hastily dumped. There was Gav’s laughter above it all and Cid scarcely turned his head to the weak morning sunlight, curious.
It spilled over the wooden floor and illuminated the hovering dust. The room had been made neat especially for their arrival though it was difficult to banish spiderwebs that had called the high corners their home for so long. Cid didn’t mind the fussy details. Here the drafts were minimal and the beds generous. Martha had been keen to ensure that a bathtub would be ready for them first thing, with all the warm water they could desire.
That hadn’t mattered. As always, in Clive’s presence the water remained pleasantly hot. Wisps of steam curled to the ceiling and sweat quickly sullied Cid’s brow. It had been all too easy to melt, especially with Clive making himself truly at home against Cid’s chest – the perfect weight between his legs, lax against him – and they had perhaps spent an hour simply basking.
But, as easily as Cid could have lain here forever, there were places to be.
The bathing jug was almost empty. He filled it again and Clive did not stir. A contented smile quirked the corners of his full mouth, his arms resting against Cid’s hand where it cupped just south of his chest. Going by the steady rise and fall he was moments away from falling fast asleep again.
It wouldn’t do. Cid leaned forward just a touch until his lips brushed the subtle grooves upon the shell of his ear. The scent of the rose oil within the water newly carried upon Clive’s skin. “Clive,” he murmured and the calamity of the world below no longer met his ears.
In all things the man was beautiful but in rest he was holy. A honeyed sweetness clung as his expression smoothed, the tension melting away. Though he was young the years seemed unable to plague him when he was settled in Cid’s arms. For all the blessings Cid had been offered, riches and beauty and power amongst them, there was nothing that satisfied him more than Clive’s peace.
Even though Clive did not stir it was no hardship. Cid simply kissed him, across the line of his hair and finally below his ear. He lingered there, inhaling deeply and exhaling slow. “Clive,” he said again, and Clive’s eyelids fluttered.
Very slowly he opened one sulky eye. Black had overridden the deep blue. “Mm,” he mumbled.
Cid let the jug go free. It bobbed down to their feet and Cid stroked Clive’s hair back and out of his eyes, exposing his pale forehead. His brows were mussed and his eyelashes breathtakingly delicate. Droplets remained upon his cheeks and Cid kissed them away.
“Time to rise, I’m afraid,” He broke the news as gently as possible, thumbs stroking across his stomach and temple. His hands were flushed pink with the heat and softened by the oil. “We’re expected.”
A long rumbling groan left Clive’s body. A shiver seemed to roll from his toes to his shoulders and as he adjusted Cid clung on, drawing his arms tighter. His knees rose to cage Clive in but the man had no interest in escaping – he shifted to lay on one side, the water tickling his chin. His cheek lay flat against Cid’s chest.
“Can’t we stay put,” he complained. The pitch of his voice wasn’t quite a whine though it was close. “You’re comfortable.”
Spending a lifetime as Clive’s pillow would be paramount to godhood, in Cid’s eyes. Letting him take up a generous section of their bed was the closest Cid could offer him. “And I’m glad to hear it, lad, truly. But the day is getting on. Someone will come looking, in time.”
Clive’s eyes drifted back shut. “Let them look.”
As if they haven’t already had an eyeful, Cid thought, but simply cradled Clive’s jaw in one hand. His thumb rest over the longest point of his scar, the thickness prominent against his callouses. Such a sacred face. A godly thing.
“Changed your mind about our agreement, have you,” Cid asked and quirked his head with a fond smile. “Don’t want to be my husband after all, then?”
That caught his attention. Cid knew it would, a blunt prod in such a sensitive spot. Both eyes flared open, and his look was reproachful in a way that only made Cid laugh.
“Of course I do,” Clive said firmly and splayed his hand across Cid’s chest, half across his own scar. The flesh was still pink and puckered. It would be for some time. “Call for our witnesses and I’ll marry you here.”
