by Cari Z
“You liked it that much, then?” Nichol had asked, cheeky as ever. He wasn’t grinning once Colm had flipped him over onto his back with nothing but the speed of their movement to keep him from falling off as they switched.
“You really,” Colm said, kissing Nichol’s throat. “Really,” he kissed down the center of his chest, “really need to let me do that to you.”
“All right,” Nichol had murmured, and then his head tilted back and his throat worked in agonized silence as Colm licked the head of Nichol’s cock, taking the pooling liquid onto his tongue and rolling it around. He’d had tastes before, little dots here and there he’d wiped away with his lips, but this was different. This was decadent.
Colm knew without a doubt that simple was the way to go. He’d never had his mouth on another man’s cock, and he didn’t want to choke or bite or do something else to break the momentum. He used his hand to grip the base, and Nichol’s silent moan turned audible for a moment, and that gave Colm a warm feeling from the nape of his neck all the way down to the base of his spine. He knew Nichol liked his hands, and he used that fascination to the greatest effect he could, restricting his mouth to the top third of Nichol’s length, sucking him and licking him and finally bobbing his head in rhythm with the motion of his hand.
Nichol’s breath began to catch, a sign Colm was beginning to recognize as heralding his orgasm, and when he came, Colm caught every drop of it on his tongue so he could understand the flavor, so he could contrast it, so he would know something more about Nichol and Nichol alone. It was sweeter than Colm had expected, the bitterness just an aftertaste but still with salt, rich and musky and warm. Colm finally swallowed and looked up, and saw Nichol staring at him with something like wonder on his face.
“You’re brilliant at that. That can’t be the first time you’ve done it.”
“You know it is.”
“I assumed, but…the first time Jaime came in my mouth, I pulled off and spit it out on the floor.”
“I like the way you taste,” Colm assured him, licking the very tip of Nichol’s spent cock and enjoying the way it made the other man shudder. “And as soon possible, I want to taste you again.” And Colm did, once more that night and again in the morning.
It wasn’t all work and sex between them now. There were still times Nichol needed to be alone, and even times when Colm would carefully avoid him in order to seek his own solitude. Most of the time, though, if they had a moment but not the freedom to disappear to their room, they would go out onto the sea wall or, as the wind became fiercer and snow began to mix with the constant falling rain when winter changed to autumn, explore different places throughout Caithmor.
Colm had been too busy and Nichol too distracted to worry about seeing many of the city’s sights during the summer, and autumn had been a time of grief and slow healing. Winter, with its bitter winds and early evenings and the warm, beckoning glows of lanterns and fires, was the time for experiencing what could be seen of the insides of the city.
They visited the Ardeaglais only once, after Megg recommended Nichol take Colm to see the stained-glass sculptures inside the vaulted ceiling of the cathedral. They were supposed to resemble earthly manifestations of the Four, and Colm had to admit they were beautiful, even as his lungs ceased to work properly as soon as they stepped into the interior.
Each of the four points held a statue, placed to catch the light just right as the sun passed through the sky. In the corner closest to the door was a man, his body as black as onyx but his hair and hands brilliant burst of red and orange. His opposite was a blue-skinned woman in robes of cerulean, flowing down her body like a waterfall. The other side held an umber man with fists like boulders, his stance wide and steady. His contrast was a pale woman who looked like she was flying, barely held up by the swirls of white curling around her like wisps of cloud. They had names, but Colm didn’t know them. Those names were powerful, and the prevue of priests. Collectively, they were the Four, and that was how they were worshipped.
The statues were gorgeous, or at least had the potential to be in the right light, but at the moment, Colm was too concerned by the sparks flashing in front of his eyes to be too in awe of the architecture. He heard Nichol ask him a question, ask it again in a concerned voice, but Colm couldn’t force himself to speak. His whole body ached for light and space and the sky, but his limbs were frozen, and in his mind he saw Honored Srain reaching for him, and the cold splash of water on his limbs, and that strange voice in the other cell… Gods, was that man still suffering down below?
