Akano's Best Shot

Voices and sudden bustle broke the morning's calm.  Clerks scrambled to their desks, assistants leapt to their feet, and lawyers smoothed their robes.  Prince Selorin had entered the building.

            Running nervous fingers through his hair, Akano took a deep breath.  He'd been biding his time for weeks.  He'd planned to make his move several months ago, when Selorin had parted from Haloni with the explanation that he'd only become royal high judge a year and a half ago and needed to devote more time to his position than to a serious relationship.  Before Akano had found his chance, men had lined up at Selorin's door to help him fill the lonely nights.  First Torika and then Butaden had followed in Haloni's footsteps, but Selorin had broken up with both of them with the same excuse: while he was distracted by Orinakin's absence and trying to focus on his work, he simply couldn't give a long term relationship the necessary attention.  He'd thrown himself into his duties, but he still loved having boyfriends at his side - - at least, for a short time.  He'd recently entered into a brief fling with handsome and cultured Kitede, but three days ago, even Kitede had been politely set aside.

            Yesterday, the royal diplomat had finally returned. This was Akano's best shot.

            Lingering in the hallway, Akano waited while a series of assistants, clerks, and lawyers passed through Selorin's office doors.  Most of them came out in a hurry to do Selorin's bidding; many of them came out smiling.  A few of the younger, newer ones emerged looking stunned and rather overwhelmed.

            Eventually, Topano, Selorin's cousin and primary assistant, stepped out, glanced briefly at Akano, and said, through the half-opened double doors, “Yes.”  The murmur of Selorin's smooth, low voice was followed by a nod from Topano, who held open one of the doors for Akano and said, “You may see the prince now.”

            Jittery from nerves, Akano walked forward, entering the royal judge's office.  The doors closed behind him; Topano had gone.

            The office was a large space, its high ceiling decorated with symbols of, and praises to, Sutanoka and Itanoka, the gods of justice and wisdom.  White and blue, the room boasted a massive desk, a conference table, a sitting area, and a dozen tall bookcases with a sliding ladder.  Behind the white desk sat Selorin, pushing a stack of books aside with one jeweled hand and greeting Akano with a smile.  “Hello.”

            “Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki,” Akano said with a bow.  Selorin's smile was noticeably brighter today, and his gaze was warm and welcoming, less distracted and harried than in recent days.  “I hear that your brother has come home.”

            “Yes,” Selorin said, sitting back in his chair, pleasure lighting his eyes.  “It has been wonderful to see him again.  Please, have a seat.”

            “He, ah, brought some suitors for the pharaoh?” Akano asked, settling into one of the cushioned chairs opposite the desk.

            “Yes, another five,” Selorin said.  “We dined with them last night.  They're excellent candidates.  They would make fine kings.”  His gaze drifted down Akano's chest.  “You look well,” he said, his tone speculative.

            As a judge, as a prince, Selorin was very wise and very kind.  He was intelligent, learned, decisive, and generous.  As a man, he was a bit busy; he gained and lost boyfriends frequently, taking and dropping lovers the way some people changed clothes.  He wasn't callous, wasn't crude; he simply enjoyed men, enjoyed having a boyfriend, enjoyed embarking on a new relationship with a new lover, and exhibited a notorious inability to commit to anyone for longer than a few weeks.

            Everyone understood that Selorin's relationships were brief, and no one who became his boyfriend ever expected to stay for more than a few weeks.  He averaged about one boyfriend a month, and gossips generally referred to his lovers as his “monthly indulgences.”  Every twenty-eight day cycle brought a new boyfriend, a new love affair, a new handsome young man emerging from Selorin's office with bright eyes and rumpled clothing.  Akano wanted to be that young man.  He'd met Selorin in the Royal House of Art, where his uncle worked, several months ago, and immediately had been utterly captivated.  His heart beat faster whenever Selorin was near, and his nights were filled with hot, wild fantasies.

            Akano knew very well that, if he gambled and won, he'd still be gently set aside after his month ended, and he was fine with that.  He didn't want to be Selorin's lover forever.  He simply wanted to take his place in the string of boyfriends.  He wanted his shot at being Selorin's monthly indulgence.  The men Selorin chose were handsome, sexual, fascinating creatures, and he wanted to be one of them.

            Selorin had broken up with his last boyfriend a few days ago; his brother was home again, and he was in a good mood.  Akano was never going to find a better opportunity.

            “Thank you.”  Shifting in his chair, Akano let his thighs spread naturally, deliberately flexing his muscles against the clinging mesh of his shirt.  “I've been doing my best, and I think that I'm ready.  We should perform very well together.”  He paused, holding Selorin's gaze, then added, “The team and I, I mean.”

            “You are very…fit,” Selorin murmured appreciatively.  The fingers of his left hand were curled in slightly; he was rubbing his thumb over his fingertips in a slow, circular, repetitive motion.  Akano knew, from weeks of experimentation and experience, that the unconscious gesture was a sign of arousal.  He'd been flirting with Selorin for over a month, waiting for the right opportunity and, he hoped, piquing curiosity.  Selorin had, over the weeks, seemed increasingly interested, especially between boyfriends.

            He wasn't usually this obvious about his intentions, but he wanted Selorin to understand him, without a doubt.  “I've been pretty eager to get back into it, to get out there and score.”

            “You must be exceptional on the field.”  Selorin's gaze burned through the thin material of his pants, lust gleaming in those beautiful blue eyes.  Growing warm, Akano felt his body begin to respond.  He wanted this, he'd been planning and plotting for it, and now-

            Selorin's hand relaxed; his expression cleared.  No, no; Akano sat forward, trying to deny it, but Selorin began to move books and shuffle papers.  “It's been very nice to see you,” he said, his tone kind but polite enough to put distance between them, “but I'm afraid that I have a few matters to take care of this morning.”

            No, no!  Akano adored Selorin's integrity, but he hadn't realized that it would frustrate his plans.  He'd done his research; he knew that Selorin didn't take lovers who worked in the justice system, worked with any of the brothers, worked within the palace, or were uniquely influenced by his official decisions.  But Akano wasn't in any of those categories.  What was the problem?  “I heard that you broke up with Kitede,” he said, standing and stepping closer to the desk.

            “Yes, I did,” Selorin said.

            “That's a shame,” he murmured, dragging his fingers across his stomach, stroking his own skin through the mesh.  “I hope that you aren't too…lonely.”

            “I'm fine,” Selorin said, not raising his gaze from Akano's abs.

            Planting one hand on the desk, Akano leaned forward.

            Clearing his throat, Selorin sat back.  “I didn't realize that you had a scar there,” he said, studiously shuffling papers again.

            “I have two,” Akano said, slowly strolling around the edge of the desk, one hand on his belt buckle.  “Would you like to see the other one?”

            “Akano,” Selorin said, his tone insistent, a plea in his eyes as he stood.

            “I know that you want me,” Akano said, giving up even his thin pretense, putting his hand on Selorin's wrist.  He'd never touched Selorin before, and the incredible smoothness of Selorin's skin made him pause; his fingers slid beneath the sleeve of Selorin's robe, fascinated, eager.

            “I don't-”

            “You want me,” Akano said, moving closer, his voice low and seductive.  “You know that I want you.”

            “I adore you,” Selorin admitted, easing his arm from Akano's grasp.  “We can't do this here.”

“Yes, we can,” Akano argued, taking Selorin's other hand now, needing to touch him again.  If his arm felt this luxuriously smooth, firm, and delicious, then the skin on his chest, on his ass, on his - - Akano's vision blurred.  “You fuck all of your lovers here, you've taken each one of them on that sofa, on that table, right on top of this desk.”

            “Not the first time,” Selorin said.  “I spend time with my boyfriends here, yes, but only after they're my boyfriends.  I don't make first contact here, not in my office, not in this building.”  His words were insistent, but his gaze was hot with lust as it explored Akano's body.  Seeming to remember himself, shaking his head yet not stepping back, he said, “It's not appropriate, it doesn't-”

            “Then pretend that we've already had sex, last night, decide that we're already together,” Akano said, and kissed him.  Oh, oh yes, oh, mmm…  Moaning, he wrapped his arms around Selorin's shoulders, pressing himself to the firmness of Selorin's body.  The growing thickness of Selorin's arousal against his hip made his blood run hot, his own dick stiffening quickly as Selorin's slow, knowing, erotic kisses mastered him down to his soul.

            “Is that what you want?” Selorin whispered, kissing up the side of his neck, fingers exploring the swell of his erection through his pants.  “Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

            Groaning, Akano buried his fingers in long, silken strands of blue hair, kissing Selorin hungrily, burning with need.  “Yes, yes, oh,” more kisses, more need, urgency building, “I want you, I want to be with you,” his body was on fire, “I want to be yours,” he couldn't stop moaning, “I need you,” he could barely get the words out, “yes, now.”

            “I want you,”  Selorin said, quick fingers making short work of Akano's fly, “I've wanted you,” his palm warm and smooth and glorious against Akano's rigid, aching erection.  “Your sweet red lips,” he said, kissing, nibbling, making Akano pant from wanting him.  “Your pretty dark eyes, your muscular thighs, your entrancing smiles, when you're near me, all I can think about is pushing in deep from behind and watching your gorgeous ass rise up to meet me.”

            Groaning, Akano shoved his own pants down with one hand, “Yes, yes, do it,” his other hand scrabbling across the buttons of Selorin's robes. “Fuck me here, I need it,” he panted, feasting on possessive kisses.

            “Leave your shirt on,” Selorin breathed, shedding layers of blue with quick grace, robes spilling over the chair.  Kissing him hungrily, hot with anticipation, Akano groaned as more skin was finally revealed, the exposed flesh flowing like silk under his fingers.

            Under the last robe was a simple sleeveless shirt of dark, dark blue and skimpy matching shorts of soft cotton.  Akano was on his knees before another heartbeat passed, peeling those shorts down with a soft, aching moan.  Selorin's engorged erection throbbed against his lips as he pressed sweet, hungry kisses to it, the exquisitely smooth head making his own dick pulse with adoration.  As he ran his hands over firm thighs and slender hips, he licked up and down the long shaft, closing his eyes and sucking gently as Selorin caressed his cheeks.

            Groaning, “Yes, oh, oh, “ Selorin pushed into his mouth a little, “ah, yes, like that, like that, oh,“ rocking slightly, moaning his name as he sucked harder.  “Akano…”

            The soft thrust and slide of Selorin's dick made Akano unbearably hard, made him drool and moan.  He'd never been with a man so beautiful, so sensual, or so well-endowed as Selorin, and his body ached with lust.  He'd fantasized about this moment, dreamt about it, and now the reality of it consumed him, the soft rug under his knees, the sound of Selorin's rough, passionate breath, the stroke of Selorin's erection against the back of his throat.

            “Oh, Akano, mmm, yes,” Selorin panted, pulling him to his feet, kissing him with fierce need, pinning him against the desk, body to body, erection to erection, grinding against him, rocking against him, making his back arch and his eyes roll back in his head.  “Show me,” Selorin whispered, stroking his nipples through the mesh of his shirt, “give it to me.”

            With a desperate moan, Akano twisted to face the desk, offering Selorin his ass.  Hot from Selorin's low, appreciative groan, he shuddered at the cupping and squeezing from Selorin's hands.  “Take me,” he begged, arching back into that possessive touch, spreading his thighs.

            “So muscular,” Selorin murmured, “and so round.”  The drawer beside him slid out, then closed again.  “Mmm, Akano, I could fuck you for hours.”  Gentle stroking down the cleft of his ass, then a slow, slippery push.  Groaning at the sense of penetration, Akano twisted his own nipples, trying not to come just from the tease of Selorin's skilled fingers.  “I want to be inside you,” Selorin whispered, stroking his prostate, making him rock and burn.  “Do you want it?”

            “Yes, yes, please.”  Needing to come, wanting to climb onto the desk to get away from this torture, wanting to lean back and rub himself all over Selorin's gorgeous body, “I want it, I need it,” Akano whimpered helplessly, bucking at Selorin's knowing touch.  “Now, please, please.”

            Those too-experienced fingers slid out, but he felt the blunt pressure of that glorious erection.  “Are you ready?” Selorin whispered, squeezing his hip.

            “Yes, oh, yes…” He felt it, he felt it, oh, stretching, big, “Take me, yes, fuck me, ahh,” stretching, more, oh, “yes, oh, oh.”  Gasping, he felt the heel of Selorin's palm gently rubbing over the base of his spine, and when he arched for it, Selorin groaned and pushed in one last inch.  “Please,” he whimpered, and Selorin eased back and thrust in again, slowly, sending a thick spiral of heat upward to his brain.

            “So good,” Selorin panted, sliding back and pushing in again, rocking back and thrusting forward.  Each successive thrust brought a new wave of pleasure, and the rhythm of it was so undeniable that Akano began to move with it, move for it, rocking his hips in search of further ecstasy.  “Yes, yes, like that, like that,” Selorin moaned, fucking into him harder, squeezing his ass and rubbing his thigh, guiding one knee up onto the desk.  Akano moaned in time with Selorin's powerful thrusts, letting the pleasure wash over him. This was what he'd longed for, and listening to Selorin's delicious moans and feeling that glorious hardness pressing deep inside his body was better than he'd ever imagined.

Selorin leaned forward over him, covering his back, creating an intoxicating slide of skin on skin. When Selorin exploited this new angle, fucking him deeper, surging in hard and fast, Akano cried out, reaching back to grip Selorin's thigh, wracked by such fierce, ecstatic spasms that when he felt the shocking, unbearable sensation of Selorin's hand pumping and pulling over his dick, he came with a wild shout.

            “That's it, that's it,” Selorin panted in his ear, gripping his inner thigh and riding him hard.  The pleasure continued, untamed and consuming.  Selorin fucked him until he was trembling in every muscle, until he was making desperate, overwhelmed, overstimulated noises even he didn't recognize, until he simply couldn't take any more.  Then, with a series of rough, satisfied groans, Selorin came, pumping into him, flooding him with cum.

            Limp, moaning, Akano curled forward over the desk, gasping for breath.

            “Mmm.”  Nuzzling the back of his neck, Selorin rubbed his ass.  “Will you come to the palace tonight?”

            Breathless, Akano panted out, “I will do,” he licked his lips, “anything you want.”

            With a low chuckle, Selorin kissed across his shoulder.  “Do you give it as well as you take it?” he asked, hand sliding around to caress Akano's chest, teasing a hard nipple.

The powerful, consuming heat of their continued lovemaking had brought that thrilling ache back to Akano's dick, and now his erection stiffened further at Selorin's caress.  “Even better,” he promised.

            “Oh, I like that.”  Selorin's hand cupped his chin, tilting his head back; soft kisses nibbled at his lips.  “I have duties,” Selorin murmured, sounding in no great hurry to tend to them.  “We should part.”

            “We should,” Akano agreed, privately thinking no such thing, twisting around to face him.

            As he leaned in for a kiss, Selorin dropped his gaze and paused at the sight of Akano's erection.  “Oh,” he murmured, “Akano,” and he slid to his knees.

            Groaning, helplessly aroused, Akano had the delicious realization that this could be the best month of his life.

Opportunity

Biting his lower lip to hold back a groan, Kotiro pumped his hips lazily, thrusting his rigid erection over and over into Tola's drooling, sucking mouth.  He was wise enough to stay quiet, but he didn't see a need to rush, as long as everyone else remained out in the field.  If the gods were generous, no one would find a need to enter the barn or even notice that he and Tola had stepped away.

            He knew that he shouldn't shirk his duties to indulge his desires, but in the three years that he and Tola had been together, he'd never learned how to say no.  When Tola had crouched down beside him under the cover of the tall daridan plants and whispered, “Meet me in the barn in five minutes,” with that wicked, promising look in those irresistible dark eyes, he'd felt a quick pulse of lust and nodded without hesitation.

            Now, as he felt Tola's fingers slip behind his balls to push promisingly against his asshole, his thighs tensed, toes curling, and he moaned, bucking a little to-

            Sunlight brightened the cavernous insides of the dark barn, and Kotiro immediately dropped behind sacks of grain, falling soundlessly to his knees and pulling Tola's face to his chest.  “Ssshhh,” he breathed, one hand groping across the straw-strewn floor for his clothes.

            “No one's here,” someone said, a low voice, familiar.

            “Poru,” Tola whispered, stilling Kotiro's hand.  Poru was Kotiro's servant, one of the men hired by Kotiro's father to work the fields.  He was roughly their age, muscular, with eyes more black than brown and an unbelievably gorgeous ass, high and round and firm as a melon.

            Kotiro relaxed slightly.  Being caught by his father would be bad; being caught by Poru, well, maybe he could get Poru to join in.

            “Bar the door,” a second voice said.  “I would prefer that we not be interrupted.”

            Frowning, Kotiro suspected that he recognized that voice.  A deep voice, with an undertone of sexual invitation to it, but a little too cultured to be anyone except Prince Desin.  Prince Desin!  Kotiro didn't want to be caught with his pants around his ankles by one of the Seven Siblings!  What should he do?  Should he announce himself?  Hide and hope that no one noticed him?  Wait?  Try to escape unseen?  There was only one entrance to this barn, and the prince was right by it.

            A clank, a scrape, the unmistakable sound of metal on metal as the door locked.

            Tola's hand tightened on his.

            “Mmm.”  Faint, muffled, wet sounds.  A few low, appreciative grunts.  Rising up into a crouch, Kotiro peeked above the edge of the sacks he was tucked behind, and risked a glance.

            The barn was dark, but light shone through cracks here and there, providing just enough illumination for Kotiro to realize that Poru was kissing Prince Desin, and Desin was definitely kissing back.

            A tiny gasp at Kotiro's ear, and then he felt Tola shaking with laughter against his back.  He squeezed Tola's thigh to hush him, watching, mesmerized, as Poru knelt.

            The silent laughter stopped, suddenly, and Tola pressed more tightly to Kotiro's back, just as Kotiro strained to see in the darkness.  From this distance in the dim light, it was impossible to make out any real image of Prince Desin's cock, but Poru's awed, aroused sounds were clearly audible, as were the wet, slurping noises that followed.

            “Remember everything you see, and tell me later,” Tola whispered, and then Tola slid down, slithering in between Kotiro and the sacks, and, oh, Kotiro bit down on his hand as he felt Tola's mouth on his cock again.  His other hand cupped the back of Tola's head, fingers sliding through soft dark hair, as he tried not to echo Prince Desin's low, vibrating groans.  He and Tola had stolen erotic moments in a variety of places, so he knew how to be quiet during sex, but it was always a challenge.

            “Faster,” Prince Desin said, and Kotiro's body shook when Tola obeyed, picking up speed, making his knees quake.  Tola was being quiet, but the lewd, wet noises from the other end of the barn were a perfect, obscene accompaniment to the hot need burning through Kotiro's body.  “Harder,” Prince Desin said, “suck it harder, like that, that's good, that's, yeah…”  Whimpering against his hand, Kotiro gripped Tola's hair, trying to fight back the fierce wave of pleasure as Tola sucked his cock so hard his eyes rolled back in his head.  Oh, yes, that was good, he could feel it building, he could feel it, he-

            A thick, wet popping sound, and Poru panted, “I have oil.  Will you fuck me?”

            The steady, deep suction continued on Kotiro's dick, holding him there at the edge, while a hand crept across the ground, finding his clothing, reaching into his pockets.  The idea was too delicious.  Kotiro rocked his hips a little, pushing into Tola's mouth, wanting to fuck, wanting it now.

            Prince Desin pulled off his shirt in one smooth motion, his body gorgeous, muscular perfection.  “Would you be more comfortable on the floor or over one of those bales?”  It looked, through the dim light, that he was stroking himself, slowly caressing his own erection.  Shaken by a new wave of lust, Kotiro ran his hand down Tola's back, cupping Tola's gently curved ass.

            “Right here,” Poru said, rising and turning his back, leaning forward over a bale of hay.

            With a last swirl of tongue, Tola lifted his head, handing Kotiro the oil and twisting around, sliding his body fully between Kotiro and the sacks, his ass rubbing right against Kotiro's throbbing erection.  Muffling his groan against Tola's shoulder, Kotiro uncapped the tiny jar, hips already rocking to slide his swollen cock against Tola's hot flesh.

            Poru dropped his pants, baring his firm, round ass.  Making an aroused, pleased sound, Desin squeezed it, then gave it a quick, light spank.  Poru moaned, arching his back and pushing into Desin's touch, and Tola squirmed in Kotiro's lap as Kotiro slid two slick fingers in.

            Desin was quick with the oil, making Poru groan on every stroke, and then he was thrusting in, his moan making Kotiro ache while Poru made ecstatic, encouraging, hurts-just-right noises.  Kotiro followed Desin, sliding into Tola's eager, welcoming ass, intoxicated by Tola's shuddering breath as Tola's body accepted his cock.  His hands on Tola's hips encouraged writhing, rocking movement, trying to match Desin's pace.  Desin fucked hard, shaking Poru's muscular body, pounding in with harsh rhythm, while Poru grunted and panted and asked for more, his voice raw with need.  Tola rode Kotiro's cock with familiar ease, arching and tightening around him but breathing softly, not giving them away.

            Lost in the rhythm, in the sound of flesh on flesh, in Poru's demanding cries and Desin's sporadic grunts of pleasure, in the throbbing of his need and the slide of Tola's body, Kotiro rose up to meet Tola's speed, rocking upward, curling his hand around Tola's swollen erection.  Tola's fingers dug into his thigh as Poru made a harsh, whining sound, and then semen splashed over Kotiro's hand while Poru moaned and gasped.

            Easing off of him, Tola rotated around to face him, fitting their bodies back together and leaning back against the sacks, panting softly and wriggling to get comfortable.  Aching, Kotiro leaned forward over him, fucking into him slowly, kissing his neck and watching Prince Desin's powerful thrusts.

            Prince Desin's perfect stroke was a thing of beauty.  The way he rolled his hips and popped at the end of each forceful thrust made hot, broken moans well up and cluster in the back of Kotiro's throat.  Staring, needing, matching Desin's constant rhythm, Kotiro could only wonder in desperate, awed envy what it would feel like to have all of that big cock deep inside.  Poru was exceedingly fortunate, and, from the sound of it, felt very lucky indeed.

            Soft gasps in his ear were controlled echoes of Poru's desperate and heartfelt moans.  As Tola arched up against him, legs up around his ribcage, Kotiro stroked Tola's chest and chewed on his own bottom lip, fighting back the ecstasy of climax as Desin rocked Poru's body, hand working between Poru's thighs, on and on, fucking and thrusting until Poru made that harsh, whining sound again, bucking furiously.  He sounded like his body was being torn apart by pleasure; the noise tingled all the way down Kotiro's back and licked its way to Kotiro's straining cock.  He paused for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to control himself.

            Breathy laughter from Tola; Kotiro's eyes snapped open and he continued on, fucking Tola harder, hips rocking desperately, the end pushing in closer, closer.  He wanted to wait for Desin, but his dick ached and his balls felt tight and his thighs shook and orgasm was pressing on him from all sides, trying to get in, trying to get out.  He couldn't take it anymore, he just couldn't bear it, and he came, holding his breath, shuddering through it, pleasure and heat and satiation chasing each other out of his skin.

            “Uuhh, oh, yeah…”  Groaning, Prince Desin came, making satisfied sounds at the end of a job well done.  “Mmm…”  Popping his dick out, he cupped Poru's firm ass, giving it a few squeezes.  “You have the ass of a bela.”

            “You have the cock of a god,” Poru said, turning around but sagging limply against the hay, his tone exhausted.

            A pleased chuckle; Desin kissed Poru for a moment.  “I must return.”  Another few kisses, another satisfied sound, and Desin pulled his clothes back on.  “Thank you for your company.”

            “Thank you,” Poru said. Desin left; the door closed.

            Kotiro shivered when Tola's hands slid over his back.  He kissed Tola, quietly, stroking the sweat from his warm skin.

            A low, worn-out groan from Poru, who straightened and dressed.

            “Prince Desin made him come twice,” Tola breathed into Kotiro's ear.  “You must try harder to please me next time.”

            “I pleased you plenty enough last night,” Kotiro whispered.

            “There is a great deal of work still to be finished today,” Poru said.

