by A. J. Demas
Dami pushed back, straightening his arms. Varazda made a pitiful sound like a dog denied a treat. There was a gleam in Dami’s eye, and he wasn’t sure what it meant. The blue gown slipped down again, caressing his oversensitive skin.
“Dami, please—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” said Dami, his voice warm and rough. “I know you can, darling.”
“Can what?”
“Wait.”
“Unh?” Varazda whimpered. He pressed himself back against the wall as if Dami were still holding him there.
“If it doesn’t feel good … ” Dami’s breath was soft on Varazda’s throat.
“Of course it doesn’t feel good,” Varazda wailed, writhing against the wall, not reaching for Dami. “You bastard. I’m in agony.”
He could play this game. What was more, he loved it. He bit his lip, tensing with the effort of trying to keep himself on that precipice, but he knew he could do it, and he could make it look good.
Dami had stepped away to raid Varazda’s dressing table for a bottle of oil. He paused for a moment with the bottle in his hand, unopened, looking at Varazda with an appreciative smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He looked intent, almost dangerous. Varazda stretched an arm over his head, arching his back against the wall.
And Dami was back, flipping Varazda like a doll so that he faced the wall, lifting the blue gown again, and slipping an oil-slick palm between Varazda’s thighs. He moved against Varazda now with a controlled power, strong but gentle, supporting him from behind and caressing him in front. Varazda rolled his head back onto Dami’s shoulder. And it wasn’t truly happening, but Varazda felt as if his body was being entered, taking Dami in. It felt perfect.
He pressed his palms against the wall and fought the urge to reach down and grip Dami’s hand—to still it, or speed it up, or take it away—he wasn’t sure which he wanted, except somehow to feel in control. And at the same time, that was exactly what he did not want.
He managed to hang on, safe and surrendered to Dami’s embrace, to Dami’s whole body, for longer than he had thought possible. It probably wasn’t very long. His climax was slow and spectacular, like a peal of thunder that went on and on. The aftermath, with Dami still between his legs, made him giddy with delight. He hadn’t a hope now of continuing his game. He reached up with one hand to slide his fingers into Dami’s hair, and gripped Dami’s ass with the other. Dami made a startled noise, and a moment later his passion spent itself in a hot burst between Varazda’s thighs.
They held each other against the wall for a moment, panting. Then Dami, pushing himself back slightly, looked down at Varazda’s dress, as the fabric fell down between them again, and said in alarm, “Did I just ruin your dance costume?”
“Um … no? Was planning to wear something different. This was just to practice in.”
Dami was looking into his eyes now with a different kind of concern. “You need to lie down,” he said with decision. “Here.”
“I need to lie down,” Varazda admitted as he let himself be peeled off the wall and led the few steps to his bed.
He stretched out on his back and felt a little as if he was floating. It wasn’t so much that he was physically tired as that the game he’d just played with Dami had taken something out of him, bared something, and he needed to float there for a minute and reassemble himself.
Dami lay down beside him, on his side, propped on his elbow. He laid his other hand on Varazda’s stomach, in that way that he had of making the gesture itself a question, a seeking of permission. Varazda laced his fingers with Dami’s, keeping him there.
“You did really well,” said Dami, after they had lain like that for a little while.
Varazda opened his eyes. “Mm?”
“Well … you tried something new. It’s not easy.”
“Every time with you is something new.”
“Good. That’s how I want it to be.”
“What do you mean by that?” Varazda thought he knew.
“I mean … I don’t ever want you to feel like you’re back in, well, in the past.”
Varazda frowned slightly. He was still floating, anchored by Dami’s hand on his belly, and frowning did not come very naturally. “That’s not what I thought you meant.”
“No?”
“You said, ‘I like a lot of things.’”
“Yeah. It’s true.”
“I think,” said Varazda slowly, “I think—but I’m not sure—when you say that, you might mean one thing, and I keep hearing another.”
“Oh?” Dami wrinkled his brow.
Varazda drew a breath. “What it sounds like to me is, you’re adventurous. You like variety. Novelty.”
“No,” said Dami quickly. “What I meant was, I’m easy to please.”
“Right.”
“You don’t sound convinced. I can see how it might have sounded like something else to you. I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that.”
Varazda made an impatient noise. “You shouldn’t have to watch your words like that with me.”
Dami sat up now, and his hand left Varazda’s stomach. The floating sensation went with it.
“You do with me,” Dami said. “Terza’s head. You’re a master of it. I came off the ship walking with a cane, and you never once said anything about it. You never even looked like you were thinking of saying anything about it.”
“I wasn’t. It doesn’t need an explanation, and I know you’re self-conscious about your injury. Of course I wasn’t going to say anything about it.”
“Right. And I know you tie yourself into knots over whether you like sex enough, or too much, or, I don’t know, both? I know that, and I should remember it when we talk about this stuff.”
“It’s not the same. Your injury is something that was done to you, but I … ” He stopped.
Dami was looking at him with wide eyes, as if he might be a moment away from saying, “Are you listening to yourself?”
He was listening to himself, and he’d realized what he had been about to say. I’m just like this. This is my nature.