The next thing Colm knew, he was bent in two outside the Ardeaglais, and his back ached from where Nichol had pounded on him to restart his breaths. He felt Nichol’s hand raise in preparation of thudding down again, and he forestalled him with a gasped out, “No! I’m fine, no more.”
“This is not fine,” Nichol protested, the worry in his tone clear as tide pools on a calm day. “This is probably the opposite of fine, Colm. What—oh gods, it’s because of what those bastards did to you when you were here, isn’t it?” He glared back at the cathedral. “I shouldn’t have brought you here, I should have used my head—I’m sorry.”
“Nichol,” Colm breathed, finally able to straighten up. He tried to take a deep breath and was pleased when his ribs barely twinged. “We didn’t know this would happen. It really is fine. I’m all right, just…let’s not do it again.”
“I can safely say that I’d rather walk through fire than go inside there again,” Nichol said vehemently as they headed back toward the Cove. “So there are no fears over that.”
Apart from his bad reaction to being in the Ardeaglais again, Colm enjoyed their trips around the city. They went to the red light district once, mostly so that Nichol could laugh at Colm’s incessant blushing, but it didn’t go any further than looking, despite some rather bawdy offers called out to either or both of them as they walked by the establishments. They also visited the Arboretum, the small part of the palace grounds that was open to the public.
Apparently the priests’ prohibition on the use of magic for anything other than religious purposes didn’t extend to the king, because the air inside the stone walls that marked the Arboretum’s entrance was warm and humid, and the trees were tall and spindly, their branches braided together into a solid canopy high above that sang with birdsong and animal calls. The grass was positively virid, and everything glittered with dew that just seemed too bright to be real.
“It’s good to be the king,” Nichol murmured as they walked around, admiring the trees from a distance. Guards were posted every ten paces to keep visitors from taking liberties, and they were all very well armed and very ill-tempered.
“It seems to be,” Colm agreed. “Back here, at least.” The last report from the courier ships fit for public consumption had included the destruction of the Albatross, one of the larger ships of the Muiri navy. Over five hundred men had been lost with it. People muttered darkly behind their hands and grumbled into their tankards, but the king persisted in his dream of conquest, and none of the ships came home. “Jaime’s probably all right,” he added. “He’s likely working in the supply ships from Inisfadda, not on the front lines.”
“I don’t care,” Nichol replied, too quickly. “I’m not worried about him, really.”
Colm knew it was a lie. Nichol was a better friend than he’d ever hoped for, and a better lover than Colm had ever imagined having, but Colm could tell when his thoughts were far away, even when they were together. Jaime Windlove was a constant shadow at the back of Nichol’s mind, along with the body of Blake, and no matter how well he appeared to be now, he never forgot. Jaime, it seemed, never forgave, though, and never sent a letter back despite Nichol writing several to him.
They visited the dancing halls, they visited bars—although Colm rarely drank, and Nichol tended to match him when they were out together—and they even visited Fergus at the Gold
en Lion, where he tended to be after his wife kicked him out in the morning. Colm had met with him several times over the months, but this was Nichol’s first introduction to the man. For once, Colm was pleased to be the one offering up a surprise.
“There he is! There’s my stork, flying in on this wintry breeze!” Fergus called out from the table in the corner as Colm stepped inside. “Well, Weathercliff, what do you think of our seaside winters, hmm? Cold enough for you?”
“Not at all, it’s perfectly mild,” Colm replied, provoking a laugh from the other man. “You forget I come from the White Spires. As long as I can still feel my fingers and toes, I’m warm.”
“Oh you braw, tough lad. And who’s this with you?” Fergus brushed a rogue tuft of hair out of his face and peered at Nichol. “This is your cousin, I take it? What was it, pickle, freckle…?”
