Chapter Text
The wind howled through the gaps in the eaves, a low, mournful sound that seemed to vibrate in the hollow of Eragon’s chest. It was late—past the hour of the wolf, Garrow would have said—but sleep was a distant country he couldn't find the road to.
Beside him, Roran was a solid, radiating weight. The bed they shared in the loft was barely wide enough for two grown men, forcing them into a tangled intimacy that had been necessary for survival since the first snow fell three weeks ago. Tonight, the air was sharp enough to freeze breath in the throat, and the only warmth in the world existed under the scratchy wool blanket pulled up to their chins.
Eragon stared up at the darkness of the rafters, trying to control his breathing.
Roran shifted. The old wooden frame of the bed groaned in protest. Roran’s shoulder pressed harder against Eragon’s, and a heavy, sleep-rough leg hooked casually over Eragon’s shin. It was an innocent movement—the seeking of heat in a freezing room—but it sent a jolt of lightning straight down Eragon’s spine.
"Stop wiggling," Roran mumbled, his voice a low rumble that Eragon felt more than heard. His breath ghosted hot against Eragon’s ear.
"I'm not," Eragon whispered back, his voice tight. "It's the cold. I can't stop shivering."
It was a lie. He wasn't shivering from the cold. He was burning up.
Roran sighed, a heavy exhale of exhaustion. He had spent the day chopping wood until his hands were raw and blistered, trying to stockpile enough to keep Garrow’s hearth fed. Without a word, Roran moved. He rolled onto his side, turning his back to the drafty wall and facing Eragon. In the pitch black, Eragon couldn't see his face, but he could smell him—woodsmoke, pine resin, and the salt of dried sweat. It was the scent of home, and it made Eragon’s stomach twist in a way that felt dangerously like hunger.
"Come here," Roran grunted.
He threw a heavy arm over Eragon’s chest, effectively pinning him, and hauled him closer. There was no space left between them now. Eragon was pressed flush against Roran’s chest, their legs tangled together under the quilt.
"Better?" Roran asked, his chin coming to rest on the top of Eragon’s head.
Eragon swallowed hard. "Yeah. Better."
He lay rigid, every muscle tense. This was dangerous. It had been building for months, this strange, terrifying tension that lived in the silence between them. It was in the way Roran looked at him across the dinner table, in the way Eragon found himself watching the flex of Roran’s back muscles when he washed at the pump. They were cousins. Brothers in all but blood.
And yet, lying here, enveloped in Roran’s heat, Eragon didn't feel like a brother. He felt like a bowstring drawn too tight, ready to snap.
Roran’s hand, heavy and calloused, moved slowly up Eragon’s arm, rubbing friction into the cold skin through his thin tunic. It was a soothing gesture, rhythmic and slow. Up to the shoulder. Down to the elbow. Up to the shoulder.
Then, the hand stopped. Roran’s fingers curled slightly, tightening on Eragon’s shoulder.
"You're awake," Roran said softly. It wasn't a question.
"So are you," Eragon countered, his heart hammering against his ribs. He knew Roran could feel it. There was no way he couldn't.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and thick. The wind rattled the barn door downstairs, but up here, the world had shrunk to the space of a mattress.
"Eragon," Roran said. His voice had changed. The sleepiness was gone, replaced by a rougher edge. "Turn towards me."
Eragon hesitated. He knew, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that if he turned, there would be no going back. The line they had been dancing around all winter was right there, etched in the frost on the floorboards.
Slowly, trembling, Eragon turned.
The movement was small, a shifting of hips and shoulders on the lumpy mattress, but it felt like the loudest thing that had ever happened in the hayloft. He was facing Roran now. In the gloom, Roran was little more than a silhouette, a dense shape of darker shadow against the grey wood of the wall, but Eragon could feel the heat radiating off him like a forge.
"Good," Roran whispered. His voice was rough, a scrape of stone on stone.