            Kotiro froze.  Who was he talking to? Running his fingers through Kotiro's hair, Tola kissed his cheek.

            “If you join us within the next few minutes,” Poru added, pushing open the door, “I won't tell your father where you've been.”  The door closed again; they were alone.

            In shock, Kotiro stared across the barn.  Poru knew that he was there?  How long had Poru suspected?  What had-

            Laughing, Tola pinched him.  “Why do you think I suddenly wanted to come in here?  I heard Poru proposition His Royal Highness, and I-”

            “You knew?” Kotiro demanded, stunned.  “You knew that Poru was bringing Prince Desin in here?  You conspired to-”

            “Of course I did,” Tola said.  “I'd never let you miss out on this sort of opportunity.”

            Grinning, Kotiro kissed him.  “Come home with me tonight, and I'll make you come as many times as you want.”

            “I deserve that,” Tola agreed, arms twining around his neck.

Days of Endearment

Warm, drowsy, Totoni rolled over, slipping an arm free from under the light sheet.  Inhaling, he caught the scent of vanilla.  Cinnamon.  Chocolate.

            A smile turned up the corners of his mouth as he opened his eyes.  Linu.  Slipping from the bed, Totoni pulled on a pair of loose white pants, rubbing sleep from his face as he made his way to the kitchen.  Linu stood at the counter, stirring together ingredients in a worn, wooden bowl while delicious aromas wafted from the oven.  Walking up behind him, Totoni wrapped affectionate arms around his waist, nuzzling the curve of his neck.  “How long have you been up?”

            “Hours,” Linu said, still stirring but also relaxing back into him.  “What would you like for breakfast?”

            “I'd like to nibble on your fingers,” Totoni said, kissing his shoulder.  “I'd like to taste your lips.  I'd like to-”

            “I'll give you plenty of me to nibble on after breakfast,” Linu said, laughing.  “Please eat something first, so I don't hear your stomach growling while I'm enjoying myself.”

            It rarely took any real coaxing for Totoni to devour Linu's food.  Scanning the kitchen now, he saw plates piled high with delights.  “You'll let me take this home with me, won't you?” he asked, taking a pale cookie drizzled in something dark.

            “I'll insist,” Linu said.

            After the cookie melted in Totoni's mouth like a rich pat of butter, he rolled his tongue a bit, tasting almonds.  “If you cook like this for the princes, they're never going to allow you to leave the palace.”

            “You like it?” Linu asked, turning to catch his expression.

            “It's the most delicious thing I've tasted since the last time I saw you,” Totoni said, licking his lips.  “What's this?” he asked, picking up a rolled pastry filled with cream and topped with red berries.

            “We haven't named it yet,” Linu said.  “Most of this is more of what I made at the Ilanosa Festival.  It was all very popular, but I thought that I'd try it out on my favorite tester.”

            He liked being Linu's favorite.  Licking at the cream, Totoni bit into the treat.  Still warm, it flaked into quickly dissolving shards of pastry, his tongue basking in the soft, whipped cream, the berries a sweet yet tart contrast.  Cursing around that mouthful, he immediately took another, nodding at Linu.

            “I'm glad that you like it,” Linu said with a smile, wiping cream from the corner of Totoni's mouth with his thumb.  “Try the rolls and biscuits behind you while I get the cakes out of the oven.”

            After fairly gorging himself on Linu's pastries, Totoni wondered, as he always did, why he ever ate anything that Linu hadn't made.  It was cruel abuse to his tongue, to make it suffer through anyone else's food.

            His stomach full, his mouth happy, Totoni lounged on the sofa.  Linu came over and curled up in his lap, slender and quiet.

They were in the cottage that Linu's family kept along the river, halfway between the palace and Totoni's home out along the border.  Linu was a gifted chef, and the best way to develop enough of a reputation to open his own restaurant successfully was to work at the palace first.  So Linu had moved north, and cooked for the princes.

Totoni had moved east to run the main office of his family's shipping business in the city of Hesul on the Anorian border.  They imported and exported jewels, gemstones, and jewelry.  He only saw Linu every few weeks, when they could coordinate their schedules.  Occasionally, he could make a brief trip north for a few days, or Linu could come to see him, but the best times were when they both could get away, when Linu could leave the palace and he could escape the office and they could meet each other here, in the cottage by the river, with no demands, no interruptions, nothing but togetherness.

It was the month of Tilidolaru now, the twenty-eight days of endearment, just past the Ilanosa Festival, just before the Festival of the Lovers.  It was the perfect time to be with Linu, and Totoni held him close, cherishing the moment.

“Prince Anoremin likes my work,” Linu murmured against his neck, fingers stroking along his collarbone.

“That's all the recommendation you need,” Totoni said.

“I mentioned to Prince Rini that I'd like to open my own restaurant someday.”

            “You did?”  That was terrific.  “What did he say?”

            “He said that he'd patronize it, if I did.”

“Linu!”  Totoni pushed him back, to look into his face.  “That's terrific!  You'll have the Seven Siblings in your restaurant!  You couldn't ask for a better - - well, the eighth, but - - what's wrong?” he asked, frowning.  “You aren't excited.  What happened?”

            “They all live in Orikodisata.  The princes, the advisors, everyone who knows me, everyone important who could patronize me, they're all in the capital city.  I'd have to stay there, near the palace.”

            “Linu, it doesn't matter where you are.”  He didn't like Linu's thoughts, didn't want to follow them to their logical conclusion.  “Your food is delicious no matter where you cook it.  All you have to do is make a few dishes, let people know that you just came from the palace, and watch the customers flow in.  You don't need Prince Anoremin seated at a table to be successful.  Besides, Prince Rini travels enough that he'll show up someday, wherever you are.”

            “It's too soon for plans, anyway,” Linu said, trying to smile, settling back in against him.  “I don't know enough yet.”

            Totoni knew that Linu wanted to gain experience, and that the palace kitchen was a great place for that; he also worried that Linu was putting off the next stage on purpose.  “Whenever you're ready, you should do it.  Open your restaurant.”  He brushed aside Linu's bangs, gazing into those beloved dark eyes.  “It doesn't matter to me where it is, Linu.  It's only important that you're happy with it.  The rest, we'll figure out.”

            “My food's too rich for your trendy border folks,” Linu said.  “The only thing I hate about visiting you is finding something to eat while I'm there.  All of those snobby little restaurants wrinkle their noses at anything that isn't pure lettuce.”

            “That just means that we're all starving, and we'd trip all over each other rushing to get a seat at one of your tables,” Totoni said.  “No matter how snobby we are, we're not too good to eat what's served to the pharaoh.”

            A pleased, embarrassed smile.  “He likes my pastries.  Everybody saw him offering them to Queen Anikira at the festival.”

            Delighted, Totoni kissed Linu's glowing cheeks.  “You've pleased Anosukinom!  What else could you want?  He doesn't offer just anything to the queen!  How many chefs can say that they've ever been that blessed?  The fools serving up lettuce and celery only wish that they'd be considered for such an honor.”

            “It's a good sign,” Linu agreed.  “The other chefs think that I could have a long, distinguished career ahead of me.”

            “You do,” Totoni said.  He did see a very accomplished career in Linu's future.  He only wished that he were sure that he saw himself there, too.

            They'd been together for long enough that things had changed.  Their hairstyles, their clothing, their income, the names that they mentioned in conversation.  But certain things hadn't changed at all, over the years, and when Totoni came, groaning, Linu still moaned, hips rising, seeking more.  Linu was a restless, greedy lover, and when Totoni pulled out of him and slid down, tongue stroking his pulsing erection, fingers pushing into his hungry ass, Linu bucked, writhing impatiently, panting.  “Totoni, Totoni, Toni, Toni, please, oh…”

            Fingers crooking and rubbing right over that perfect little spot, Totoni swallowed Linu's cock, head bobbing up and down.  Licking only teased Linu; suction completed the job, and the stronger it was, the faster and harder Linu came.  Sucking fiercely, Totoni stroked in steady rhythm, until Linu was twitching and twisting and crying his name and coming, hips jerking, cum spurting down Totoni's throat.

            Raising his head, Totoni swallowed, licking his lips.  He stroked inside a bit, with his fingers, but Linu kicked at him and rolled away, so he grinned and relented, crawling over Linu's finally sated body.  “I have something for you,” he whispered, kissing his way up Linu's arm.

            “You have what for me?” Linu asked, offering his lips for a soft, sweet kiss.

            “A present.”  He kissed Linu again, luxuriating in Linu's easy accessibility, knowing that in only a few more days this would be denied him again.  “I love you,” he whispered.

            “I love you,” Linu promised, stroking his cheek, gazing into his eyes.  “I could move to Hesul, I'll open the restaurant there, I-”

            “Don't, don't,” Totoni said, kissing his mouth shut, kissing the words back in.  “Don't promise me that, don't say that.  Don't make that decision now.  You don't have to come to me.  Maybe I can come to you, maybe-”

            “And who would run the office?” Linu asked.  “Who-”

            “I don't know,” Totoni admitted, trying not to let his quiet desperation seep into his tone.  “I don't know, but we don't have to figure it out now.”

            “Okay,” a soft kiss, “okay,” another.  “Not now.”  Linu's fingers stroked across his nape.  “Later.”

            “Later,” he agreed, and took another kiss.

            His gift was a box of Corcassian desserts.  Carefully wrapped cakes, pastries, and biscuits.

            He'd used to buy Linu kitchen utensils, mixing bowls, even ingredients, but now Linu worked at the palace and had access to any amounts of the best materials.

            He dealt with jewels all day, every day, but Linu didn't require fine things.  He had given Linu jewelry before, and Linu had admired and valued and worn it, but he wanted to spark Linu's passion.

            So he bought Linu foreign delicacies, foods to which most Anorians didn't have easy access.

            “Oh, oh, Totoni,” Linu said, eyes bright, unpacking the box.  “Oh, Totoni,” and Totoni's lips were gifted with a series of warm, happy kisses.  “This looks like poggarri, and this, what is this, what are these called?  What is this, it tastes like,” and Linu nibbled off a corner, closing his eyes to concentrate, rolling his tongue.  “Chocolate and walnuts, but there's something underneath it, something that's almost like…whiskey?”

            They spent the rest of the evening tasting, Totoni taking notes as Linu dissected each treat.  He also jotted down additional comments as Linu imagined how to improve the desserts and how to adapt them for the royal family's preferences.  Then they had a real dinner, of substantial food completely unlike the expensive, tasteless dishes that Totoni subjected himself to when Linu wasn't around.  Then Totoni cleaned up the kitchen and made love to Linu again, and when he wakened in the morning, Linu was busy in the kitchen, experimenting with Anorian versions of Corcassian favorites.

            When the Festival of the Lovers came, Totoni would be back in Hesul, and Linu would be in the palace.  But for Totoni, every day that he spent with Linu was a celebration of the truest love of his life.

A Special Gift

As soon as Benuto received his weekly pay, he tucked a portion of it into a small leather pouch under a pile of shirts in his top dresser drawer.  Then, slipping through the busy hallways of the servants' quarters, squeezing between burly guards and ducking around knots of laughing maids, he went to his sister's room and gave her some money to send home to their parents.  With a last few coins jingling in his pocket and a wide grin on his face, Benuto hurried out of the palace, sandaled feet racing across the stone path leading to the noisy, crowded marketplace.

            Dodging merchants, shoppers, children, carts, and assorted animals, Benuto made his way through the smaller, cheaper stalls until he reached the larger stalls in the middle of the marketplace.  These merchants offered more expensive items, and not only did the crowd thin out here, but about half of the people moving between stalls were only looking, not buying.

            Benuto wasn't as richly dressed as some of the people around him, here in this more elite area; he wasn't dripping with lavish jewels, wasn't covered in silk.  He'd changed out of his usual brown clothing, the standard attire of a palace servant, and had replaced it with white pants and a light blue shirt.  He owned almost no fine jewelry of his own, but from his right wrist hung a bracelet of lovingly polished silver.  It was a gift from Queen Anikira for his first completed year of loyal service; he wore it as a reminder to himself that the gods were with him.  The gods had smiled upon him when he'd been granted a job in the palace; he prayed that they would be with him today, as well.

            His older sister, Beneta, a palace hostess, had helped him to get his job.  To get what he wanted this afternoon, he could only rely on himself.

            Pausing behind a stall featuring delicately crafted vases that looked too fragile to breathe on, Benuto smoothed his short, dark hair, undoing one of the buttons on his shirt.  Taking a deep breath, he lifted his chin and walked forward, stepping down the aisle and around a corner.

            And there he was, manning Lo Tamaro's stall, his capable fingers turning over the leaves of a book, his head respectfully bent as he conversed with an older woman.  Ket Tamaro ran his father's marketplace bookselling stall, selling relatively less precious volumes of old and rare texts, while Lo Tamaro himself ran the main bookstore farther across town where the most valuable books were kept under lock and key.  Ket had very white teeth and a very cultured voice, and Benuto visited his stall twice a week just to look at him.

            Usually, Benuto was too busy staring to think of anything interesting to say, and didn't exchange any words with Ket.  Lately, however, he'd managed to offer a few, passing remarks - - a brief greeting, a flimsy question.  He'd promised himself that he'd become more bold, because it was weak and immature of him to harbor this kind of desire but not act upon it, and he'd determined that today he would take firm steps toward his goal.

            His goal wasn't overly specific.  Generally, it involved three elements: touching, kissing, and Ket's naked body.

            He knew that once he got Ket into his bed, there would be no trouble - - Benuto was confident when it came to sex.  It was the shuffling, awkward dance of getting to the point of sex that made him stumble and hesitate.

            While Ket spoke with the old woman, Benuto admired the way that his white teeth flashed in the sunlight.  His skin was lightly tanned, and his finely made shirt clung to his firm chest.

            Reflexively touching his pocket to feel the reassuring weight of the coins there, Benuto moved in closer, stepping nearer the woman as if scanning the displayed texts.  Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he tracked Ket's smooth yet precise movements, growing warm at Ket's close proximity, listening to the low, rolling syllables of Ket's cultured accent.  Benuto came from the broad farmlands, where everyone slurred words and dropped consonants, but Ket must have grown up nearby; he sounded almost as well-bred as a prince.

            As the woman gathered her purchases and walked away, Benuto felt a quick, anticipatory tingle race through his body.  It was time.  Raising his gaze to Ket's face, he tried for a smile.

            Licking his lips, Ket smiled back.  “May I help you?”

            Instead of the calm, “Yes, thank you,” that Benuto had planned on, out came, “I want a book.”

            Ket's smile broadened, showing off all of those bright, even teeth.  “Then I can help you,” he said.  “What sort of book would you prefer?”

            His knees were weak, but he made a valiant attempt to return to his prepared script.  “I'd like to get something for my sister.  She's a hostess, in the palace, and she's very interested in foreign cultures.”

            “Foreign cultures,” Ket repeated, tapping his fingers on the tabletop.  “We have a few books from Ilaeia, collected works of art and poetry.  Or does she like history?”

            “She loves history,” Benuto said.

            “We have some - - or,” and Ket gave Benuto a close, speculative look, as if considering something new.  “She reads Jacacean?”

            “Very well.”  He liked the way that Ket was looking at him, as if he were a person, more than a customer.

            Ket licked his lips.  “We just acquired a certain book,” he said.  “It's only about forty years old, and it's in excellent condition.  It's in Jacacean, and it's full of their history, their accomplishments.  There's a section devoted to their artwork, with a great many illustrations, and there's a section on their medical advancements, with a great many sketches and diagrams.  It's a thick volume, but it would make a special gift.”

            That sounded perfect for Beneta.  It also sounded far too expensive.  “I'm sure that it's something she'd appreciate,” Benuto said, not wanting to say no to Ket in any way.

            “Let me show it to you,” Ket said, turning to the cabinets behind himself.  Unlocking the door, he crouched down, rising and nudging the door shut again as he set a book on the table before Benuto.  “As you can see, it's very well-crafted.  It was commissioned by the Emperor, and here,” he showed Benuto the inside of the front cover, “it was stamped with his notice of approval.”

            “Beneta would love this,” Benuto said, already picturing her delight.  A tome like this would easily become one of her most dear and prized possessions.  He hated to ask, but morbid curiosity made him punish himself: “How much does it cost?”

            Meeting Benuto's eyes, Ket licked his lips.  “How much do you think that it's worth?”

            A book like this?  With those gorgeous illustrations?  Commissioned and approved by the Emperor?  “More than I've made so far this year,” he admitted.  “Do you have anything less…well-made?”

            Ket smiled.  “How much do you have with you?”

            The marketplace wasn't normally a place where Benuto freely displayed his purse, but he reached into his pocket and pulled out his coins, showing Ket his palm.  “I suppose that this might buy me a page.”

            “Or two,” Ket admitted, smiling.  He studied the coins, then licked his lips.  Benuto's temperature rose.  “Would you happen to have three more of these?” Ket asked, his fingertips brushing the coin stamped with Akanoti's symbol.

            Ket was close, nearly touching him, and Benuto was almost dizzily distracted by Ket's mouth. “I do,” he said, gazing at Ket, entranced, “but this book's worth much more than that.”

            Ket's fingers strayed down over Benuto's wrist before withdrawing.  Had that - - was he - - that couldn't possibly have been accidental, could it?  “It's worth whatever I ask for it,” Ket said.

            They were both leaning toward each other, and the way that Ket gazed into his eyes made the table between them disappear.  “I can't let you do that,” Benuto said.  “I won't cheat you.”

            “Benuto,” Ket said, his voice soft, “would you like the book, or not?”

            “Of course I-”  Benuto cut himself off, staring.  “You just said my name.”

            There was that quick sweep of pink tongue again, tantalizing him, hypnotizing him.  “I noticed you, and I asked about you.”

            “You asked other people about me?” Benuto asked, astonished, feeling a quick, low pulse of excitement.

            “Yes, and I had a rough time tracking you down,” Ket said.

            “I can't believe that you went to the trouble,” Benuto said, amazed.

            “You're very handsome,” Ket said.

            “You're very determined,” Benuto said.

            “Buy the book,” Ket said, “and I'll have it delivered to you.  Tonight.”

            “I can't afford it,” Benuto said, “and I won't rob you.”  He hated his cursed conscience, hated himself for letting his ethics get in the way of his sex life.  Sex life, yes, sex, because Ket had tracked him down, Ket had asked about him, Ket had caressed his wrist, Ket wanted him.  While he'd been trying to manufacture a reason to speak with Ket, Ket had been noticing him, investigating him, figuring him out.

            “Then I'll bring you something else,” Ket said.  “I have to deliver something, my father expects me at a function tonight and I'll need an excuse to get away.”

            “Won't he have you send a messenger instead?” Benuto asked, not wanting this chance to slip away from him.

            “I'll tell him that you're an important new client.  He won't question a delivery to the palace.”

            Clever.  Benuto grinned.  “Bring me anything that you like,” he said, “only make sure that you allow me to give you something in return.”

            With the slim, neatly wrapped package under his arm, Ket mounted the stairs.  He'd been in the palace many times before, but never in the servants' wing, and he was surprised by the cheerful bustle around him.  He was also on the verge of becoming lost, when a quick hand grabbed his wrist and a voice said, “Right here, this way.”

            Pulled through a doorway, Ket found himself face-to-face with Benuto, although he could barely register the sight of Benuto's dimples and dark eyes before Benuto was kissing his lips and licking into his mouth and pushing him back across the room.

            Moaning, Ket submitted, dropping his package and wrapping his arms around Benuto's shoulders.  Groaning a little, he gripped the back of Benuto's neck to keep their mouths locked, his blood running hot as Benuto sucked at his tongue.  Unfamiliar with these rooms, his eyes closed, he trusted to Benuto's guidance, allowing himself to be steered backward as he nibbled across Benuto's succulent lips.  Benuto's gorgeous mouth drove him to distraction, those full, red lips always pouting at him and begging to be kissed, making him lick his own lips in worthless consolation.

            But now he could lick Benuto's lips, and kiss them, and moan over their lush softness.  And he could do more, more, so much more.  His hand finding Benuto's waist, he squeezed one slim hip and then balled his fist in Benuto's shirt, tugging, wanting the shirt off, wanting everything off, yes, “Oh, yes, everything.”

            “I'll give you everything,” Benuto promised, panting against his mouth before kissing him again, deeply, with great, arousing passion.  “Everything.”

            Immediately believing that promise, so hot he was sweating, Ket kissed Benuto hungrily, groaning helplessly when he felt Benuto's hips push against his, grinding arousal to arousal, devouring Benuto's mouth.  Hands sliding and clutching over Benuto's slim, firm body, he gripped Benuto's ass, wanting to hold Benuto in place to fuck against him, to control their movements.

            But if anyone was in control, it wasn't Ket; one firm push and he was splayed across a bed, on his back, barely getting a chance to inhale before Benuto was on him again, kissing him deeply.  Moaning at the slide of Benuto's tongue, Ket felt his body tense and ache as Benuto's hips rocked against his, his arousal stiffening and swelling as his body responded to the thrusting, rocking sensations that mimicked sex.  When he felt Benuto pulling at his shirt, taking it off, Ket quickly returned the favor.  His hands slid eagerly over Benuto's chest, rubbing greedily across hot, lean flesh, and then he felt Benuto's hand at his waist, stroking his dick while unbuttoning his pants, taking them off.

            “Oh, uh, oh, yes,” he needed more of that touch, he needed Benuto's hand on him, he needed, “Yes, yes,” there it was, oh, Benuto's fist closing around his hard erection.  Suddenly breathless, Ket struggled for air, his head falling back and his body tensing as his cock throbbed and his hips strained to buck up into Benuto's hand.  But that wasn't all he wanted, that wasn't enough, he wanted Benuto's mouth, he wanted Benuto's lips, he wanted - - pulling Benuto in for another kiss, he groaned, sucking, nibbling, licking over Benuto's soft, pouting lips.  “Suck me,” he panted, his body jerking and his breath catching as Benuto's hand gave him a tight squeeze.  “Suck my cock.”

            “Say my name,” Benuto whispered, so close that Ket could, yes, taste him.  “Say it to me.  Say it while I'm on you, say it when you're in my mouth.”

            The desire in Benuto's voice sent unbearable need swirling through Ket's body, and he moaned, capturing Benuto's mouth again.  “Benuto,” he whispered, between hot, hungry kisses, “Benuto, Benuto.”

            Benuto's head lifted, and Ket arched, aching, moaning senselessly.  Then, slowly, wetly, Benuto licked down his chest, leaving moist, sucking kisses across his skin.  Burning, groaning, Ket twisted, gripping Benuto's hard shoulder as Benuto's mouth ventured down, down, and Benuto's hand, still squeezing and pulling, brought his throbbing, rigid erection to Benuto's wet, sucking mouth.

            The sounds that rose from Ket's throat were rough and desperate, but he remembered to include Benuto's name, stuttered over it until he was riding a fierce wave of need and he was chanting it, “Benuto, Benuto, Benuto,” pushing himself up onto one tense, trembling arm and staring down, needing to watch, needing to see.

            The sight of those full, red lips wrapped around his cock, stretching to accommodate his swollen erection, was too much for him, and he made a quick, intense noise, reaching down and tugging his cock from Benuto's mouth, gasping for air and struggling for control.  “Don't, don't,” he said, panting, “don't make me come, just, just let me watch.”

            Desire flashed through Benuto's eyes; he raised a hand, cupping the side of Ket's face, his thumb rubbing across Ket's lips.  “You want to watch?” he asked, his voice a promising murmur, as he leaned up and kissed Ket's mouth slowly, gently.  “What,” lick, “do you,” soft suck, “want to see?”  Tenderly, sweetly, he bit down on Ket's lower lip before breathing on it hotly, making him tremble, making him moan.  “Do you want to see my tongue on your cock?”  The caress of Benuto's hand stroking down his side made Ket squirm, his erection begging for attention.  Another kiss, soft and warm.  “Do you want to watch me kiss your cock?”  The delicate brush of Benuto's lips; Ket struggled not to grab him.  “Is that what you want, Ket?  You want to see your cock between my lips?”

