words flowing

Ghost said, “You lost?”

“Looking for my wash bag.”

“Try your room.”

“Left it in here earlier.”

“Then get it.”

Gaz’s mouth moved like he wanted to smile and thought better of it. He stepped inside and let the door fall shut behind him with a soft click.

Ghost’s shoulders locked.

Gaz noticed. Of course he did. He noticed and stopped where he was, still several feet away, hands open at his sides as if approaching a stray dog with its teeth bared. The comparison should have irritated Ghost more than it did. Instead, something in his chest shifted, low and unpleasantly careful.

“I’m not gonna touch you,” Gaz said. “Not unless you say.”

Ghost looked at him.

Gaz held his gaze in the mirror. There was no pity in it. That was the worst part. Pity would have been easier to punish. Pity had edges he knew how to grab. Gaz only looked at him like this was a problem with a solution, and Ghost had spent too long bleeding quietly in rooms where solutions were for other people.

“Looks like mask rash,” Gaz said after a moment. “Friction, sweat, blocked pores. Maybe some contact irritation.”

“You a dermatologist now?”

“No. Just prettier than you.”

That should have earned him something. A threat, at least. A shove. A rough, humorless bark of laughter.

What came out instead was a low, breathless sound through Ghost’s nose.

Gaz’s mouth did curve then, barely. Not triumphant. Not teasing in the way Soap teased, bright and reckless and begging for retaliation. This was softer. Warmer.

He moved to the sinks two down from Ghost and opened the cupboard beneath it. Ghost watched him crouch, rummage, then stand with a black wash bag in one hand.

It looked too nice for the barracks; smooth leather an expensive in a way Ghost did not associate with military bathrooms or men who had slept in mud with rifles tucked under their chins.

Gaz set it on the counter.

Ghost should have put the mask on.

Instead, he watched Gaz unzip the bag and line things up beside the sink with a kind of quiet competence that made something in Ghost itch. Cleanser. Moisturizer. A small tube of barrier cream. Little round cotton pads in a resealable sleeve. Some bottle with a dropper. Another with plain block lettering.

“You carry a chemist with you?” Ghost asked.

Gaz shrugged. “Skin doesn’t stop being skin because you’re getting shot at.”

“Mine did.”

Gaz glanced up at him.

The fluorescent light did unkind things to everyone, but it seemed to give up around Gaz. It slid over the brown of his skin, the dark sweep of long lashes, the small tired shadows beneath his eyes, and still he looked put together. Not untouched, Ghost knew better than that. Gaz had been through too much to look untouched. But there was something maintained about him. Like he had decided, somewhere along the line, that violence could take plenty, but it wasn’t taking his face if he could help it.

Ghost understood that more than he wanted to.

Gaz picked up the cleanser. “Can I?”

Ghost’s fingers closed around the edge of the sink until his knuckles bleached.

Gaz waited.

There it was again. That waiting. No pushing. No command. No impatient sigh. Price could wait like a sniper in tall grass, but there was always expectation in it, always the shape of an order waiting to be obeyed. Soap could wait for about three seconds before filling the air with himself, with chatter and restless affection, because silence made him feel like he had done something wrong.

Gaz just waited.

Ghost hated how much that helped.

“Don’t fuss,” Ghost muttered.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Liar.”

“Yeah,” Gaz said. “Probably.”

He wet a cloth with warm water, tested it on the inside of his own wrist first, then folded it neatly. He stepped closer, slow enough that Ghost could stop him, close enough that the air changed.

Gaz smelled sweet.

It hit Ghost so unexpectedly that his thoughts tripped over it. Not sweet like cheap body spray or the sugary rot of spilled lager on a pub floor. Sweet like something clean and expensive, something with bergamot in it maybe, or orange blossom, or whatever men like Gaz bought from shops with glass shelves and staff who never had to raise their voices. There was warmth beneath it too, skin and soap and laundry dried properly, not the metallic bite of gun oil or the sour churn of sweat trapped under gear.

