Lionheart

by Kate Roman

  It felt too good, the rain on his skin, the thought of Ash in his bed, Ash’s lips on his cock, soft and wet, tongue flickering against the tip… Biting his lip hard, holding in the sounds he longed to make, Roy looked down and stroked more firmly, running a thumb over his cockhead, feeling a sticky smear of precum there, mixing with the slick rainwater.

  Throwing his head back, Roy gave rein to the visions that assailed him. Roy pictured Ash’s body joined with his own; he imagined how sweet it would feel to ignite pleasure deep in Ash, taking him hard and slow, feeling his ass clench around Roy’s cock, his beautiful hands on Roy’s shoulders, drawing furrows in Roy’s back.

  Roy felt his balls draw up, his cock swelling in his hand as he imagined the sounds Ash would make…and then blinding-hot seed spilled over Roy’s fingers onto the wet rock at his feet. He bucked, letting the vision linger through the aftershocks that pulsed through his fingers, until, as his orgasm died away, Roy forced the thought from his mind.

  He wanted Ash too much. It was just that simple.

  The thunder and lightning faded as Roy opened his eyes. The storm had vented its power over the valley and dissipated, leaving only rain and the rise of a sharp, hard wind. And the rain showed no sign of stopping. If anything, it had grown in intensity, on its way to becoming an epic downpour.

  Turning back to the mouth of the cave, Roy froze. Ash shuffled sleepily toward him, rubbing his eyes.

  “Roy,” he mumbled indistinctly, “you’re back… Everything all right?” He pushed past Roy and darted outside, and Roy heard him relieve himself against the rock face.

  Roy shook the water off his skin as he made his way back inside. He banked the fire against the gray day even though he was perfectly warm, just to give himself something to focus on, something to do with his hands while he thought, How long had Ash been standing there?

  Roy looked around wildly for his clothes, but Ash was already padding softly back into the cave, shivering with the sheen of water on his skin. He climbed back into the blankets without a look in Roy’s direction, turning to face the wall. Roy’s heart sank; then he heard Ash call to him. “Come to bed, Roy. It’s cold.”

  Roy rose and did as he was bidden.

  He lay down gingerly next to Ash, his shoulder against Ash’s back, feeling awkward and unwell. He doesn’t want me. I can’t—

  Ash rolled over and draped himself over Roy again, snuggling close. Roy caught his breath as Ash’s hand crept over his chest; then Ash murmured sleepily, “You’re wet.”

  “Sorry,” Roy said softly, slowly sliding his arms back around Ash. His breathing steadied as Ash nuzzled against his chest. Perhaps there was still something to be saved between them.

  With a happy sigh, Ash burrowed in against Roy’s shoulder. “Go back to sleep,” Ash whispered, and Roy reflected that those words were sound advice indeed. He tightened his arms around Ash and closed his eyes, letting his rogue thoughts drift away, carried to sleep on the soft, rhythmic thrum of Ash’s breath on his skin.

  Chapter Ten

  Ash awoke with a feeling of trepidation it took him a few seconds to place. He was in the warm nest of blankets, Roy curled up, snoring softly, at his back: what he’d come to know meant safety. Then he recalled the conversation of the previous day—Victoria Falls, the district commissioner, a return to England—and instinctively, he pulled away from Roy. “No,” he whispered under his breath. “I don’t want to go.”

  Beside him, Roy moved restlessly, muttering in his sleep. Ash sat up slowly. Roy had come back in the night, he remembered, wet.

  Wet.

  Ash jumped to his feet and ran naked to the mouth of the cave. Outside, the sky was thick and gray, and rain fell steadily, splashing over the rocks. He couldn’t see the veldt below them, couldn’t see anything except the thick, lowering clouds.

  His heart lifted. They couldn’t travel in this weather. The idea of leaving Roy was bad enough, but with his new knowledge of himself, returning to England was no longer a possibility. Ash belonged to the veldt. And to Roy, if Roy would have him.

  He came slowly back inside, knelt beside the fire, and laid the kindling on top of the embers, then slowly donned his clothes. “I won’t go back,” he said aloud.

  A blanket and Roy’s shirt and pants lay near the mouth of the cave, and Ash picked them up, wondering. He folded them slowly, then went back to the bed. Roy still wasn’t awake, which was unusual.