            “Benuto,” he moaned, taking Benuto's mouth again, guiding Benuto's hand back to his twitching, pulsing erection.  The rest of his words were lost, but he didn't need coherent syllables to communicate his yes, yes, yes.  Stroking tongue against tongue, he spread his legs further, raising his knees and running his hands down Benuto's back, coaxing Benuto south but unwilling to release that sexy, tempting, generous mouth.

            Breaking from their kiss with a snatch of laughter, Benuto kissed his cheek and slid back down, lips brushing across his hipbone.  “Yes,” a lick up his thigh, “mmm,” Benuto's hand on his balls, and then oh, yes, yes, oh, Benuto's tongue flicked out, the tip drawing a fine line up his erection.  Soft kisses fluttered around the head, and Ket's cock throbbed heavily at the attention, his eyes wide, his gaze devoted to every caress.

            Benuto continued on, flirting with Ket's erection, cupping and palming his balls.  The light, constant teasing kept Ket on edge, kept him sweating and shaking and moaning Benuto's name.  His voice was ragged now, pleading, and when Benuto's lips were wet with his pre-cum, he broke, begging, “Please, Benuto, please, suck it, I'm so close, suck it, please…”

            The backs of Benuto's fingers brushed lightly against Ket's straining erection as he said, “You told me not to make you come,” and left a wet, sucking kiss on Ket's thigh.

            So close, he could feel it, he was consumed by it, orgasm fighting to roll through him like fire.  “Please, Benuto, a little bit more, suck it for me, please.”

            “I could,” Benuto said, holding Ket's gaze.  Slowly, lasciviously, he licked his lips - - Ket's gut clenched - - and he pouted - - Ket's cock jerked eagerly, painfully - - and he touched the head of Ket's erection to the tip of his tongue, drawing his tongue in, guiding Ket's cock closer, rubbing it across his lips as it pulsed and leaked.  “Or,” he said, and his fingers drifted back, his palm cupping Ket's balls but his fingertips pressing to Ket's clenching hole, “I could let you feel my mouth somewhere else.”

            The package was so well-wrapped that Benuto couldn't possibly have done it himself.  “Where did you get this?” Beneta asked, untying the slim, gold strings.

            “From a friend,” Benuto said, his grin far too pleased.

“It looks lovely,” she said, smoothing aside the thick outer paper and the thin, elegant sheets inside, uncovering, “A book!”  Already delighted, she lifted it, turning it over in her hands.  Oh, “It's in Ilaeian,” she said, eagerly reading the cover and flipping through the pages.  “Poetry, oh, Benuto, thank you!”  Rising, she threw her arms around Benuto, hugging him tightly.  “You are my most beloved brother.”

            “You're welcome,” he said, kissing her cheek and setting her back.  “You like it?  There were a lot of other things there, but I couldn't afford-”

            “No, this is perfect,” she assured him, squeezing his arm.  “Perfect.”  Running her fingers across the cover, she couldn't wait to delve into its contents.  “You'll thank your friend for me?”

            Benuto grinned.  “After what I gave him last night, I think that he'll be thanking me.”

Slowly

As Selorin wrote out a note and passed it to a clerk, Dakeb stepped around behind the judge's bench and set a file before him.  “Your Highness may want to duck,” he murmured, opening the file.

            “Tomi?” Selorin asked, glancing over the file's contents.  It was a formality; Selorin studied each case's history at length before it ever came before him in court.

            “Tomi,” Dakeb confirmed.

            Murmuring a brief prayer to the gods, Selorin nodded to the guard.

            “Now appearing before His Royal Highness, Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki,” the guard announced as the doors swung open, “the righteous Pilori Hamet for the cause of Lo Hular Kihiko, and the righteous Noru Tomi for the cause of Lo Risit Ubik.”

            In formal blue robes, the lawyers strode into the room.  Rather, Pilori Hamet strode, and Noru Tomi tripped, dropping his bag, scattering his papers, and tearing his robe.

            Closing his eyes, Selorin sat back, whispering to the gods.

            Most of the crowd burst into laughter.  Covering his own amusement with a cough, Dakeb gestured to one of the guards, who came forward to assist Tomi.  While Hamet settled himself at his table, spreading out his papers and waiting with folded hands, Tomi scurried to the front of the courtroom, clutching his bent and disorganized sheets to his chest, leaving his bag behind in his haste.  While the guard brought him his bag, he rifled fruitlessly through his papers, occasionally pausing to drag his torn sleeve back up over his shoulder.  Apparently, unlike most of the lawyers, who wore full professional dress garb under their robes, Tomi wore a simple tunic and pants.

            Without even opening his eyes, Selorin gestured again.

            “Now appearing before His Royal Highness, Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki,” the guard said, “Lo Hular Kihiko and Lo Risit Ubik.”

            The seated crowd stirred as the plaintiff and defendant entered the courtroom.  Hular Kihiko and Risit Ubik had been business partners for many years.  While Hular had worked late one night, someone had come into the office, stabbed him, and left him for dead.  Hular blamed Risit, as the two of them had quarreled loudly and often.  Risit swore to his innocence, and the evidence was so uncertain that all of the previous courts had passed the decision on, until finally it had come before Selorin, the royal high judge, the nation's final judicial authority save only the pharaoh.

            Standing beside Hamet, Hular seemed determined.  Standing beside Tomi, Risit appeared desperate and discouraged.

            Opening his eyes, Selorin sat forward, scrutinizing the men.  Openly analyzing the plaintiff and defendant was something that Selorin did at the beginning of every trial.  He took longer than usual this time, especially with Risit, who turned pale and looked like he needed to sit down, preferably far from the courtroom.

            At least it gave Tomi time to shuffle his papers around, although they never did seem to become any more organized.

            “With the authority of the god Sutanoka, the authority of the god Itanoka, and the authority of Anosukinom Mutotanosa Situkabulanin Elanilanulanori Banotuda Kudorin A Rituliti,” Selorin said, “I preside over this courtroom.  Do you swear, before Sutanoka and Itanoka, that you are Hular Kihiko and that every word to which you give voice under this roof is true?”

            “Yes, I so swear,” Hular said.

            “Do you swear, before Sutanoka and Itanoka, that you are Risit Ubik and that every word to which you give voice under this roof is true?”

            “Yes, I so swear,” Risit said, his voice wavering a bit.

            “Lo Kihiko, do you give the righteous Pilori Hamet the authority to speak forth and act in your favor?”

            “Yes, I so give.”

            “Lo Ubik, do you give the righteous Noru Tomi the authority to speak forth and act in your favor?”

            “Yes, I so give.”

            At that, there were a few skeptical murmurs in the crowd, and a few giggles.  Tomi didn't react, and Risit seemed resigned to it, but Selorin frowned.

            Silence reigned.

            “Lo Hamet,” Selorin said, “you may begin.”

            The testimony and evidence were much as they had been in the previous trials.  Dakeb had read over the case beforehand, and Hamet had no surprises in store.  Having been a lawyer for several decades, Hamet was professional and experienced.  He'd appeared in this courtroom many times, and knew to present his case to Selorin, not to the crowd.  Moving logically and methodically through his points, he made clear and concise arguments.  His witnesses were well-rehearsed, and he used his evidence effectively.

            Tomi may as well have been in another courtroom.  He plunged his fingers through his thick, dark hair so often, it stood up raggedly all over his head.  He stumbled over his own feet and stuttered through his sentences.  He knocked his papers off of his table and tripped over the hem of his ripped gown.  He confused the precedent cases and, despite the wealth of crumpled papers before him, never could seem to find any of his notes.

            He hadn't been Risit's lawyer for the previous trials, and as time passed, Risit sank lower and lower in his chair, finally slumping over the table in apparent despair.  Many of the witnesses had never met Tomi, and seemed bewildered by his distracted manner.  Then Tomi called a new witness.

            Without referring to his notes, Selorin said, “Pito Nanoset is not on your list, Lo Tomi.”

            “No, Your Highness, she's not,” Tomi admitted.  “She should be, or she would have been, but I couldn't find her, and I didn't want to put her on there if I couldn't get her, but I found her, and she's here.  Your Highness.”

            “The righteous Noru Tomi has had several months to draw up correct and proper lists of witnesses and evidence,” Hamet argued.  “Bringing in a new witness at this late date is unusual at best and dishonest at worst.  As the witness lists are handed in the day before trial, are we expected to believe that this woman was only discovered last night?”

            “Yes!” Tomi said.  “She was only discovered last night, yes, that's right.  She's Risit's alibi, she's the woman he was with, but she left town and his last lawyer gave up on looking for her, but I can't let him go to prison for something that he didn't do, so I searched for her everywhere, and it turns out that she was out of the country, but I found her, I finally found her, she's-”

            “Your Highness, there is no mysterious woman,” Hamet protested.  “This false alibi-”

            “I will hear from her,” Selorin said.  “Bring her in.”

            Hamet glared at Tomi, Tomi ran his fingers through his hair, and Risit whispered earnestly, probably begging Tomi not to blunder at this critical moment.

            Pito Nanoset was a prostitute.  She'd been out of the country with one of her clients, and had stayed away for months, traveling.  She'd returned to Orina Anoris only two weeks ago, but down in the southern cities.  Only a great deal of investigative work had brought Tomi to her, finally.  Most importantly, however, she did have Risit in her list of clients, and her accounts showed that he'd been with her on the night of the stabbing, during the relevant hours.  Hamet questioned her closely, intending to prove that she was lying or that she'd falsified her records, and while she was consistent, she had no way to back up her claims.

            After Pito's testimony, everyone waited for Selorin's next move.  He was supposed to allow the lawyers to summarize their arguments, and then give his decision.

            Instead, he sat forward, lacing his fingers.  “Lo Tomi,” he said.

            “Your Highness,” Tomi said, jumping to his feet.

            “I believe that you made every effort to locate your witness.  I believe that it was the gods' will that you found her in time for this trial.  Therefore, I will give you one week to do whatever you must to substantiate her claims and solidify your argument.  The gods have smiled on you, Lo Tomi.”

            “Yes, Your Highness, thank you, Your Highness,” Tomi said, bowing.

            “The gods have smiled on you, as well, Lo Hamet,” Selorin said.  “You have one week to invalidate Lo Nanoset's claims.  I expect both of you here before me in seven days.  You are dismissed.”

            Bowing, the lawyers and witnesses began to leave, Hamet and Hular conferring hastily, Pito and Risit greeting each other, Tomi stuffing his papers back into his bag.

            “Lo Tomi,” Selorin said quietly, crooking his finger.

            Dragging his sleeve back up, Tomi shuffled to the bench, bowing nervously.  “Yes, Your Highness.  Thank you for your generosity.  It is-”

            “You and I have spoken before, Tomi,” Selorin said quietly.

            Turning bright red, Tomi stammered, “Y-yes, Your H-Highness.”

            “If you plan to continue to appear before me, I must insist that you respect this courtroom.”

            “Yes, Your Highness, absolutely, I-”

            “I will send someone to your office, to provide you with proper instruction.  If your performance does not improve, at least in part, then I will bar you from practicing in this building.  Do you understand?”

            Now dreadfully pale and sweating profusely, Tomi whispered, “Yes, Your Highness.”

            Selorin nodded.  “You are dismissed.”

            “Yes, Your Highness.  Thank you, Your Highness.”  Bowing, Tomi backed away, then turned and almost ran.

            “How much improvement do you expect to see?” Dakeb asked.

            “That's up to you,” Selorin said.  “Pay a visit tomorrow morning and report back to me on your progress.”

            Oh, no, no, “Not me.  What about the clerks?  What about-”

            Selorin grinned up at him.  “Are you refusing a direct order?”

            He was on the verge of doing just that.  “Tomi is a nice man,” he said, “a well-meaning man, but he's a mess.  He'd be attractive if he combed his hair, he'd be clean if he stopped falling over, but nothing's going to make him coherent or organized.”

            Accepting a case file from Topano, Selorin said, “Confidence would help.”

            “He needs more than confidence,” Dakeb said.  “He needs a new personality.”

            “Whom are we talking about?” Topano asked.

            “Tomi,” Dakeb said.  “His Royal Highness wants me to give Tomi confidence lessons.”

            “The righteous Noru Tomi?” Topano asked.  “I'll admit that the man needs help, but nothing short of a career change will do it.  I've often thought that he would make an excellent clown.”

            “Tomi is a lawyer,” Selorin said firmly.  “And he's going to be a competent lawyer.  Yes?” he asked Dakeb, raising his eyebrows.

            Doing his best not to question Selorin's wisdom, Dakeb said, “Yes.”

            As soon as he'd been released from the courtroom the day before, Tomi had rushed Pito back to his office and taken her client list and accounting from her.  He'd sent a letter to everyone mentioned in any of her paperwork, and today was checking the city records to make personal visits to anyone living nearby.  If he could bring in her other clients and show that their recollections corresponded with her records, then-

            “This,” a low voice said, “cannot be your office.”

            Shooting to his feet, scattering papers and overturning his chair, Tomi stammered out, “D-dak-keb.”  Itanoka above, Prince Selorin had sent Dakeb!  He'd expected a clerk, simply a clerk, not Prince Selorin's assistant, not Prince Selorin's cousin, not the son of Prince Selorin's predecessor Selorin A Dimi, not Dakeb!

            Surveying him with a grim expression, Dakeb said, “Thank you for providing me with an obvious starting point.  Please right your chair, and then pick up your papers.  Slowly,” he added, his tone firm, as Tomi rushed to obey.  “Stop right where you are, close your eyes, and take ten slow, deep breaths.”

            Half-crouched behind his desk, squeezing his eyes shut, Tomi breathed in and out.  One.  Was he going too fast?  Two.  Had that been too slow?  Three.  Was this taking too long?  Four.  He was doing it properly, wasn't he, he couldn't possibly be breathing incorrectly, could he?  Five.  Dakeb was in his office!  Six.  He didn't-

            “Tomi.”

            Opening his eyes, he held his breath.  Startled to see Dakeb so close, he backed up, tripped over his chair, and landed sprawled on the floor, wincing.

            “This,” Dakeb said, surveying him, “is not a good sign.”

            It was apparent that Tomi needed not only personal experience but also a clear example.  Dakeb did everything first, then had Tomi follow his lead.  They began with the most simple, basic tasks, like standing up without knocking over the chair, followed by standing up without dropping anything.  Then they practiced righting the chair, followed by gathering up papers.

            Mostly what Tomi needed was to breathe calmly and move slowly.  To keep his thoughts from becoming anxious and agitated, Dakeb told him to recite something that would keep his mind more focused, perhaps a favorite rule of law or a brief prayer.  It helped; sometimes he needed to whisper it aloud, but it did calm him down at least somewhat.

            His office was a mess, with papers and books and folders everywhere.  They weren't even stacked in piles; they sloppily covered each surface, strewn across desks and heaped on chairs and spilling across the floor.

            Refusing to return to Selorin and admit that Tomi's office was such a disaster, Dakeb made him clean it up.  Assisting, Dakeb first took off his formal blue robe.  He didn't really want to get dust and dirt on his clothes, but he wasn't about to soil his robe.  Tomi's robe was hung awkwardly on a peg behind the door, and his clothes were already so disheveled, a little more dust wouldn't make a difference.

            While they worked, he asked about Tomi's cases.  It took a while to get Tomi to talk in semi-calm sentences, since he tended to race ahead at full speed or stutter and stammer anxiously, but eventually conversation proceeded at a normal pace.

            Which was when Tomi explained to Dakeb exactly how much work he'd put into tracking down Pito Nanoset.

            He hadn't merely spent a few hours in investigation, or sent an assistant out to do the job.  Tomi, personally, had spoken to Pito's family members, to her friends, to her neighbors.  He'd traveled all across Orina Anoris for the slightest clue; he'd left the country at a word from her sister.  He'd come close more than once, but he'd always been a step behind, a few days too late.

            “She heard that I was looking for her, but she didn't understand why,” Tomi explained.  “I left notes for her at places that she might return to, and she got them, but she didn't trust me, because she'd had trouble with the law before, for stealing things a few years ago, so she was doing her best to avoid me.  When I finally talked to her and made her understand that Risit's freedom was in danger, she was eager to help.”

            “Why didn't you have someone else do all of that hunting?” Dakeb asked, incredulous.  “You could've sent someone else after her.”

            “Risit's other lawyers before me had done that, and no one had ever found her,” Tomi said.  “I knew that I could do it if I just tried hard enough.”  Setting down a stack of books, running dusty fingers through his hair, he admitted, “That's how I get everything done.  I try hard, I try as hard as I can.  I'm not good at very many things, but I'm always willing to try.”

            “Why did you choose the law?” Dakeb asked, wanting to brush the dust from Tomi's hair.

            “When I was six, my father went to court.  It was a simple case, a monetary dispute, and he took me along.  I was awed by the judge.  He controlled the entire room.  He was in command, he was confident, he seemed to know everything.  Everyone looked up to him, everyone turned to him for decisions.  He held futures in his hands.”

            “You wanted to be a judge,” Dakeb said.  His own father had been the royal high judge; he knew what Tomi had felt.

            “It didn't take me long to realize that I was never going to sit on the bench,” Tomi said, with a pale flush, “but I wanted to be in that courtroom.  I thought that it would be a great thing to stand before the judge, to present the case, to help people.  And I didn't give up until I made it.”

            “You pursued your goal,” Dakeb said.  “That's an admirable accomplishment.  Not many people stand before Prince Selorin.”

            “Not many people are thrown out of his courtroom, either,” Tomi said.  “If I don't learn how to conduct myself, I'm never going to try a case before him again.”  Turning away miserably, he knocked his stack of books to the floor.  “Oh!  Oh, no, no,” he wailed, dropping down beside the heap of overturned books.  “I'm never going to make it, I'm terrible, I'm clumsy and stupid and-”

            “And hard-working and dedicated and ambitious,” Dakeb said firmly.  “You're a lawyer, Tomi, you were in Prince Selorin's courtroom yesterday and you're expected back there next week.  You're the righteous Noru Tomi, and you're going to behave like it.  Get up.”

            Red-faced, miserable, Tomi scrambled to his feet, dusty and sweating and visibly unhappy.

            “Follow me.”  Dakeb walked into the bathroom, and when Tomi followed with a cowed shuffle, he pushed Tomi in front of the mirror.  “Look at yourself.  I want you to look at yourself every morning, every time you meet a client, every time you leave for the courthouse, every time you're about to appear as a lawyer before anyone.  Look at your hair.  Look at your robe.  Look at your face.  Look at your clothes.”

            Clumsily, Tomi began to paw at his hair, trying to tidy it.

            “Lawyers wear clean, neat robes with no stains, no holes,” Dakeb said.  “Comb your hair.  Wash.  Shave.  Appearing before Prince Selorin like this is disrespectful, and he has no reason to tolerate it.  My father would have thrown you out long ago.”

            “I've been so busy,” Tomi said, “I-”

            “You throw yourself into preparing your case,” Dakeb said.  “You need to work on presenting your case, as well.  Pay attention to your appearance, and groom yourself.  Rehearse your speeches.  Practice what you're going to say.”

            “Work on presenting my case,” Tomi said, gazing at his reflection.  “Preparation and presentation.”

            “Have we had a breakthrough?” Dakeb asked, daring to hope.

            “Do you think that I can do it?” Tomi asked, turning to him abruptly, almost knocking right into him.  “You think that I can do it, don't you?  You wouldn't be here if you didn't believe in me.”

            It was a tough question.  “If you want it badly enough,” Dakeb said, “you can do it.  But you have to try, Tomi.  You have to put the same effort into polishing your presentation that you put into finding Pito Nanoset.  Take your cues from Prince Selorin and from the other lawyers.  You've seen them, how they conduct themselves, how polished they are.  That may not come naturally to you, but it's something that you can strive for.  Hard work got you into Prince Selorin's courtroom, and it can keep you there.”

            “I'm just so nervous,” Tomi said, his fingers in his hair again.  “Prince Selorin is so powerful, and the other lawyers are so experienced, and my clients never believe in me, and-”

            “They don't believe in you,” Dakeb said, “because you don't believe in yourself.  You could be as skilled and accomplished as anyone else, if you really tried.”

            “I have tried,” Tomi argued.  “I've-”

            “Look at him,” Dakeb said, turning him around to face the mirror again.  “Does he look like he's tried?”

            “Yes,” Tomi said, his shoulders slumping dejectedly.  “Tried and failed.”

            Jerking him around, Dakeb almost smacked him.  “You,” he snapped, poking Tomi in the chest, “have gotten halfway there.  He,” he tugged on Tomi's shirt, “hasn't even tried at all.  Leave him behind!  You've worked hard, and you can't let this miserable little wimp drag you back into the gutter.  You've done the basic work, you got your education, you found your clients, you got into the courtroom.  Now do the rest!  Don't just be a lawyer in name only, Tomi, act like one!”

            “Preparation and presentation,” Tomi said suddenly, sounding startled, as if he'd just remembered something.

            “Yes!” Dakeb said, going with it.

            “Do the rest,” Tomi said.  “Act like a lawyer.  Act like a lawyer!”

            “Yes!” Dakeb agreed, to humor him.

            “I can do that,” Tomi said, as if truly realizing it for the first time.  “I can do that.  I can have a clean office and walk with confidence and speak with authority!”

            “Yes!” Dakeb said.  “You can!”

            “I can do it!” Tomi exclaimed, and embraced him.

            “Good,” Dakeb said, patting his back.  “Good, that's fine.”

            “Oh, oh, I'm sorry, I didn't, I-”

            “It's all right,” Dakeb said, as Tomi released him, squeezing Tomi's shoulder, not wanting his confidence to spiral down again.  “You finish cleaning your office and tracking down Pito's clients, and I'll come back in a few days to check on you.  When I get here, I expect to see a lawyer waiting for me.”

            “Yes,” Tomi said, nodding vigorously, smoothing down his hair with both hands.  “A lawyer, yes, definitely, I'll do it, I can do that.”

            “Good.”  Giving Tomi a smile, Dakeb took his robe and left.

            The next day, between cases, Prince Selorin asked, “How's Tomi?”

            “I'm working on it,” Dakeb said.

            Selorin nodded.  “He looks up to you.”

            To him?  “Is that why you asked me to speak with him?”

            “I chose you because you share my respect for the courtroom,” Selorin said.  “And because I think that he has a crush on you, and I wanted to see what would happen.”

            That explained the hard-on Dakeb had felt during that hug.  “You wanted to see what would happen?” he asked.  “I wonder what would happen if I told everyone that when we were younger, you had the annoying and never-ending habit of hoarding all of the-”

            “Are we exchanging memories?” Selorin asked.  “Shall we discuss your wonderful childhood habits?  Like your fondness for pulling my hair?”

            “It was the same color as my father's,” Dakeb said.  “I was jealous.”

            “That doesn't explain why you pulled my brothers' hair,” Selorin said.

            Dakeb grinned.  “I just liked to make them mad.”

            Two days later, Dakeb knocked on Tomi's door.

            First, he heard the sound of Tomi clearing his throat.  Then, “Come in!”

            Opening the door, Dakeb looked around the room in wonder.  It was neat.  It was clean.  Everything was filed away neatly, and there wasn't a speck of dust in sight.

            Behind the desk, Tomi shot up, knocking over his chair.  “D-dakeb!”  Bright red, he nervously set his chair back on its legs, then ran anxious hands over his clothes, smoothing them.  He wore appropriate clothing, a clean light blue shirt with well-made dark blue pants, and Dakeb saw no stains or severe wrinkles.  He'd shaved, and his thick hair was cut short.

            “You look well,” Dakeb said, approving, stepping into the office and closing the door.

            Gesturing to the chair, Tomi said, “I'm sorry about the, I was just, the-”

            “It's all right,” Dakeb said, smiling.  “Slow down, Tomi, breathe deeply.  Recite, if you need to.”

            Nodding, Tomi breathed.

            “We'll try again,” Dakeb said.  “You look well, Tomi.”

            Inhalation, exhalation.  “Thank you, Lo Dakeb,” Tomi said, almost bowing.  “I have worked hard to follow your advice.”  Inhalation, exhalation.  His hand strayed up as if to ruffle his hair; pulling his hand back down, he whispered to himself, growing calmer.

            “You've made great progress,” Dakeb said, taking a seat.