Eragon’s breath hitched. He was shaking, and he couldn’t blame the frost anymore. His hands were tucked up against his own chest, a pathetic barrier between them. "Roran, I—"
"Shh."
Roran didn't wait for excuses. His hand, the one that had been resting on Eragon’s shoulder, slid up. Calloused fingers, rough from the axe handle and the plow, grazed the sensitive skin of Eragon’s neck. The touch was electric. It made Eragon’s toes curl into the wool blanket. Roran’s thumb pressed against the frantic pulse beating in Eragon’s throat.
"Heart’s racing like a trapped rabbit," Roran murmured. He didn't sound angry. He sounded hungry. "You think I haven't noticed? Every night for a week, you press back against me until you're hard as a rock."
Eragon choked on a gasp of humiliation. "I didn't—I was asleep, I didn't mean to—"
"Liar."
Roran moved then, closing the scant inches between them. He pressed his forehead against Eragon’s, their noses bumping. Roran’s leg, heavy and muscular, hooked over Eragon’s hip again, pinning him to the mattress. The friction of their bodies, separated only by thin sleeping tunics, was maddening.
"I don't mind," Roran breathed, his lips brushing against Eragon’s with every word. "I just got tired of you pretending you didn't want it."
Roran kissed him.
It wasn't a sweet, storybook kiss. It was a claiming. Roran’s mouth was hot and demanding, tasting of stale air and desperation. Eragon froze for a heartbeat, his mind screaming cousin, brother, forbidden, but his body betrayed him instantly. He opened his mouth, a soft noise of surrender escaping his throat, and Roran deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping inside with a possessive arrogance that made Eragon’s head spin.
Eragon’s hands unclenched from his chest and found purchase on Roran’s shoulders, gripping the thick wool of his tunic. He pulled Roran closer, if that were even possible.
"Quiet," Roran warned, breaking the kiss but keeping their faces close. His hand slid down from Eragon’s neck, tracing the line of his collarbone, then lower, over the thumping of his heart, down to his stomach. "Garrow is right downstairs. You know how light he sleeps."
The mention of his father—Roran’s father, his uncle—sent a spike of icy fear through Eragon, but it twisted instantly into lust. The danger made the blood rush louder in his ears.
"Roran, please," Eragon whimpered, not even sure what he was pleading for.
"Please what?" Roran growled. His hand moved lower, finding the hem of Eragon’s tunic. "Please stop? Or please touch?"
Roran didn't wait for an answer. His hand slid under the fabric, skin on skin at last. His palm was rough, hot, and shockingly large against Eragon’s flat stomach. Eragon arched his back instinctively, his hips bucking forward.
"That's what I thought," Roran muttered.
He pushed the tunic up, his hand closing firmly around Eragon. Eragon bit his lip so hard he tasted iron to keep from screaming. The sensation was overwhelming—the callouses on Roran’s palm scraping against him, the firm, rhythmic pressure, the sheer wrongness of it that felt so right.
"Relax," Roran commanded, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper near Eragon’s ear. "Let me do it. I know how you like it. I've heard you... when you think I'm asleep."
Eragon burned with shame, his face flaming hot in the cold dark, but he couldn't deny it. He couldn't deny anything Roran wanted. He buried his face in the crook of Roran’s neck, breathing in the scent of him, and let his legs fall open.
"That's it," Roran soothed, his rhythm steady, unyielding. "Just like that. Be quiet for me, Eragon. Be a good boy and take it."
The sound of his own breathing was too loud. It rasped in Eragon’s ears, harsh and shallow, drowning out the wind outside.
Roran’s hand was relentless. The rhythm was a punishing, wonderful thing that dragged whimpers from Eragon’s throat that he had to bite back until his jaw ached. But it wasn't just the hand. It was the weight.
Roran had shifted, pressing fully over him now. The heavy wool of their tunics had ridden up, bunching around their waists, leaving hips exposed to the biting air—and to each other. Roran’s thighs, thick with muscle from years of mountain climbing and farm work, slotted between Eragon’s, forcing them wide.