  “Roy,” Ash said softly, perching beside him. “Would you like some breakfast?” He laid a hand on Roy’s shoulder.

  Roy moved restlessly under his touch, opening his eyes but staring at Ash without seeming to see him. “Who’s there?” he asked hoarsely, moving his head from side to side.

  “It’s me. It’s Ash.” Ash leaned forward, worried. “Roy, what’s wrong?”

  “Amy,” Roy muttered. “Can’t get out. Get word, man. Get word. We need help here…dying…” His voice faded away.

  Ash sat frozen for a moment. Remembering Roy’s words about fever, he touched Roy’s brow, frightened at how hot he found it. “Oh Roy, I don’t know enough. I don’t even know how to find Mambokadzi.”

  Ash rose and filled a bowl at the spring and returned. He knelt and bathed Roy’s face, neck, and shoulders in an attempt to cool him down. Roy seemed to breathe more easily, and once he even opened his eyes and gave Ash a weak smile. But as the morning wore on he sank back into fever, moaning and crying out for help.

  “Troops and supplies…Amy,” Roy whispered over and over, turning too-bright eyes to Ash’s face. “Get help, man. Tell them,” he said, clutching Ash’s arm so hard it was painful.

  Ash promised he would, hoping his words carried some comfort to Roy’s fevered brain.

  As the morning progressed, Ash remembered the quinine, and he raided Roy’s medical supplies until he found a small bottle with a hand-printed label.

  He measured the dose into a cup and mixed it with water. It smelled bitter and unpleasant, but he lifted Roy’s head and, without giving Roy time to protest, tipped it down his throat. Roy spluttered and sobbed, but Ash held him fast, and after a few long moments, Roy relaxed.

  Ash lowered him back to the bed, stroking his forehead gently. “Help is coming, Roy. Help is coming.”

  Roy moved his head restlessly, then stared straight into Ash’s eyes. “There is no help for Amy.” Then his eyes drifted closed, and he seemed to fall asleep.

  Ash sat at Roy’s bedside for two days while the rain fell unrelentingly outside.

  They had food—pumpkin and wild spinach gathered in the hills, and two guinea fowl Roy had gotten with the slingshot before being taken ill. Initially Roy refused everything except water, but each dose of quinine seemed to bring him ease, and Ash was finally able to coax Roy to swallow some broth he made from a guinea-fowl carcass.

  Ash napped only fitfully, waking every time Roy called, speaking low and reassuringly until Roy’s anxiety subsided. When Roy shivered with the cold, Ash wrapped him in blankets and held him tight. When Roy tossed and turned, fighting the blankets, Ash bathed him with cool water from the spring. It was all he knew to do, and he could only hope his treatment was having the required effect. His initial thoughts of going for help were quickly quelled: Roy was too ill to be left alone.

  The rain stopped at last on the evening of the second day of Roy’s illness, and Ash went outside the cave mouth, watching the clouds roll back from the night sky. He thought Roy seemed a little better today, and he wondered if he could somehow catch another guinea fowl. The broth was nearly gone.

  “Ash!” Roy’s voice cut through his thoughts of storms and guinea fowl, and he hurried back into the cave. “Ash!” Roy was raised up on one elbow, his blankets kicked away. He was making a weak but determined effort to get up.

  “Roy! No! Lie down—” Ash ran to his side and grabbed his shoulders.

  “Ash!” Roy took Ash’s arm, shaking with the effort. “Ash…thought you’d gone…back to England.” His blue eyes
filled with tears. “Don’t…don’t…please.”

  “Shh,” Ash said softly, fighting back tears of his own. He eased his arm around Roy, and this time, Roy allowed himself to be lowered back to the bed. He kept hold of Ash’s arm, eyes never leaving Ash’s face.

  “I’m here, Roy. I’m not leaving you. I’m not going back to England.” He choked back a sob, steadying himself as he realized he would do whatever it took to make the words true. “You need to sleep, all right? You have the fever.”

  Roy nodded slowly. He didn’t release his grip on Ash’s arm. “Sleep,” he agreed muzzily. “Don’t go…” His eyes drifted closed, and Ash had to lean close to hear the last whispered word. “Kashiye…”

  Ash pressed a kiss to Roy’s forehead.

