Scorch shut up after that, mostly because Vivid walked too far ahead of him to hear anything he might say. In the midst of their trek, however, it was decided they would travel through the first night, as evening was swiftly falling. They would reach the closest village by sunrise and resupply. The thought made Scorch’s stomach nervous. That village was where he’d met Felix and Flora, where he was taken by the slavers. The idea of returning didn’t sit well with him, but since he and Vivid needed weapons and better armor than flimsy apprentice garb, they would have no choice but to stop. After, they would take the south road and make camp at sunset the following day. That was the plan. Scorch’s feet already hurt just thinking about it.
It soon proved that traveling with a flautist had its benefits. His simple tunes kept their pace steady and held back the gloomy mood of traveling at night. Even Vivid didn’t seem to mind, or, at least, he didn’t threaten to beat Felix over the head with his flute.
Still, Scorch was haunted by the last time he’d walked the same road. He was no longer a smug apprentice, scarless as he was clueless, harboring a horrible secret. He was no longer alone. He was no longer eaten up on the inside with fire he couldn’t control and didn’t understand. It was a strange sensation, walking the route of a memory.
Often, as they walked, his thoughts returned to Vivid. His eyes returned to Vivid, as well, and his confident stride, the swell of his backside in his apprentice trousers. Scorch found himself missing the black leather, missing Vivid’s hands tugging his hair, and Vivid’s lips on his neck. He wanted to get him alone again, but his attempts to walk at his side and speak softly with him were thwarted each time. It was unfair that Vivid could walk so much faster when his legs were so much shorter.
But when the daytime finally arrived, and the little village appeared before them, Vivid could ignore him no longer. They both needed clothes, and there was but one tailor to attend them.
They separated from the others with an agreement to meet back in a bit. Scorch kept his head down to avoid looking at the inn, but the tailor’s shop turned out to be directly behind it, and he was suddenly face to face with the little room in the back.
He choked on air as the recollection resurged, his body bending to dry-heave in the middle of the road. The dusty ground was bloodstained and his hands were sticky and red. He blinked, and there she was, neck split wide, eyes open and unseeing.
Ebbins grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him to the side of the road. No, that wasn’t right. The hands were too gentle. They were pressing against his forehead, cold.
“Scorch,” Vivid said, and it was a command, like he was calling the wind. Scorch surfaced to find him, tearing his eyes from a bloody mattress to a pale face. Dark eyebrows were cutting a line of concern over narrowed slits of amethyst.
Somehow, Scorch had ended up on the ground, and Vivid was crouched beside him. His face flared pink and he breathed out an anguished sigh. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sweaty,” Vivid remarked.
“I sweat a lot,” Scorch retorted scratchily.
Vivid took one hand away from his forehead to replace it with his other, cooler hand, and Scorch leaned into it gratefully. “Something bad happened here. The beginning of the flautist’s song.”
Scorch nodded, looking away.
“Then we won’t linger. Get up.” He pulled Scorch to his feet. “Are you going to be sick? You can’t throw up inside the tailor’s.”
Scorch assessed the state of his nausea. He’d not had breakfast, and the initial wave of heaving was over, so he shook his head. Vivid thrust a canteen in his hand, and he accepted it gratefully, taking a sip while Vivid steered him away from Flora’s room and toward the front door of the tailor.
“Thank you,” he said.
Vivid didn’t respond, simply pushed open the door and guided him forward with a hand pressed to his back. Once they were inside, he stepped away. When the tailor appeared from the back room, Vivid was cold as ever, but the tailor, Scorch shortly discovered, was even colder.
She wore a scarf wrapped around her hair and a measuring tape hung loose over her shoulders. She looked over her new customers behind thick spectacles, and she did not look impressed. Not that Scorch thought he was impressive at the moment. He was still shaking from the onslaught of memories and had a feeling his face was either too red or too white. Either way, he knew there was an ample sheen of sweat collected on his brow.
“We need clothes,” Vivid said, his voice flat. “Something snug, with covered sleeves for myself and a jerkin for him.” He nodded to Scorch.