“Nichol,” Marley said dryly as he plunked two tankards down on the table, then looked at Colm. “Are you joining us for a drink?”
“Of course they are! Steal some chairs, lads, sit, sit! Marley, they’ll need—”
“I know what they need,” Marley said with an eye roll. “Just sit there and try not to think too hard, all right?” He turned and headed back to the bar, and Colm grabbed two extra chairs and pulled them up to the table.
They sat, and Fergus continued, “Aye, Nichol Searunner. I know of your gran’s inn, and have once even sampled the delight that is her fish pie. Too far for me to walk there nowadays, sadly, or I’d sample more of it, but”—he pinched his gut with a grin—“perhaps it’s for the best that I don’t, eh?”
“Her pie’s a danger to us all,” Nichol agreed. “So you’re the one who brought Colm down from the Spires! How was he on the road? He’s told me nothing about the trip except that it was long.”
“He’s a modest lad,” Fergus said, patting Colm on the shoulder as he lifted his tankard. He took a tremendous draught, belched loudly and set the drink down with a satisfied thump. “He kept me in fresh fish almost every day. Some of the others too, and didn’t take an insult from any man. Sliced some wretched farm lad’s hand clear through with his little knife when the oaf threatened him.”
Nichol’s eyes brightened. “Really?”
“No!” Colm exclaimed, forestalling any more dubious praise from Fergus. “It was hardly more than a scratch!”
“Aye, but it could have been much worse,” Fergus said. “He’s a deft hand with that knife of his and no mistake. Good with the camels, good with the people… If only Weathercliff could hold his drink, he’d be the perfect man.”
“Perhaps we should help him with that,” Nichol suggested. “Practice can help in that regard.”
“I like the way you think, Pickle.”
“Will you two stop talking about me as though I’m not here?” Colm snapped.
“He’s just sensitive,” Nichol said, casting a sly glance at Colm. “Tell me more about his incredible prowess.”
“I think we’ve heard quite enough on that subject,” Marley said, returning just in time to save Colm from more embarrassment. “And on your own,” he added, deflating Fergus’s next breath. “How’s the fishing, Colm?”
It was a shock to realize that Colm hadn’t spoken with them since before he was barred from the sea. “Nonexistent,” he said, and that led into a conversation that ended with both Fergus and Marley disgusted, and Fergus despairing of the fact that he hadn’t known about this sooner.
“I should have been at that farce of a trial,” he said. “I’d have set those damn fools straight.”
“Perhaps its better you weren’t, all things considered,” Marley said with a pointed look at Fergus’s turban. Fergus subsided with a grumble, and Marley changed the subject.
“If you’ve enough idle time to waste it visiting two old men—”
“Speak for yourself, man, I’m in my prime—”
“You might consider visiting the Spectacular,” Marley finished.
Nichol perked up. “It’s back? I haven’t heard anything about it!”
“Been back for a few weeks now, but Caithmor isn’t letting them inside the city this time. The Roving Spectacular used to set up in the fairground used for the spring and summer markets,” Marley said for Colm’s benefit, “but this year, the regent’s declared that space off-limits to them. He’s a very religious man, the regent, more so than King Iarra. The priests have always had a problem with the Spectacular, but now that the king is gone, they’re pressing their hand.”
“What exactly is the Spectacular?” Colm asked. “I remember Blake mentioned it once.”
Nichol’s face fell for a moment. “Right. Yeah, he loved it. He always dragged us there every year. It’s a carnival: a traveling show and circus. They’ve got amazing acts, and fortune tellers and caged beasts, and a house of horrors! That was always Blake’s favorite part,” he added sadly.
“The priests don’t like ’em because of the ‘dubious legal nature’ of some of their acts,” Fergus said. “Too close to magic for the likes of the stalwart champions of the Four. They’ve wintered here every year for the past twenty, though, and they’re popular enough that people would complain if they were refused a place here entirely.”
