Chapter Twenty-One: In Bliss

The weather turned gloomy and awful within hours of leaving the caravansary’s gates. Distant clouds rumbled warnings; the horses were on edge. It was a far cry from yesterday’s picturesque beauty.

And Osmund? Osmund was in bliss.

He was riding at the front of the column, with Cemil. And they were talking—just talking!—without a care in the world. Well, mostly without a care. Cemil sometimes stopped to stare at the distant tree line or to study the clouds and make important-sounding judgments about whether or not they’d have to contend with rain. Osmund just nodded along attentively. He could have listened to him read aloud from a book on ancient military tactics just to marvel at the sound of his voice.

Forget the long-lost lover, Osmund told himself over and over, with the freshly-determined optimism of an infatuated mind. It’s been years and years. It’s impossible that he’s as great as everyone says!

Even the day’s stresses were like glimpses from a happier life. When Nienos and his buddies occasionally managed to get his attention, they pointed excitedly between him and Cemil and made rude gestures with their fingers. It was dreadfully embarrassing; he prayed no one else would notice. Still, Osmund smiled secretly. Vulgar mercenaries or no, it was uplifting to know that there were people cheering for his success.

Apparently they’d been in the saddle all day by the time Cemil gave the order to stop. (Osmund could have kept riding forever.) There was another old traders’ outpost a couple hours’ ride ahead, but the storm was fast approaching, and the roads would turn to slop if they pressed on. A natural rock formation—something like a towering cave, open to the road on both sides—would be their shelter instead. The tents went up, as well as the posts for the horses, and suddenly they’d made something like a little shantytown here in the middle of the wilds.

Osmund settled in beside Cemil shyly. There was little privacy in this sprawl of half-open tents, which meant they had a near unobstructed view of soldiers and mercenaries going about their business in various states of undress. Although the empire’s communal baths were separated by sex, here on a campaign it seemed no one gave much mind to each others’ naked skin. Osmund still hesitated before he peeled himself out of his damp shirt. Next to Cemil, he felt uniquely exposed.

He lay down against the pelt he’d been given for his bedroll, attempting to calm his racing heart. Cemil was openly watching him, in a very relaxed, unselfconscious way. The Meskato prince had removed his own outermost layers of clothing, but seemed to have no intent to strip himself down further. Which was a pity. “Does the cold bother you?” he asked Osmund.

Osmund shivered in response, though it was more from being looked at. “I’ll manage.”

Cemil had a large fur-lined caftan among his things, which he was using to supplement his bedding. With graciousness befitting an emperor’s son, he offered it to Osmund.

“Oh—b-but, I can’t—!”

“Why don’t we both share it? It’s big enough.”

Oh. This really was happening. Osmund thought of his novels, which sometimes featured a contrivance designed to force the two leads to share one mattress while stopping for the night at a remote manor (or, for those more rugged tales, a single straw pallet in an overcrowded inn). This might be somewhat of a departure from the trope, but he’d take it.

The light was fading fast, and the long-awaited storm started blowing in. Many of the soldiers had already settled in to get some sleep. Others could be heard around the camp entrance, boozing and gambling and whatever other vices they were managing by enchanted candlelight. Osmund could barely see the rock formation that formed the roof of their shelter anymore, although he heard the barrage of raindrops against it. Every sensation felt new and thrilling: the cool night air, the patter of rain in hidden places, the texture of the fur against his naked chest. The presence of Cemil, so close he could reach out and find him if he dared.

And that wasn’t the end of it. Osmund got distracted by one very insistent pattern of noises from elsewhere in the camp, and reddened. He knew that sound, and it wasn’t anything so innocuous as friendly wrestling.

“Are they…?” he muttered in amazement, more to himself.

He heard an amused huff over to his side. “Hard to find privacy when there’s a storm outside.”

“But…w-with everyone around?”

“I didn’t think you’d be so, hm.” Evidently Cemil didn’t know the Tolmish word he wanted, so he said something in his native tongue instead. It didn’t help.