"Roran," Eragon gasped, his head thrown back against the musty straw pillow. "Roran, I can’t—it’s too much."
"You can," Roran grunted against his neck.
Roran’s hips snapped forward.
It was a clumsy, desperate collision. There was no finesse, no practiced grace of the lovers in the songs Brom sometimes sang. There was only the grind of bone against bone, the friction of hair and skin, and the searing heat of Roran’s cock pressing hard against Eragon’s thigh.
Eragon shuddered, a full-body convulsion that rattled the bed frame. The sensation of Roran humping against him—against the sensitive, wet skin of his inner thigh—sent sparks exploding behind his eyelids. It was raw. It was animalistic. It was terrified him.
We are damned, a voice in Eragon’s head screamed, sounding suspiciously like the village elders. This is wrong. This is twisted.
But then Roran bit down on the sensitive cord of muscle where Eragon’s neck met his shoulder—not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to bruise—and the voice was silenced by a wave of pure, white-hot pleasure. Eragon’s hands scrabbled at Roran’s back, fingers digging into the muscle, desperate to pull him closer, to push him away, to freeze this moment forever.
"Feel that?" Roran panted, his sweat-slicked forehead resting against Eragon’s temple. He ground down again, a slow, rolling motion that made Eragon’s hips buck up to meet him instinctively. "You belong to me. Not the farm. Not Garrow. Me."
"Yes," Eragon sobbed, the word broken. "Yes."
The release, when it came, was terrifying in its intensity. It hit Eragon like a blow from a hammer, shattering his control. He arched off the mattress, his mouth opening in a silent scream, his vision going white. He felt Roran shudder against him seconds later, a low groan vibrating through his chest as he spent himself against Eragon’s leg and the damp sheets.
Then, stillness.
The silence rushed back in, colder and heavier than before.
Eragon collapsed back onto the mattress, his chest heaving. The sweat on his skin turned instantly icy in the drafty loft. The reality of the room crashed down on him. The smell of sex was sharp and undeniable in the small space.
What have we done?
Panic clawed at his throat. He looked at the trapdoor leading downstairs. Had Garrow heard? Was he climbing the ladder right now, face twisted in disgust?
Eragon scrambled backward, pulling his knees to his chest, his eyes wide and wet. "Roran... Garrow. If he heard... if he knows..."
Roran didn't move away. He sat up slowly, adjusting his tunic with maddening calm, though his hands shook slightly—the only sign that he was affected at all. He reached out, grabbing Eragon’s ankle to stop his retreat.
"He didn't hear," Roran said firmly.
"You don't know that!" Eragon hissed, tears pricking his eyes. The shame was a physical weight now, sitting heavy in his gut. "We're... we're cousins, Roran. We're brothers. This is sickness."
Roran’s expression hardened. In the moonlight filtering through the cracks, his eyes were dark pools. He pulled Eragon back down, ignoring his weak resistance, until they were lying side by side again under the blankets.
"Is it?" Roran asked quietly. He didn't offer comfort, exactly. He offered logic. He offered a shield. "We are two men freezing in a barn, trying to survive. The world doesn't care about us, Eragon. The King doesn't care. The village doesn't care. Only we care."
He pulled the blanket up over Eragon’s shaking shoulders, tucking it in tight, trapping their shared heat. He wiped a tear from Eragon’s cheek with a rough thumb.
"Don't think," Roran commanded, his voice softening just a fraction. "Sleep. Nothing changes. I'm still Roran. You're still Eragon. We just... know better now."
Eragon squeezed his eyes shut, trying to believe him. He could still feel the phantom pressure of Roran’s weight on top of him. He knew, with a sinking dread, that Roran was wrong. Everything had changed.
Garrow woke to the sound of the wind, or so he thought.