  In another hour, he’d have to wake him again for more medicine, but for now, Roy was sleeping cool and fever-free. Ash breathed a sigh of relief and gently disengaged Roy’s hand from his arm. He couldn’t catch a guinea fowl in an hour, but he could roast a pumpkin, and a gruel made of the vegetable’s flesh would surely be nourishing.

  Mambokadzi’s words echoed in Ash’s ears.

  “Once, you were a lion. Your mama knew that, sure as she knew the storm meant her days were numbered. You went away and became a man, but there’s another storm coming, son. And you’ve got to remember. You’ve got to find your place.

  “Take him with you and get ready for the storm. It’s coming again.”

  Ash hurried to the fire.

  * * * *

  He had little enough experience as a sick-nurse, but even inexperienced as Ash was, he knew the pumpkin gruel, while nourishing, was not enough. Somehow, he would have to hunt; Roy needed a thick, sustaining meat broth to help him regain his strength.

  Roy was still weak and lethargic, but his fever had not returned. He slept most of the time, although if Ash left his side, he became fretful.

  On the third day, Roy fell asleep shortly after lunch, and Ash, knowing Roy was likely to sleep for several hours, took the slingshot from the pack and went hunting.

  A short hike down the hill brought Ash to a grassy plateau. He stared around him, wary of snakes, aware of the insect song rising and falling in his ears. Suddenly, the golden grassland seemed to undulate under his feet, making him dizzy, and he sank to a rock slab, breathing hard.

  The sun was warm and soothing, and after a moment, Ash stretched out on the rock, enjoying the heat against his skin as he scanned the plateau. Over on the far side, a stand of bushes with dry, golden foliage bore a crop of open seedpods—dry, black, and twisted. Their fruit lay scattered on the earth below.

  Ash’s blood quickened in his veins. Where the seeds fell, birds would come. He hummed to himself softly, then started for the bushes.

  A part of him realized his knowledge of the birds’ habits was not his own. That same part rejoiced at his strength, his size and power as he walked across the grassland like a king.

  His predator eyes took in the colony of small, spotted birds scratching and pecking around the bushes, and he growled to himself in satisfaction. Fat fowl meant broth for Roy and meat for himself. He crept closer on his toes, ghosting through the long grass.

  The birds could fly but preferred not to. Once again, Ash did not question this knowledge but instead sought to use it to his advantage. If he came upon the birds unaware, his chance of success was high.

  Several yards from his quarry, downwind, Ash crouched in the grass. He stared at the birds, adrenaline pumping through his veins. So close, his courage was ready to desert him—until he looked down and saw a pair of huge, golden paws.

  Ash caught his breath and refocused on the guinea fowl. The two biggest, fattest birds stood in the center of the flock, and Ash decided to try for those. He crooned in excitement, then sprang, long and low, right into the middle of the birds.

  Pain like fire shot through his hand, and he fell back, gasping. The scolding cries of the guinea fowl grew higher and shriller, and Ash scrambled away from the thornbushes and his erstwhile prey.

  He retreated across the grass to his sunny rock, turned his back on the bushes and applied himself to removing the huge, thorny splinter from his left palm.

  * * * *

  Late in the afternoon, Ash returned to the cave in triumph, bearing two guinea fowl. Roy stirred and made to get out of bed. “I thought you were gone,” he said muzzily.

  Ash set the birds down by the fire ring, darted to the bed, and pulled Roy into his arms. “I promised I wouldn’t leave you, remember?” he said softly, kissing Roy’s hair. “But we must eat! And this meat will give you back your strength.”

  Roy raised his head from Ash’s shoulder. “So many dreams. When the fever comes, it’s hard to know what’s real. Even where I am.”

  “I know.” Ash held Roy a little longer, then clambered off the rock, returned to his catch, and set about plucking and cleaning them. “Why don’t you rest while I make supper?”

  Roy stayed in bed but sat up against the rock wall and watched in silence while Ash built up the fire and set the birds to cook.

  “How did you get them?” Roy asked when Ash finally brought him a bowl of broth. “Did you use the slingshot?”

  “I tried, but I confess I’m no good with it.” Ash grinned. “I sneaked up on them and just, well, dived on them. I guess the impact broke their necks.”

  Roy looked from the soup to Ash in obvious surprise. “Dived on them? Unconventional. I’m looking forward to seeing your technique.”