“Afraid we might be asked to leave. Lovely as you are, I don’t think Martha would take kindly to our debauchery after all she’s done for us.”
A long sigh came as if Clive had grown weary of other people’s lack of flexibility. He pet aimlessly across Cid’s chest, stroking over unmarred and numbed flesh indiscriminately. Often Cid found himself self-conscious over the patches in his body hair and the discolouration in his skin but Clive’s resolute affection was quick to chase his doubts away.
He said nothing beyond his sigh. Perhaps he hoped that Cid would forget the day ahead entirely and remain with him here, bare skin comforting. But the din could not be dissuaded, and Cid had not spent weeks wound tight with anticipation for his skin to shrivel in a bath.
Fetching Clive’s hand from the water Cid kissed over each knuckle. He whispered softly into the palm, nicked with tiny pale scars. Even his nails were neat and clean. “Let me marry you. I’ve dreamt of nothing else. I want to be your husband out there, in the sunlight.”
Around them the water seemed to become that bit warmer. Clive wore a flush that no doubt he would blame on the temperature, but Cid knew better. “Charmer,” Clive muttered but finally he sat up, water falling around his waist. He braced his hands upon the sides of the wooden tub and nipped at Cid’s jaw, stubborn. “Only because Cidolfus Rosfield sounds right upon the tongue.”
It was a difficult task to laugh through his tightening chest and throat. His heart did a worrisome thing, fluttering so freely within his chest. Strangling and breathtaking in all the best ways. “And here Otto had painstakingly prepared the papers for Cidolfus and Clive Telamon.”
A fleeting expression told Cid that Clive’s own heart reacted the same. Wonder parted Clive’s lips. “I suppose that works, too,” he said weakly, and rose on unsteady legs.
Water thundered back into the bath. Clive stood gleaming and soaked through, the dark hair upon his belly and legs left clinging to his skin. Cid basked for as long as he was able. Heavy thighs and limbs that seemed to never end and Clive hooked his fingers beneath Cid’s chin, thumb against his mouth.
“Hurry, then,” he said with a gentle pinch. “Time to make me yours.”
Suave as Cid hoped he might have been, he knew he scrambled to obey. Clive stepped with noble grace out of the bath, skin pink and tantalisingly soft. Cid’s feet slipped and by the time he rightened himself on solid ground a towel was pressed against his chest. “Here,” Clive said but made short work of Cid personally, rubbing over his shoulders and chest. From there he tousled across his short hair, freshly cut.
Without thought Cid took hold of his waist. He bowed his head for ease before being left blinking in the morning light, stroking his thumbs over the delectable crease of skin between Clive’s torso and hip. He refused to let go even as Clive attempted to dry his thighs and calves, dazed by the scent of roses.
“Get dressed,” Clive told him once done and turned the towel upon himself, but Cid was faster.
Bunching his hands in the fabric, he said, “Let me.” He teetered forward for a chaste kiss, knowing how time moved too quickly and their impulses could so rarely be denied. The world would only wait for them for so long.
Sinking to his knees he began at Clive’s feet, steadily venturing north. He spared a kiss against each knee and upon his thighs, reaching up to dry his stomach. Scar tissue met flesh and Cid gave it boundless affection, the kind of worship that the gods themselves could not comprehend.
Clive’s warm hand settled upon the nape of his neck. “Cidolfus,” he sighed and toyed with the short hairs he found. His nails ghosted upon his skin and left a shiver rolling along his spine. “My husband.”
Cid’s smile curled against his stomach. “Soon,” he promised, and worked his way up until he wrapped the towel around Clive’s head, careful to avoid his eyes. Clive held his gaze and Cid nosed against his cheek, wiping away the lingering water.
Their clothes were lain out across their unmade bed. Silks of red and black and soft linen breeches, lavish embellishments added by hand. Charon had sought the finest materials shortly after the announcement was made and Hortense worked tirelessly to make them perfect, pulling the two aside at all hours and no matter their workload to take their measurements. Tucked away within their shirts was a sown symbol that they had created together, the very same adorned upon Clive’s cloak. Blackthorn had forged their rings, drawing up simple sketches before they could ask. Martha had offered them a room to prepare, her land for a modest ceremony.
