For a Song Pt. 03

The question at the tip of my tongue dies down. The actual number can come later when I have this all figured out. She seems good for it at least. If not, I could probably shake it out of Gawain. Blake might be a bit harder, but his pockets look pickable. I'm not worried about payment. I am worried about some other things, but I'm already drowning.

---

Despite the rain, we have a decent crowd gathered in the town hall. I get a stage, not quite to myself. Gerardine lost it a bit when we docked but managed to compose herself more or less before we took stage. I silently offered to take her place, but she just shook her head. Not a good look if the medallions on the backseat while the contractor is out front and center. I don't know why she cries, but that is her effect. And despite my initial assessment, it does lend a certain level of sympathy to the whole affair. As she continues on, the tears slow, never stop and come to a simple trickle that honestly still kind of works. It's an unsettling image. A crash of thunder from outside makes the whole room jump like the end of a good ghost story. The people are here for a show now. I smile. I love putting on a show.

"The Threads have come into a tight knot," she says, "Together, and only together we shall come to a conclusion for this tragedy."

There are no more wracking sobs in her. That's all gone. There is a simple wash of her words over the crowd. Some are mollified a bit, some are a bit angrier, and some don't seem to care. It's just something to do on a rainy day with the docks shut down. I don't blame them. I would probably be doing something else, however.

Gerardine finishes her words and there is a moment of silent prayer to whichever thread seems strongest. I see Treblex on mine, although I don't think she cares. It's not food. Soddal's off in the current doing whatever she is supposed to do. Vermil and Greaycrown, a few others scattered about and doubled up. And then it is gone. We are all alone, sent on our way to solve our own problems however we so choose. I stifle a yawn. I think I have earned a nap, but I have an appointment to keep.

Our merry little band watches the crowd filter out and slip back into the rain. I think that will probably need to stop soon, if our glorious leader can swing it. I don't know if she can. I'll try and get word to her through my lines. The riverbanks can only hold so many deposits.

And despite the general air of sorrow that our leader forges, there is a notable pep in her step, bouncing on her heels completely uncaring for the rain. I keep my shoulders hunched and tight and hoping that it will simply fall off of me. There's a tap on my shoulder. Gawain is there, holding a pitch-black umbrella. The height difference is a bit too much for him to overcome. I take over, our hands accidently glancing against one another for a moment too long. And Blake's there too, probably. He's more concerned with the tight alleys and the imagined threats within. To be fair, there might be a guy with a knife. Or a gal. Knife crime is a rather equitable calling.

We come to the bank and gaze out over the river. The water cuts the town in half. A stretch of rope hangs overhead. On either side are small rafts, attached to the ropes. Smart. I want to ride one, when this is all over, if only for the simple pleasure of crossing the water. Along the banks are the docks and Gerardine seems at home here. With no real announcement, she collapses at the edge of the water, gazing out into the swirling current.

"Now we commune," whispers Gawain.

"Can we do that somewhere else," I whisper back.

"No," says Blake, "this is the site."

"Blake," sobs our collective mistress, "No need to be so curt. Yes, Dumile, this is where we shall wait. I felt the thread pull me here. Feel the rain on your skin. Feel the chill cut to your bone. Cast yourself into the current and let your mind be as a drop of rain."

I do most of what she says. The rain is on my skin and the chill is to my bone, marrow by this point. I do not think I will be throwing myself to the current. I have done that enough. I find a post to drag Gawain onto and let him have my lap. He's less cold so that's nice. The robes he has are nice and thick and soft, like a good blanket. I should get a set for my own usage.

We sit and silence and do nothing other than watch the water. In other contexts, this would honestly be kind of pleasant. A rain picnic seems like a decent idea. A little bit more prep work, a better umbrella, a n actual spread of food and drink, there's something there. But not right now. That's just us waiting for something to happen. I feel nothing pulling me anywhere in particular. I have to stifle a yawn. Blake does not. He's a professional. He is stalwart and strong, refusing to bend under the weight of the water. I do. I do bend and break and silently count the minutes or hours or days we spend just staring at the water with nothing happening. The townspeople at least have the good sense to stay indoors.