“We should go,” Nichol told Colm. “I bet you’d love it, it’s so strange. I know how you love new, strange things,” he grinned.
“It’s good that you find yourself so amusing,” Colm told him. “Really, at least one person in the room will always appreciate your sparkling wit.”
“Oh, don’t be too shy to admit that that one person is you, love,” Nichol teased him, then froze. Colm stiffened up as well, although he wasn’t really worried, not in this company. It was more because Nichol had never called him that before, never called him anything other than his given name, and certainly not an affectionate diminutive. “Um.” He glanced over at Fergus and Marley, who were looking on in amusement. “I mean…you know, we’re family in a way, and…”
“Have you ever heard of a manticore, lad?” Fergus asked, graciously ignoring the moment of awkwardness. Nichol shook his head, and Fergus launched into the story of losing a camel to the beast when they were sheltering from the sandstorm in the Fasach deserts.
It was interesting to hear it again, and even more interesting for Colm to watch Nichol’s reaction to the story, the longing in his face as he listened to Fergus’s adventures. Nichol was built for action, and Colm worried that he would waste away here if he stood still much longer, with no goal to drive him forward. It was that need for activity that drove them around the city day after day, and each day, Nichol seemed a little more wild-eyed, not less.
They were back at the Cove in time to help with the dinner rush, and that night, Nichol pressed Colm down onto the cot and straddled his shoulders, filling Colm’s mouth with his cock and being louder than usual, louder than he should, but Colm took it all, took him in and sucked hard, and relished every drop as Nichol spent. It didn’t take long. Something about the day had keyed him up. He touched Colm roughly that night, stroking him and talking to him the whole time.
“I never know how much there is to you… I thought you frail once, yet you’ve walked across the continent. I thought you meek, yet you risked your life to save me from a storm. I thought you passive, and yet now I know you’ve cut a man who dared to grab you… Gods, Colm, how much more is there for me to learn about you?” he panted in Colm’s ear, rubbing his thumb roughly over the head of Colm’s cock. “How much is still hidden? Tell me something I don’t know about you yet…”
“I heard you once,” Colm said before he could rethink it. “You and Jaime, in here together.”
Nichol’s hand stopped suddenly. “What?”
“I heard you,” Colm persisted, biting his lip with frustration at the sudden stillness. “I heard you push him against the door, I heard him talk to you, call you Nicky. I heard him come in yo
ur mouth, and then you pushed him down on the cot. I left then—I had to go clean up, I’d already come in my drawers without anything, not even a touch, I was a—a mess, oh…” Nichol’s hand was moving again now, slow but building in pressure.
“What else?” Nichol asked, his voice gone guttural in a way it hadn’t with Colm before, like his control wasn’t all there. It was the way he used to sound with Jaime, and Colm tried not to be jealous and aroused by that, but it was far too late to think about protecting his foolish heart anymore.
“I—I went downstairs, out back, to clean up… I was still half-hard, and when I took my clothes off and touched myself and thought about you—gods, Nichol, ahh—”
“Thought about me how?” Nichol demanded, rubbing his stiffening prick against Colm’s thigh as he whipped his hand over Colm’s erection. It was too warm, too much, but perfect. “How, Colm, how did you have me? How did I have you?”
“What you just did—here, on my shoul-shoulders, ah, with your cock in my mouth…and then, then me on my back and you, Nichol, you were inside me, you were filling me, fucking me—fuck—” The memory, coupled with Nichol pressed so close to him now, working him over so rough and so intimate, was the end of Colm’s meager resistance. He groaned loudly, partly with pain and partly with incredible pleasure, and came hard enough to spatter his throat and collarbones.
“Colm,” Nichol hissed, letting him go and using both hands to lever his body up against his lover’s. Colm opened his legs and let Nichol rest between them, pulled his knees back and trembled with the sensation of the slick head of Nichol’s cock sliding against his hole as he rutted fiercely. Gods, yes, Colm wanted that…