Breathtaking as Clive might have been beneath Clive’s hands, daydreams of his lover wrapped in silk had taken him by the throat. Their joined hands consumed him, and the world had come together for them.
With his hair wet and mussed Clive seemed countless years younger. A twice broken nose and a full mouth, thick brows and a neatly trimmed beard – a lordling, beautiful and bold, smiling, and Cid’s entirely.
There was no resisting a kiss. Cid leaned down and Clive parted for him without hesitation. Salt clung to his tongue – a quick breakfast consisting of bread and salt-preserved meat, a side of soup to share. But he was sweet still, sugary in his affection, lower lip caught between Cid’s. They wound closer, sharing in the bliss of skinship.
“Let me,” he said again, breathless once they parted.
In time Clive’s silk was cool between his hands. It slipped between his fingers, cascading like water. Clive bowed his head and Cid guided it over, settling the tunic upon his shoulders, letting it fall against his stomach. The more stubborn droplets of water turned the scarlet fabric darker.
There were loose ties that barely could keep the tunic closed. More for ornamental purposes, Cid supposed, and wound them together with dexterous fingers. It left a generous section of Clive’s chest bare – how they both liked it, the curve of his chest tan and collarbones stark.
Clive watched him work in the quiet. His hands amused themselves upon Cid’s chest, palms against the curve of his pectorals. “Cid,” he said quietly.
“Mm,” Cid barely hummed, focused – and Clive kissed him again, knocking their noses together.
Long had Cid been a servant of his most base impulses. Nothing would pull him free of this – not logic, the pain of consequence, Ramuh’s guiding hand. Clive’s pleasure was king. Cid kissed him firmly, hands knotted in that silk. Hortense would scold him terribly but the world beyond their embrace could have been a thousand miles away, leagues beneath the sea.
They might have stood there forever, tracing ceaseless patterns against their skin – and only insistent knocks at their door could pull them apart.
X
The papers said Cidolfus Rosfield, after all.
It seemed once the cheers began, they were never to stop. Jubilation surrounded them wherever they might have looked – but they only had eyes for one another.
Berries piled upon Cid’s plate passed between Clive’s lips, pressed insistently into his mouth. His rough tongue swept across the pads of Cid’s fingers. He fed him steadily despite the hollowing of his own stomach. Wine would sustain him as surely as Clive’s affection, the drag of his molars against his fingers.
Drink after drink was placed before them. No groom paid for his own drinks, Otto had decided, and Molly had wiped Cid’s once spiralling tab as a wedding gift. That’s Cid Telamon’s burden, she said, eyes gleaming. You’re Cid Rosfield, ain’t you?
Drunk was easy. Drunk was happy, intoxicated on sound and sight and taste. Only Clive’s eyes remained sharp. But it was his smile that drew Cid’s eye, wider and brighter than he had ever seen it. His hand settled upon Cid’s wrist, thumb stroking against the inner curve where the flesh was softest. Such boundless patience as Gav jostled him and Jill laughed, the sound carrying like bells over the din.
The hour grew late. The hideaway’s children were long abed even when permitted to stay up an extra hour that bled into two. Still the burning lights left the waters of the lake gleaming, the noise spilling out far into the deadlands. Every single one of them would be ruined come dawn, their heads pulsing with pain and the bodies overburdened. Yet the drink flowed, and the chatter never ceased and the music rang out endlessly.
All for Cid. All for Clive, and his mouth was so sweet.
“I love you,” he murmured against his lips. His hand framed the nape of Cid’s neck, thumb against his bobbing throat. So warm against the cool chain and the ring that hung over his heart. “I love you,” and the promise of tomorrow’s headaches meant nothing at all in the face of such elation.