            “Thank you,” Tomi said.  “It's all because of you, you were so helpful, you were so right.”  Breathing, he sat down carefully, seeming relieved when he did so without incident.

            “It's your effort that made the difference,” Dakeb said.  Tomi really was quite an attractive man.  He was still a bit red; Dakeb remembered the stiffness of his arousal, and smiled.  “How have you fared in preparing for the continuation of the trial?”

            “Oh!” Tomi said, as if remembering.  “Yes, yes, I've gotten a great response, I have many witnesses already lined up, Pito kept wonderfully accurate records.  I told Risit about it, and he said that he's finally beginning to hope for the very first time.  I just need to do well in court, I just need to make Prince Selorin see the truth.”

            “The gods will guide you, and him,” Dakeb said.  “Are you confident in your case?  Are you confident in your presentation?”

            “I'm worried, because this is all so important,” Tomi said, rubbing at his hairline, perhaps as a personal compromise so that he wouldn't muss his hair.  “Risit's freedom is at stake, and his happiness, and his family's future.  But I know that I have the truth and the evidence both on my side.”  Sighing, he shifted in his chair.  “For the presentation, I don't know, there's so much to remember, there's so much to be conscious of all of the time.  It takes me much longer to get ready in the morning.  But I look more professional, everybody thinks so, and Risit seems to have much more faith in me.  And that's what's important, isn't it, providing him with a good lawyer?  A good lawyer in all respects.”

            “Yes,” Dakeb agreed.  “You'll find that your cases run more smoothly when your clients have faith in you.  And when you have faith in yourself.”

            “I do, or I think that I do, or at least I'm trying to,” Tomi said.  “I know that I can do it, I just have to work at it, I just have to try.  Really try, and not give up.  I gave up on a lot of things, I gave up on looking good and being clean and seeming professional and impressing anybody and finding a boyfriend and having sex and-”  Stopping abruptly, Tomi turned a brighter red and cleared his throat, then lowered his gaze and folded his hands in his lap.

            “Maybe, now that you're making such great progress in your professional life, you'll find yourself making progress in your personal life, as well,” Dakeb suggested, amused by Tomi's embarrassment.  “A little confidence in the courtroom can give you confidence in the bedroom.”  The reverse was true, as well, and he smiled at the thought of Dakeb making a sexual conquest one day and swaggering into the courtroom the next.

            “Yes,” Tomi said.  He seemed to have laced his fingers to keep himself from dropping or overturning something, which was a good idea.

            “I will be happy to tell Prince Selorin how well you're doing,” Dakeb said, rising.  “I look forward to seeing you in the courtroom.”

            “Thank you,” Tomi said, getting up carefully and stepping around his desk.  “It was a great honor to have your assistance,” he said, walking Dakeb to the door, “and I'm grateful for your generosity.”

            “You got this far on your own,” Dakeb said.  “Everyone needs some help, once in a while.”

            “It,” Tomi said, sweat beading across his forehead, “it means a lot to me that you, that you would help me, that you believe in me, that you - - you're so confident, you're so poised, you're the son of Selorin A Dimi, you-”

            “Tomi,” Dakeb said, putting a hand on his shoulder to calm him, “I don't-”

            Tomi kissed him.

            Dakeb was perfect, he was utterly perfect, he was everything that Tomi wasn't, everything that Tomi had dreamt of being.  Tomi had promised himself that he wouldn't embarrass Dakeb with his unwanted desires, but then Dakeb had touched him, had touched him despite his blunder during the last visit, and he couldn't help it, he couldn't stop himself, he surged forward, knocking Dakeb back against the door, kissing him.

            It was a terrible kiss, clumsy and awkward, too sudden, too rough, and Dakeb had both hands on him now, one on his shoulder and one on his arm, not encouraging but not shoving him away, either.  He tried to gentle the kiss, his hands sliding over the glossy fabric of Dakeb's robe.  The feel of Dakeb's body under there made him hot inside and out, made him too eager again, and he jerked Dakeb's hips forward, yanking them to his own.  The sudden pressure of someone else's body against his arousal made him groan, and he humped against Dakeb a little, excited.

            Which was when Dakeb's fingernails scratched across the back of his neck.  “Slowly, Tomi,” Dakeb murmured, kissing over his cheek, kissing his ear.  “Breathe,” Dakeb whispered, sucking at his earlobe, and he gasped, delicious pleasure shivering through his body.  Pressing close, he wrapped his arms around Dakeb's shoulders, holding on, panting and unable to break his hips of their forward, fucking motion.

            “Breathe,” Dakeb whispered again, hands rubbing up and down his sides.  “Think about what you want.”

            “I want to fuck you,” Tomi confessed.

            “How?” Dakeb asked, stroking his back, making him shiver some more.  “Where?  Which position, on which surface?  Do you have oil?  Is the door locked?  How will I find my pleasure?”

            Dakeb's pleasure, yes, right, that was more important than anything.  Sliding down to his knees, Tomi pushed Dakeb's robe up with one hand.  Dakeb's pants were very expensive, with blue pearled buttons, four down and three across.

            “What are you doing?” Dakeb asked, sounding like he didn't know whether to stop Tomi or not, holding his robe out of the way.

            “Pleasuring you,” Tomi said.  The sight of those perfect little buttons unnerved him; he could just imagine accidentally, clumsily ripping them off in his haste and watching them skitter and roll across the floor.  Taking a deep breath, he whispered to himself, chanting to calm his anxiety, carefully undoing each button.  They slipped in his fingers, and he rested his forehead against Dakeb's stomach, closing his eyes, going by feel, unbuttoning by touch.

            Dakeb's fingers slid smoothly through his hair, sending little sparkles of excitement down his spine.  “Have you been with many men?”  Still holding his robe out of the way, Dakeb tugged his shirt up, and Tomi kissed his stomach, whispering against his skin, licking for the taste of him.

            “No,” Tomi said, finally remembering to answer the question, “not many,” and then he undid the last button, and as Dakeb's pants slid down, Tomi's hand cupped Dakeb's genitals, fondling the soft sac, the hardening arousal.  Lips already parting, he bent his head, taking Dakeb's dick into his mouth, sucking it in farther, moaning as it stiffened, hot from the realization that he, of all men, was pleasuring Dakeb.

            Short fingernails scraped behind his ear, catching his attention.  “Softly,” Dakeb said, sounding tense.  “Gently.”

            Immediately relaxing his mouth, Tomi tried to lighten his touch, caressing Dakeb's balls.  Stroking the base of Dakeb's dick with one hand, he backed off the head a bit, licking up the shaft, sweating with pleasure at the treat of Dakeb's arousal in his mouth, moaning and panting as his own dick throbbed happily.

            “Mmm,” Dakeb murmured, thighs spreading, hips tilting forward.  His fingers rubbed against Tomi's scalp as he made a warm, vague noise.  “Mmm…  Yes…”

            Encouraged by those agreeable sounds, Tomi licked more, running his tongue up and down the length of Dakeb's erection, sucking gently, fingers rubbing across Dakeb's perineum and softly stroking over his asshole.  The lighter his touch was, the less pressure he used, the more aroused Dakeb sounded.  As he sucked, just at the head, as gently as he could, one slow fingertip pressed in.

            Groaning, Dakeb cupped the back of Tomi's head, hips rocking forward, dick sliding to the back of Tomi's throat.  “Suck it for me,” he whispered, his hips easing back and then pushing forward again, his erection dragging over Tomi's tongue, “just a little, just enough to, oh, make me feel it.”

            It was torture, being delicate when he wanted Dakeb so badly, being soft and gentle when he wanted to grab and devour, but he did his best, doing whatever made Dakeb happy, thinking of butterflies and feathers, rubbing his finger in and out slowly and carefully, just the tip, a shallow little fucking.  Dakeb slid into his mouth with an easy, gentle, rocking motion, moaning and sighing, cupping his nape and murmuring, “Yes, mmm, oh,” every once in a while.  Whenever Dakeb paused with just the head between Tomi's lips, Tomi licked at him, moaning at the musky salty taste of him, and he'd make quiet little encouraging noises like he was really turned on before pushing back in again with a low, aroused moan.

            Tomi'd never used this much self-control in his life, and it was killing him not to suck harder, not to shove his finger into that tight, clenching heat, not to take what he needed.  His body was begging him for it, his erection straining and pushing against his pants, his blood pumping hot and eager.  But he wanted to pleasure Dakeb, and this was what Dakeb wanted, and when he heard a quiet, tense moaning sound, a kind of, “Nnnnn,” he licked around the head again, and suddenly he was licking up cum as Dakeb climaxed, relieved moans echoing up from the back of Dakeb's throat as thick, frothy jism spurted across Tomi's lips.

            “Ah, ah,” Dakeb protested, pulling back against the door and drawing Tomi's head away.  Deprived of Dakeb's dick, Tomi licked his lips clean, then withdrew his finger, stroking up the outside of Dakeb's thighs with both hands, looking up in supplication.  Panting, absentmindedly stroking Tomi's hair, Dakeb relaxed against the door, eyes closed, a vague smile on his face.

            Hot with need, dick pulsing and fiercely erect, Tomi wiped sweat from his brow with the back of one hand.  “Dakeb?”  He'd never fucked anyone this handsome or anyone this important before, and he was both intimidated and aroused by the idea.  He almost wanted simply to masturbate and let Dakeb leave.  But he couldn't let this opportunity pass.

            “Mmm.”  Dakeb lazily drew him in again, and he kissed across the top of one lean thigh, stroking Dakeb's hips to keep from touching himself.  “On the table, or the desk?”

            There was more room on the table, and if he did it on the desk, he'd never be able to sit there again without getting hard.  “The table,” he said, realizing that Dakeb had just agreed to being fucked.  He had permission.  He was going to fuck Dakeb.

            Dragging himself up onto his feet, he kissed Dakeb eagerly, desperately, clutching greedily and catching up handfuls of cloth.  He was so hard, with need clawing urgently up his back; he needed to fuck, needed to fuck now, and he pulled Dakeb's robe out of the way, rocking his erection against Dakeb's stomach, groaning, grasping Dakeb's hips and-

            Dakeb scratched across the back of his neck.  Ouch, right, okay, “Sorry.”  He stepped back, letting go entirely, running his hands through his hair and trying to calm down, chanting under his breath.

            Taking a step away from the door, Dakeb casually unbuttoned his robe, draping it over Tomi's on the hook, then ever so gracefully stripped out of the rest of his clothing and strolled across the office, reclining against the table.  “The oil?”

            He was beautiful.  He was perfect.  The long, elegant lines of his body were everything that Tomi had dreamt of.  His calm confidence was astounding.  Nothing rattled Dakeb, nothing!

            Lazily scooting back, lounging more comfortably, Dakeb asked, “The oil, Tomi?”

            “Oil!  Yes, yes, the oil, we need the, right, yes, I-”

            “Slowly, Tomi,” Dakeb said patiently.

            Stopping short, Tomi took a deep breath, then another.  Whispering his chant, breathing carefully, he walked to his desk.  Instead of rushing over, breaking his drawer, and scattering his belongings everywhere, he moved slowly, calmly, carefully.  He'd almost thrown the oil away when he'd cleaned his desk, because he hadn't used it in a long time, but he'd told himself not to give up hope.

            His hands shook a bit, but he found the oil and took it over to the table.  Swallowing, he met Dakeb's eyes.  “You weren't this perfect even in my dreams.”

            “I must admit,” Dakeb said, stroking his neck and making him shiver, “that your enthusiasm is gratifying.”  Leaning forward, Dakeb kissed him, gently, and he did his best to keep his own participation soft and tender.  He must have succeeded, because Dakeb sat back with a pleased noise and, with a bit of a smile, tugged lightly at the front of his shirt and said, “Undress for me.  Calmly.”

            Calmly, yes.  He kept his respiration calm, kept his movements slow, and planned ahead.  So, instead of ripping his buttons off and tripping over his feet and getting his pants caught on his shoes, he took his shoes off first, then his shirt, then his pants.  His dick was calmer now, too, still aroused but not as demanding, which made it easier not to fumble everything in his urgency.

            Once he was naked, he rubbed his hands over his thighs nervously and cleared his throat, meeting Dakeb's eyes again.  It was strange to be naked in his office, but Dakeb looked perfectly at home lounging on his table, and in fact leaned back with a knowing smile and a low, “Slowly, Tomi.”

            Licking his lips, Tomi mounted the table, crawling overtop of Dakeb, careful not to be too clumsy about it.  He didn't want to rush, so when Dakeb's fingers skimmed down his chest, he moaned at the sensation but didn't blunder into another awkward kiss.

            Dakeb's thumb brushed over his nipple, making him twitch.  “What do you want to do?” Dakeb asked quietly.

            He cleared his throat first, buying time to remind himself not to blather on, then admitted, “I want to fuck you.”

            That smile was approving, he thought.  “All right.”  Stroking up the side of his neck, Dakeb drew him in for a soft kiss, then murmured, “Slowly, Tomi.”

            Slowly, yes.  Straightening, he took the oil, then realized that there was a problem, and hesitated.  Telling himself to be calm, he looked around the room, then reached to one of the chairs beside the table.  Taking the cushion and folding it in half, he slid that just beneath Dakeb's hips.

            “This,” Dakeb said, arching and settling down more comfortably, “gives me hope.”

            Proud of himself, Tomi wet his fingers with the oil, then guided Dakeb's knees up.  He couldn't resist ducking his head and kissing Dakeb's stomach while he lowered his fingers and gently caressed the tight little pucker.

            “Mmm.”  Drawing one knee to his chest, Dakeb put his hand on the back of Tomi's head.  “This is nice.”

            Nice?  Tomi had his fingers oiled and was about to fuck Dakeb, and that was nice?  That was monumental!  Resting his forehead on Dakeb's stomach, chewing on his lips, he pushed his finger in, moaning at the - - ouch!

            “Gently, Tomi,” Dakeb warned, nails digging into Tomi's scalp as his muscles locked around Tomi's finger.

            Gently, yes, yes.  Taking a deep breath, Tomi slowed down, stroking carefully, crooking his finger and caressing Dakeb's prostate, kissing around Dakeb's navel as he listened to, “Ah, oh, yes…”  Carefully, tenderly, he slipped in a second finger, and there were no fingernails or warnings this time, only quiet, pleased, aroused noises as Dakeb's dick stiffened.  He mouthed it, licking the shaft, and Dakeb moaned, squeezing his shoulder.  “Yes, oh, ooohhh…  Mmm, Tomi, I'm ready.”

            Immediately, Tomi popped his fingers out, moving right into position and aiming his dick at Dakeb's asshole, giving himself a quick swipe with the oil and pushing the head of his erection against - - ouch!  Oh, this wasn't right, this wasn't fair, Dakeb couldn't do this to him!  “Please,” he whimpered, rubbing the head of his dick against Dakeb's asshole, groaning, needing, hiding his face against Dakeb's chest, “I want you so much, I've fantasized about this for so long, you can't give me permission to fuck you but make it this slow, I want you too much to be this careful about it, I can't slow my dick down, I can't.”

            “You can, Tomi,” Dakeb said, petting his back, “I know that you can.  Just go nice and slow, give me a sweet, gentle fuck.”

            Nice and slow.  Sweet and gentle.  Nice and slow.  Sweet and gentle.  Whispering his chant, Tomi thrust inside.  Oh, oh, “Oh, Dakeb, oh, ah, ah,” too good, yes, yes, ah, “Dakeb, uh, mm,” he went all the way in, buried his dick in there and just moaned as the intense pleasure of it seared him.

            “Mmm, Tomi.”  Stroking his spine, Dakeb moaned beneath him.  “That's so nice.”

            Fucking Dakeb was absolute torture.  His dick throbbing, his body aching, orgasm always one breath away, Tomi lasted for as long as he could.  He eased back, then slid in, eased back, slid in, very slowly, very gently.  Keeping a hand on his ass and a hand on his shoulder, Dakeb made warm, pleased sounds and murmured, “Slowly, Tomi,” in a voice drenched with sex, eyes closed, a smile on those perfectly curved lips.

            He wanted to come, he needed to come, his body couldn't bear the unreleased tension, but he was making Dakeb happy, he was making Dakeb feel good, and that meant more to him than his own pleasure.  So he kept going, whispering his chant, fucking slowly, tenderly, with even, easy strokes.

            “Oh…  Mmm, yes, oh…  Yes, slowly, Tomi, oh…”  With a groan, Dakeb arched up against him.  “Come for me, come in me.”

            The words were barely out before Tomi's body obeyed, his hips stuttering forward as ecstasy pumped through him, his muscles trembling while a series of overwhelmed groans issued from somewhere deep inside.  Drained, weak, he slipped out of Dakeb's body, rolling onto his side and licking sweat from his upper lip.

            He'd fucked Dakeb.

            Beside him, Dakeb stretched casually.

            “You're still hard,” Tomi said, eyeing, Dakeb's perfectly proportioned arousal, unwilling to let Dakeb leave unsatisfied.  “Do you want me to suck it again?”

            Rolling towards him with a smile, Dakeb grabbed his ass and yanked him closer, then rolled right on top of him and pulled his knee up, kissing him, kissing him hard, kissing him deep, kissing him until his toes curled and he was making muffled, desperate, greedy noises.  “You don't have to do anything,” Dakeb said, reaching for the oil with a smile.  “Just beg me for more and come as hard as you want.”

            Days had passed, and he had to be in court that very afternoon.  He was prepared, his case was solid, but he was still worried about presentation.  “Do you think that I'm ready?” he asked, breaking off into a gasp and a desperate moan as Dakeb sank down over one more inch.  He wanted to grab Dakeb's hips and yank Dakeb down onto his dick, needed to buck upwards and slam himself in; his hands shook as he struggled for self-control.

            “Just remember, ah, what I taught you,” Dakeb panted, rising just a bit and sliding down onto his erection, slow and easy, torturing him.  “Slowly, Tomi.  Slowly.”

            “Now appearing before His Royal Highness, Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki,” the guard announced as the doors swung open, “the righteous Pilori Hamet for the cause of Lo Hular Kihiko, and the righteous Noru Tomi for the cause of Lo Risit Ubik.”

            Tomi.  Selorin sat back, watching the lawyers enter.  They strode in together, Hamet leading the way and Tomi right behind, their steps firm and confident.  Raising his eyebrows, Selorin kept his gaze on Tomi, watching him step behind the table and take papers from his bag, setting a small, neat stack on the tabletop.  His robe was clean and well-maintained.  He looked like a lawyer.

            “Is this your doing?” Selorin murmured.

            “He is easy to instruct,” Dakeb said.

            Sitting forward, Selorin said, “Lo Tomi,” crooking his finger.

            Turning red but noticeably not knocking anything over, Tomi smoothed his robe and approached, offering a respectful bow.  “Your Highness.”

            He was clean-shaven; his hair was neat.  “I approve of your appearance in my courtroom today,” Selorin said.  “You represent yourself well, Lo Tomi, and I trust that you shall represent your clients well.”

            “Yes, Your Highness.  Thank you.”  Licking his lips, Tomi glanced at Dakeb, then turned even redder, all the way up his neck to the tips of his ears.

            Smiling, Selorin asked, “Do you have anything to add, Lo Dakeb?”

            “Lo Tomi was singularly enjoyable to instruct, and very appreciative,” Dakeb said.  “After several days of intense tutorials, he made great progress under me.”

            “I am very grateful to Lo Dakeb for his training,” Tomi said, breaking out into a sweat but neither stammering nor fidgeting.

            “Excellent,” Selorin said.  “Return to your table and we shall resume.”

            “Thank you, Your Highness.”  With another bow and one last, lingering glance at Dakeb, Tomi turned away.

            Red scratches were visible across the back of his neck.

            “Dakeb,” Selorin murmured, as the guard called in the plaintiff and defendant, “did you disgrace yourself this week?”

            “Not at all,” Dakeb said.

            “You would never abuse the power of your office or take advantage of a lawyer's vulnerability to you,” Selorin said.

            “Of course not,” Dakeb said.  “All I did was restore a man's confidence.”

            “You seem to have done a remarkably good job,” Selorin noted.

            “Well, Tomi has a remarkable…will to learn,” Dakeb said.  Smiling, he added, “Simply remarkable.”

The Bridge

Many, many years ago, a farmer was on his way to Seijaces.  He had spent his life in hard work, and was now leading his family on a long journey to see the glittering palace on the water.

            He traveled for many days before he came to a long, quick river with no bridge in sight.  He searched north, and his wife searched south, but they found no bridge!  He searched south, and his wife searched north, but they found no bridge!

            With no handy way across, they would have to make their own way across.  And so they began to gather many big, heavy rocks from the shore, throwing them into the water, building a pathway for themselves.  It was slow, difficult work, for their children were too young and too small to venture near the busy shore.

            Hours passed, and their pathway stretched only halfway across the river.  They'd scoured the area for rocks and were now traveling twenty minutes down the bank for each new piece!  “This is too slow,” the farmer said.  “We'll never finish before nightfall.”

            “If we were only the two of us, we could pick up the rocks behind us and place them in front of us, and slowly cross,” his wife said.  “But what of our children, and our wagon?  How shall we ever cross this way?”

            Across the river, suddenly, the farmer saw another man, and another wagon.  “Hello, there!” the farmer cried, waving, happy to see someone who could help.  “We are travelers on our way to the capital!  We have young children and there is no bridge!  Will you help us to cross?”

            “I am a merchant, not a bridge builder.  I cannot help you.”

            “You need only use the rocks along the shore,” the farmer's wife called, “as we have done here.”

            “There are no rocks along this shore,” the merchant said.  “I cannot help you.”  And he continued along the riverbank.

            The merchant was on his way from Seijaces to Luciase.  He was taking big blocks of granite and marble to sell to sculptors there.  He had traveled for days, his strong horses hauling the big, heavy blocks, and now he had come to the river.

            He could not cross it.  There was no bridge.

            He thought of the farmer, and the halfway bridge.  But how could he build the other half?  There were no rocks on his side of the shore.

            It occurred to him that he could use his blocks of granite.  But what if the farmer discovered the marble?  What if it were stolen?  What if the farmer killed him for it?

            He would have to be secretive.  He would have to be stealthy.  He waited until nightfall, then returned to where he'd seen the farmer.  The moonlight showed him their still, quiet wagon on the other side of the river.  They were asleep.

            Quietly, carefully, the merchant dragged the huge granite blocks into the river.  The night dragged on while he splashed and sweated, but finally he'd completed the pathway.  Finally, the two sides met, just high enough to let his wagon cross without being swept away.

            Hushing his horses, the merchant drove across the pathway.  Once there, he went back to collect his granite, starting from the opposite bank and destroying the bridge block by block, putting it back into his wagon.

            By the time the sun rose, the merchant was gone.  He'd left enough tracks, from his feet and his wheels and his horses, that the farmer realized what had happened.  They'd been cheated.  The merchant had used their half of the bridge and crossed without them, denying them the chance to cross as well.

            “We should have known,” the farmer said.  “We should have guessed.  That's how people are.  Rich people, city people.  They'll steal and cheat to get ahead.  They think only of themselves.”

            “Maybe some of them,” his wife said.  “But not all of them.”

            They worked on their bridge some more, but it took more and more time to haul each rock.  Their bodies were sore and tired from yesterday's exertion.  They were slow and exhausted.

            As the sun began to set, they saw a young man jogging along the riverbank.  “Hello, there!” the farmer cried, waving, happy to see someone who could help.  “We are travelers on our way to the capital!  We have young children and there is no bridge!  Will you help us to cross?”

            “I am an athlete, not a bridge builder.  I cannot help you.”

            “You need only use the rocks along the shore,” the farmer's wife called, “as we have done here.”

            “There are no rocks along this shore,” the athlete said.  “I cannot help you.”

            “Maybe there are some farther down the shore,” the farmer called.  “We have been dragging these all day.”

            “Oh!  So there are!  I've been looking for some.”  Jogging down, the athlete found many big, jagged rocks together on the shore.  But instead of carrying them to the half-bridge, he began to heave them haphazardly into the water.

            “What are you doing?” the farmer demanded.  “We need your help!”

            “I don't know you,” the athlete said.  “Why should I help you?”

            “Because we need your help!” the farmer's wife shouted.

            “Because if you help us cross, we can help you cross,” the farmer called.  “Our half as already done.”