Ghost had smelled Gaz before. Of course he had, one didn’t get close enough to someone and not smell them in trucks, in safehouses, shoulder to shoulder behind cover. He knew the smell of him in battle: cordite, dust, adrenaline, blood drying at the cuff. He knew the smell of him exhausted: damp cotton, stale coffee, the sharpness of stress leaking through deodorant.

This was different.

This was Gaz with the day stripped off him and it made Ghost feel like he had walked into a room meant for someone else.

“You alright?” Gaz asked.

Ghost realized he had gone too still.

“Fine.”

Gaz’s eyes flicked over his face, unconvinced but merciful. “Sit down, then. You’re too tall.”

“No.”

“Simon.”

The name landed gently.

That was the trouble with it. Soap threw his name like a stone through a window. Price used it like a hand on the back of his neck. Gaz said it like he had found it somewhere fragile and decided not to close his fist.

Ghost looked at him for one long second.

Then he sat on the closed lid of the toilet like he was making a tactical concession rather than surrendering to a bullshit nineteen step skincare ambush.

Gaz’s expression did not change, but Ghost saw the satisfaction in the small relaxation of his shoulders. Smug bastard.

Gaz came closer.

There wasn’t much space between the toilet and the sink. Barracks bathrooms were built for bodies to pass through, not linger. Gaz had to step between Ghost’s knees to reach him properly, and for a second both of them noticed the intimacy of it at the same time.

Gaz paused.

Ghost could have shifted away but he didn’t and Gaz stepped in as a result. The air thinned.

Ghost’s hands moved before he thought better of it, settling on Gaz’s thighs to brace him, to make sure neither of them stumbled, to give his body something to do with the impossible closeness of another man standing there with care in his hands. Gaz inhaled once, not sharply, not obviously, but Ghost felt it under his palms. Felt the muscle there, the warmth through soft joggers, the human give of him. His fingers dug into the fat of Gaz’s thighs; not hard enough to hurt, but harder than he meant, a grasp that said stay in a language his mouth had never learned.

Gaz looked down at him.

Ghost loosened his grip by a fraction.

“Sorry.”

Gaz shook his head. “You’re fine.”

He said it like he meant more than the hands.

Ghost looked away first.

The first touch of the warm cloth to his jaw made him flinch.

Gaz stopped immediately.

“Too hot?”

“No.”

“Too much?”

Ghost’s throat worked. “No.”

Gaz waited anyway, the cloth hovering just off his skin, and that should not have done anything to Ghost. It was a small thing. A ridiculous thing. A man waiting for permission he already had.

It went through him anyway and made him feel, for one second, that he was human and someone worth waiting for.

After a moment, Ghost tipped his chin up the smallest amount.

Gaz began again. Careful strokes. No scrubbing. No rough practicality. He cleaned Ghost’s face like the skin there mattered, like it was not just the inconvenient surface of a weapon, like the redness and raw patches were not a failure Ghost should have handled alone in silence. The cloth moved over his jaw, his chin, the side of his mouth. Gaz’s fingers were cool where they rested lightly beneath Ghost’s cheek to steady him.

Ghost watched the tendons in Gaz’s wrist flex. Watched the concentration settle between his brows. Watched him bite the inside of his cheek when he leaned in to see the worst of the irritation near the mask line.

“Been using soap on this?” Gaz asked.

Ghost said nothing.

Gaz sighed through his nose. “Simon.”

“It’s soap.”

“It’s hand soap.”

“Hands have skin.”

Gaz gave him a flat looj.

Ghost’s mouth twitched despite himself.

“There he is,” Gaz murmured.

Ghost’s face went still again, but it was too late. Gaz had seen it. That tiny betrayal. That almost-smile dragged up from wherever Ghost buried such things before they became evidence.

Gaz didn’t point it out. He just put the cloth aside and squeezed cleanser into his palm.

“It might sting,” Gaz warned.

“Had worse.”

“I know,” Gaz said. “That doesn’t mean I’m aiming for it.”