  Ash laughed. “I’m not sure it’s repeatable.”

  Roy kept eating but nodded at Ash’s left wrist. “You’re favoring that hand. What happened? Did you hurt it?”

  “My hand?” Ash turned his wrist. They both stared at the long scratch that ran across his palm. “It was just a thorn. It’s nothing.”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon.” Ash tucked his hand across his ribs defensively. “It’s only a scratch.”

  “This afternoon? Can’t be. That looks three, four days old at least.”

  Frowning, Ash pulled away and went back to the fire. “Please don’t worry about it. You’ll bring on the fever again.”

  “You’re right. But it can’t be fresh. Let me see your hand again.”

  “When you’re well, then you may look all you like.” Ash busied himself getting his own bowl of broth. “Drink your soup. I sustained this wound while hunting your dinner, after all.”

  Roy gave a short laugh. “You have to watch those guinea fowl. When they attack, it’s every man for himself.”

  Ash carried his bowl over to the flat rock and perched on the edge. “You’re better today.”

  “Yes. The fever’s gone off again. It’s left me weak—it always does—but I’ll be as good as new in a few days.” Roy ate some more soup in silence, then put his bowl aside. “You found the quinine.”

  “Yes. I wanted to go for help, but I realized I couldn’t leave you.” Ash laid a tentative hand on Roy’s leg.

  Roy looked at it for a moment, then laid his own hand over Ash’s, squeezing gently. “Thank you. I hope… Ash, when I’m sick, I don’t know where I am. If I said anything…” He stopped. “What I’m trying to say is that if I said anything, if I shouted at you, I’m sorry. It’s not—that is, it wasn’t you.”

  Ash put his bowl of soup aside. “I knew, Roy. I knew. I’m just sorry you had to go through that. It sounded hard.”

  With a harsh crack of laughter, Roy sat back, dropping his head into his hands. “Hard.” He sat like that for a moment, then raised his head. “But you stayed. I dreamed you left. I dreamed…”

  “I think you went back to the war,” Ash said softly, watching him. “You kept asking me to get help. Help for Amy.”

  Roy paled, looking away. “Amy. Amiens, Ash. The filthiest battle of the whole war. So much death and nothing—nothing—we could do save watch them die. As you’ve found out, it haunts me yet.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ash said, feeling inadequ
ate.

  Roy shrugged. He sat, silent and drawn, while Ash cleaned up after dinner, and didn’t move until Ash returned to his side with the medicine bottle. He took the dose in silence, then lay down, but when Ash would have turned away, Roy reached out suddenly, grabbing his wrist.

  Ash looked at him in surprise, suddenly realizing that Roy’s cheeks were wet with tears. He touched Roy’s shoulder gently, not sure exactly what Roy wanted from him.

  “Help,” Roy said in a hoarse whisper. “Help, Ash. Not for Amiens. For me.”

  Ash’s heart melted. He stripped quickly, then climbed into bed with Roy, pulled him close, and covered him with his body. Skin on skin, he held Roy with everything he had.

  Roy clung to him, rigid at first; then it was as though a dam inside him had burst. He went limp, burrowing hard into Ash’s shoulder, his whole body wracked with sobs. Ash held him hard all night long, and somewhere just before the dawn, Roy slept at last.

  * * * *

  The next morning, Roy was up and had prepared breakfast before Ash awoke, and as Ash ate, he noticed that Roy had been through the supplies, arranging everything with military precision.

  “I’m sorry,” Ash said quietly.

  “What?” Roy came over and squatted beside him.

  Ash indicated the neat piles of supplies stacked near the spring. “I didn’t keep them properly. I’m sorry.”

  “That? You’ve done so much for me. That’s my habit. I was a soldier too long, I guess. I do that without even thinking about it. So far this morning, I stacked the supplies, I repacked all the herbs, and I washed our spare clothes and all the blankets except those you slept in.” There was a note of apology in Roy’s voice. “It’s what I do when there’s something on my mind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know I said I’d get you back to England. And I will, I’ll keep my word, if you—if that’s what you want. But before I do…I can’t let you go without trying, all right? Please don’t hate me for that.” Abruptly, Roy got to his feet and walked swiftly to the mouth of the cave.

  Ash stared after him in confusion, then leaped to his feet and followed. “Roy!”