            “You might hurt me,” the athlete said.  “You might injure me or rob me.  No, I won't trust you.”  Throwing rocks, he killed the most dangerous alligators in the river.  Then, diving in, he swam across, getting out on the other side and jogging away.

            “We should have known,” the farmer said.  “We should have guessed.  That's how people are.  Young people, all people.  They'll steal and cheat to get ahead.  They think only of themselves.”

            “Maybe some of them,” his wife said.  “But not all of them.”

            When the farmer went to bed that night, he promised his wife and children that they'd cross the next day.  Either they'd find help, or they'd finish their bridge.  Either way, they'd cross tomorrow.  He was sure of it.

            The next morning, the farmer arose early, walking south along the riverbank to pick up another enormous rock to add to the end of his bridge.  Reaching a new area he'd never seen before, he noticed a rope and log bridge stretching across the river!  With hurried steps and new energy, he rushed to the bridge!

            But just as he got there, he saw a woman standing on the shore cut the ropes!  The bridge fell, the ropes fraying, the logs spinning away, carried down the river.

              “Hello, there!” the farmer cried, waving, pained to see the bridge so hastily destroyed.  “We are travelers on our way to the capital!  We have young children and there is no bridge!  You could have helped us cross!”

            “Oh?” the woman asked, shouldering her pack.  “I worked for days building that bridge.  I got myself across, and that's what matters.  Why should you take advantage of all of my work?  I got myself across, and you should get yourself across, too.  I owe you nothing.”  And she walked away.

            Returning to the wagon, the farmer bitterly told his wife the story.  He finished with, “We should have known.  We should have guessed.  That's how people are.  Single people, all people.  They'll steal and cheat to get ahead.  They think only of themselves.”

            “Maybe some of them,” his wife said.  “But not all of them.”

            The night was cold and wet.  The rains were strong, raising the river, washing away a few of their rocks.  In the morning, the farmer huddled in the wagon with the children, filled with despair.  His wife, cold, tired, aching in all muscles, shivered in the rain and tried to repair the bridge.

            Suddenly, a cry from the opposite bank greeted her.  “Hello, there!” someone called, waving to her cheerily.  “We are travelers on our way from the capital!  We have a great load and there is no bridge!  I have found some rocks, but I have not enough.  Will you lend me yours?”

            While the farmer's wife finished repairing her side of the bridge, the strange travelers worked on their side.  Soon, the two sides met!  The farmer, his wife, his children, and their wagon crossed first, safely.  Then the strange travelers and their wagons crossed, safely.

            When everyone stood on opposite riverbanks again, the strange travelers waved their thanks, and continued on.  “We should have known,” the travelers said to each other.  “We should have guessed.  That's how people are.  Jacacean people, all people.  They'll do more than meet us halfway.  They're so quick to think of others.”

            “Yes,” they agreed among themselves, “some of them.  Most of them.”

            Two nights later, the farmer and his wife came to another river.  They searched north, they searched south, and they found no bridge.  “What shall we do?” the farmer's wife asked.  “Shall we wait?”

            “We will begin with these fallen trees, and lay down logs and branches, and make a bridge,” the farmer's wife said.

            “We don't have enough to go the whole way across,” the farmer argued.

            “In the last place we stopped, we met four different travelers,” his wife said.  “Think how soon we'll meet another!  All it takes is one person with the willingness to help.”  And so they began to work, using branches and logs together, building their bridge.

            Their work was hard and the day was long.  As the sun began to set, they saw a cart approaching, laden with wood.  The driver greeted them with a cheerful, “Hello!  I am a woodsman, on my way to Seijaces!  You've made such a good beginning here, it will be simple to finish, and we should be on our way soon!”

            They all made camp for the night.  In the morning, with the woodsman's help, the bridge was completed easily, and they all crossed together.

            “We're lucky to have found each other so quickly,” the farmer said.  “It's lucky that you had so much wood with you.”

            “I heard that the bridges were out, and planned to make my own way across,” the woodsman explained.  “I expected to lose several days and most of my wood at the last river, but when I got there, there was such a nice pathway of rocks across it that I had no use for my wood!  I sped right across and lost no time at all.  If I'd had to stop there, I likely never would have met up with you at all, and I wouldn't have had all of that wood left.  Whoever laid those rocks laid the path for not only their own benefit, but mine.”

            The paths we lay today may help us tomorrow.

            The paths we lay today may help others forever.

            Be smart enough, like the woodsman, to carry your own supplies.

            Be generous enough, like the strange travelers, to recognize someone with a similar goal.

            Be determined enough, like the farmer's wife, to keep working no matter what.

            When two people stand at opposite sides of a river, let each bring his own rocks, and let them share in the crossing together.  The wood saved today may span another river tomorrow.

Start without Me

Soft sounds of slow sex teased Behiko's ears.  Jekari and Prince Selorin were making use of one of the beds again, and even though the curtain drawn around the bed prohibited him from seeing anything, nothing kept him from hearing.  The erotic, sensual sounds of the two men taking pleasure from each other taunted him.  At least when most of the other princes visited the belam, they neglected to draw the curtain - - or neglected to use the beds entirely - - and Behiko could watch.  Or join in.

 

            Suddenly, things grew a bit louder, became a bit faster, as, “Oh, yes, yes, please,” Jekari panted, moaning with such ecstasy, Behiko felt the heat of their passion.  “Please, please, it's too good, it's too good, oh, oh, ah, ah, ah…”  Closing his eyes, Behiko breathed with Jekari, feeling it, remembering it, the rhythm of it, the hot slide of Prince Selorin's naked flesh over his, “yes, oh,” the powerful deep thrust of Prince Selorin's cock claiming his body, “ah, ah, please,” all of that immaculately smooth skin under his hands, “oh,” his own body undulating, his hips rocking, and as Prince Selorin's driving rhythm increased, as he felt the growing tension in Prince Selorin's knotted muscles, as he heard that harsh note of need enter Prince Selorin's breath, he strove to provide pleasure, “yes, yes, yes,” writhing to display his own urgent lust, “I want it, I want it,” squeezing the base of his own erection and moaning over how hard he was, “I need it, please, oh,” crying out desperately with each thrust, “Selorin, Selorin, oh,” rubbing his fingers just at the base of Prince Selorin's spine to get that rough shudder and that low groan.  “Oh, yes, now, please, do it!”  Once he opened up every sense and really let himself feel the urgency in the air, “yes, please, yes,” felt Prince Selorin's need for release, “oh, uh,” felt the tension, the desperation, the driving hunger, “I need it, I need it,” felt his own body's pleas for more and yes and now please now, he'd rock and twist and jack his own aching erection, pull it and pump it and beg until he was coming “ah!” and Prince Selorin was coming “uh!” and the climax shook them both.  “Oh!”

 

            Slowly, Behiko opened his eyes.  As his racing heartbeat slowed, he noticed a few other belas calming down, catching their breath, looking flushed.

 

Jekari's heartfelt, softly voiced flattery became a low murmur, and then Behiko heard kissing, heard whispers, heard the rustle of sheets.  Prince Selorin was staying, then, for another round.

           

            The doorknob turned.  Everyone sat up, shifting positions, fixing hair, shedding clothes.  Pinching his cheeks for color and licking his lips, Behiko felt a quick pulse of anticipation.

 

            The door opened, and everyone smiled as Prince Rini leaned into the room.  “Hi,” he said with a grin, his silver gaze scanning the room.  “Behiko, can you come to my room tonight?”

 

            Oh, yes, of course, in a heartbeat.  “It would be my utter pleasure,” he promised, letting eager adoration fill his eyes.  He did adore Prince Rini, they all did.

 

            “Great, thanks,” Prince Rini said.  “Come around moon crossing.  I want you to meet somebody,” he added with a mischievous grin before turning away, the door closing behind him.

 

            “You're so lucky,” Dunota whispered, his voice quiet out of respect for Prince Selorin's presence.

 

            It was an honor to be invited to a prince's room.  Behiko had gone to Prince Rini's room before, they all had, but that only made him more eager for the treat.  Prince Rini was a free spirit, and a great deal of fun.  There were certain nuances to having sex with each of the princes - - Prince Selorin liked to be begged, Prince Anosanim liked to be flattered, Prince Ebutadesin liked to come last - - but with Prince Rini, the only trick was to enjoy sex, enjoy arousal, and enjoy orgasm.

 

            Panori crept over to where Behiko sat, taking the cushion beside his.  “I wonder,” he whispered, with a glance towards Jekari's bed in the corner, “who else is going to be there.”

 

            “I don't know,” Behiko admitted.  It could be anyone.  An athlete, maybe, or a palace servant, or one of Prince Rini's brothers' assistants, or a common Anorian he'd met in his daily adventures, or someone from another belam.  Only one of the princes could touch Behiko; or, another bela could, if given permission.  Prince Rini was, at times, sexually creative, and often enjoyed putting on a show with a bela for one of his friends, or asking the bela to put on a personal show alone for himself and the friend.  Behiko had done both; he preferred to partner with Prince Rini, but he was quite capable of working alone.

 

            As hours passed and evening drew near, Behiko continued to wonder whom he'd be asked to entertain.  Palace servants tended to be somewhat more used to encountering belas, and were somewhat less awestruck.  Certain assistants and most common Anorians tended to have rather interesting ideas of what belas were capable of, sexually, and were often quite impressed.  The athletes were a bit more aggressive and often masturbated.  All in all, other belas were most interesting, especially when invited to touch.  Men from the sulatim belam were notorious teases and ridiculous flirts, and tied anyone and everyone in needy, desperate, horny knots.  Men from the dukot belam were bold, muscular, and direct.  Behiko was used to soothing, gentling, and coaxing his partners; men from the dukot belam didn't waste time with such niceties.

 

            After a light dinner, Behiko prepared himself.  Panori helped him to wash, then assisted him in untangling his glossy mane of thick, black curls.  He oiled his skin, not enough to make him slippery, just enough to make his flesh shine a bit in candlelight.  It was a simple trick to line his eyes, lightly, in black.  Since he couldn't wander the hallways naked, he slipped into a slim silver robe, belting it around the waist.

 

            Five minutes before moon crossing, as everyone else slumbered, he slipped down the hall to Prince Rini's suite.  Prince Rini switched apartments so often that even he forgot which one he'd most recently chosen, so he always left a bright scarf or ribbon around the doorknob.  Finding the scarf tonight, Behiko discreetly knocked at the door.

 

            “Behiko!  Come in, come in,” Prince Rini said, ushering him into the room and closing the door again.  Wearing only shorts, Prince Rini kissed him, nibbling at his lips a little, pulling back with a smile.  “You always smell so good.  Anikira needs me for something, so I have to go, but I'll be right back.  Adu's already here, so the two of you can go ahead and start without me.”  Tugging at his belt, Prince Rini kissed him again; he parted his lips, kissing back gently, cooperating as he was stripped.  “Have a good time,” Prince Rini said, stepping back and pulling on Behiko's robe, “but save some fun for me.”  With a quick grin, he departed.

 

            An Anorian prince was wearing a bela's robe in the palace hallways.  Only Prince Rini would attempt such a shocking thing.

 

            “Adu's already here, so the two of you can go ahead and start without me.”  Adu who?  Start what?  Behiko stepped further into the apartment.

 

            A man stood in the bedroom doorway.  A tall, very muscular young man, wearing very small silver shorts with a very obvious bulge.  He had short, close-cut dark hair, dark eyes under thick eyebrows, and a chiseled jaw.  His pecs were pronounced, the muscles in his arms and thighs were huge, and his abs looked hard as rock.

 

            That body, with that bulge in those shorts, meant one thing: he was from the dukot belam.

 

            Behiko had never had sex with someone from another belam, without a prince involved.  He wasn't sure what to do.  Proceed as if Prince Rini were here?

 

            Adu's gaze swept him quickly, cataloguing him swiftly.  One corner of Adu's mouth quirked up; he crooked a finger in silent command.

 

            “My name is Behiko,” he said, approaching in response.

 

            “I know,” Adu said, cupping his chin in one strong hand and tipping his face up, kissing him as if he were already in Adu's possession.  Instinctively submitting, Behiko surrendered, moaning softly to signal acquiescence.  When he felt Adu's other hand on his naked ass, cupping and squeezing, he wrapped his arms around Adu's neck, pressing close to that hard, muscular body, straddling one thick, firm thigh.

 

            Adu was so big, so strong, and so clearly in charge that Behiko wasn't at all surprised when he found himself lifted from the floor.  With Adu's hands on the backs of his thighs, he locked his ankles behind Adu's back and made aroused, encouraging noises.  He'd always enjoyed being manhandled, and this was certainly a man who could handle him.

 

            Easily carrying him into the bedroom, Adu walked up the short steps to the raised bed, laying him down there and kneeling over him, never breaking their kiss.  Gradually relaxing his legs, Behiko moaned at the heat of Adu's ravishing kiss, luxuriating in being ruled, being possessed.  While Adu's fingers slid through his hair, stroking his scalp and tangling in his curls, holding him in place, he ran his hands over Adu's broad shoulders, skimming over massive biceps and down Adu's powerful chest.

 

            He was used to talking during moments like this one - - offering, begging, flattering, something - - but Adu seemed disinclined to relinquish his mouth.  So he did those things with his body, undulating, caressing, arching, stroking, while he shivered and moaned.  Keeping one hand in his hair, the thumb of that hand sometimes straying over to brush his cheek, Adu made low, dark, primal sounds, growling with distinct approval when his fingers explored down over the stiff bulge trapped in those tiny shorts.

 

            Immediately responding to approval, Behiko quickly located the little zippers at Adu's hips, unzipping the silver shorts down each side from waist to hem.  Adu's erection sprang forward, and Behiko dropped the scraps of fabric, closing his hand around, “Oh,” it was so thick, it was so hard, it was so long, “Adu,” he moaned, squeezing it from base to head, aching inside with a need to be filled.

 

            Making an urgent, warning sound, Adu left his mouth, kissing his neck, nipping his jaw, throbbing in his hand.  “Touch yourself,” Adu said, sucking at his skin, making him tremble, making him gasp for breath.

 

            Curling one arm around Adu's shoulders, Behiko made himself let go of Adu's cock with a dismal whimper, gently stroking his own thighs, rolling his balls in one hand.  “Oh, Adu, yes,” he said, breathless, letting his need shimmer through his words.  “You're so, oh, so powerful, so, ah, oh, commanding, oh.”  As his fingers circled his cock, Behiko shuddered, turning his head to one side and biting his soft lower lip, making a lusting and desperate sound.  “Tell me what I can do for you,” he whispered, undulating, hips rising against his own hand, kissing Adu's lips with tender love, “show me how I can please you.”  Gazing into Adu's dark eyes, he moaned quietly in the back of his throat, thighs closing around Adu's waist.

 

            Adu kissed him boldly, almost roughly, claiming him, making him moan in desire and appreciation, his body burning with the need for more.  He wished for Adu to own him completely, to fuck him with deep strokes, to fulfill each kiss's promise.

 

            Then Adu raised his head, fingers untangling from Behiko's curls.  His hands slid down Behiko's body, a powerful, sensual stroke, learning, taking.

 

Twisting into the bold caress, Behiko groaned, flesh alive and tingling where Adu's hands had been, hot and aching where Adu's touch was needed.  “Claim me,” he panted, “do it, take me.”

   

Just like that, in a move that seemed to come as naturally as breathing, Adu flipped him over, dropping him onto his chest in only a second's time and then smacking his ass.

 

            It was to be from behind, then.  Behiko had suspected as much.  If Adu wished this particular view, then Behiko would give him reason to enjoy it.  Behiko rose up onto hands and knees, arching his back and slowly spreading his thighs, gradually lowering his hips until Adu growled approvingly.  Stopping right there, Behiko made aroused little throaty sounds, waiting, wanting, anticipating.

 

            “Exquisite,” Adu said, and when possessive fingers stroked the cleft of Behiko's ass, he moved into the touch like a pampered cat, moaning at the caress.  “Every inch of you is more beautiful than any other.”  Adu's finger slowly brushed over his asshole a few times, making him whimper, making him hard, making him hot and needy, and then he felt a softer stroke, sweeter, wetter.

 

            “Oh, oh, yes, ah…”  Moaning, he felt a deep shiver, a delicious thrill, pass through his body at the intimate caress of Adu's tongue.  Bold, aggressive, Adu wasted no time in flirtation, seeking penetration with a dedication that made Behiko pant and whimper with excited need.  Adu's hands were on his thighs, on his hips, on his ass, firm, squeezing, hot against his flesh, holding him in place as he moaned and writhed.  Adu's grip was so sure that Behiko was free to squirm as much as he wanted, and the more Adu gave him, the more he needed.  The more he needed, the louder he became, crying out and begging for it, flattering and pleading.  “Yes, yes, please, Adu, take it, do it, yes.  I need it, make me feel it, please, I want to feel it.”

 

            “I knew you'd like each other.”  Prince Rini's voice startled Behiko; behind him, Adu straightened, smacking his ass.  Obediently spreading and arching, Behiko looked over his shoulder, catching Prince Rini's grin.  “Get the oil for me,” Prince Rini said, stripping efficiently.

 

            While Adu reached over to the bedside table, Rini climbed onto the bed, casually masturbating, eyeing Behiko with a smile.  “You look ready for it.”

 

            Feeling the brush of Rini's fingers at his side, Behiko rolled onto his back, welcoming Rini into his embrace.  “I'm always ready for you,” he whispered, coaxing Rini against his body.  The press of flesh to flesh, the smoothness of Rini's skin and the weight of him, made Behiko moan softly, undulating against him.

 

            “Mmm, you're so hard,” Rini said, grinding down against him, making his erection throb, making his blood hot, making him groan.  When Rini kissed him, he moaned at each sleek stroke of tongue, locking his legs around Rini's waist.

 

            “I'm so eager for you,” he whispered, panting against Rini's kiss.  He could feel Rini's arousal rocking against him, and he moved with it, panting at the sensation of it, the rhythm, the heat.

 

            Smack!  He heard it, but didn't feel it, and when he opened his eyes, Rini was laughing.  “You like that?” Rini asked, kissing his cheek, and Adu said, kissing the back of Rini's neck, “I don't dream of much else.”

 

            Chuckling, Rini kissed Behiko's neck as Behiko nuzzled against him.  “Wait until I get started here, and then you can have as much as you want.”

 

            Growling softly, Adu did something that made Rini groan, eyes rolling back in his head.  “Where do you want him?” Adu asked.

 

            “Right here is fine,” Rini said, rocking against Behiko again, sliding dick against dick, moaning a little.

 

            “I would give myself to you wherever you wanted me,” Behiko promised, caressing the slender muscles of Rini's back, kissing the soft curves of his lips.

 

            “I want you right here,” Rini said, panting, “right now.”

 

            “You feel so good against me,” Behiko said, arching and rubbing up against him, hands stroking down to his ass, kissing over to his ear.  “I want you inside me,” he whispered, licking at Rini's soft earlobe, breathing on it, “I want you to take me now.  My body yearns for you.  My desire for you consumes me.”

 

            “Oh, yeah,” Rini panted, kissing his neck, sucking at his skin, moaning, rock-hard against him.

 

            Strong hands gripped Behiko's legs behind the knees, unlocking his grip on Rini, spreading his thighs.  Moaning, Behiko resisted Adu's hold, wanting to keep Rini's hot, slender body close, but Adu was too strong for him, keeping him open.  “Your Highness,” Adu murmured, and Rini straightened, running his fingertips down Behiko's bare, slick-sweat torso with an aroused grin.

 

            “Nice,” Rini said, as Behiko squirmed under his caress.  When his fingers brushed the straining flesh of Behiko's erection, Behiko gasped with a harsh throb of need, and Rini laughed.  “I can't wait to make you come.”

 

            “He hungers for you,” Adu said, his voice low as he nibbled up the side of Rini's neck.  With an aroused groan, Rini leaned back against Adu's muscular chest, eyes slipping shut.  “I will enjoy watching you satisfy his need.”

 

            “And what about you?” Rini asked, one hand straying back, nails dragging over Adu's hard thigh.

 

            “I,” Adu said, “will sate myself on you.”

 

            Loving the sound of that, Behiko reached for Rini, catching his hand and urging him closer, pulling him in.  “Come to me,” he whispered, shifting sensuously, wetting his lips.  “Let me please you, let me give you what you need.  I wish to give you pleasure no man has ever known.”

 

            “Hungry creature,” Adu murmured, as Rini leaned into Behiko's touch.  Closing his eyes, Behiko stroked Rini's nipples, moaning softly each time Rini made an encouraging noise.  Suddenly, Rini groaned loudly, jerking slightly and biting Behiko's lower lip.  “Mmm,” Adu said, sounding pleased.

 

            “Oh, ah, oh, stop that,” Rini moaned, shuddering.  “Wait, no, more, more, do that again, do - - yes, like that, right there, oh, oh, yes.”

 

            Moaning softly in empathy, kissing and licking sweat from Rini's temples, Behiko stroked down Rini's chest, finding his rigid erection.  Cursing, Rini kissed him messily, groaning and twisting, bucking into his grip.  He could feel, through the hitching and rocking of Rini's hips, that Adu was fucking against him, sliding against him from behind, and he felt his own asshole clench in need.

 

            “Get it in me,” Rini insisted, breathless, begging, “get it in me, I need it, now.”

 

            “It is too big,” Adu said mildly, kissing his nape.  “We will need oil to ease the way.”

 

            Adu's hands were still holding Behiko open and in place, but Behiko had one hand free.  Taking Rini's pulsing erection in his left hand now, he found the small jar of oil with his right, wetting his fingers.  Reaching down, he encountered the thick shaft of Adu's cock, running his fingers along the length until he stroked into the cleft of Rini's ass, slipping his fingertips to the tight little pucker.

 

            “Nnn, Behiko, oh, yeah, oh, ah…”  Groaning, Rini shivered, kissing him deeply as his finger slowly slid inside.  “Yes, yes, yes, oh, more, more, yeah…”  Panting, Rini lowered his head, resting his forehead on Behiko's chest, breath hot against his skin.  “Like that, like that, oh, oh…”

 

            Behiko slid in a second finger, stroking tenderly, stretching gently, whispering words of adoration and desire, finding a rhythm that made Rini twitch.  His other hand was slow, keeping Rini aroused and on edge, not pushing for orgasm yet.  The subtle map of veins and the silken smoothness of the head tantalized his fingers, and when he felt it jerk and throb against his palm, he broke into a low moan, aching, wanting, begging for it.

 

            “I have to, I have to,” Rini said, straightening, his tone urgent.  Behiko's fingers slipped out as Rini reached for the oil himself, and the sight of Rini's slick fingers honing in on his need made Behiko buck senselessly, testing Adu's hold.  Immediately, Adu's grip tightened, and then Rini's fingers were pressing in, and Behiko moaned, gasping for air, writhing against the stimulation.  He couldn't be still, he couldn't take it, he couldn't bear it, he needed it so much the vibrations of it were echoing, intense waves of pleasure washing through him.

 

            Adu's hands were the only thing keeping him in place through his rocking, twisting undulations.  Rini's low, aroused words, “Yeah, come on, that's it,” only made him louder as he cried out in overwhelmed ecstasy.  Keeping one hand on Rini's cock, he put his other hand on Rini's shoulder, stroking up into Rini's hair, begging for more, pleading for the real thing.  Squeezing Rini's erection, he pulled Rini in closer, guiding Rini's cock between his legs, bucking up towards it.

 

            Barely a second later, Rini's fingers were out and his erection was in, pushing and thrusting.  Squealing with ecstasy, Behiko dragged him closer, thanking him and praising him, kissing and petting any bit of him that was in reach.

 

            Grunting, panting, cursing, Rini fucked him in quick rhythm.  Tense, his head down, Rini breathed through parted lips, focused on primal needs.

 

            To relax him, to draw him back out, Behiko whispered his name.  “Rini,” softly, “Rini,” breathlessly, “oh, it's so right.”  Caressing his shoulders, his face, “You feel so good, oh, Rini.”  Arching, shuddering, “Oh, Rini, it's too good, it feels so right, please, oh, please…”  Taking Rini's hand, he drew it up to his face, brushing Rini's knuckles over his lips.