“If you’re calling me a prude, I’m not!” Osmund guessed, continuing to invisibly blush in a distinctly prudish fashion. “I’m just…surprised.”

“It’s dark.”

“But people can hear.”

“I think they’re being considerate,” the Meskato prince said, in a low, private tone that made Osmund shudder at the base of his neck, “keeping their voices down. It must be difficult. Imagine how it would echo in a place like this, if someone were to cry out.”

Osmund’s mind took a moment to imagine it, exactly as he’d been bidden. Was Cemil doing that on purpose? His heart was racing faster than ever. “I-it would be loud,” he agreed, in a very quiet voice. “Everyone would know.”

“Mm.”

That was surely the end of it. He’d just started to get control over his breathing again when he heard, just audible over the rain and the rest of the camp,

“Would you be able to do it?”

Heavens. Osmund’s throat went dry. “I…you mean…”

“If you were in their place,” the other clarified, almost casual, but he wasn’t imagining the new timbre beneath it, something dark and interested. “Do you think you could?”

“Th-that I could…”

“Your voice, your reactions. Could you control them?”

Osmund’s breaths had stilled completely in his chest, his skin alive with sensitivity against every texture it connected with. “No,” he confessed, not even thinking to lie.

“Hmm. You’d be loud?”

“Yes.” This was a sublime torture. “I wouldn’t hold it back. Yes. I’d…I’d be loud.”

“The whole camp would stop what they were doing to listen. Just to hear you.”

Osmund made a tiny sound in his throat. His hips jerked forwards unconsciously. “Cemil,” he cried in desperation.

“I’m right here,” he heard, closer than before.

Before Osmund could twist around to find him in the darkness, Cemil had pressed up behind, so that the weave of the front of his shirt caressed the bared skin of Osmund’s back. Helplessly, the Tolmishman keened. With one hand he reached back for Cemil’s hip, needing to touch him somewhere, anywhere, but Cemil caught his roaming fingers and held them tight. “I want to see you,” Osmund pleaded.

A breathy laugh, so close to his ear that he felt his hair rustle. “In this darkness, how would you see me?”

“I want to touch you,” he babbled on, needing. “Please.”

His whole body felt hot, and ready to be known. Mindlessly he canted back his hips, seeking out some hard physical evidence of Cemil’s interest, but he just didn’t have enough mobility like this, and the frustrated need came out in gasps. How quickly he’d been reduced to such a state.

Osmund felt breath against his neck and shivered all over as Cemil’s lips brushed over his skin, just the barest pressure. “Let me touch you,” he begged again.

“Maybe soon,” came a cryptic promise, Cemil’s voice barely a murmur as he pressed another kiss to the muscle of his shoulder. “Not tonight.”

They were attempting to be quiet. Yet Osmund felt as though the whole outside world had been reduced to their audience. The thought of being heard or observed had him straining against his trousers as Cemil’s hand moved to where he ached most, unlacing him deliberately, relieving the pressure in steps until he was there. The sweet, delirious warmth of his callused palm drew out a broken cry.

“You are loud, aren’t you?” Cemil said in a voice so low it was nearly unrecognizable, leaning in to nip sideways at his thrumming pulse. “If we were at home, every soldier, scholar, and servant in the house would hear me make you sing.”

Osmund was a prisoner to the sensation. If Cemil were to take him right now, he’d forget any hint of shame left in his body. He’d sing the whole camp a song they wouldn’t soon forget. “You did this to me,” he accused in a daze, the words running together.

“So tell me to stop.”

“Stop teasing me.” His grip was slow and feather-light, almost a taunt. “Y-you know, ah…what I want.”

“You’re the one in control,” Cemil told him, retreating, as he coaxed Osmund into taking himself in hand. “Pretend as if I’m asleep beside you, and you’re struggling not to awake me.”

“A-and you?”

Osmund swore he could feel the shape of his smile against his skin. “I’ll pretend I’m being treated to the secret pleasure of overhearing you.”