The tailor returned his flatness, straightening her spectacles as she looked them each up and down. “Material?”
“Something hardy,” answered Vivid. “Leather. Black, if you have it.”
“Does this look like the royal seamstress? I don’t have leather in black.”
“Something dark then,” Vivid amended impatiently.
“Same for you?” she asked Scorch.
“Same for him,” Vivid answered.
Scorch, with a slightly shaky voice, looked doubtfully at Vivid. “We don’t want to match,” he protested. “We’ll look stupid.” He cocked his head at the tailor. “Do you have any leather in red?”
“No.”
“Hmm. What color leathers do you have?”
“I have brown leather. Dark brown and a slightly darker brown.”
Scorch forced a smile. “Dark brown sounds lovely.”
Vivid was considerably less enthused, but anything would be better than what they already had on, so they gritted their teeth and agreed to the fitting.
The woman dressed Scorch first. She was quick with her needle, and her selection of leather was a surprisingly pleasant mixture of sturdy and supple, soft to the touch, but thick. It would take some damage. Vivid didn’t watch when Scorch undressed and stepped into his new gear. He knew, because he was watching Vivid, and he kept his head turned toward the window, his back to Scorch, only turning around once the last lace on Scorch’s new boots had been laced.
Scorch looked down at the boots and missed the red ones, but there was nothing for it, especially when he knew it was only a matter of time before he destroyed the clothes on his back once again. Eventually, wings and talons and scales would shred his new clothes. Best not to be overly attached.
Vivid, on the other hand, had a fair chance of keeping the tailor’s creation for the foreseeable future, and Scorch found himself wanting to watch as the tailor slid her tape up his inseam. He banished himself to the window and resolved to stare outside and give Vivid a semblance of privacy. That’s when he realized the window was highly reflective, revealing a near mirror image of the fitting taking place behind him. Scorch smiled. Vivid had been watching him the whole time. It lessened the guilt he felt when Vivid slipped out of his apprentice clothes.
Overall, the whole affair didn’t take long. Vivid paid and they left. Scorch no longer had a problem keeping his focus away from Flora’s room, because his full attention was on Vivid, and Vivid’s new clothes.
The black assassin leather had been skintight, but there had also been a bulk to it, a distraction of buckles and straps and shine that took away from his shape. The tailor’s clothes were different: snug, soft leather that clung to every curve of Vivid’s body. There was no extra material to mask his physique, just a layer of slightly darker brown leather that hugged him perfectly. The sleeves of his new cuirass were long and fitted, but his neck was no longer hidden by a high collar. Scorch could see him work his neck as he swallowed, could even see the hint of a silver scar racing up the nape of his neck. It was, Scorch decided, a very good look, and Vivid was kind enough to let Scorch look his fill until they’d walked out of view of the inn. Then, he smacked Scorch across the torso.
“Stop.”
“Stop what?” Scorch asked.
Vivid answered with his eyebrows, furrowing them into a threatening V on his forehead.
“We’re alone.”
Scorch reached out to touch Vivid’s hand, but it was slapped away. “Vivid,” he said, a little hurt, but not surprised. “I want to talk to you about—”
“We need weapons,” Vivid snarled, walking ahead of him to the blacksmith.
The blacksmith was more painful than the tailor. Scorch found a sword he liked the weight and balance of relatively quickly, but for Vivid, picking out new blades was a process. A long process. He was unhappy with everything. He tossed daggers in the air and threw them at the practice target, sneering and frowning as he inspected the blades from tip to handle. In the end, he chose what he claimed were the “best of the worst,” threw some money down, and stormed off, breezing past Scorch before he could comment.
They found Merric, Felix, and Audrey awaiting them at the end of the road. Felix was holding the reins of three horses and his cheeks were covered in lipstick smudges.
“We went to the inn’s tavern for food,” he explained.
“The little flautist is quite popular,” Audrey smirked. “His lap barely stayed empty. Right, Merric?”
Merric, gloomy-faced, ignored her and stroked one of the horse’s flanks.
“The stable master loaned me three horses,” Felix continued with a blush.
“In exchange for a date when he returns,” Audrey finished.