 

            Rini's gaze met his, and the pace changed, slow but intense, as Rini watched him.

 

            “Please,” he shivered, “Rini,” he moaned, “oh, I need it, I need you.”

 

            “You have me,” Rini promised, hips rolling, surging deep, making the pleasure beat and build.

 

            “And you,” Adu said, moving in over Rini's back, “have me.”

 

            Panting, arching a little, Rini held still.  Eyes closing, he ran his fingertips over Behiko's lips.  Adu released Behiko's thighs, and Behiko immediately wrapped his legs around Rini's waist, trapping Rini inside, moaning as he felt Rini's smooth skin against himself.  His cock pulsing between their bodies, he licked at Rini's fingers, waiting.  A soft grunt from Adu, and Rini winced briefly, lips parting.  Another grunt, and Rini groaned, tensing and relaxing in Behiko's embrace.  Gripping Rini's shoulder in one hand, Adu thrust so hard Behiko felt it, driving Rini's erection deeper, all three of them moaning at once, Adu's groan low and urgent, Rini's moan hot and ecstatic, Behiko's cry soft and overwhelmed.

 

            It was thrilling, the rocking of Rini's body, the slide of Rini's erection, Adu's driving rhythm, Rini moaning and cursing, Adu panting and grunting, Rini's body smooth and hot and slick with sweat, Rini squirming a little between them whenever Adu smacked his ass.

 

            Sucking on Rini's fingers to make him moan, holding his gaze, licking out at his fingers to make his silver eyes darken with lust, Behiko moaned and whimpered and made rough, desperate noises in the back of his throat.  He couldn't say a lot with Rini's fingers in his mouth, but he knew that Rini wanted them there, and if Rini wanted something, then so did he.

 

            He kept both hands on Rini, stroking everything that he could reach, the glossy thickness of Rini's hair, the tiny nubs of Rini's nipples, the base of Rini's cock as it rocked in and out, the small of his back, the cleft of his ass, under his arms, the pulse at his wrist.  He skimmed his own fingers across Rini's parted lips, and Rini hissed, nipping at his fingers, leaning in to kiss his neck, sucking the sweat from his flesh.

 

            Adu covered Rini's back, pressing him between their bodies, kissing up the back of Rini's neck, kissing over his shoulder, pushing in deep and sucking on his knuckles.  Rini groaned, his cock buried inside Behiko, while Adu's tongue flickered against Behiko's tongue over his fingers.  Rini twisted his hand, slipping his thumb into Adu's mouth, and Behiko watched Adu slowly, gently, bite down.  Moaning, Rini rocked back against Adu's thrusts, pulling his hand free and reaching down to wrap it around Behiko's cock.

 

            “Oh, Rini, I'm going to come, I want you to come with you, please, come with me, come with me, Rini, please.”  Shuddering, Behiko arched into Rini's grip, moaning with the pounding rhythm of Adu and Rini's thrusts, groaning at the steady, stripping strokes of Rini's hand.  Running one hand down Rini's chest, he ran his other hand up his own, teasing his nipples, rubbing Rini's flexing abs.  “Please, Rini, come with me, I want to feel it, I want to see it.”

 

            “Come for him,” Adu said, smacking Rini's ass again, making Rini yelp.  “Give him what he wants.”

 

            Moaning, gasping for breath, Rini said, “You, ah, first.”

 

            “All right.”  Sitting back and jerking Rini's hips up so that the head of his erection was barely inside Behiko, Adu set a whole new rhythm, fucking in hard and fast.  Open-mouthed, groaning and breathing hard, Rini could barely stay up, shuddering and helpless in Adu's hands.

 

            Without Rini's weight on him, Behiko had much more freedom of movement.  Sliding down the bed just an inch, he moaned with soft pleasure as Rini's erection eased in deeper.  Planting his feet on the mattress, he raised his hips, bringing Rini in even farther, groaning at the fullness, at the quick pulse of joy.

 

            “No, no, no,” Rini insisted, ineffectually pushing at Behiko's thigh, choking over his words, gasping and groaning as Adu slammed in hard.

 

            Rocking his hips gently, Behiko fucked himself on Rini's cock, teasing himself as his fingers toyed with his erection.  Arching his back, tipping his head back, he moaned openly, letting the pleasure wash over him in rich waves.

 

            “Oh, yes,” Rini groaned, giving in to it, giving himself over to it.  “Yes, yes, harder, fuck me harder, do it, yeah, oh…”

 

            Adu was fucking Rini so hard, and Behiko had been so aroused for so long, that orgasm couldn't be held off for much longer.  As requested, Adu came first, slamming in so hard that he drove both Rini and Behiko up the bed, grunting and growling.  With hot, shocked, overwhelmed, choked-off moans, Rini came only a heartbeat later, shuddering and spasming between their bodies, collapsing across Behiko.  Finally letting go, Behiko gave his erection one last pull and hit climax, trembling and crying out.  As streams of cum spurted up his chest, he released all of his tension, letting sweet, warm satiation and joy rush in.  Relaxing, he closed his eyes, running his fingers through Rini's hair and pressing loving kisses to Rini's shoulder.

 

            “That,” Rini mumbled against his neck, “was awesome.”

 

            “You were beautiful,” Behiko whispered, holding him close, adoring his gorgeous body with tender caresses.  “You're always so beautiful, you're always such a wonderful lover.”

 

            “As soon as I can move,” Rini said, “we're cleaning up and starting all over again.”

            In the morning, Behiko wakened with a pleased sigh, cuddling up warmly to Rini's sleeping body.  He could hear Adu's deep, even breathing from the other side of the bed.  “Such a beautiful prince,” he murmured, kissing Rini's lips.  “Such a special gift.”  Trailing kisses across Rini's cheeks and down Rini's neck, he let his fingers wander beneath the sheets, caressing Rini's amazingly smooth skin.  “Your flesh is the softest silk.  Your lips are the ripest berries.  Your eyes-”

 

            “What about my dick?” Rini asked, eyes still closed, lips turning up at the corners.

 

            “Mmm.”  Behiko kissed him, stroking his cheek.  “Your gorgeous dick brings such intense, boundless ecstasy, I crave even the taste of it.”

 

            “I like that,” Rini said, grinning, eyes opening.  Rini's hand slid down to cup his ass, and he pushed back against Rini's palm, moaning slightly.  With an appreciative squeeze and a tone of regret, Rini said, “I could fuck you all day, I really could, but I have to go.”

 

            “It was the greatest honor to please you,” Behiko said, kissing him, rubbing against him, caressing him.  Gazing into Rini's eyes, he whispered, “Let me satisfy you once more before you go.”

 

            “I don't really have time for that,” Rini said, visibly weakening even as he protested, arms rising around Behiko's shoulders.

 

            “Your needs are important,” Behiko said, kissing him, licking at his sweet lips.  “You must always make time to tend to them.”  Fingers circling Rini's rising arousal, he whispered, “Let me take care of you.”

 

            Mere minutes later, between Rini's thighs with his head buried in Rini's lap, Rini's fingers in his hair, Behiko was bobbing up and down with just enough suction to make Rini groan in ceaseless, increasing arousal.  Then, suddenly, a voice scolded, “Extra, I can't believe you!  You're going to be late!  If you miss-”

 

            “Don't stop, don't stop,” Rini panted, fingers tightening in Behiko's hair.  Licking around the head, Behiko sank back down, speeding up a bit now.  “I'll be there, oh, in a minute, ah, I just, oh, Behiko, yes, I…”

 

            “You can do this later!”  The voice, that scolding tone, it was definitely Prince Anosanim.

 

            “Shut up, shut up, I just, oh, oh, oh!  Oh!  Oh!”  As Rini jerked and twitched, thick spurts coated the back of Behiko's throat.  “Oh, wow,” Rini moaned, sounding dazed.

 

            “Are you finished?” Prince Anosanim demanded.  “Will you please get dressed?”

 

            Swallowing, sitting back, Behiko noticed Adu sitting up, too.

 

            “Okay, okay, I'm on my way,” Rini said.  Shaking his head as if to clear it, he kissed Adu and then Behiko.  “Thanks,” he said, and kissed them again, and bounced out of bed, disappearing into the bathroom.

 

            “You two had better leave,” Prince Anosanim said.  “He'll only get distracted if you stay.  I'm absolutely amazed that he even made it out of the bed.”

 

            “I'm sorry, Prince Anosanim,” Behiko said, rising and giving an apologetic bow before gathering up his robe and belt.  “I shouldn't have-”

 

            “It's all right, it's not your fault,” Prince Anosanim said.  Smiling, he ran his fingers through Behiko's hair.  “Behiko, you look utterly ravished.  What has Rini done to you?”  His gaze slid to the side, drifting down and then up.  “Or, what has Adu done to you?”

 

            “Nothing that he didn't beg me for,” Adu said, zipping up his shorts.

 

            While Anosanim burst into laughter, Adu winked at Behiko.  Turning red and not sure why, Behiko knotted his belt and tried to restore order to his tangled curls.  “All right, out, both of you,” Anosanim finally said, making shooing motions.  “Go take a nap, I'm sure that you need it.”

 

            Sliding closer, Behiko trailed his fingers down Anosanim's sleeve.  “Is there anything that you need?” he asked, brushing a feather-light kiss over Anosanim's cheek.

 

            “You,” Anosanim said, touching his lips, “are unbearably tempting.  I would love to get you right back on that bed.  But I'm afraid that I can't, right now.”

            “Come and find me later,” Behiko said, gazing into his eyes.  “I'll be waiting for you.”

 

            “Go far,” Anosanim kissed him, “far away before I forget myself.  And take Adu with you before my clothes come off.”

 

            Behiko stole another kiss, then turned away and, taking Adu's hand, left Rini's apartment, stepping into the hallway.

 

They walked on a little bit together, until they came to a white door, the one to the dukot belam.

 

            Releasing Adu's hand, Behiko looked up at him.  “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

 

            Cupping his chin and tilting his face up, Adu kissed him, slowly, deeply, until he was up on his toes and clutching at Adu's shoulders, moaning and trembling.  Finally, the kiss ended, but Behiko couldn't move, couldn't do more than open his eyes and, belatedly, whimper.

 

            Adu smiled.

 

            It was a very attractive smile, and it made Behiko's stomach do funny twisting things.

 

            “I will enjoy,” Adu said, still smiling, “fucking you again someday.”  Releasing Behiko's chin, he stepped back and walked into the belam.

 

            Coming down from his toes, Behiko smiled.  He would enjoy it, too. And life as a bela had taught him that with the princes' healthy sexual appetites, “someday” might come sooner than expected.

Pass the Hour

“The knowledge is within you,” Remin said, holding Orinakin's gaze.  “Trust in yourself.”

        “Will you help me to study the material?” Orinakin asked.  “Just for a few hours tonight?”

        “You ask me, and not Selorin?” Remin asked, raising his eyebrows.

        “He has an exam tomorrow, as well, and since this is information that you learned last year, I thought-”

        “All right,” Remin said.  “An hour.”  Movement attracted his attention; Kelano was walking along the hallway.  A knowing smile, a sultry pout, and Kelano passed.

        “After dinner?” Orinakin asked.

        “Yes,” Remin said, glancing over his shoulder to catch the sway of Kelano's firm ass.  “That will be fine,” he murmured distractedly.  If he peeled down those tight little silver shorts, he could cup the smooth, taut globes of Kelano's ass and-

        “Remin,” Orinakin said.

        Reaching the belam door, Kelano paused, arching his back and giving Remin a sly, seductive look.

        “Remin,” Orinakin said, “don't you have your own exams to study for?”

        “Yes, about the ten ancient services to praise Akanoti,” Remin said.  “I've known how to do them since I was a child.  Excuse me.”  Turning from Orinakin, he approached Kelano, who still lingered by the door.

        Predictably, as soon as it was clear that Remin was coming for him, Kelano looked away, suddenly uninterested.

        “Kelano,” Remin said, stepping in close behind him, hands sliding over his slender, naked waist.  “Will you pass the hour with me?”

        “Prince Anoremin,” Kelano said, twisting lithely to face him, back against the door.  Lowering his head, looking up at Remin through thick black lashes, Kelano tugged slightly at the waistband of his shorts, exposing his pelvic bone and tantalizing wisps of hair that curled close to his dick.  “I would not want to take you from your duties.”

        “My duties are fine,” Remin said, cupping his chin, leaning in to kiss his mouth.

        At the last second, Kelano turned his face to the side, Remin's kiss landing on his cheek.  “It is very kind of you to ask me,” Kelano said, running his fingers along the collar of Remin's apprentice's robe.  “How shall we spend the time?”

        Taking what Kelano offered, Remin kissed his cheek, licking at his earlobe, nibbling along his jaw.  “Give me but a moment and I shall show you,” Remin murmured, sliding his hand over Kelano's ass, cupping it, squeezing it.

        With a soft noise of weak protestation, Kelano wriggled away, briefly grinding against Remin's groin as he evaded Remin's grasp.  “Your Highness, we're in the hallway,” he scolded, already coaxing Remin closer again with seductive hands.  “We mustn't do such things out in the open.”

        “Then let me in,” Remin said, kissing his neck as he arched for more, “and we'll do such things behind closed doors.”

        A soft, throaty laugh, and Kelano turned in Remin's arms, leaning back against Remin's chest, ass rubbing against his arousal with slow, promising friction.  After stroking the doorknob, Kelano slowly turned it, pushing the door open.

        As one, half-a-dozen naked young men glanced over.  A few smiles, a few pouts, a few winks, a few sultry greetings; Kelano stepped into the room, and Remin followed him in, closing the door.

        “Prince Anoremin,” Tepeni said, rising languidly from one of the beds.  “You look well,” he said, walking with studied grace in Remin's direction.

        “He wants to fuck me,” Kelano said, idly stepping out of his dainty sandals.

        “Oh, he does?” Tepeni asked, circling Remin with vague interest, fingertips grazing Remin's shoulders.  “The last time that Prince Anoremin fucked me,” his gaze met Remin's with a brief smile, “I came so hard that I screamed myself hoarse.  But I'm sure that His Highness wouldn't remember that.”

        “I remember,” Remin said, catching Tepeni's wrist, drawing him in.  “I remember how you made me earn it.”  Tepeni's gaze was dark, liquid, promising, beckoning, and Remin kissed him, urging him closer, closer, until their bodies touched.  “I remember how you made me beg and work for it.”

        “You're here for Kelano now,” Tepeni said, close enough to kiss again, breathing softly, fingers brushing his neck.  “You're here to fuck him, not me.”

        “I can fuck,” Remin said, holding his gaze, “both of you.”

        “Which one of us,” Tepeni's fingers stroked down the buttons of his robe, “would you like to bring you to erection?”

        “And which one of us,” he felt Kelano's heat behind him, felt air on his legs as Kelano raised the hem of his robe, “would you like to fuck you first?”

        It was his libido.  It was his passionate nature.  It was his lusting hormones.  It was his eager dick.

        He knew better than this, he knew how wicked the men in the sulatim belam were.  He should have gone to the lesis belam, should have let them tend to him.  They were always unfailingly good to him, so kind, so generous, kissing him, feeding him, saying sweet things and taking his dick with soft, pleading need.

        The sulatim, the sulatim were torturous.  They lured him in with their knowing, teasing glances and their seductive, promising touches, and then they made him suffer, made him beg, made him sweat and ache.

        Deceptively soft ties looped through discreet metal holes bound his wrists over his head as he writhed on a cushioned bench.  His legs were over Tepeni's shoulders, Tepeni fucking him slowly, gently, every gradual stroke burning into him, punctuated with a flare of color, a burst of light, leaving him breathless and simmering until the next slow thrust.  He'd already come, but it didn't seem to matter.  His body ached, his muscles tense, his heart pounding, his dick throbbing.  He needed to come again, he needed it, and he could see Kelano and Lapiko, kneeling on either side of the bench, their mischievous mouths so close to his pulsing erection that he could feel their breath.

        Instead of sucking him, they kept kissing each other.  They'd lick at him a bit, fanning the flames of his desire, murmur at the taste of his pre-cum, and then lick at each other, snickering and moaning and whispering.  When Kelano finally kissed his dick, he groaned at the feel of it, at the sight of it, and Lapiko ran curious, teasing fingers around the head, and he shuddered, moaning, feeling that blessed sweet release rising within him, feeling-

        “Mmm, it's so hard,” Lapiko murmured, and they both backed off of it, depriving him of climax, making soft, admiring noises and looking at his dick, watching his need.  Groaning, he licked his lips, curling his hands into fists as he fought for control.  They'd let him come, sooner or later, they just wanted to keep him on the edge first.  And, oh, he was on the edge, burning, panting, his body straining, his eyes rolling back in his head as climax tantalized him at each touch, each kiss, each thrust.  Bringing him to the precipice and keeping him there, toying with his need, making him ache and sweat and need, was the trick of the sulatim, a dance they knew well, a dance he craved.

        “I get so hungry for the taste of it,” Kelano said, lightly running his fingers over Remin's stomach within inches of where his erection throbbed and drooled.

        Remin tried to move towards Kelano's touch, but just then Tepeni slid in deeper than before, faster, setting off fireworks with unexpected energy, and Remin's body bucked without his permission, seized by a sudden, needful spasm.  Arching, groaning, Remin jerked his wrists, testing his bonds, tossing his head.  “Ah, yes, like that,” he panted, closing his eyes and trying to push up into Tepeni's thrusts, “like that, fuck me like that.”

        “Mmm, yes,” Lapiko murmured, stroking Tepeni's arm, turning admiring eyes on Tepeni's rocking hips.  “I'd love to be fucked like that.”

        “Do you like it?” Tepeni asked, fucking Remin in smooth rhythm, faster now, making him feel it, making his blood pound quick and hot.  “Is this what you want?”

        “Yes, yes, oh,” Remin groaned as Tepeni thrust in harder and Kelano's fingers wandered over his dick, “yes, fuck me, harder.”

        “Mmm, Prince Anoremin,” Kelano's tongue flickered tiny little licks over the head of his dick, making him moan, making his balls ache, “you can't come yet, you haven't fucked me.”

        “He does have such a gorgeous dick,” Tepeni said, easing to a stop, relaxing, pushing his dark hair back from his forehead.  “It would be a shame not to ride it.”

        The feel of Tepeni's erection, inside, filling him, made Remin want to move, made him want to draw it in farther, made him want to fuck himself on it.  “It would be a real shame,” he said, and he deliberately twitched his hips, sending Tepeni's erection just an inch deeper.

        A pleased moan, and Tepeni leaned closer, hands on either side of his shoulders, smiling.  “You feel very good, Your Highness.”  A soft thrust had them both groaning.  “Very good,” Tepeni repeated, lashes fluttering like he couldn't take it.  “Oh, yes…”  Moaning, he picked up a slow, subtle, devastating rhythm, hips rolling smoothly.  “I'm going, ah, to come…”

        “Yes, yes,” Remin panted, undulating under him, pushing for it, straining for it, rocked by each thrust, moaning in urgent rhythm.

        “No, no, don't let Prince Anoremin come,” Kelano said quickly.  “I want him to fuck me, he promised that he'd fuck me.”

        “Lapiko,” Tepeni said with sudden urgency, “Lapiko-”

        “No, no,” Remin protested, locking his legs around Tepeni's waist as Lapiko slid around to Tepeni's side, “no,” he wasn't there yet, he could feel it rising, he could feel it, he just needed one more thrust, just one more push, just, “don't-”

        Groaning, Tepeni pulled out of Remin, and as Lapiko stretched out, leaning back, Tepeni came, pumping his dick, groaning, shuddering, splattering Lapiko's arching body with white streams of cum.  Moaning, Tepeni sat back, panting, and two other belas crawled over, licking across Lapiko's glistening skin.

        Panting, needing, deprived of that orgasm, Remin sought another source.  Kelano appeared to be watching Lapiko, but his fingers were sliding over Remin's nipples.  Immediately determined, Remin hooked one of his legs around Kelano's waist, guiding him closer.  “Kelano,” he said, his voice low, “my lovely one, let me give you what you need.”

        “What I need?” Kelano repeated, licking his lips, thumbing Remin's nipple and making him moan softly.  “What would you give me, Your Highness?”

        “You need me,” Remin said, shifting around, sliding to the side, keeping Kelano in the cradle of his legs as he eased himself down from the bench to the floor, sitting there with his arms still behind him, Kelano caught between his thighs.  “You need me, Kelano, you need me to fuck you, you need me to show you pleasure, you need me to make you come.”

        “Mmm, you do know what I need,” Kelano murmured, settling into his lap, thighs over his.  When Kelano's arms wrapped around his neck, when he felt the heat of Kelano's chest against his, when he felt the hardness of Kelano's dick against his, Remin groaned, jerking against his bonds, burning and aching even more fiercely than before, so close, so close.

        “I'll take you to my room,” he promised, kissing Kelano's neck, whispering into Kelano's ears.  “I'll fuck you over and over again, for as long as you can take it.”

        Languid fingers stroked through his hair as Kelano considered his words.  “What about Tepeni?”

        Scattering kisses across Kelano's neck and shoulders, Remin said, “You can help me to make him beg for more.”

        “That does sound fun.  And I do love the way that you fuck me,” Kelano decided, nuzzling his cheek and granting him a few hot, wet kisses, lingering over his mouth with pleased little sighs.  “Tepeni,” he said, stroking Remin's chest.

        “Yes?” Tepeni asked, suddenly sliding in beside them, feathering his fingers through Remin's hair and kissing Remin's neck, sucking gently.

        “We're going to Prince Anoremin's room.”  Kelano kissed Tepeni, his hand sneaking down to stroke Remin's dick, making him groan at the unbearably light, teasing caress.  “Which toys shall we take?”

        “No,” Remin said quickly, “no, no toys.”  Not today, no, he couldn't take it, not the toys, not the games, he just wanted to fuck them, to come, to release this overwhelming tension, to satisfy his aching lust.

        Pouting, Kelano squeezed his dick.  “That's all right,” Tepeni murmured, kissing Remin with a smile.  “We don't need to take anything.”  A soft little lick.  “There are plenty of things in Prince Anoremin's room to play with.”  The twinkle in Tepeni's eye was going to kill him.  “Shall we go?”

        After dinner, Orinakin knocked at Remin's door.  Hearing no reply, he turned the knob and stepped inside.

        In the bedroom, sprawled across the bed, exhausted and asleep, was Remin.  He was on his stomach, over a dozing Kelano, with one ankle still tied to the bedpost.  Curled up at his side, Tepeni was kissing his shoulder and unknotting the length of silk around his wrist.

        Tepeni smiled.  “Prince Orinakin.”

        Orinakin nodded.  “I'll have dinner sent in.”  He'd have one of the lesis belas bring it; they'd at least let Remin eat.  Tepeni and Kelano would probably just make Remin drool with hunger and then lick everything from each other's fingers while he watched.

        Tepeni smiled.  “Thank you, Your Highness.”

        What a sweet, innocent expression.  As if Orinakin didn't know better.  “Tell him that I'll return later.”  He hesitated to bring it up, but, “You might want to wash those before you put them back,” he said, gesturing to the items scattered across the bed.

        Trust Remin to put a Papalutian fertility stick to use.

A Painter's Tale

From the moment when Seuoalaiaete Auoueineuoaneiae was born, he was, like every other Ilaeian child, scrutinized for budding artistic talent.  Unlike most of the children in the village of Oukiea, Seuoalaiaete actually had true skill.  While the other students in his class drew crude renderings of their homes, families, and farm animals, Seuoalaiaete sketched dramatic landscapes and breathtaking sunsets.

            With each successive step in his artistic development, Seuoalaiaete saw the gap between him and the rest of the village widen.  His parents were proud of him, jealously protective of his talent, and increasingly ambitious over the years.  They saw their young son as their own way out of their humble village lives; he would take them from their low circumstances and elevate them to a new existence filled with comforts and luxuries, one far from their current surroundings.  Some of the adults around him - - neighbors, teachers, priests, community leaders - - smiled at him fondly and wished him well, while others snarled and smirked and spoke badly of his chances, suggesting that he would never rise above his current station, and that if he ever did, he certainly wouldn't deserve it.  His fellow students took their cues from the adults around them, some of them admiring his blossoming talent, some of them taunting him and tripping him as he walked by.