He was a light sleeper. A lifetime of fearing raiders, wolves, and winter blizzards had tuned his ears to the frequencies of danger. He lay in his bed downstairs, staring up at the darkened ceiling, listening.
Thump.
A rhythmic creaking. It was coming from the loft.
He frowned, throwing off his quilt. It was likely a loose shutter banging against the siding, or perhaps a rat scurrying across the floorboards. The boys needed their sleep if they were to haul the rest of the timber tomorrow. If Eragon was thrashing in a nightmare again, or if Roran was restless, Garrow would need to settle them.
He moved silently through the main room, his bare feet making no sound on the packed earth floor. The cold was biting, seeping into his joints. He reached the ladder that led to the hayloft and placed a hand on the rough wood.
Above him, a sound drifted down through the trapdoor, which had been left cracked open a few inches for airflow.
It wasn't a shutter. It was a moan. A wet, desperate sound that didn't belong to a nightmare.
Garrow froze. His hand tightened on the ladder rung. He knew that sound. He had made that sound himself, a lifetime ago, with Marian.
Slowly, carefully, he climbed. He stopped two rungs from the top. His eyes were level with the floor of the loft. Through the gap in the trapdoor, he had a clear, direct line of sight to the narrow bed pushed against the far wall.
The moonlight filtered in through the gaps in the roof, painting the scene in stark, pale illumination.
Garrow stopped breathing.
The blanket had been kicked down to their ankles. Eragon was on his back, his head thrown back against the straw pillow, his mouth open in a silent plea. Roran was on top of him.
Garrow blinked, his mind rejecting the image for a split second. They were fighting? wrestling? No.
Roran’s tunic was bunched at his waist. Eragon’s was the same. Their hips were locked together, moving in a harsh, grinding rhythm that made the old bed frame scream.
Garrow couldn't look away. He saw the gleam of sweat on Roran’s back. He saw the way Eragon’s pale thighs were spread wide, his knees hooked over Roran’s hips to pull him deeper. But it was the center of the movement that held Garrow’s gaze, a sight that turned his stomach and burned his blood all at once.
He saw them clearly—their lengths pressed together, slick with fluids, rubbing furiously against one another with every snap of Roran’s hips. There was no space between them. They were mashed together, red and swollen, sliding skin against skin in a friction that looked painful and desperate.
"Roran," Eragon whimpered, the name a broken prayer.
"You can," Roran growled, his voice unrecognizable to his own father.
Garrow watched as Roran bit down on Eragon’s shoulder. He watched as Eragon’s hands clawed at Roran’s back. It was a mating. There was no other word for it. It was primal and wrong, a violation of blood and kinship, yet the intensity of it was undeniable.
Then, Eragon arched violently. Garrow saw the spasm that wracked the boy's small frame, saw the white spurts of release jetting out between their pressed bodies, coating Eragon’s stomach and Roran’s own flesh.
A second later, Roran followed. He groaned, a low, guttural sound of surrender, and shuddered as he spent himself, his seed mixing with Eragon’s in a mess of fluids on the darkened skin.
Garrow felt bile rise in his throat. He should shout. He should tear them apart, drag Roran off the bed, and beat the sin out of both of them. He was a man of the law, a man of tradition.
But he didn't move.
He watched Roran collapse onto Eragon. He watched the heavy, intimate silence settle over them. He saw the way Roran’s hand came up to stroke Eragon’s hair, a gesture so tender it was more damning than the sex itself.
They are broken, Garrow thought, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The winter has broken them.
He slowly, agonizingly, lowered his foot to the rung below. Then the next. He descended into the darkness of the lower floor, leaving the trapdoor exactly as he had found it. He walked back to his bed and sat on the edge, shivering in the cold, the image of his son and his nephew—their tangled limbs, their spilling seed—burned forever onto the back of his eyelids.
He lay down, but he did not sleep.