“Ridiculous,” Merric muttered.
“Smart,” Vivid declared, taking one of the reins from Felix. “We should get there in half the time now.” Felix brightened at the praise.
“Are we not resting here?” asked Audrey. “It’s early yet. We could get a room and sleep a few hours.”
Scorch fiddled with the handle of his new sword, trying to rummage up an excuse as to why he wouldn’t be able to step foot inside that inn. He wasn’t sure if Vivid sensed his distress, or whether they were, for once, on the same page, but Vivid spoke up before Scorch needed to, and his word, much like the man, was immoveable.
“We’re not sleeping here.” He leapt onto the back of one of Felix’s horses, a white gelding. “We’ll make camp at nightfall, as planned.” Scorch tried to flash him a smile of thanks, but Vivid avoided his eye.
“Fine with me,” Audrey said, mounting a red-maned mare.
That’s when Scorch realized there were three horses and five members of their party. Merric settled into the saddle of the third horse, and then it was only Scorch and Felix left unseated.
“Felix,” Merric said politely, holding out a hand. “Would you ride with me?”
The flautist smiled at the invitation and took Merric’s hand. He sat in the saddle behind him and wrapped his arms around Merric’s waist, pleased.
Scorch, last man standing, wondered if now would be a good time to burst into flames.
“Want to ride with me, Scorch?” Audrey asked, her one eye glinting mischievously.
“He’ll ride with me,” Vivid said. “We’ve ridden together before.”
Scorch looked up at Vivid, who was staring straight ahead, his knuckles white around the horse’s reins. “D-do you want me behind you?” he asked, cursing himself when his voice broke.
“If I recall, that was your preference.”
It felt like a conversation they shouldn’t be having in front of the others. “I don’t have a preference,” Scorch said slowly.
Vivid straightened his back in the saddle. He was a stone wall. “I do. Stop wasting time.”
Scorch absolutely did not want to waste any time, not in reaching the Queen and certainly not in pressing his chest against Vivid’s back. He mounted the horse and settled into the saddle, but hesitated to put his hands on Vivid’s waist.
“Hold on to me,” Vivid demanded.
Scorch held on, and then they were off.
Wood and Woolgathering
23
Twice, they had shared a horse. The first time was on their way to the Assassins’ Hollow, Scorch flustered and self-conscious every time his body jostled against Vivid’s. The second time was recently, Scorch clinging desperately to Vivid’s limp body, trying to keep them both in the saddle as he rode from the fortress. The third time was a cruel mixture of first and second. Scorch was a flustered mess behind Vivid, trying to keep grinding to a minimum, but he was also desperate to wrap his arms around him and nuzzle into his neck. He kept thinking about Vivid almost dying, and then about Vivid very much alive and on top of him, kissing him, the way his thighs had tightened around his waist. And that—that was not something he should be thinking about whilst sharing a horse.
Vivid sucked an inhale through his teeth and adjusted in the saddle, effectively rubbing his backside against Scorch. Scorch groaned, embarrassed, knowing there was no way Vivid couldn’t feel how enthused he was by their proximity. He waited to be thrown from the horse, berated, or possibly stabbed, but all Vivid did was grip the reins tighter and roll his shoulders.
Then he leaned back.
It was only a fraction, a minimal movement, but it shifted more of Vivid’s weight onto Scorch, and Scorch, in turn, had to wrap his arms tighter around Vivid’s waist. Dark hair bristled at his nose, and Scorch breathed in the wintry, green smell. He was undeniably hard, and the pressure of Vivid leaning into him wasn’t helping, but he wasn’t about to push him away, and Vivid didn’t act as if he wanted to be pushed. So Scorch spread his fingers over Vivid’s stomach, and he smelled his hair, and he tried to ignore the tightness in his new leather trousers.
The end of the day took forever to reach. They only stopped twice, to rest the horses and take in some food and drink, and only when the sun was beginning to set did Vivid declare it a suitable time to make camp for the night. Scorch could have cried. Pressed against Vivid all day had him frazzled and overstrung. He jumped from the horse and declared he was going to find firewood. Before anyone could shoot him their obnoxiously knowing glances, he darted into the trees and began collecting choice timber. He took his time.