            There were three broad classes in Ilaeia: patrons, peasants, and artists.  Following the tone set by the crown, all Ilaeian citizens had only the highest esteem for painters, sculptors, poets, singers, composers, musicians, and the like.  It had long been that way; Ilaeia's international reputation was staked almost entirely on the quality of art that it produced.

            Seuoalaiaete's parents couldn't afford to pay an instructor to teach him what he needed to know to improve in his work, but they pushed him to do his best, even encouraging him to put his drawings before his schoolwork.  If he succeeded as an artist, his lack of education in other areas wouldn't hinder him; if he failed as an artist, he didn't need to know how to read or write in order to milk cows.

            If his own constant, personal passion for art hadn't burned so brightly, his parents' never-ending insistence on devotion to it could have spoiled his love for his craft.  Fortunately, Seuoalaiaete needed no encouragement to sketch.

            He had no access to paints, once he used up the precious colors given to him by an aunt.  Almost all of his sketches were done in charcoal, crowded on both sides of expensive paper on which his parents spent precious coins.  Whenever he ran out of paper, he sketched on the floors and walls of his home.

            When Seuoalaiaete was ten, his parents took the advice of a local priest and sent a bundle of his drawings to an expensive, well-respected painting instructor in the nearest big city.  They knew that they couldn't afford his services; they simply wanted to ask him what they should do to guide Seuoalaiaete's talent.

            Instead of replying to the initial inquiry, the instructor sent the sketches on to a friend of his, an even more expensive instructor in Eiapelai, the nation's capital.

            Receiving no response, Seuoalaiaete's parents scolded their son and told him that he should try to improve so that they could make another attempt in another year.  He was wasting his talent, they told him, and they'd never get out of the village at this rate.

            Seuoalaiaete, in his own heart, didn't want to leave his home in Oukiea.  He loved the countryside, with its warm browns and vivid greens.  He loved watching the sun rise over the fertile fields.  He loved Eatoune.

            Eatoune lived two farms to the west.  Seuoalaiaete's favorite view in the world was the one from his bedroom window, where he could see Eatoune's spare little home, and Eatoune's family's broad, flat fields, and an intimate cluster of trees just to the side.  He'd sketched that view more than anything else in his life, in every possible lighting condition.  He could do it with his eyes closed.  He sketched it in his dreams at night.

            Only two years older than he was, Eatoune was Seuoalaiaete's champion.  While Seuoalaiaete was slender and pretty and quiet, Eatoune was broad and muscular and assertive.  He was one of the most intelligent and popular boys in the village, and when he'd seen seven-year-old Seuoalaiaete sitting by the side of a bumpy dirt road, rescuing torn scraps of sketches from a mud puddle, he'd asked, while helping to smooth out wet, dirty, winkled bits of paper, “Why are you crying?  Can't you just draw them again?”

            Seuoalaiaete hadn't been able to explain his artistic despair, but Eatoune had respected his honest distress and his talent, which, judging even by those little scraps of paper, was obvious and unparalleled in Eatoune's life.  There was a girl in the village who could sing pretty well, and a young man who'd left only last year to become an actor, but no one thought much of their chances.  Seuoalaiaete was different; Eatoune could see that already.

            The next time that Eatoune had seen kids in the schoolyard taunting Seuoalaiaete, he'd used his fists to make it stop.

            No one had ever bloodied a nose on Seuoalaiaete's behalf before, and he'd been indescribably grateful for Eatoune's intervention.  But, as he'd tried to explain, he didn't want anyone to get hurt; he just wanted the taunts to stop.

            “You don't want me to hit them?” Eatoune had asked.  “But they hit you, don't they?”

            “Only sometimes,” Seuoalaiaete had said, giving Eatoune's bruised knuckles a worried glance.  “As long as they don't rip my sketches, I…I can take it.”

            Baffled, Eatoune had asked, “Then why don't you just leave your sketches at home, where no one can get to them?”

            “It's hard to go all day without drawing something,” Seuoalaiaete had said helplessly.  “I can't sit at my desk for hours and hours and not sketch.  It would be like,” he'd shaken his head, shifting his feet and trying to come up with a comparison, “like if you tried to hold your breath all day at school.  After a while, you'd just have to breathe, wouldn't you?”

            Eatoune had been impressed by this little seven-year-old's dedication.  “If you don't want me to hit them, I won't.  And if anybody tears up your stuff again, you tell me about it.”

            The news that Seuoalaiaete was under Eatoune's protection quickly spread and was easily verified.  The harassment didn't stop, of course; it only became more subtle.  But with his precious sketches somewhat more safe now, and his brave protector on guard, Seuoalaiaete was happy.

            For the rest of his life, he considered Eatoune to have been his first true patron.  The emotional and physical investment that Eatoune had made in him was worth more than money.

            Shortly before Seuoalaiaete's eleventh birthday, a wealthy man in a gleaming carriage with two fine horses arrived in Oukiea.  He stopped in the village square and inquired as to the whereabouts of the Auoueineuoaneiae family.  Directed to Seuoalaiaete's house, he drove to the farm and knocked at the door.

            When Seuoalaiaete's mother answered, she was shocked to see such an elegant and apparently aristocratic man at her home.  He was there, of course to see Seuoalaiaete.  He'd expected, however, that the artist in question would be a man of at least thirty years, if not forty, and probably more; to be told that a mere child, and a wholly untrained one at that, could create anything like the art that he'd seen, had tested his patience.  He'd insisted that Seuoalaiaete sketch for him, on demand, determined to prove that claim a lie.

            Seuoalaiaete, nervous at being on display before an actual lord, hadn't even thought of going outside to draw a landscape; he'd sat down before a fresh piece of paper and sketched his bedroom view of Eatoune's family property from memory.

            The next evening, Seuoalaiaete left for Eiapelai with Lord Uakoup.

            He returned from time to time over the next few years, always in finer and finer clothes, to visit his parents.  Every time he came home, he repeatedly sought out Eatoune.  His parents wanted to hear about his career, about his prospects, about which important people he'd met and how likely they were to support him.  Eatoune wanted to hear about him, and the city, and his lifestyle, and what he'd learned, and what he'd seen and done.  He wanted desperately to keep in touch with Eatoune when they were apart, and he convinced Eatoune to write him letters, but Seuoalaiaete was ashamed of his poor education, his bad spelling, and his graceless handwriting, so instead of letters, he sent sketches.

            Eatoune kept every single one of them.  He said that the sketches, of various landscapes in various moods, communicated more strongly than any words could have.

            When Seuoalaiaete was seventeen, he met the king.

            When he was eighteen, his official patron, Lord Uakoup, gave Queen Aileou one of his landscapes as a birthday gift.  A view from one of her favorite balconies in her summer residence, the painting brought her to tears.  Catapulted to instant fame, Seuoalaiaete was advised not to explain to anyone that he'd been the young man chased down by the gardeners from among the trees on the royal family's summer property, which was where he'd perched for days on end, preparing sketches to make the painting.

            He was also advised to change his name.  Long names cobbled together from traditional family names were common and uncouth.  It was fashionable to have a short name, like the king.  Seuoalaiaete Auoueineuoaneiae became Laiaete Neiae.  When word of the alteration reached his parents, they said that it certainly was an improvement, and changed their names accordingly.  When word of it reached Eatoune, he wrote to the new Laiaete Neiae and said, “My name's so short because my parents were ashamed of their ancestors and didn't want to name me after them.  But I'm sure that there's no shame involved in your name change.”

            Laiaete's parents now lived much nearer to Eiapelai, but he continued to travel to Oukiea at every opportunity, to see Eatoune.  He invited Eatoune to the capital city, but Eatoune refused.

            “I don't have fine clothes or fine manners,” Eatoune said, sitting on the back porch with him one fall evening.  “I wouldn't be comfortable around all of those lords and gentlemen.”

            “You're comfortable everywhere you go,” Laiaete said.

            Eatoune smiled at him.  “They might not be comfortable around me.”

            “Maybe not,” Laiaete admitted.  The people he circulated among now lived as if Oukiea and its villagers didn't exist.  The countryside he painted was art, to them, not reality.  “But I would be very happy to see you.”

            “You're very famous,” Eatoune said.  “I've heard that the queen calls you `Aiae' now.”

            “It's her…pet name for me,” Laiaete confessed, his cheeks burning.

            “Rumor and speculation suggest that you'll have the king's patronage before the end of the year.”

            “I don't know about that,” Laiaete said quickly.  “Nothing's been promised to me.”

            “Would it make you happy?” Eatoune asked.

            “It would make my parents very happy,” Laiaete said.  “It's been their dream for all of my life.”

            “What would make you happy?” Eatoune asked.

            When Laiaete fell asleep each night, and awakened each morning, he had only two things on his mind.  Art, and Eatoune.  It would make him thoroughly, contentedly happy to spend his life in Eatoune's home, sitting on the back porch and sketching the sunset.  But he'd never admitted to that before, and he didn't have the courage to do so then.  “The king's patronage would make me happy,” he said.  “It would be a true honor.”

            A few months later, Laiaete Neiae, forever after known as Aiae, became the royal painter.  He moved into a house quite near the palace, attended all royal functions, and painted.  He provided money for his parents to live on comfortably, and he sent money to Eatoune.

            Eatoune, who continued to write to him, sent the money back, with a note: There seems to have been a mistake.  You accidentally sent this instead of a sketch.  Please send a sketch soon.  I miss seeing the world through your eyes.  The scenery around here looks dull in comparison.

            Aiae's artwork thrived, and he soon had more fame than he knew what to do with.  Requests for his paintings came from every direction, and one day Eatoune wrote to ask, Why does Prince Orinakin of Orina Anoris want to know about you?  He's here in town asking questions.  I hesitated to speak with him, because he wouldn't give me a bald answer about why he was asking, but something in his manner compelled me to talk freely.  I checked the record books afterward; he's the first prince to pass through Oukiea.

            Soon enough, Aiae found out why Prince Orinakin wanted to know about him.  Knowing himself to be in love with Eatoune, and not wanting to leave his homeland, he was reluctant to go, but his parents and the queen advised him to seize this opportunity, and so he traveled to Orina Anoris to court Anosukinom.

            Despite the kindness of Prince Orinakin and Dillane, despite his recent experiences in royal society, Aiae felt entirely out of his element.  Everyone was very nice to him, but he felt farther from Eatoune than ever, and he wondered why each step forward in life, which everyone around him lauded as fantastic progress, only made him long more for what he was leaving behind.

            Orina Anoris was a beautiful country.  The journey there had given Aiae unparalleled views of gorgeous countryside, and an astonishing variety of landscapes.  The sight of the harsh, gray, jagged mountains along Nosupolis' border had taken his breath away.  Aiae spent much of his time in Orina Anoris sketching and even painting.  When he was taken to the galleries and the Royal House of Art, he'd wanted to kiss the hands that created such beauty.  People there spoke his languages, the language of Ilaeian and the language of art, and the idea of spending the rest of his life there had tempted him.

            Before, he'd only been able to dream of what it might be like to meet the seventh of the Seven Siblings, the royal artist of Orina Anoris, the most celebrated and most miraculously talented of all artists.  Suddenly, he met not only the current royal artist, Prince Libi, but his successor, Prince Talin, as well.  Being able to speak with, and learn from, the supreme artists of their generations, was a fantasy come to life, and Aiae soaked up as much as he could, wishing that he could spend a lifetime as Libi's shadow.

            Meeting Talin and Libi was living out a dream.  Meeting Anosukinom was unimaginable.

            Aiae had fallen in love more than once in his life.  With art.  With Eatoune.  With painting.  In Orina Anoris, he fell in love with Anosukinom.  Here was someone who created sunsets even more spectacular than he could, and with the sun itself, without picking up a palette or a brush.  Anosukinom understood nature, and beauty, more than anyone Aiae had ever met.

            An artist first, even more than an Ilaeian, Aiae immediately wanted to work for Anosukinom, who would appreciate his paintings, who would understand his work, who would encourage him for his own sake and for his art, not for the personal glory of owning him.  He spent hours on the pharaoh's private balcony, recreating on paper and canvas the view set before him.

            Secretly, in his rooms at night, from memory, Aiae sketched Anosukinom.  The pharaoh's features were astonishingly idealized, which made them difficult to look at, impossible to look away from, and excruciating to capture on paper.  Aiae had always preferred landscapes to people, both in his life and his art; people were more complicated and less rewarding.  He couldn't show anyone his sketches of Anosukinom, because according to the Anorian religion, it was utter sacrilege to depict a god's true appearance.

            Therefore, one of Anosukinom's requests put him in an unexpectedly awkward situation.

            “You create more than landscapes and sunsets,” Anosukinom said, as they sat on the balcony together.  “You also sketch scenes, and people?”

            “Sometimes, yes, I do,” Aiae said.  “My gift is not as strong in those areas.”

            “I would like to see your sketches of people,” Anosukinom said.  “I would like to see your renditions of them.  Will you show me some?”

            Embarrassed, suddenly, Aiae said, “I only have but a few,” running a protective hand over his sketchbook.  He'd never had a sketchbook before; it was an Anorian concept, to bind blank pages together.  Anosukinom had offered him whatever supplies he wished to have, and Anosanim had shown him the tools that he, Talin, and Libi preferred.  “They're not very accurate.  I did them from memory.”  The only sketches of people that he had in the book, aside from those of Anosukinom, were of Eatoune.

            “I trust in the accuracy of your memory,” Anosukinom said.  “I would like very much to see your fellow man through your eyes.”

            It had sounded so much like something that Eatoune would say, that Aiae had opened the sketchbook and handed it over.  The accents of Dillane and all of the other Anorians echoed the upper-class tones of the Ilaeian aristocracy, but Anosukinom's accent sounded like home, like the village; it tricked Aiae's ears into thinking that he was speaking with someone he'd grown up with.  And that sentiment, that Anosukinom wanted to his work to view the world through his eyes, matched Eatoune exactly.  No one else who said that ever sounded half as sincere.

            The sketch was of Eatoune, sitting on his back porch, a small cluster of trees just beyond.  He was bare-headed, his thick black hair messily tousled, a hat just beside his chair.  One knee of his pants had been patched over, and his collar was open.  He was smiling, a little, the way he did when he saw a joke coming but wasn't ready to laugh just yet; the scar on the back of his hand was prominent.

            He was beautiful, to Aiae's eyes, and always had been, but was merely “kind of cute” or “not unattractive” to the rest of the world.  Aiae, however, loved his crooked smile, and adored his broad nose, and wanted to stroke his bushy eyebrows.

            Gazing at Eatoune as if the sketch were a window into Eatoune's life, Anosukinom ran the tips of his fingers down the page.  “This man,” he murmured, as if recognizing him from sometime long ago.  “He works very hard.”

            “His brother has been very ill for many years,” Aiae said.  “He shoulders many of the family's burdens.”

            “Eatoune Uialouepaiaimaenea,” Anosukinom said, not taking his eyes from the sketch.

            Had he plucked the name from Aiae's mind?  Aiae hadn't heard that name spoken from any but his own lips in so long, it was a shock to hear it now, here, so far from home.  No one in the palace, no one at court, no one in Eiapelai, knew Eatoune's name.  Some people knew that Aiae returned to Oukiea several times each year, but they imagined it to be for vaguely professional or profound reasons, some sort of soul-cleansing journey or artistic meditation.  They always commented, on his return, how healthy he looked, how much happier he seemed, that he had a certain glow about him.  And when too long a time passed between trips, they'd remark that he'd begun to look tired, that maybe he should go and rejuvenate himself, that a trip to the countryside might do him some good.

            “For you to draw him from memory, he must have some significance for you,” Anosukinom said, and met his eyes.  “Why has this man lingered in your mind?”

            It would be impossible to lie directly to the face of a god, but Aiae couldn't confess the entire truth outright.  “He is a friend,” Aiae said, “a very good friend, from childhood.”

            “He is very intelligent, and highly respected,” Anosukinom said, gaze returning to the sketch.  “He has many acquaintances who consider themselves to be his friends, yet he is independent and does not share the core of his heart with anyone.  Not even with you, although you are at the forefront of his mind.  He is not weighed down by the responsibilities that have fallen to him.  He bears them well, from the maturity of his soul and from his love for his family.  His conscience is calm and does not pain him.  The only unsettled point in his life is you.”  Looking to Aiae again, his voice calm and conversational as if he'd not spoken any of those deep truths, he said, “You've remained in contact with him, even though you and your parents left Oukiea years ago.  He must be very proud of your success.”

            Aiae's heart beat strangely.  He'd never talked with anyone about his friendship with Eatoune; no one but his parents, that was, when they'd asked why he kept returning to the village they'd been so eager to leave.  It was new, to discuss Eatoune, and it struck him as wrong that he'd needed to come so far from home to do it.  “Yes, he is very proud of me.  He's always supported my career.”  It hadn't been a career, not at first, not in Aiae's eyes; it had been a calling, a passion.  Eatoune had understood that.

            “It sounds as if he understands very much about you,” Anosukinom said quietly, and Aiae averted his gaze quickly so that Anosukinom wouldn't be able to look into his eyes.  The pharaoh, however, could see directly into his soul, and added, “You must miss him very much, living so far away.”

            He missed Eatoune terribly; there was no one else in whom he could confide as openly.  “He writes to me, and I send him sketches.”

            “A unique kind of conversation,” Anosukinom said, sounding as if he approved of it.  “You do not write to your confidant?”

            “My sketches are more eloquent than my letters would be,” Aiae said.  A moment of silence followed his statement, and he finally felt compelled to look up and see what Anosukinom was doing.

            He was studying Aiae.  “I wish,” he said slowly, drawing one knee to his chest, “that I could make you understand that you never need to be self-conscious about anything.  Your strengths are so great, you need never be ashamed of any perceived lack.  Your immense talent, your great kindness, your generous and gentle soul, your honest humility, are in no way compromised.  You are a great artist, Aiae, and you are also a good man.”

            Embarrassed, overcome, Aiae turned his face aside, his cheeks burning as tears sprang to his eyes.  Queen Aileou's compliments were never so heartfelt and never so compassionate.  He'd never have thought that anyone who could see through to the heart of him this clearly, would have such kind and positive things to say.

            “You must have a great many admirers, in Eiapelai,” Anosukinom said.  “The extravagance of your beauty alone must entice many men.”

            On his way to this place, Aiae had struggled within himself; would the pharaoh desire someone with great sexual prowess, or would the pharaoh prefer an untouched flower?  The truth of it was, however, that Aiae could not pretend to be anything other than what he was.  “You pay me a fine compliment,” he said, grateful for the change in topic.  “I have been flattered by men and women alike.”

            “They have pursued you, some stealthily, others quite openly,” Anosukinom said.  “Yet you've refused everyone.”

            Aiae immediately turned to his easy answer.  “I've preferred to focus on my work.”

            “Your parents have encouraged you many times to offer sexual favors in exchange for the advancement of your career.”

            That was a private thing that no one should know and even Anosukinom should be more respectful than to mention.  Sick and ashamed, but refusing to show it, Aiae said quietly, his chest feeling tight, “I've preferred to advance my career through my own means.”

            After a small nod that seemed to be in response to an internal monologue,  Anosukinom said, “I apologize.  I did not mean to bring you shame.  I only wish to know more about you, your responses, your reactions, how you think, how you feel.  Will you tell me your thoughts on becoming king here?”

            King.  It was outlandish, the idea of himself as a king.  “I was shocked, when Prince Orinakin invited me to come here.  We had a long talk together about how he'd come to that decision.  When I met the other suitors, with their wealth and their titles and their accomplishments, I had to remind myself of what Prince Orinakin had said to me.”

            “And of what Eatoune had said to you,” Anosukinom said.

            Yes.  That, too.  “I am aware that, in the eyes of the Ilaeian aristocracy, I came from nowhere and grew up with nothing.  If my own countrymen think that, I couldn't imagine what you would think.  But your brother assured me that my life as a commoner would be invaluable to you.”

            “Many Anorians grow up without luxuries, or even without necessities.  Many of them grow up with economic disadvantages, with social disadvantages.  Many of them grow up without a proper education, with parents that work too hard without enough result, with no clear way of finding a better life.”

            Many?  Aiae was surprised.  “How many?”

            “Two is too many,” Anosukinom said firmly.  “One is too many.  It is important for me to keep those people, those families, always in my mind.  And I would place great value upon a husband who would speak on their behalf.”

            “I do not know how it is for your people here,” Aiae said, “but I am very happy to hear that there is a ruler in the world who strives to keep the least of his citizens first in his mind.  I wish that more leaders shared your view.”

            “What else would you offer me?” Anosukinom asked.

            “I learn quickly,” Aiae said.  “I am able to transform myself.  I went from not being able to afford art supplies or even food, to being the darling of the king's court.”  It was difficult for him to advertise himself in this way; he disliked hearing himself sound avaricious, but he continued on as nicely as he could.  “I am a kind person, and a humble one.  I would not thrust myself into matters only to draw attention to myself.  I would be honored to offer counsel or advice, or even simply a willing ear.  I would be faithful to you as a husband and loyal to you as my pharaoh.  I have grown accustomed to dining with royalty, and am sure that, as soon as I become acclimated to your language and your culture, I will fit in very smoothly with your family and guests.”  Inhaling slowly, he decided to press forward with less refined points.  “I'm more handsome than any of your other suitors, and indeed more handsome than most anyone you're likely to meet.  That alone will have many people congratulating you on a fine match.  I have not been with anyone else, so you will be the first and only to,” he grew warm with embarrassment, “take your pleasure here.  I was highly pursued,” for his artistic talents and for other things, “by my own king, so you may be confident in pursuing me for yourself.”

            Seconds ticked by in silence as Anosukinom gazed at him.

            Aiae was nervous, but he knew how to wait.

            “That was difficult for you.  You are a simple man, Seuoalaiaete, and a humble one.  There is so much grace and strength and devotion and talent in your heart, and so much quiet reflection in your soul.”

            No one called him that anymore.  No one but Eatoune.  Certainly not his parents.

            “You create great beauty,” Anosukinom said, “and I am greatly tantalized by the idea of marriage to you.  I would be rewarded by the sight of you at your easel.  I would be happy to indulge your desires and create new sights for you to paint.”

            His heart suddenly seized in a hot fist, Aiae lost his breath.  Create new sights for him to paint!  Anosukinom had not only the ability but the wish to do that?  For him?!

            “Your heart is good, and kind,” Anosukinom said.  “And you truly are so handsome that even in Ilaeian I cannot find words to describe it.  The idea of introducing your body to new pleasures is very tempting.  However, something blocks the way between us, and you know very well what it is.”

            Caught, Aiae lowered his gaze.

            “I will not marry someone who feels a stronger love for someone else,” Anosukinom said gently.  “Your bond with Eatoune has first priority in your heart, and your feelings for me will never overcome that.  Your love for him is as natural and as passionate as your love for art.”

            Struggling to correct Anosukinom's false impression, Aiae said, “I am only a friend to him.  There's never been a romance between us.”

            Leaning back against the balcony railing, Anosukinom asked, “You haven't had much opportunity to direct the course of your life, have you?  Your parents pushed you in one direction, then handed you to Lord Uakoup, and ever since, you've been under the direction of your patrons.  You've made choices for yourself, the choice not to tolerate unwanted advances, the choice to maintain your friendship with Eatoune.  And you're young, so it's natural for you to take the advice of those in authority over you.  Your lack of confidence in your own education only makes you more likely to listen to strong voices.  But, Aiae, look at where that's taken you.  You're here, offering yourself in marriage to me.”

            It was disconcerting, to be taken apart and labeled so thoroughly.  “I would be happy here.  I would be happy to love you, and I would be overjoyed to spend my life painting for you.”

            “So far from your home?” Anosukinom asked.  “So far from Eatoune?  Is this truly what you would choose for yourself?  If you didn't have me here before you, if you didn't have to satisfy your parents or answer to your patrons, what would you do?  How would you live your life?  Would you spend it alone?  With a companion?  Would you spend it in the city, in the countryside, or abroad?  You know that you're an artist, Aiae, and you've created a life for yourself as an artist.  What else do you know about yourself?  What else is in your heart?”