---

I have learned several things on our stakeout. One, there is a lot of water that comes down when it rains. I now have most of it in my clothes. Two, Blake can sleep standing up. That's the only explanation as to how he can stay so still for so long. Three, Gerardine has a trick to keep the rain off of her. It does not extend to any of us. And finally, Gawain is surprisingly good at liar's dice. He's cleaned out at least two people and is working on his third. I'm smart. I'm just drinking on his coin.

We left after the first hour under the excuse that we had to see to lodging for the night. Blake didn't respond. Gerardine did, making the water move in some gracious wave that held the sorrow of every goodbye. If anything, I think Blake was a bit jealous. I had no idea going in, but the inn we picked has a wonderful peach brandy. I think I've gone through a full barrel of it just by myself. I will regret it tomorrow, but future Dumile is a bastard that deserves everything that's coming to him. Present Dumile isn't much better, but I am him and he is I and my glass is empty. I don't like that. Past Dumile is also a bastard, because he drank all my brandy. I get more though, adding it to my tab and subtracting it from Gawain's winnings.

He retreats at the wisest point. Everyone still has enough money for a handful of drinks, he has the money for a handful more, and nobody is at the point of throwing fists. They're pissed, of course. A handsome stranger's beautiful companion waltz in, tracking in the rest of the rain, let in the chill, and proceed to sweep them all without a second's thought. Gawain sidles into the seat across from me, carefully putting away all of his shiny, shiny money before someone decides that he cheated. He probably did.

"Blake never lets me gamble," he says, shyly, eyes still darting down to his bulging sack.

"Wise man," I say, "Gambling is a vice unbefitting of a holy man."

"Like drinking?"

"Exactly like drinking. Only the lowest of the low partake of the demon known as al-ghul in the abyssal tongue."

"Can I have a sip?"

"Absolutely."

I slide the glass over and he takes it without a second thought. A moment with a contemplation and my companion takes more than a sip. A gulp, even. His eyes go wide in a wonderfully dark way. Something deep splints and shimmers in the back of his soul.

"That is dangerous," he whispers.

"I agree. I lost count of how many I've had. Probably too many. But I'm still articulate, so I guess that's really not enough."

He giggles and I don't know why. I'm not that funny when I'm drunk. Normally, I'm hilarious. Now, though, there's a bit of an edge to me. I watch the door and there is no one coming. I reach for the glass again, just to calm my nerves and set my mind right. Gawain tries to keep it all for himself, but that is mine. He can have as many as he wants, just so long as they are not mine.

"Where you'd get so good at dice," I ask. I get a shrug in response, but the words are coming.

"Eh, honestly don't know. Just kind of comes to me. There's always just a little nudge in my hands I guess that shows where everything is going to be."

"Is it a thread? Cause if it is, that feels like cheating."

"It's not. I swear to you, it's not. I can't really describe it. I can just feel it. I can feel what people are thinking."

"Oh really, then what am I thinking right now?"

"How much you want to fuck me."

I clap and draw a bit more attention than I wanted to. But I'm impressed. It's a good parlor trick, like the card guessing or the needle swallowing.

"In my defense," he sheepishly murmurs, "It wasn't that hard."

"You're right. It's not that hard. It will be but not now."

He giggles a little more and I like that noise. It's the sound of a firelight crackling, not roaring, not screaming, just soft shifts and settling for a cold night.

"Are you always this loquaciousness?" he murmurs. He has a drink now. I missed that part. The waitress has a nice set of hips that come down to a heart shaped ass. I missed that part as well. I wanted to watch it move some more.

"I would be if I know what that means" I say through another drink, "I assure you, I'm much better sober. And even as deep in as I am, I think I'm better than most."

"Are you? Cause I'm not so sure."

"You're still here. And you're drinking with me, laughing at some of the things I say. That has to mean I'm doing something right."

"Please, you're just a nice change of pace."

"That's still something, right? I think that Blake's a bit of a buzzkill. What's Gerardine's problem?"

"Nothing really. She's nice. We've worked together before, but she's my boss y'know? Hard to break through that and then there's the whole council thing to deal with. They keep tabs on who's with who."