When he returned, Merric and Felix were eating and Audrey was sitting with Vivid, sharpening her blades. She whispered something to Vivid when she saw Scorch and then rushed over to help him with his armload of branches and twigs. He let her pile them up and waved his hand in front of it. The timber sparked and caught fire. Felix gasped.
After everyone had eaten and the sun was gone, there was nothing else to do but sleep. But as the others were settling down and unrolling their packs, Vivid disappeared from the clearing, vanishing into the trees. Scorch busied himself, searching for a prime spot of ground with no rocks, but after a few minutes, his curiosity got the better of him.
He found him on his knees at the base of a tree, using one of his daggers to cut a cluster of ivory vines from where they nestled around the roots. Dream Moss. Scorch watched him for a time, mesmerized by his nimble fingers and the broadness of his leather-clad shoulders. It had been too many hours since the training ring.
“Your stealth is abysmal,” Vivid said without turning around.
“I need more practice.” It was quiet and calm so deep in the forest, and Scorch spoke softly, reluctant to spoil the peace of the picture he’d entered. “I want to kiss you.”
Vivid shoved what Dream Moss he’d collected into a trouser pocket and stood, keeping his back to Scorch. He said nothing.
“Vivid.”
He turned. It was dark, but Scorch didn’t need much light to detect the tension in his shoulders or the way his fingers curled into his palms. “Go back to camp.”
“No.” Scorch stepped closer, until Vivid’s face began to make sense in the shadows. He was scowling. “Can I kiss you?”
“That was a mistake,” Vivid snapped, but it lacked its usual bite, so Scorch stepped closer still.
“I want to,” he whispered. “I always want to.” They were inches apart and Vivid had to tip his head back to look into Scorch’s eyes. Now that they were alone and Vivid wasn’t running in the other direction, Scorch couldn’t resist the urge to touch. He reached out with a careful hand and brushed his knuckles over Vivid’s cheek.
<
br /> “Kiss someone else,” Vivid said.
“I don’t want anyone else,” Scorch answered, and it was astonishingly, heart-wrenchingly true.
Vivid’s hands fell on Scorch’s hips, pushing him away before pulling him forward. “This is stupid. You’re stupid.”
“I missed your compliments when we were apart,” Scorch sighed. Vivid’s fingers were digging into the flesh of his hips.
“I didn’t miss you at all,” Vivid insisted, drawing Scorch in until their knees knocked.
“That’s understandable. I can be annoying.”
Vivid nodded. “You never shut up. Your voice makes my head ache.”
“Sorry.” He bent down and placed a kiss—gentle, questioning—on Vivid’s lips.
When they parted, Vivid’s hands skirted up from Scorch’s hips to frame his jaw, fingers tracing over stubble. Scorch couldn’t believe he was being allowed to touch him again. He moved his hand down Vivid’s neck, then back up to thumb the velvety edge of his ear. His nearness was intoxicating, and Scorch swayed forward.
Vivid made a strange noise in the back of his throat and wrapped his arms around Scorch’s neck, pulling him down and kissing him hard. His hands were everywhere, threading through Scorch’s hair, raking down his back, grabbing his ass and hauling him closer. He deepened the kiss and their lips fitted together in a perfect slide of heat. Scorch was overwhelmed with the sensation of getting everything he’d ever wanted and never known.
“Come here,” he whispered as his hands slid down Vivid’s thighs. Understanding, Vivid jumped up and wrapped his legs around Scorch’s waist. Scorch pushed him up against the tree, and for a while, their affection was frenzied. Vivid nipped at Scorch’s lower lip and Scorch pressed against him until they were both breathless, but somewhere in the flow of their embrace, urgency gave way to something else.
Scorch eased his kisses to yielding, slow things, and Vivid’s demanding hands began tracing easy, sweet patterns over his chest. They kissed, deep and lazy, until Vivid complained about the bark digging into his back, and then Scorch lowered them to the ground, Vivid in his lap, his legs still wrapped around his waist.
The Sun Guardian Page 35