Ghost had no answer for that.

The cleanser was cool and slippery at first, then warm under Gaz’s fingertips. He worked it over Ghost’s cheek in small circles, barely any pressure. The pads of his fingers moved with absurd patience along the edge of Ghost’s jaw, down to his chin, up where the mask had rubbed the bridge of his nose raw.

Ghost had to hold himself very still. There was nowhere to put the sensation. Nowhere useful. His body kept wanting to classify it as threat, then failing, then reaching for some other category and finding none prepared.

It was not medical. Medics had brisk hands and efficient sympathy. This was too slow for that.

It was not indulgent. Indulgence required ease, and there was none of that in Ghost. He sat with his knees bracketing Gaz’s legs, his hands still on Gaz’s thighs, breathing shallowly through his nose like one wrong inhale might break something.

It was not romance, not exactly. Romance was candles and beds and words people said because they wanted the shape of them returned. This had no script. No audience. No destination Ghost could identify without panicking. It was only Gaz’s thumb smoothing cleanser near the corner of his mouth while the barracks lived around them, and Ghost letting him.

That was the dangerous part.

Letting him.

Gaz leaned closer to rinse the cloth again, and his hip brushed Ghost’s knee. Barely anything. A mistake of space. Ghost felt it anyway, stored it anyway, stupid animal mind pressing it into memory like contraband.

“Mask’s trapping too much moisture,” Gaz said, voice low because there was no distance for volume. “And if you’re not washing it enough, the bacteria build up won’t help.”

“I wash it.”

Gaz glanced at the skull fabric on the sink.

Ghost followed his look.

“Sometimes,” he amended.

“Right.”

“Got sentimental value.”

“It can have sentimental value and still be nasty.”

Ghost gave him a slow look.

Gaz smiled, small and wicked. “I said what I said.”

The cleanser came off with warm water. Gaz patted him dry with a clean towel he had pulled from God knew where, because apparently his wash bag contained supplies for surviving both war and male negligence. He didn’t rub. Every touch was measured. Held back. Ghost could feel the restraint in him, which somehow made it worse.

Gaz had gentle hands by choice, not by nature. Ghost had seen those hands reload under fire, drag men twice his size over broken ground, clamp down over wounds pulsing red between his fingers. Gaz could be quick. Brutal. Effective.

Here, he chose softness.

Ghost wondered what it cost him.

Gaz uncapped the little dropper bottle. “Niacinamide. Helps with irritation. Don’t make that face.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You look like I’ve offered to baptize you in acid.”

“Have you?”

“No. That’s Friday nights at the pub.”

Ghost huffed again, quieter this time.

Gaz’s eyes warmed in a way that made Ghost look at the cracked tile behind him instead. The bathroom had terrible grout. Someone had drawn a tiny cock on the underside of the sink in permanent marker. There was a hairline crack in the mirror above them splitting Ghost’s reflected shoulder into two uneven pieces. All of it was easier to look at than Gaz being pleased with him.

The serum went on cold. Gaz tapped it over the reddened patches with two fingers, light as rain. Ghost’s grip shifted unconsciously, fingers pressing into Gaz’s thighs again when Gaz tipped his chin with the knuckle of one hand to reach the side of his face.

“Easy,” Gaz said.

Ghost almost laughed at that. Not because it was funny. Because there were so many things Gaz could have meant and none of them were easy.

He loosened his hands.

Gaz did not step back.

Outside, footsteps passed. Someone knocked once on the bathroom door, careless. “Oi, anyone in there?”

Soap.

Ghost’s whole body tightened.

Gaz didn’t move away from him. Didn’t jerk back like they’d been caught doing something shameful. He only turned his head and called, perfectly calm, “Occupied.”

There was a pause.

Then Soap said, “Kyle?”

“Yeah?”

“Ghost murderin’ ye?”

Gaz’s thumb was still resting beneath Ghost’s jaw. Ghost could feel the faint pressure of it. Could feel his own pulse knocking there, traitorous and obvious.