The next day
The sun rose pale and weak, offering no heat, only light enough to reveal the frost clinging to the windowpanes. Garrow was already at the table when he heard the ladder creak.
He didn't look up from his porridge. He kept his eyes fixed on the wooden spoon, his hand steady despite the lack of sleep that made his head feel full of wool.
Roran came down first. He looked... normal. That was the first thing that struck Garrow, and it was almost an insult. Roran wore his usual tunic, his hair messy from sleep, his boots heavy on the floorboards. But as he moved to the hearth to stoke the dying embers, Garrow saw it. A faint, purpling mark on the side of his neck, just above the collar.
I saw him put that there, Garrow thought, the memory flashing unbidden. He saw the gleam of saliva, the open mouth, the animal hunger.
"Morning, Pa," Roran mumbled, his voice rougher than usual.
"Morning," Garrow replied. The word tasted like ash.
Eragon descended a moment later. He was different. Where Roran was solid, Eragon was skittish. He wouldn't meet Garrow’s eyes. He moved with a slight stiffness, a subtle hitch in his step that anyone else might have blamed on the cold. But Garrow knew better. He knew exactly why Eragon was walking carefully.
Sore, Garrow’s mind supplied traitorously. From the friction. From the force of it.
"Eat," Garrow commanded, pushing a bowl toward Eragon. "We have the south fence to mend before the snow comes in again."
The meal passed in a silence that felt heavy enough to break the table. Usually, there was chatter—plans for the day, complaints about the weather. Today, there was only the scrape of spoons.
Garrow watched them. He couldn't stop himself.
He watched as Roran reached for the pitcher of water. His hand brushed against Eragon’s arm—a casual, accidental touch. Eragon flinched, just barely, his breath hitching. Roran didn't pull away. He let his knuckles linger against Eragon’s forearm for a second too long, a silent communication of heat and presence.
They are brazen, Garrow thought, gripping his spoon until his knuckles turned white. Even now, right in front of me.
Later, out in the biting wind, the image Garrow carried in his mind superimposed itself over reality.
They were hauling a fallen pine log near the tree line. It was heavy work, requiring them to work in tandem.
"Lift on three," Roran grunted, bending his knees.
Eragon moved to the other end. As he bent down, his tunic rode up slightly in the back. Garrow, standing a few paces away with the sledgehammer, felt a flash of heat in his gut that was equal parts revulsion and a strange, dark fascination.
He remembered the sight of those pale thighs spread wide in the moonlight. He remembered the wet slap of skin, the way their hips had locked together.
"One, two, three!"
They heaved the log up. Eragon stumbled slightly on a patch of ice. Instantly, Roran was there. He dropped his end of the log and grabbed Eragon by the waist to steady him.
It was a protective gesture, something a brother would do. But Garrow saw the way Roran’s large hands splayed over Eragon’s hips. He saw the way Roran pulled Eragon back against his chest—firmly, possessively. For a heartbeat, they were in the exact same position they had been in the night before.
Roran passionately rubbing against Eragon. The memory assaulted Garrow. He could see it clearly: the red, swollen heads of their cocks sliding together, the fluids dripping, the way Roran had groaned into Eragon’s hair.
"Careful," Roran said, his voice low. He didn't let go immediately. He held Eragon there, pressed against him, staring at the back of his cousin's head with a look of such intense, terrifying adoration that Garrow had to look away.
"Get back to work!" Garrow barked, the words tearing out of his throat harsher than he intended.
The boys jumped apart. Eragon looked at him with wide, fearful eyes, like a startled deer. Roran just looked at him, his expression unreadable, his jaw set in a line of defiance.
"Sorry, Uncle," Eragon murmured, bending back to the log.
Garrow turned his back on them, lifting the sledgehammer. He swung it down onto a fence post with a violence that shook his bones. He needed to tire himself out. He needed to work until he was too exhausted to think, too exhausted to remember the sight of his son spilling his seed onto his nephew’s stomach.
