I Go Nuts Time

A lifetime ago, Adder and Janosh had made camp in the sun-bleached grasslands of the Great Alföld. They rode together wild and free, bound by and loyal to nothing but their own desires. They had spent those most wonderful weeks hunting, fishing, robbing- making each other laugh until they pissed themselves. Speaking their own kind of language. At night they would eat, get drunk, fuck- be their most honest and unabashed selves, holding each other until the sun rose gently on their faces. It was a time when they had been young and unburdened, and their love had taken up like wildfire in Adder’s body. Hot and all-consuming, burning him down and building him up. Turning him into someone utterly new, and yet, more like himself.

One morning he was pulled to the space between dreams and reality by a feather-light stroke on his head. A broad hand smoothed and pet so tenderly he could hardly tell it was there until it retreated, and a second later a finger returned to brush down his temple, to his cheek. He kept his eyes closed, resting in the moment, face slack as he came to a gentle wakefulness. The touch trailed down his jawline, across his chin, up the other side again. He basked peacefully in the affection bestowed upon him, relishing how Janosh traced the shape of his nose, the line of his brow.

On that perfect, lazy moment, there had been no great need to get up and go- no itch under skin spurring him out of bed and into the day. There was only the radiant peace of being quietly cherished. Contentment. True, warm contentment. It was easy to lie there and do nothing at all, not even think. All his awareness was drawn into wherever their skin met, and he drank deeply of the love gifted to him until he felt so full inside it ached. The sweet pain of a starving heart finally satisfied, gorging itself on all the adoration it could take, till it swelled to big and burst. That’s what it felt like. Like his heart might really burst right out of his chest, and crawl into Janosh’s instead. Maybe it already had.

The wandering fingertip tickled the little hairs above his lip, drawing a smile out of Adder he could not suppress, though he hated to give away he was awake at all. It felt like losing a game. He could hear Janosh’s smile, and then softly, there was a touch to his bottom lip. Adder struck, snapping his teeth to bite down on a too-slow finger, and Janosh broke into laughter. He opened his eyes to bask in that, too- the way the light filtered golden through the tent, and how the strands of his silk-brown hair had been made wild in his sleep. Most of all, his smile. His sweet cheeks looked their most appetizing when he laughed. And suddenly, all his wanting pooled molten in his mouth.

I love you.

Janosh pulled his finger free from his teeth. “You must be hungry,” he said, and the morning roughness of his voice made Adder’s head go hot and stupid.

“Yeah,” because he was just a much of a greedy bastard then as he is now, and there is no such thing as too full. “For something sweet.”

“Ooh, for apples and berries?” Janosh’s eyes had lit up, and his happiness was as good as Adder’s own. Better, even. “Or maybe a pancake with honey, mmm.”

“I’m not talking about food,” Adder had said, reaching out to take a fistful of Janosh’s nightshirt. “Come here,” He demanded even though their knees were overlapped and their ankles intertwined. It was not close enough.

Janosh’s smile went soft and he put his hand on Adder’s hip, slid it up his back to draw him in, chest-to-chest. Then, Janosh kissed him. Blood burned in his cheeks, his ears, his chest; rushed hot through every part of him. Fire in his soul. Immolation from head to toe.

He had always thought the moments that made a man were the battles. The killing, the coin, and the number of bastards left behind when you went six feet under. But he realized then, in that moment, that this, too- the love- could be what made him. To be by Janosh’s side would be enough.

On a dark night in the Ruthard courtyard, a splinter of cold steel slides easily free of all Adder’s bloody guts. He can do nothing but gape dumbly at the dagger as his knees give way. He collapses to the stone and folds in on himself, clutching at the warm, wet, growing spot on his gambeson.

Arrows split the air. The mercenaries rush forward. Henry, God bless him, pulls Janosh away. All of it runs together, then: the screams, the clatter of shields and swords and armor. One great big blur of violence that crashes around him, washes over him. His blood pools, red and glassy in the moonlight. The edge of it rushes away from him, flooding the grout of the flagstone, splitting and flowing like a dozen little rivers.

I’m going to die, he thinks. He’s thought it before, plenty of times- but this time he knows it’s true. There will be no more perfect mornings, no more stolen kisses or naughty afternoons; no more tomorrows. Dazed, he looks up from the spreading crimson and finds Janosh in the fray. Swinging his fokos in a downwards arc, every bit as ferocious and beautiful now as he had been all those years ago.