Gaz looked down at him, and there was something in his eyes Ghost did not know how to survive.

“No,” Gaz said, still looking at Ghost. “He’s behaving.”

Soap made a scandalized noise. “That so?”

“Go away, Johnny.”

“Och, fine, keep yer secrets.”

Footsteps retreated.

Ghost let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold.

Gaz’s thumb moved once, barely. Not a stroke. Not comfort. Something smaller than that. A check in Ghost could deny if he needed to.

He didn’t.

“Soap would’ve made a meal of this,” Ghost said after a moment, because the words came safer if they were about someone else.

Gaz reached for the moisturizer. “Probably.”

“Price would’ve dragged me to medical.”

“Definitely.”

“You?”

Gaz squeezed a small amount onto his fingers. “I’m dragging you to hydration and SPF.”

Ghost stared at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Gaz’s mouth softened. “You thought I’d be weird about it.”

Ghost said nothing.

“Thought I’d look at you different.”

The room seemed to shrink around that. Ghost could feel every point of contact between them: Gaz’s shin against the inside of his boot, Gaz’s thighs beneath his palms, Gaz’s fingertips at his cheek, Gaz standing close enough for Ghost to count the darker flecks in his eyes.

“People do,” Ghost said.

Gaz’s expression changed, but not much. A tightening at the corners. A quiet anger with nowhere to go.

“Well,” he said, “people are stupid.”

Ghost should have looked away but he didn’t.

Gaz smoothed moisturizer over his cheek. It had no scent, or almost none, but beneath it was Gaz again, sweet and expensive and warm. Ghost wondered, absurdly, what the bottle on Gaz’s shelf looked like. If he kept it lined beside the others. If he used it after shaving. If someone had bought it for him, or if Gaz had stood in a shop somewhere and chosen it because he liked smelling like something soft in a world that kept asking him to be hard.

Ghost wondered if Gaz knew he smelled like that.

He wondered if anyone had told him.

He wondered why the thought made something dark and possessive move under his ribs, not jealousy exactly, not want in any clean shape, but the sudden unreasonable conviction that this small knowledge should remain his. Gaz in the bathroom light. Gaz with damp curls and steady hands. Gaz smelling like sweetness, touching Ghost’s ruined face like it was allowed to be held.

“Stop thinking so loudly,” Gaz said.

Ghost blinked.

“You get a crease.” Gaz touched two fingers between Ghost’s brows briefly. “There.”

Ghost caught his wrist.

Not hard, not a threat but Gaz went still anyway.

Ghost’s fingers circled the warm narrowness of him. His thumb rested over the pulse point. It beat steady at first, then a little faster. Ghost felt the change like a confession neither of them had made.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The fluorescent light hummed. The vent fan rattled. Somewhere distant, Price’s voice cut low through the corridor, followed by Soap protesting innocence in the tone of a man absolutely guilty of something.

Gaz did not pull away.

Ghost did not let go.

Ghost had no language for this. Not here. Not with Gaz. Not with the kind of wanting that did not sit hot and simple in the gut, but ached behind the sternum like a bruise pressed by careful fingers. He did not want to take from Gaz. He did not even know if want was the right word. He wanted Gaz to keep standing there. He wanted the door locked. He wanted Soap not to come back. He wanted Price not to call them out. He wanted this strange, unbearable gentleness to go on until his body stopped expecting pain at the end of it.

Gaz looked down at Ghost’s hand around his wrist.

Then he turned his palm slightly, just enough that his fingers brushed Ghost’s.

Not holding.

Not not holding.

Ghost released him first because he had to. Because another second and he might have done something honest.

Gaz went back to the little tube of barrier cream as if nothing had happened, though his breathing had changed. Ghost noticed. Of course he noticed. Not because he was looking for weakness. Because it was Gaz, and Ghost had always watched Gaz even when he didn’t realize it. The tilt of his head when he was listening for distant movement. The way he tapped two fingers against his thigh when he was thinking. The particular silence he carried after close calls, all the humor gone out of him but none of the kindness.