But as the hammer struck the wood, all he could hear was the echo of the bed frame creaking in the loft.
Evening
The stew had been thick, heavy with root vegetables and the last of the salted venison. It sat warm in Garrow’s stomach, conspiring with the heat of the hearth to make his eyelids heavy.
He sat in his high-backed chair, a worn volume of history open on his lap. The words swam before his eyes, refusing to form sentences. He wasn't reading. He was listening to the sounds of the struggle on the bear-skin rug a few feet away.
"Yield!" Roran laughed, the sound low and breathless.
"Never!" Eragon grunted back.
Garrow looked over the rim of the book.
They were tangled together on the floor, a mess of limbs and firelight. It was a scene that had played out a thousand times in this house. Roran, larger and stronger, had Eragon in a headlock, his forearm pressed against Eragon’s throat. Eragon was thrashing, his legs kicking out, trying to hook Roran’s ankle and unbalance him.
It should have been innocent. It was innocent, to the untrained eye. Just two young bucks testing their strength, burning off the last of the day's energy.
But Garrow’s eye was no longer untrained.
Roran shifted his weight, straddling Eragon’s waist to pin him down. The movement was sharp, aggressive—and agonizingly familiar.
Garrow’s breath hitched. In the flickering orange light, the playful violence looked like a rehearsal.
He saw the way Roran’s thighs clamped tight around Eragon’s ribs. He saw Eragon arch his back, straining against the hold, his face flushed red from exertion and the heat of the fire. His tunic had ridden up, exposing a strip of pale skin at his waist.
Just like last night, the voice in Garrow’s head whispered.
Roran leaned down, his weight pressing Eragon into the fur rug. "Give up, little brother. You can't win."
"Get off!" Eragon wheezed, but there was no real anger in it. He bucked his hips upward, trying to dislodge Roran.
The motion caused their groins to collide.
It was quick, clumsy, buried beneath the tussle. But Garrow saw it. He saw the way Roran froze for a split second, his eyes widening. He saw the way Eragon’s struggle faltered, his hands gripping Roran’s forearms not to push him away, but to hold him there.
The image from the loft overlaid reality with terrifying clarity. Garrow didn't see fully clothed cousins wrestling. He saw the memory of their naked bodies, sweat-slicked and moon-pale. He remembered the harsh, grinding rhythm of their hips. He remembered how rough they had been—teeth on skin, bruises forming, the animalistic desperation of their coupling.
They wrestled like they mated: with force. With a need to conquer and be conquered.
Roran shifted again, grinding down to maintain his pin. The fabric of his trousers pulled tight across his thighs.
Garrow shifted in his chair. The book slid precariously on his knees. To his horror, he felt a heaviness in his own groin, a tightening of blood that had no business being there.
He was appalled. He was a father. He was their guardian. And yet, the sheer, raw masculinity of the display—the sweat, the strength, the undeniable sexual undercurrent that vibrated between them—woke something dormant in him. It was the voyeuristic thrill of the night before, echoing in the safety of the firelight.
He watched Roran pin Eragon’s wrists to the floor above his head. Eragon went limp, panting hard, his chest heaving against Roran’s chest. They stared at each other, faces inches apart. The wrestling had stopped, but neither moved. The air between them crackled.
Garrow gripped the arms of his chair, his fingers digging into the wood. He felt hot. Too hot. The stirring in his trousers became a distinct, shameful pressure.
Stop, he commanded himself. Look away.
But he couldn't. He watched Roran’s gaze drop to Eragon’s mouth. He watched Eragon’s lips part. They were right there, on the edge of the precipice, right in front of him.
"Enough!" Garrow slammed the book shut. The sound cracked like a whip in the small room.
The boys flinched, scrambling apart as if burned. Roran rolled off, standing up and brushing off his knees, refusing to look at his father. Eragon sat up, hair disheveled, face burning a deep crimson that matched the embers.
