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“Try it.”
Tarhos glared across the table to Vittorio, sitting arms folded and statuesque, in no way hiding his disdain for the situation he was in. Nor was he hiding his disdain for Vittorio, who was the one to put him in this situation.
An unexpected storm had rolled over their procession and prompted them to flee to the nearest inn, which had been happy to accommodate them and their coin. Though the rest of the men busied themselves with merriment, Tarhos preferred the quiet solitude of the upstairs room. Vittorio claimed the same, despite the fact that the room had not been quiet at all since he showed up. He brought with him an assortment of wines, all named equally as pretentiously as the last, and the lord Toscano was incessant in imparting them.
His latest sat in a goblet on the table before Tarhos, nearly black, with hints of evening purples disturbed by the light of the dim lanterns and modest fireplace.
“And what is special about this one?” Tarhos had a headache, but it wasn’t the copious amounts of alcohol he had already imbibed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d managed to drink enough to get drunk, and was beginning to think it impossible.
“Oh, age, the quality of the grape, there’s all sorts of specialized processes involved. The French are all quite proud of the whole thing, I couldn’t pass through without seeing what it was all about.” Vittorio had a flush to his cheeks betraying that he had been ‘seeing what it was all about’ for at least a few cups, and it made his smile even more annoying.
Knowing that the only way out was through, Tarhos sighed and reached for the goblet.
“Don’t just gulp it down like a dog, for God’s sake, you’ve got to smell it. Take in the different aromas.”
The dark, flat line of Tarhos’s brows did not move, but he did take a moment to hold the cup beneath his nose, his lips parted lightly, Vittorio watching. When the lord did not protest, Tarhos took a sip. And another, until the goblet was empty, and the knight wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
“How does it taste?” said Vittorio.
Tarhos considered for a moment.
“Like grape juice.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Vittorio nearly fumbled from his chair with laughter. Tarhos nearly imperceptibly raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, Tarhos,” Vittorio said, leaning in and wiping a tear from his eye. “Tarhos, Tarhos. This is why I enjoy your company. You’re so…”
“Simple?” Tarhos sneered.
“Honest,” Vittorio said kindly. “And if I can be honest with you? I agree. I can never taste the damned differences between them but everyone of a certain class claims they can, like they’ve developed senses only available to the rich. But it is just grape juice, isn’t it?” He finished off his own offering. “At least it all tends to work the same for me.”
“Shouldn’t a lord pace himself?” said Tarhos, letting a hint of wryness slip in.
“No more than the storm has,” said Vittorio, pointing upwards as a peal of thunder rolled along. “Might as well take the warmth where we can get it.”
Though Vittorio nattered on, Tarhos’s gaze drifted back into the shadows, dusted and mostly empty.
“Are you thinking of them?”
That snapped Tarhos’s attention back to him.
“Your Compagnia.”
Tarhos nodded, then froze as Vittorio tapped his arm. “I promise we will free them once we’ve found what we are looking for.”
I will free them, Tarhos snapped in his head, but he found himself incapable of saying anything out loud. Vittorio’s eyes shone by lamplight, and the kindness on his face even seemed genuine, which almost made Tarhos angrier. The lord didn’t even know how aggravating he was in his pity.
Vittorio stood, pacing slowly to the fireplace and back, walking around the edge of the table so he and Tarhos were on the same side. He sat on the edge, which put his head barely above Tarhos’s, and when he looked down it was with no condescension.
“Would you like me to leave?” he said. “I can join the others downstairs.”
Tarhos, against his better judgment, shook his head just once. Because he was honest, and that meant he knew he did not want to be left with just the shadows and the stench of wine. In truth, he found Vittorio’s statement about his honesty… touching, almost. It was a seldom-appreciated trait among men like him, and whenever Tarhos found himself being contrarian, Vittorio encouraged it. Tarhos almost preferred the men who hired him simply for blood, muscle, and ruthlessness — they did not care for him beyond his use, which meant he never had to feel this way.
“What about another cup? Perhaps a wine with more floral undertones, or a richer body…”
“You infuriate me, Toscano.”
“At last, we’ve found common ground,” Vittorio chuckled. Tarhos made the mistake of smirking. “It’s a lovely look on you, you know.”
His eyes struck Vittorio with as much electricity as the lightning far above them, full of danger and… and something else.
“Forgive me,” Vittorio mumbled, moving to unseat himself from the table, but Tarhos grabbed him firmly by the arm. Firmly, but not unkindly. The two looked at each other, appraising the flush in each other’s skin and how much of it was alcohol, how much was anger, how much was heat. But Tarhos drew Vittorio towards him as he slid his chair back, making room.
Vittorio found himself seated in Tarhos’s lap, like he had spilled into it so easily, that lightest tug guiding him into position, and for once he found himself wordless. Tarhos kept to his silence, but he inhaled without prompting, not out to smell wine but Vittorio’s fine clothes, the perfumes that poorly masked the journey’s sweat. Vittorio risked raising one hand, and tracked it through Tarhos’s mane of deep auburn hair. He let him.
“Should a lord not pace himself?” Vittorio said just above a whisper.