Now this, too.

The slight unsteadiness after Ghost touched his wrist.

Ghost tucked it away where no one could get at it, greedy, one of the few private moments that nobody else had and nobody else could demand he tell so they could put it on paper and stamp over it with black boxes.

“This one goes where the mask rubs,” Gaz said, voice almost normal. “Bridge of your nose, cheekbones, jaw. Thin layer. Don’t cake it on like war paint.”

“Shame.”

“You’d find a way to make it terrifying.”

Ghost’s eyes moved over him. “You scared?”

Gaz’s fingers paused at his jaw.

There were a dozen easy answers. A dozen jokes. Gaz had always been good at knowing which kind of truth could pass as humor.

This time he only said, “No.”

Ghost believed him.

The barrier cream was thicker, leaving a faint protective sheen over the worst patches. Gaz applied it with the same careful focus, and Ghost let himself watch. Let himself memorize the slope of Gaz’s lashes, the crease in his lower lip where his teeth had worried it earlier, the clean curve of his throat above his collar. None of it felt like looking at a target. None of it felt like assessment.

It felt like standing too close to a fire after years of sleeping cold.

When Gaz finished, he didn’t step away immediately. His hands lowered, but the space between them remained full.

“You’ll need to wash the mask properly,” Gaz said. “Rotate them if you can. Let your skin dry before putting it back on. Use the cleanser at night. Moisturizer after. Barrier cream before missions.”

Ghost raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Mum.”

Gaz gave him the look again. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“I’ll write it down.”

“Don’t.”

“You’ll forget.”

“I won’t.”

Gaz’s eyes searched his face, and Ghost hated that there was less to hide behind now. No mask, no greasepaint, no skull, only the bare ruin of him under bathroom lights and Gaz looking anyway.

Finally, Gaz nodded. He stepped back, and Ghost’s hands slipped from his thighs.

The absence was immediate.

Embarrassing, that. How quickly his palms felt empty. How the air cooled where Gaz had been standing. How the room became only a bathroom again- tile, sink, mirror, fluorescent hum- and not whatever impossible little country they had occupied between breath and touch.

Gaz began packing the bottles back into his wash bag.

Ghost stood.

He reached for the mask.

Gaz didn’t tell him not to. That might have been the kindest thing. He only watched as Ghost picked it up, fingers resting on the worn black fabric, the skull face turned inward against his palm.

“You don’t have to put it on for me,” Gaz said.

Ghost’s grip tightened.

The words were quiet. Almost careless. The sort of thing that could be shrugged off if Ghost needed to make it nothing.

He looked at Gaz in the mirror. Barefaced, raw, treated in patches with Gaz’s expensive little remedies. He looked tired. Older than he felt in some places and younger in others. The scars did what scars always did: announced history without explaining it. His mouth looked unfamiliar without cloth over it.

Gaz stood behind him, close but not crowding, gaze steady.

Ghost thought of Soap, bright and loyal and too brave with other people’s hurt. Thought of Price, solid as a wall, always trying to keep the roof from coming down. They loved him in the ways they knew how. He knew that. He trusted it most days. But Soap would not stand in silence with moisturizer on his fingers and let Ghost decide what kind of seen he could bear. Price would not smell like orange blossom and clean money and wait for Ghost’s hands to stop shaking before pretending not to notice they had started.

This was Gaz.

This was different.

Ghost set the mask back on the sink.

Gaz’s reflection did not smile, exactly. But something eased in his face, something Ghost felt more than saw.

“Just until I leave,” Ghost said, rough.

Gaz nodded. “Just until then.”

Neither of them moved.

The bathroom door remained shut. The corridor beyond stayed loud and alive and far away. Ghost leaned back against the sink, bare face cooling under the tacky layer of cream, while Gaz finished putting away the bottles he had used like offerings. When he zipped the bag, he did it slowly, as if sudden sound might startle the moment out of existence.