"I'm aware of that rule," I sigh, "Part of the reason I'm freelance."

Gawain sighs with me and takes another drink. He's blushing now, adding a hint of red to the smoky embers he cloaks himself in. The form is hidden, glimpsed only in soft suggestions of candlelight and oil lanterns.

"Gods, I swear, you're as bad as the ones who still cling to Warren," he hums, still playing with his cup. I bristle a bit at that name. It's an odd name. I'm not sure if I like it being brought up.

"Odd bunch.," I whisper.

"Depends. Kind of like all people, really. Bit of good, bit of bad, always kind of fumbling in the dark. Who knows, right? Maybe he'll come back."

"I don't know. I don't have the training you all have. I don't have the finesse with the greater wills."

"Then what do you have?"

"A couple of drinks in me and a desire to test out the beds we're using."

"Good, cause I have the same thing."

---

The talk is always fun. It's a game, pushing and pulling, dancing around the central issue. But it has to have a point. It is a game, not play. Rules and scoring and ceremonies that don't really make sense when the context is removed. It leads to play. Unscripted, unstructured, testing bounds in the best way, backing off when it's too much, diving in when its completely warranted. Gawain is giddy in the moment, his drink gone to his head, taken upstairs by a dark mysterious stranger. I don't blame him. I imagine I would feel the same if my head would stop spinning.

Our room is modest, as is the rest of the whole town. Two beds, two chests and a decent rug in the corner. The rain has not shown any sign of stopping. It spatters against the foggy window in a calming tap dance. I wish we had tea and a blanket and a good book to share. For afterwards. Right now, his hand is in mine, nervous and twitching and trying to find the right thing to do. I can show him. In a moment. The door has to be closed and locked tight. I don't want either of our other companions to come looking for us. They have important business to do. So do we.

Gawain crosses to the bed first and tries to find something else to do. I know the feeling. His stomach has butterflies, there's an odd rush in his head and nothing can quite feel right. So many little things to think about. I've been there in the back of a barn with hay bales and a hazy summer night trying to do its best impasse of day.

"Um Dumile," he says, "I just want you to know that I haven't really done something like this before."

"I figured," I hum. "So, we get to do a bit more talking before we go, ok?"

I toss my jacket aside and come to sit with him. He nods and looks to me with those beautiful gray eyes. They catch whatever light they can find, sending it into star glimmers and comet showers. So much hidden behind the windows. Even now, his hood is still up. I want to take it down, to cross that barrier with tender embrace. But we don't. One last little bit of the words and then we keep going.

"I just want to make sure that you're ok with this being your first go," I say, "You can say no. Only one first time, y'know?

"I mean, it's not my first, first time. But first time going as far as I think we're going to go. Had a... thing, I guess, with an acolyte of Gluhna. He was a hellion too. Not that I think of him a lot, but just, y'know. I know what happens, kind of. Just never done this."

"It's always kind of an odd thing, gauging what counts and what doesn't. It just comes down to what you want it to be, really. There's the obvious course of events, and I think that counts, but that doesn't really have to be all there is. A long enough time spent naked and touching someone else counts, in a way. I can show you what I know and what I think it is and you show me what you know and what you think it is. We have time. Probably. Gerardine seemed to be lost in her own little world."

He giggles again and it is an orchestra tuning its strings. Meandering and turning and stumbling a bit. It lifts and falls and drops and odes so many things.

I take my hands to his cheeks. They are soft. They are warm. He presses in one last time with those mesmerizing eyes. Dark and smoldering and burning down into me. I start with his hood, taking it down and shaking his hair free. He keeps it short, very short, just a soft covering of stubble that tickles my palm as I run my hand to the back of his neck.

He darts forward and there is nothing else that can happen at this point. He is on my lips, and he is warm and smoky and flowing, enveloping me in every corner of my mind. That is the best kind of dangerous, just as dangerous as the brandy and the wine and the dancing rain. It is all saying that there is nothing else than this moment right here. His lips are soft and probing, gentle exploring the same parts that I am doing to him. All in all, this is just a chaste little dance we share.

His hands, his burning hands go to my shoulders and start pushing things out of the way. All the buttons are slowly falling away, all the little shells we have.