"Bed," Garrow ordered, his voice thick and unsteady. He didn't stand up. He couldn't. "Both of you. Now."
The house settled into the groaning silence of winter. Downstairs, the fire had burned down to glowing coals, casting long, dancing shadows across the floor.
Garrow stood at the foot of the ladder. His hand gripped the wood, his knuckles white.
He should go to bed. He should blow out the tallow candle, crawl under his own quilt, and pray for a dreamless sleep. That was what a father would do. That was what a decent man would do.
But the memory of the wrestling match—the heavy, undeniable friction of their bodies against the rug—was a hook in his gut, pulling him upward.
Just to check, he lied to himself. Just to make sure they are sleeping.
He climbed. He moved with the stealth of a hunter stalking a deer, placing his feet on the outer edges of the rungs where the wood was less likely to creak. At the top, he stopped, his eyes level with the floorboards, peering through the gap in the trapdoor.
They were not in bed yet.
Roran was standing by the small window, stripping off his tunic. The moonlight washed over his back, highlighting the ridge of his spine and the thick cords of muscle in his shoulders. He tossed the shirt onto the pile of straw.
Eragon sat on the edge of the bed, shivering as he pulled his boots off.
"He was angry," Eragon whispered, his voice barely carrying over the wind outside.
Roran turned, his chest bare and pale. "He's tired. The winter is hard on him."
"It felt like..." Eragon hesitated, pulling his own tunic over his head, leaving him in just his breeches. "It felt like he knew."
Garrow’s heart slammed against his ribs. He held his breath, terrified that the sound of his own pulse would give him away.
"He doesn't know," Roran said firmly. He walked over to the bed, the straw rustling under his weight. "He thinks we're just boys fighting. Stop worrying."
They blew out the lantern. The loft plunged into semi-darkness, lit only by the slivers of moonlight. Garrow watched as they climbed into the narrow bed. They situated themselves with practiced ease—Eragon against the wall, Roran on the outside. They pulled the heavy wool blanket up to their chins.
"Night," Roran mumbled.
"Night," Eragon replied softly.
Silence followed.
Garrow stood there on the ladder, his legs cramping, a wave of profound shame washing over him. They were just sleeping. They were his boys, cold and tired from a day of labor, and he was spying on them like a pervert in the shadows. He felt a bitter taste in his mouth. He was looking for sin where there was none, projecting his own twisted fascination onto them.
Leave, he told himself. Go downstairs and repent.
He began to lower his foot to the next rung.
Rustle.
The sound was small, but sharp. Garrow froze.
He looked back through the gap.
The stillness of the bed had broken. Roran had shifted. He wasn't lying on his back anymore; he had rolled onto his side, facing the wall—facing Eragon.
Garrow squinted into the gloom. He saw the blanket shift. A hand—Roran’s hand—emerged from beneath the wool to rest on Eragon’s waist. It didn't stay there. It slid lower, over the curve of Eragon’s hip, pulling him backward until Eragon’s back was flush against Roran’s chest.
"I thought you were tired," Eragon’s voice drifted out, breathless and hushed.
"I am," Roran whispered, his voice dropping an octave, becoming that low, hungry growl Garrow remembered. "Too tired to stop myself."
Garrow watched as Roran’s leg hooked over Eragon’s. He saw Eragon’s head tip back against Roran’s shoulder, offering his neck. There was a rhythmic shifting under the blanket now, a slow, deliberate friction as Roran began to grind his hips forward against Eragon’s backside.
The reaction in Garrow was instantaneous.
The shame didn't vanish, but it was swallowed by a surge of heat that rushed straight to his groin. The stirring he had felt by the fire returned with a vengeance, his trousers suddenly feeling tight and restrictive. He should look away. He should be disgusted.
But he didn't move. He stood frozen on the ladder, his hand tightening on the wood until a splinter dug into his palm, his breath coming short and shallow as he watched the rhythm in the bed pick up speed.