At the door, Gaz paused.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, like it was nothing. Like men like them made rituals easily. Like Ghost had not spent half his life making sure no one could ever expect him anywhere without armor.

Ghost looked at the mask on the sink, then at Gaz.

“Got a whole routine planned, have you?”

Gaz’s mouth curved. “You need one.”

“Bossy.”

“Neglected.”

Ghost should have bristled.

Instead, he looked down, and the almost-smile returned before he could kill it.

Gaz saw it. Again.

This time, he let himself smile back.

It was small. Private. Sweet in a way Ghost had no defense for.

“Tomorrow,” Ghost said.

Gaz opened the door. The corridor noise spilled in, harsh and ordinary. Before he stepped through, he looked back once, not at the mask, not at the red patches, not at the evidence of Ghost’s body failing to remain untouchable beneath fabric and sweat.

At him.

“Night, Simon.”

Ghost’s throat tightened around nothing useful.

“Night, Kyle.”

Gaz left.

The door clicked shut.

Ghost stood in the bathroom alone, barefaced under the humming light, the scent of expensive sweetness still caught in the air where Gaz had been. For a long moment, he did not reach for the mask. He only looked at himself in the mirror and felt, with a slow and terrible confusion, the shape of Gaz’s hands lingering on his skin like care had weight.

Like it could stay.

Your mind, reputed to be quite empty and flowery, has spent the better part of this year thinking about your knight. Your ʿuqabi. He is, of course, not yours, but your heart feels glad to think of him as such.

Father purchased his services before the cold came, and the man has seemed to fill every wine-red arch of the keep since then. He speaks freely with his fellow knights; to your ear, it is a stiff and rigid language, but you enjoy watching his mouth move.

As the middle daughter of a gerad, you are all too acquainted with the notion that your father and your sisters consume most of the oxygen in any given space. As gerad, your father is a rare figure to glimpse, but no less imposing for his absence. His absences have grown longer once your mother passed several years ago, as you became a woman.

The eldest sister, Yodit, is betrothed, her wedding ceremony scheduled in one month's time. The preparatory festivities have allowed you to roam the keep, largely unattended and unnoticed.

Eleni, your younger sister, is kept busy as she is still a child. Although you enjoy her companionship at times, she would spend a whole evening painting pictures with her words instead of letting a room breathe.

Your knight has a strange name, Ser Garricke. Your tongue practices the sounds in the privacy of your bed after nightfall.

He hails from England, and you heard tale that he travelled with his fellow knights through Egypt. The sights he must have seen! The women and girls he must have dazzled! He's terribly grand in stature, a mountain to your pebble, and your body is overcome with shivers when you are in close proximity to him.

He is forbidden to speak to you. That fact is only a spark to the flame in your heart. If his tea-amber eyes should fall upon your person as you walk the halls, he will quickly evade them. It does not remove the sensation that he is still, somehow, watching you.

One of many nights of festivities takes the keep by storm, and you are filled with gratitude that all attendees are focused on Yodit. When permitted to move freely about the room, you slip through the clusters of brightly layered fabrics and scents of honoured guests, wishing to remain unseen.

Your ʿuqabi, your protector, is standing guard under a distant archway, his large hand on the hilt of his blade. You shiver as you approach, but you approach nonetheless.

He is alone and you are alone, and he is still forbidden to speak to you.

"Ser Garricke," you greet. You do not speak to him, and he has never heard you address him as such, your tongue rounding out the sharp shapes in your mouth.

His eyes widen, then flicker down to your slippered feet.

"It is the eve of my sister's ceremony," you state. He would like you to please walk away, you can read it as if the script is sewn into his uniform. He will never say it.

You are your father's daughter and use this as your advantage.

"I do not feel safe walking back to my quarters unescorted. My maids are flush with drink and honouring our guests. Ser Garricke, I ask that you escort me."