"Your skin is beautiful," he whispers, "It's so dark."

"Yours is so soft," I hum.

I push a bit more strength into him and he pushes back with the same force. I move a bit more into him and deepen the kiss. He tastes like smoke and fire and cold nights without cloud in the sky. The rain grows a bit louder, and the room grows a bit darker. His hands are on my chest, playing on my muscles, feeling my form and the way it moves in preparation. He has very good hands.

"I like your chest," he murmurs.

"I like your neck," I hiss. I move away from his lips and the pout they undoubtedly gain as I move towards the object of my newfound affections. He tenses a bit as I pepper it with delicate kisses. He giggles again as I tickle him, feeling the starch of his robes against my chin. Heavy things, rough things, spin with rough cloth and frayed at the edges in order to better hide him away. I start with the rest of him. It seems unfair that I am the only one made to bare something right now.

I mind my horn as I keep moving down his body, taking all that I am away from him. I can feel the whine coming. I should be up there with him, playing with lips and tongues and teeth and hands intertwined. There is so much more to us than just that. I glance up and watch the blush cross his face. Some minor bit of thought and he raises his arms. I do what we are both thinking of, trailing the robes up and up and up. He fails a bit while the robe is over his head and blocking all of him. A hand traces his neck, his pale soft neck, and he shudders. It's amazing what everything I can do with just a touch. Fun little circles on his sternum, on his chest, on his shoulders. All the while he is blinded and restrained and giggling, trapped like a kitten under a blanket. I have my fun and then he is free.

And he is beautiful. He is pale as snow, soft, most of his definition lost to gentle swells and turns and curves. The shirt he has of rough linen is tight, hugging everything he wants and everything he has. And he is all mine. That stupid little undershirt is gone in the same way, not having the same little bit of play in it. We need to be fully bared for one another. I kiss him again, playing with his little tusks, sharp and biting and harsh. The only thing harsh he has on him. They go tight against my lips, my tongue. He pulls away and looks at me and him together, the low light still casting us in deep contrast. My hands go to his cheeks again, pressing into the soft flesh as the deep blue of my fingers still plays against the pale snow in much the same way as the rest of me.

He takes my fingers in his mouth with tender lips, playing the blue against his teeth. I pull a bit and he nips back. There are so many more fun things to do with mouths, but this is fun. This is something that is a prelude to something more.

As the one with more notches on my belt, I take the finger away and he whines again. It traces his body again. He stops when I come to his waist. Just as round and swelling and inviting as the rest of him. I want to dive in with everything I am. It will be cold and harsh and wonderfully soft once the rosy cheeks come and fill me with my own warmth.

His own arousal is evident and wanting. There is more to him than I thought, the fabric tenting and bulging and trying to come free. He goes still, letting me work as I want. I kiss him over the fabric and start wrangling him free.

Gawain's thighs are just as soft and supple as the rest of him, fun to pinch and stroke and fondle. He is twitching and already so eager and dancing over with the touch that doesn't quite hit where he wants. He is on my cheek, bouncing and waving through his small clothes. All so close to where he wants it to be, but it will be. Patience from both of us. I nip his thigh and he yelps just the same. He makes such wonderful noises and I want to hear all of them for me. I bite again and that's a fun whining moan. I kiss and that's a sigh.

One last bit of movement from me and all of him is shown to me. Hard, he is so incredibly hard, flushed red with terrible need. He moans and whines, trying to hide himself away back into the robes, the blankets, the darkness of our rainy afternoon spent together.

He is warm, so incredibly warm as I push against his length. He still smells of smoky hazy fires that shift and waver in the wind. All of him is laid above me, still sitting on his throne of a simple bed frame. He is worried and scared and lost in the endless swirl of what he wants and what he thinks he should want. I don't care. I have what I need.

I kiss his tip and guide his hands to my head. He grips my hair and shivers again once my lips still refuse to break touch from him.

"Have you ever done this before," I murmur through him. He shakes his head and I grin as wide as I can manage. I don't care what other firsts he's had. This is mine and mine alone. I kiss his tip again and he is moving and jerking and trying to find some terrible little contortion that will set him free.