“I think he has done enough,” said Tarhos, his huge hands drawing Vittorio into him.
The lord gasped as he felt his knight’s lips on his collarbone, roughly tasting his skin, undecided if they wanted to travel up his soft throat or delve beneath his neckline. When Tarhos chose his throat, Vittorio graduated to a moan, his fingers continuing to twist through the other’s hair.
“Sir Kovacs,” Vittorio breathed, and Tarhos shut him up with a kiss, a rough and sweaty kiss that the lord leaned into entirely. Neither needed to state what they both felt — that their lips on each other tasted far better than any of the drinks of the inn.
Tarhos leaned back further in his chair, giving Vittorio more room to nestle into his lap, more room to — yes, the lord’s hips were beginning to get away from him, lightly grinding up against him. They had both discarded their armor in favour of loose trousers, which made it all the easier for Tarhos to feel Vittorio’s cock. He suspected the lord felt him, likewise. This handsome, soft-spoken, soft-hearted man and his witticisms — how had he done this to him?
He pushed down his thoughts in favour of grabbing for Vittorio’s bulge, and the lord moaned just a little too loudly against his lips, with a shudder of breath that made Tarhos growl pleasantly.
“Oh Tarhos,” Vittorio groaned, jacking his hips into the knight’s hand. A wet spot had already formed in the fabric. Tarhos slipped his hand beneath the waistband and fully grabbed hold of the other’s cock. He smirked again to the lord’s relieved cry, feeling his pre slick his palm.
“You are desperate, my lord. It’s almost unbecoming,” Tarhos chuckled.
“Almost?”
They kissed again, Tarhos’s tongue breaching Vittorio’s lips, delving deep into his mouth. At this, he made pleased noises — like he was finally truly enjoying what he tasted. He lazily stroked Vittorio’s cock, thumbing the head, indulging in the weight of his hips rolling against his own.
“May I touch you?” Vittorio gasped against Tarhos’s ear.
“Yes,” Tarhos said, momentarily angry with himself in how eager he sounded.
Vittorio’s hand took no time in plunging between Tarhos’s legs, pulling his straining cock out to meet his. He took a moment to appraise it, seemingly starry-eyed over its length and girth, his tongue flicking out over his lips.
“God, look at you,” said Vittorio. “Absolutely beautiful.”
Tarhos growled and drew him in against him once more, nipping at Vittorio’s swollen lips, wrapping one enormous hand around both of their cocks. Vittorio’s head lolled against Tarhos’s shoulder at the sensation, hips threatening to jerk out of tune.
“I can feel every throb, Toscano,” Tarhos hissed. Slicked with pre, he ground their cocks together so slowly, overloading his lord with sensation. Vittorio regained his senses long enough to kiss at Tarhos’s jaw, then his lips again, his fingers desperate to cling onto something.
“Please, my god, my darling,” Vittorio whimpered.
The tremble in his voice did something to Tarhos, something that made him stand, effortlessly carrying Vittorio in his arms the short distance back to the table, where he laid him down on his back and covered him with his weight. Vittorio’s breath shuddered and Tarhos’s rumbled out in a growl that matched the thunder, before their lips were again locked against each other, with Tarhos’s hand wrapped around their cocks. Vittorio wrapped his legs around his knight’s waist, smothered in hair and sweat and muscle, thrusting as well as he could up into the firm callused hand that kept him trapped in such a state.
“Tarhos, I—”
The thrusts picked up, as did the glide of his hand. Vittorio choked on his own cry and Tarhos snarled against his lips. Feeling the lord’s cock shudder and spill was too much, it tore his own orgasm from him, overfilling his hand with copious amounts of semen.
“Fuck,” Tarhos grunted. “Fuck…”
He nuzzled into Vittorio’s throat, feeling his pulse with his lips, tasting sweet sweat. They were locked there, Tarhos atop Vittorio, neither willing to move just yet, despite the creak of the table below them.
At last, the feeling of cum seeping into his fingers grew annoying and Tarhos stood back, looking for a cloth to help. For a moment or several, of course, he stood watching Vittorio regain himself, still beautifully flushed, shirt ridden up over his tight abdomen. Tarhos, with his unsullied hand, stroked his cheek, and then he strode off to find that damned cloth, hoping to wick off the heat in his own face and heart.
“Would you like to come to bed?” Vittorio said sleepily, as Tarhos finally found an adequate scrap of fabric with which to dispose of the evidence.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” said Tarhos dryly. “But I would hardly fit.”
Yes, the modest bed provided was clearly not designed for a behemoth like him. Vittorio was not to be defeated, though — after a bout of suspicious noises, Tarhos looked over to find the lord had neatly piled what blankets and pillows he could on the floor, and was well on his way to nestling into them.
A lord that would sleep on the floor with the rats.
Tarhos, on principle, should have denied him. Would have denied him. But not tonight, not with the feel of him still so raw on his skin. He lay heavily beside him, in the dim warmth of the fire and the moth-bitten blankets, shielding him tightly with himself. Silly, foolish lord Toscano, so handsome and loving and proud. May he never understand a world, the world where Tarhos lived, where wine tasted like grape juice, and blood tasted like wine.