He shifts side to side, the discomfort clear as the night's stars tonight. He should not leave his post, but he is at the mercy of the gerad, which extends to the daughters. You hold your breath, watching these conclusions flourish on his beautiful face, and then he is stepping out of his stance.

"Woizero," he says softly, their title for you and your sisters.

Escorting you back through the private halls, emptied now, to your quarters.

"Will you be able to have a drink in honour of Yodit this eve, Ser Garricke?" You ask softly. There is a playful teasing tone to your voice when you ask.

He must be on his own battlefield presently: he is forbidden to speak to you, but is it ruder to ignore a directly addressed question by a gerad's daughter?

"I will not," he finally says, firmly. That he means to put an end to any line of inquiries.

You offer a sweet hmm sound to this. When you reach the door to your quarters, his body pivots away.

"Ser Garricke?"

His body stills.

"With the volume of drink my father has offered his guests this eve, I should suspect that any manner of wayward guests might wander the halls of our keep. Perhaps someone who holds less chivalrous and virtuous intents in his heart? There would be no way of knowing if such a person could have stolen into my quarters without a servant's eyes catching them."

You point at the door sweetly.

His expression is of determination, soured by something in particular, although you know not what it could be. He opens the door, hand on hilt.

"Clear."

"And of my secondary quarters, just there?" Deeper in.

He hesitates, but moves further inward, and this is the first time that you have witnessed his body be held with such uncertainty. It is remarkable to see.

As he proceeds deeper and inspects your secondary room, largely for prayer and wardrobes, you shut the door silently behind you.

He emerges, and notices his exit has been closed immediately.

"Woizero—"

"Ser Garricke, how long have your eyes found me since you arrived? How long have your watchful eyes noticed mine falling upon yours?"

He looks pained, so you offer him relief by going to him quickly, soft-footed. "Please alleviate our mutual suffering. An honourable man of your title would grant such a reprieve to allow us to move on?"

As if he is quoting scripture, he extends the expected response. "Woizero, please. I ask that I take my leave."

"Ser Garricke, you are under my father's roof. In my quarters — where Yodit and my father do not supersede me — I hold authority over you. I do not give you leave."

Desperation in his honeyed eyes. No richer, sweeter wine.

You approach him and he is as rigid as a statue in the courtyard. You ply him with a benevolent smile, and press your hand firmly against the bulge under his layered dress. Your heart is feverent and fast-beating when you touch him; the layers are thick, difficult to make out what you seek to the detail you crave, but it is enough for now.

His expression turns tortured, agonized, under your hand's explorations.

"Woi—"

"You know my name, Ser Garricke. I demand you use it."

You go up on your toes, taking the layers around his chest in hand, and pull him down to your face. He is breathing as heavily as a horse might. He is pretending he did not grow significantly while your hand cupped his length. You bury your face into the exposed slope of his neck to breathe in his smell. He is spiced and warm, smoke and oil for his blade all in one long curling scent.

He is so still.

You turn your face slightly so your mouths are neighbours. "Please, Ser Garricke. Ease us."

You think he will refuse, but then his eyes close, dark and tender, and then his mouth seeks yours. Within moments, the time it takes to inhale, he is exhaling deeply and loudly into your open mouth, and your insides feel as though they are boiling. Encouraged, you draw your hand up and down his length, listening to him heave throatily.

He says your name, and you squeeze him.

Ser Garrick's whole body is wracked in shudders, and he lifts his hands to clasp your shoulders, tighter — almost painful; delicious — than you ever expect him to be. It is as if a bird of prey has landed on the tops of your shoulders, its pincers grasping your flesh.

He stares at you, although his sight seems vacant, as though drawn into another realm altogether.

"Ser Garricke, that was lovely. I grant you leave. Perhaps I shall need an escort tomorrow eve. I expect that it shall be a long night and I will have my share of drink."

He stares as though he has been grievously injured. Nods dumbly, and wanders sloppily outside your doorway. He turns and continues staring until you close your door in his face.

"Goodnight, Ser Garricke," you smile kindly.