I’m nobody’s victim.
“I don’t like thinking of myself that way,” he forced out finally.
“No,” said Dami, “of course not. Me neither.”
And that was what finally broke through the ice of Varazda’s pride. How could he hold himself to a standard to which he refused to hold Dami? It didn’t matter that Dami’s cataclysm was five years in the past, his own more than twenty years. What had been taken from him was a damn sight more than what Dami had lost.
“But I suppose … ”
“I think sometimes you have to,” Dami finished for him. “Or you’re too hard on yourself. We—I mean—both of us.” He lay down next to Varazda again.
“You’re better at that than I am,” said Varazda.
“Better at feeling sorry for myself. Yes, I really am.” He smiled wryly.
“I didn’t mean that.”
Dami touched Varazda’s chest lightly. “I know. Sorry.”
He stroked down Varazda’s side to his stomach and rubbed in a small circle. He seemed to be nursing some embers back to life, low down in Varazda’s belly.
“What were we talking about?” said Dami presently. “I think … you were trying to tell me that you’re worried that I’ll get … bored? Or that I’ll want to do things in bed that you don’t like?”
“I still don’t see,” said Varazda drowsily, “how ‘I like a lot of things’ can mean anything other than that.”
“I really wish I had never said that. I’m not sure it’s even true, any more. I like being with you. I like … exploring things with you, like we did today, but that’s just a stage—I don’t expect that to go on forever. We’re finding out what you like, and it’s … it’s thrilling. I like—love—being the only man who’s ever … ” He smiled a little shyly down at Varazda.
“Made me climax?” The fire made a little leap, small flames licking up.
; Dami stilled. “What. No. I didn’t—was I?”
“Did I not say that at the time? No. Well, it’s true. I knew that I could, I’d … um.”
“Brought yourself off,” Dami supplied, unembarrassed.
“Yes.” That sounded like the right expression. “I have—I did—I do,” honestly compelled him to choke out, “that, sometimes.” The fire was raging.
“Well, good.” Dami was giving him a rakish grin. “Do you think of me, ever?”
“Do I think about you. When I’m … ? Uh … ”
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”
Varazda bit his lip.
Dami gave him a little quirk of an eyebrow. “You’ll have to show me some time.”
“What? Why would you want to … ” He thought about that, imagined Dami putting his strong, calloused hand on his own shaft and stroking, eyes closed, lips parted, his other hand perhaps moving over his belly … “Yes, well, that’s an odd request, but, as you say, you like a lot of things.”
“I’d like one thing in particular just now,” Dami murmured. His eyes looked very dark.
Varazda drew up his knees, the ruined blue gown riding up, and let his thighs fall open. “Yes,” he said. “Please.”
Chapter 17
“What do you think?” Varazda asked, twirling to fan out the skirt of his embroidered gown.
“Divine Terza, that suits you!” Dami sat on the edge of the bed, grinning. He still wore his stained and crumpled tunic, and his usually disciplined curls were tousled. “I’ve always liked you in your finery. Even at Nione’s, when you were dressed up to annoy the philosophers, I liked it.”
Varazda beamed back at him. He sat down again at his dressing table to braid his hair, which he would take down again before the performance. He felt good: cherished and satisfied and at ease.
“Look, I have to ask,” said Dami lightly, as Varazda was pinning up his braids. “The separate bedrooms. What’s the story with that?”
“Oh.” He’d noticed that it bothered Dami, but he hadn’t really spent any time analyzing that. Perhaps Dami thought there was some sinister reason for it. “I couldn’t really see it working any other way, honestly. I know you can climb stairs perfectly well, but it must take a toll on your knee to be doing it all the time. My bed isn’t big enough for two—at least … not big enough for two to sleep in—and then, you may not have noticed … ” He pointed toward the little bed in the alcove. “Remi sleeps here.”
Dami nodded. “I figured she probably did.”
“So.” Varazda shrugged apologetically. “That’s why I put you in the room downstairs.”
“Which you added to the house for my sake, and furnished and everything, and I can’t tell you how touched I am by all that. I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I’m not. I just wondered—of course it’s none of my business … but no, you know, I think it is my business. Or at least … Look. I’m getting all tangled up in this—”
“I’d noticed.”
Dami snorted. “I just wanted to know whether there’s a particular reason you prefer me to sleep in another room. In case it was anything that we could talk about. Anything I could help with. If it’s not, I understand, of course. And if you don’t want to tell me, then don’t.”
Varazda considered that for a moment, trying to guess what it was that Dami was imagining. “It’s really just Remi. She wakes up in the night sometimes.”
“You wouldn’t want to move her bed downstairs.”
“What? To your room?” Now Varazda was incredulous. “You mean all three of us sleep in the same room?”
“Yeah. I don’t want to deprive her of her father, but I’d like to sleep with you too. Just sleep, obviously—but there are lots of other parts of your house where we can, uh, explore the Gardens of Whatyoucall, as I suppose you’d say. It’s not such a strange idea, is it—sharing a bedroom? People do it. Families. Not that—I didn’t mean—”
“No, but you should have. Holy God. I’ve been so stupid. I want you to feel like family—that’s exactly how I want you to feel. But I honestly thought you would be more comfortable in your own room when we couldn’t … you know … if all we could do was sleep. I thought that I could come down to see you, from time to time, and then go back to my own room … after.”
Dami laughed. “Very Zashian—except you’re the master of the house, you shouldn’t have to come to my quarters. You should be able to summon me to yours. Don’t you think?”
“What?” That was of course exactly how it was done in noble Zashian households with separate women’s quarters. If Dami had been Varazda’s concubine … The thought was too absurd to pursue. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not what I had in mind at all.”
And it wasn’t, he realized. What he’d had in mind, without realizing it, had been worse.
“It’s what I used to do in Gudul,” he said, after a long pause, looking away. “I lived in the women’s quarters with the other eunuchs, and when a man … when a man wanted me in his bed, I would go to him. Then I’d come back. I didn’t—” He looked up at Dami, whose expression of horror was just as he’d expected. “I didn’t think. Let’s find some other way of doing it.”
“Immortal gods. Yes. Let’s.”
They arrived at the Palace of Letters in the late afternoon. Varazda wore his dark green, embroidered gown, his eyes painted to match, bracelets on his wrists. Dami had cleaned up and emerged with tidy hair and a fresh tunic, belted with a Zashian-style sash—his own, one that Varazda had not seen before. He had brought the lute from the music store. Varazda reminded himself he should really pay Gia for that lute, as they were clearly not going to give it back.
Ariston met them at the entrance to the library and immediately began talking.
“I think Leto got it wrong,” he said. “I don’t see how anyone could make the frieze fall on Themistokles at just the right moment. I’ve double- and triple-checked it. I think the plan is to sabotage the scaffolding, so that he falls.”
“Hello, Ariston,” said Varazda dryly. “Have you eaten?”
“What?”
“Dinner. Have you had any?” He produced a napkin containing a meat pie that Yazata had made for dinner. “Eat.”
“No time,” Ariston said, his mouth already full of pie. “Meh ev du divcus ftrategy.”
Varazda brushed fragments of pastry off his gown. “Finish your pie and then we can ‘discuss strategy.’ And you can show us around. We’ll go make ourselves known to the master of ceremonies in the meantime.”
The master of ceremonies was a man named Heron whom Varazda knew slightly, an itinerant party-planner who served many of the great households of the city. He was delighted to see Varazda.
“Always a pleasure, Pharastes! And don’t you look fetching in that gown?” His eyes widened at the sight of Dami.
“My accompanist, Damiskos.”
“Wonderful! Please leave your things over here. I’m putting you on in pride of place, just before the meal.”
“I’m flattered. What’s the rest of the program?”
Heron ticked items off on his fingers. “I’ve got flautists for while the guests are still arriving, then some speeches, then Eudokia is going to sing, more speeches, and then I thought I’d put you on. Then dinner will be served, with the flautists playing again. After dinner they’re going up to view the frescoes, and I’m told the sculptor, who’s arriving late, wants to give another speech. I have the Glaphyra troupe for after dinner—I was going to put them on before, but when I found out you were coming, I thought you’d make a much more suitable centrepiece.”
“I hope I don’t disappoint,” Varazda said in the tone of one who knew he wouldn’t. “I thought we might take a look around before the guests arrive. My friend worked on parts of the frieze, and he wants to show off his artistry.”
“Go ahead. I haven’t had a chance to go up and look yet myself.” He looked up at the scaffolding that effectively obscured the view from the floor of the room. “I
tried my best with the decorations, but there’s only so much one can do.”
The scaffolding had been erected around all four sides of the library’s main hall in order for the frieze to be installed around the top of the walls, and it had been left in place so that the guests could go up and look closely at the sculptures, which had been carved on the ground but painted in situ. Heron had decorated it with garlands and swaths of pink fabric. Under the frieze, the walls were lined with two levels of arcaded bookcases, one around the ground floor and one accessible from a narrow gallery above. The niches were filled with neatly piled and labelled scrolls.
Varazda could see Ariston already prowling around on the upper platform. He and Dami left their bundle of swords and lute where Heron had indicated, and climbed up the ladder.
“There you are!” Ariston exclaimed, as if he had not seen them a couple of minutes ago. “What should we do, Damiskos, do you think? I mean, how should we arrange our patrol?”
Dami looked like he was trying not to catch Varazda’s eye as he scanned the wooden walkway that ran along the top of the scaffolding.
“Well,” he said neutrally, “we’ve been told that the guests are coming up here immediately after dinner, which is after Varazda’s performance. Do you think we could slip up during the meal and meet here?”
“Yes, yes,” said Ariston eagerly. “We can check if anything’s been sabotaged, and watch for anyone coming up.”
“It’s a shame we don’t have a better view of the hall from here,” Dami remarked, looking over the edge. “All those garlands and things block the sight-lines. Is there just the one ladder to come up?”
“No, there’s three. The one for the guests to come up is around the front, near the door.”
Dami nodded. “Well, you stick to Themistokles, and Varazda and I will follow you and keep our eyes open.”