            Eatoune.  He wanted to spend his life with Eatoune.  If he could have what he desired, if he could choose his own way, he would be with Eatoune.  No one made him happier, no one meant more to him, than his beloved Eatoune.  His heart beat with it; tears burned his eyes.

            “You see why I cannot marry you?” Anosukinom asked kindly.  “You see that you must be somewhere else, with someone else?”  As Aiae nodded, sniffling and blinking and trying not to cry, Anosukinom gave him a reassuring smile and looked down at the sketch again.  “The bond between you took shape over years, and has faced subtle threats, but he cherishes you with every breath that he takes.  He will not take the first step to change your relationship, Aiae, he will not make a sexual advance.  You must be the one.”

            But Eatoune was older, and experienced.

            “Seuoalaiaete,” Anosukinom said fondly, with warm affection in his eyes, “you are a national treasure.  Eatoune saw you as one even before you moved away.  You move in important circles now, the highest in your country.  He is a farmer from an ignored and forgotten village.  As your parents would say, you have advanced far beyond him.  He doesn't want to lower your station, or inhibit your progress.”

            “He wouldn't,” Aiae said, surprised.  “He wouldn't hinder me, he would fulfill me.  He would enhance me.  Eatoune has always made me a better person, and made me feel better about my worth as a human.  I'm so much more than a painter to him.”

            “You are much more than a painter,” Anosukinom said.  “Orinakin did not bring you here because of your talent, although it is formidable, and you've earned every accolade you've been given.  He brought you here because of your devotion and  generosity and humility and gentle nature and quiet courage.  But I think that in this instance, I must return you to the man who appreciated those qualities in you long before Orinakin or I ever met you.”

            With that, Anosukinom handed his sketchbook back to him, and he saw what the pharaoh had done.  The sketch of Eatoune had color now, shade over shade of gorgeous, living color.  The dull shade of dusty boots, the tanned flesh, the gleaming eyes, everything was so vivid, so real, that for an instant, Aiae thought that Eatoune might speak to him.  Having Eatoune suddenly so close and so present, while realizing how many miles truly separated them, sank sharp pain deep into Aiae's heart.  With shaking hands, he pressed the sketchbook close to his chest, raising wet eyes to Anosukinom's face.  “Please,” he said, whispering, voice thick and choked, “please, may I go home?”

            “Beautiful Seuoalaiaete,” Anosukinom said, with a loving smile, “I wish that you would.”

            Every day, Eatoune waited for the news to come that Aiae had been accepted by the pharaoh.  He didn't know who the other suitors were, and he didn't care; no one was more kind, or more handsome, or more blessed than Aiae.  Anyone, even Anosukinom, would be honored to have Aiae at his side.

            Aiae had said that if the pharaoh agreed to marry him, he'd stay in Orina Anoris until the pharaoh's reign ended.  Eatoune continued to hope, however, that Aiae might come back before the wedding.  Surely Aiae would come home one more time.  The end couldn't have come already, not so soon.

            The end had been inevitable since the beginning.  Aiae was too beautiful, too sweet, and being pulled in too many different directions by too many people, to be Eatoune's forever.  He had long been fought over by his parents, by his various patrons; now even the king and queen were involved.  Everyone was too eager to get a piece of Aiae, to gain something from Aiae's gifts; no one cared what Aiae wanted.  No one did now, and no one ever had before.

            Eatoune cared.  Eatoune knew.  Aiae wanted to paint.  That was all.  Just to paint, and preferably to be left alone to do it.  Not entirely alone; Aiae liked people.  The problem was, people didn't seem to like Aiae very much.  They just liked what he could do for them.  How talented he was.  How exceptionally pretty he was.  How gentle he was; that sweetness always looked like weakness, to them.  They tried their best to take advantage of him, to manipulate him, to get their hands on the money he'd earned, to get their hands on him.

            Aiae thought that he'd downplayed that aspect, but whenever Aiae skirted an issue, Eatoune knew to pay more attention, to read between the lines.  Eatoune knew that wealth did not necessarily indicate ethical behavior, and he didn't think that aristocrats were bound to be more pure than anyone else.  Royalty and those in the upper classes were used to getting what they wanted, and if they wanted to take advantage of a soft-spoken young man from the country, then they'd probably not take kindly to Aiae denying them access to his purse or his parts.

            What Aiae said, during their visits, was that everything was going splendidly, that his patrons were exceedingly generous, that the king and queen were wonderfully understanding, and that it was hard to get used to living in that whole big house with all of that finery all by himself.  Then he'd ask a bunch of questions about Eatoune's activities and habits.

            What Aiae's sketches said, the ones that Eatoune pored over and treasured and defended from thieves who wanted to steal and sell the work of the celebrated royal artist, was that there was great beauty in the natural world, and great loneliness in the city.

            It wasn't the city itself that was the problem, Eatoune knew.  He and Aiae had talked many times about how the country and the city were neutral entities, that what people made of them, put into them, and got out of them was what colored perceptions and gave places their character.  The city wasn't lonely; Aiae was.

            With all of his new resources, his access to paints and supplies, Aiae should be happier than ever, in Eiapelai.  His genius was celebrated; his work was unanimously supported.  He'd never again need to worry about money, or go without food, or be ashamed of wearing rags.  He was where he belonged, far from hardship, among people who placed great value upon his talent.

            Aiae had not been meant for poverty and strife.  He hadn't been meant for hard labor, either.  He was too gentle for that, too distracted by his own gifts.  He'd been born for art, not for tending fields and slopping pigs.  His passion for art was too intense; he'd never be content doing anything else.

            Eatoune would never be truly content without Aiae, but that was a part of life.  Not everyone lived a life of true fulfillment.  That was fine.  He did what he could to be a good person, to take care of his family, to see that the people around him were better off and not worse for his role in their lives.  His heart lived in captivated thrall to Aiae, but he'd never truly expected to have Aiae for himself, so he wasn't incapacitated by the news that Aiae would marry someone else.  He'd always known that Aiae wasn't meant to stay in Oukiea, so he wasn't destroyed by the idea that Aiae would move away.

            He was trying to grow accustomed to the idea that he might never see his sweet Aiae again, but he couldn't quite believe it.  Surely he'd see Aiae before another thirty years had passed.  Surely their time together hadn't ended.  Surely they weren't out of each other's lives yet.  Someday, just not now.  They must have some time left together.  Another few days.  Another chance.

            To relieve himself from his own inner struggle with Aiae's untimely departure from his life, Eatoune spent his days working hard in the fields.  He avoided leaving the farm; he didn't want to face the questions of the curious people who'd expect him to have information on Aiae's future.  As a close friend of the royal artist, Eatoune was often addressed by people with questions and opinions on Aiae's career, and while he usually was happy to discuss Aiae's well-deserved success, now that Aiae's destiny had taken this sharp turn, he was less willing to engage in conversation on the subject.  He spent his spare time cleaning the barn (to the consternation of the cows) and cleaning the house (to the consternation of his brother).  At night, however, his mind tied itself in knots as he fought with the idea that maybe Aiae would come back, maybe they'd have more time together, maybe he should have told Aiae of his love, maybe he'd never see Aiae again.

            His dreams were unusually vivid, yet strangely repetitive.  Rich in color and lingering in his mind for hours after he wakened, they featured Aiae.  In each dream, Eatoune would be in the field, on his hands and knees, digging at something, seeming to scrabble at the soil.  He'd hear a sound, and he'd feel a bright shock in his heart, and he'd look over his shoulder with sudden breathlessness, and Aiae would be there, jogging straight toward him.  Aiae would be in splendid apparel, his classically beautiful face lit with a smile, and for the first time since he'd gone to Eiapelai, his hair would fall loose from its ribbon and those glossy black tresses would slip free around his shoulders.  Suddenly on his feet, Eatoune would cry out, and Aiae would hurry forward.

            This was where the dream changed.  There were two very distinct versions, and they alternated, taking turns at haunting him.

            In the one Eatoune preferred, he surged forward and grabbed Aiae in a tremendous embrace; having Aiae so wonderfully and unexpectedly close unleashed long-repressed desires, and he and Aiae made fierce, passionate love.  The dream was so real that he could smell the soil, he could taste Aiae's sweat, he could feel Aiae's body shuddering in climax, he could hear Aiae's desperate cries of his name.  Whenever he had that dream, he wakened to find his sheets sticky with the sexual release his body had claimed as he'd slept.

            In the other dream, he greeted Aiae with joy, but reined in his sexual desires, and did not reveal his love.  Their conversation was pleasant, but restrained, and he didn't touch Aiae at all, insisting that he was too dirty and didn't want to soil Aiae's finery.  He felt tense and desperate throughout, but he kept Aiae from discovering his secret desire, and when they parted ways, Aiae was none the wiser.  From those dreams, Eatoune always awakened feeling miserable and very, very alone.

            Standing out in the field each morning, he would wish that his dream would come true before him, that Aiae would miraculously appear to him, that he could see his beloved one last time.  He wouldn't reenact the sexual scenario of his dream; he'd never be so crass as to attempt to seduce anyone already betrothed.  Still, if he could only see Aiae again, could only speak with him.  He wanted to tell Aiae how much their friendship had meant to him, and how much-

            “Eatoune!”

            Turning, Eatoune squinted and saw his brother standing at the front door.  Frowning, he called, “Ouneaoaunaeat, get back in the house!” as he hurried forward.

            “What were you doing, just standing out there?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.

            “I was plotting how to get you to stay in bed for once,” Eatoune said, guiding him back into the house.  Typically, he resisted going back to his bed, so Eatoune pushed him into a chair.  He didn't feel feverish, and he'd been sleeping well earlier, so maybe today would be a good day.

            “You're welcome to tie me down, but it will do you little good,” Ouneaoaunaeat said with a grin.

            “You are unusually wily,” Eatoune admitted, tousling his hair.

            Ducking Eatoune's hand, he asked, “Are you going to be all right if Aiae never comes back?”

            “Of course I will,” Eatoune said.  “I'm always all right, you know that about me.”  When Eatoune had been five years old, his mother had died.  His father had never truly recovered; with each passing year, Eatoune and Ouneaoaunaeat had taken on more and more of the burdens of running the house and farm.  When Eatoune had been eight, his brother, had fallen ill.  With his mother dead, his father gradually drifting away, and his older brother - - the sole remaining guiding force in his life - - bedridden, Eatoune had taken the run of the family for himself.  He found himself caring for Ouneaoaunaeat and assigning his father tasks and chores.  It wasn't an easy life, but Eatoune saw no reason that he should have a simple, cushy life; no one else in the village did.  He wanted better things for his brother, an improved diet, better medical care; his decision to turn away Aiae's money still ate at him, when he sat up with Ouneaoaunaeat on bad nights, wiping sweat from his brother's shivering body and listening helplessly to the pained whimpers and wracking coughs.  But he knew that even if he'd kept the money for Ouneaoaunaeat's sake, Ouneaoaunaeat would have refused it.

            “If he doesn't marry Anosukinom, he'll marry someone else,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “You're an idiot if you think that he'll stay in this weird position of being yours but not-yours forever.”

            “You're just an idiot, period,” Eatoune said, and Ouneaoaunaeat rolled his eyes.  “Why are you up?”

            “I thought that I'd go for a run,” Ouneaoaunaeat said dryly.  “I'm bored as a dead cricket in here, Eatoune.  I thought that I'd go out and shell peas or pull weeds.”

            “Are you sure?” Eatoune asked, feeling his forehead, looking into his face, glancing at his hands to see how steady they were.  He seemed all right, but, “It's hot out there.”

            “I'm aware of that,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “I'll wear a hat.”

            “I'll put up a sunshade,” Eatoune said.

            Groaning, Ouneaoaunaeat protested, “I don't-”

            “Stay under the sunshade, or you're going back to bed,” Eatoune warned.

            “Asshole,” Ouneaoaunaeat muttered, standing more slowly than Eatoune would have, but steadily and without reaching out a hand to lever himself up.  “Lead me to your weeds.”

            “My weeds,” Eatoune repeated, fetching the shade and walking outside with him.  “Our weeds, brother.  This is your farm, too.”

            “Someday, it'll be my farm, entirely, and you'll just be my hired worker,” Ouneaoaunaeat reminded him.

            “I hope that you'll pay fair wages,” Eatoune said.

            “Not likely,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, with a grin.

            After Eatoune settled Ouneaoaunaeat down to pull weeds, he went about his work.  Glad that Ouneaoaunaeat was feeling stronger, he whistled to himself, making sure to keep an eye on his brother, waving at a passing wagon and-

            “Eatoune!”

            “Gods above,” Eatoune said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and walking across the field to Ouneaoaunaeat.  Since his brother didn't sound troubled in any way, he didn't bother to worry.  “What now?” he asked.

            “Found a rock,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.

            “How nice for you,” Eatoune said.  “Be sure to decorate it.”

            “Idiot,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “Come here, look.  It's big.  I don't know how the plow's missed it all of this time, but I've been trying to dig it up, and I've about worn my fingertips off.  Get a spade or something.”

            Looking more closely, Eatoune saw that, yes, “That's a big rock.”

            “You're dirty,” Ouneaoaunaeat observed pleasantly, poking at what was no doubt a streak of dirt on his forehead with a grimy finger.

            “So are you,” Eatoune said, grinning.  It was great to see Ouneaoaunaeat outside, contributing.  Still grinning, he went to fetch a spade.

            An argument ensued over which one of them should dig up the rock; Eatoune ended the argument by dragging Ouneaoaunaeat and the sun shade over two rows, out of his way.  Then he got to work on digging up the rock.

            “Eatoune!”

            Chest suddenly tight, Eatoune felt an impossibly bright burst of light explode within him.  In breathless shock, he looked over his shoulder.

            Aiae.  Aiae.  Aiae was walking toward him.

            “Aiae!”  Unable to believe it, Eatoune was up and on his feet, staring.

            Faster now, Aiae rushed over to him, hair falling loose in his haste.

            “Seuoalaiaete,” he breathed, still unable to accept it.

            The bright, warm, happy expression on Aiae's face was beautiful, and clearly directed solely at Eatoune.  “You're here,” he said, looking as though he wanted to throw his arms around Eatoune in a tight, welcoming embrace.

            “You're here!” Eatoune said.  “Of course I'm here, why are you here?!”  Was he dreaming again?  His dreams were so vivid, this could be another one, with the rich color and the sounds, the smells; this was the same moment, the same scene.  Aiae even wore the same wine-red finery, his hair ribbon lying on the ground in exactly the same way.  Hoping to orient himself, Eatoune looked around; he saw his house, his barn, his wide-eyed brother.  He couldn't remember Ouneaoaunaeat ever having been in this dream.

            “I've come home,” Aiae said, his smooth, pale, perfectly manicured fingers touching prettily at his lovely hair, tucking it back behind a sweet shell of an ear.

            “And the pharaoh?” Eatoune asked, heart slamming painfully in his chest.  “Your marriage, your wedding?”

            “No, no,” Aiae said, “I'm not going to marry him, I can't marry him.”  Aiae was gazing at him as if they were having a completely different conversation, looking into his eyes as if adoring and enraptured, as though they were discussing something much more intimate that Aiae was eager to hear.  “I've missed you so much, you look so wonderful.”

            “I'm sweaty and dirty,” Eatoune said, moving a step back with an easy, self-deprecating smile, taking an old, ragged handkerchief from his pocket and wiping sweat and grime from his forehead.  “You look as handsome as ever.  Are you telling me that you turned down the pharaoh of Orina Anoris?”  He had to believe it; it couldn't have been otherwise.  The pharaoh, if he were as knowing as everyone claimed, would never have denied himself Aiae.

            “I can't marry someone if I'm in love with someone else.”

            Despite the sudden stabbing sensation in his chest, Eatoune managed to breathe.  He wasn't vain, but he wasn't stupid, either, and those words, combined with that desire-filled gaze and Aiae's hand reaching for his chest, told him exactly who “someone else” was.  He was almost dumbstruck, but he'd programmed his brain thoroughly over the years; if it ever seemed as if Aiae might be venturing toward a romance with him, he put up clearly printed signs to discourage and dissuade.  First, he moved back another step, just enough to avoid Aiae's touch.  Then, “You've already committed yourself to someone else?  You met him on your trip?”

            “I knew that I loved him, before I left,” Aiae said.  Aiae was in love with him.  Truly in love with him, in a realization of his private fantasies.  “I didn't think that he wanted to share an intimate partnership with me, so I held my tongue, but he's been showing his love for me for a long time now.”

            “If he hasn't made it clear to you that he wants to change his relationship with you,” Eatoune said, as if offering concerned advice, “maybe he doesn't.  It can be difficult to know what's in the heart of another.”  His gut in knots, he was sweating under the bright sun, struggling to keep his voice under control.  This was it, this was his one chance to prove how much he loved Aiae and how much he loved himself.  For his own sake, he wanted to kiss that delicious red mouth.  For Aiae's sake, he had to hold back.  He wasn't going to be like everyone else and use Aiae for his own desires; he knew that Aiae belonged in the capital city, with the king and other patrons, with all of the advantages of celebrated status.  Aiae should be with a member of the aristocracy who could further his career and fit in with high society.  Eatoune was a farmer, connected for life to a father and a brother who depended on him for everything.  Aiae could improve Eatoune's circumstances dramatically, but Eatoune couldn't do a thing for Aiae but pull him down, and Eatoune would never do that.  Not to his beautiful Seuoalaiaete.

            “It's never been difficult for you to know what's in my heart,” Aiae said.

            “We've been friends for a long time,” Eatoune said.  His muscles tight with tension, he felt misery sink deeply into his body.  There was an urgent desperation in him as he tried to fend off the very thing he wanted most, Aiae's love and desire for him, and he wondered how reality could mirror his dream so precisely.  He'd felt exactly this ill with heartache in his dream, and he thought, now, that he might feel this way forever.  It was a strong contrast to how he'd felt in the other dream, when he'd expressed his desire for Aiae, when he'd been welcomed into Aiae's passionate embrace.  He could recall that dream clearly, as though it were a memory; they'd been on the ground, the soil beneath them, his lips pressed to Aiae's taut, warm stomach, the sun kissing Aiae's flesh as-

            “Eatoune!”

            He was on his knees.  There was a spade in his hand; he was digging up a rock.  Dizzy, disoriented, Eatoune was afraid to look over his shoulder.  He'd been lost in his dream, but he'd been wide awake.

            Asleep or awake, he couldn't go through that again, he couldn't do that to himself, he couldn't turn down Aiae.  He couldn't reject the treasure of Aiae's love.  He still felt sick with what he'd cowardly refused to do.

            Maybe it was a dream; maybe it was real; Eatoune didn't know.  But, taking a deep breath, he looked over his shoulder and saw Aiae hurrying toward him.

            Seuoalaiaete.  Eatoune had been so determined to do the right thing that he'd done the wrong thing over and over and over again, insisting to himself that it was for Aiae's own good.  But Aiae wasn't a little boy anymore; they were both men now, mature, adults, in charge of their own lives.

            He didn't know what was happening; how had time reversed itself?  How had his dreams forecast reality?  It felt, more than anything else, like a warning, like a chance; his dreams had tried to show him his choices and their consequences, but he'd still done the wrong thing, and this was his opportunity to correct his course.

            He couldn't say no to Aiae again.  He couldn't tolerate that sick, miserable feeling.  He couldn't deny the pulsing strength of his love.

            “Aiae,” Eatoune said, on his feet, still amazed to see his Aiae here, just like before, just like in his dream.  It was likely that this, too, wasn't real, but, more than ever, he needed it to be real.  “Seuoalaiaete,” he said, and, needing to prove it to himself, he surged forward, taking Aiae into his arms.

            So solid, so firm, Aiae felt so real.  Eatoune could feel the slippery silk of his fancy jacket, the hardness of his shoulders, the eager strength in his embrace.  The scent of his perfume, the sound of his happy laugh, it was all so real.

            “I don't care if you're not real,” Eatoune whispered, squeezing him tightly, needing to hold onto him.  “I'll make you real, I'll come and find you, I'll do it over and over until I've done it right.”

            “I'm real,” Aiae said.  “I'm real, Eatoune, and I love you,” his fingers dug into Eatoune's back as if to keep him from leaving, as if Eatoune ever could now, “and I can't be with anyone else while I love you this much.  I tried, I wanted to be with Anosukinom, but I could never love him the way that I love you, it would never be the same, it would never feel like this.”

            “I know,” Eatoune said, because if this wasn't real then he could confess to everything, and if by the gods it was real, he couldn't hold back any longer, not one minute longer, “I know, nothing else could ever be like this,” and, cupping Aiae's chin in his hand, he kissed Aiae's delicious red mouth.

            Aiae was surprised and uncertain, but his lips parted in eager welcome, as his fingers dug into Eatoune's shoulders and his hips rolled forward to press against Eatoune's groin.  The soft waves of his hair spilled over Eatoune's fingers as Eatoune caressed his neck and jaw, and when he shyly stroked his tongue into Eatoune's mouth, Eatoune groaned, pulling on the soft linen of his shirt, wanting him even closer.

            He didn't know how this had happened, or why, or even if it were truly happening at all, and he couldn't care.  He was kissing Aiae, finally exploring the softness of Aiae's mouth and tasting the hunger of Aiae's passion, and nothing else mattered, not how, not why, only this.  This, the solidity of Aiae's form in his arms.  This, the press of Aiae's heat to his body.  This, the sweet wetness of Aiae's mouth.  This, the sound of Aiae whispering his name intimately, as a lover would, before kissing him again, again, again.

            “Eatoune.”

            He froze, becoming instantly, utterly still where he stood.  He would not move.  If he moved, he would lose the reality of Aiae's embrace.  He would lose the confession of “I love you.”  The taste of Aiae's kiss would be stolen from his mouth and he would taste only loss, disappointment, and dark, bitter regret.

            “He's lost himself,” Ouneaoaunaeat's voice said.  “It's good to see you back.  Shall I assume that you've decided not to marry the pharaoh?”

            “As you see, I couldn't possibly,” Aiae's voice said with warm happiness, right by his ear, as gentle fingers stroked through Eatoune's hair.  “It's wonderful to see you again, too.  You look very well.”

            “Eatoune was gracious enough to allow me outside for once,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “While I'm out here, maybe the two of you would like to go inside to,” he coughed, “discuss your options now that you've returned.”

            “Oh, no,” Aiae said, sounding embarrassed, beginning to squirm away, “I don't think that's necessary.”

            Opening his eyes as Aiae left his embrace, Eatoune dared to look, to see.  Aiae, beautiful, flushed, bright-eyed, aroused, embarrassed, uncertainly smoothing back tousled black tresses with one pretty hand.  Ouneaoaunaeat, smug, knowing, giving Eatoune a congratulatory smile.

            Aiae was still here.  Then it was real.  It was happening.  It had happened.  “You've come back for me,” Eatoune said, needing Aiae to confirm it.

            “I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Aiae said, his voice quiet, his gaze direct.  This was the tone that Aiae took when he was completely committed to something but didn't know how his words would be received.  “I want you to marry me.  I want you to come to live in Eiapelai with me.  All three of you,” he added quickly, sparing a glance for Ouneaoaunaeat before stepping close to Eatoune again, his hand on Eatoune's chest as if he needed to maintain physical contact.  “I know that it seems sudden, but it's clear to me, Eatoune.  This is what I need.  I talked with Anosukinom, and I prayed on it the whole way back here, and-”

            “Are you real?” Eatoune asked, hearing a desperation in his tone that he'd never allowed in himself before.  This had to be real.  Aiae was making declarations and asking for things that would lead to the true happiness that Eatoune had never considered would be a part of his life.  It was too much; if this wasn't real, if he blinked and this was lost to him, he'd never recover.

            “Yes, I'm real, I'm here,” Aiae promised, puzzled but earnest.

            “The gods are toying with me,” Eatoune explained.  “Aea and Uiu are switching my dreams and my reality, warping time, and afflicting me with confusion.”

            “Did you see me twice?” Aiae asked, staring deeply into his eyes as if seeking the answer there.  “Did we speak together, but you denied me, and I was forced to turn away?”

            Shocked, Eatoune said, “Yes, yes, we were here, we stood here only seconds ago.”

            “It was Anosukinom,” Aiae said.  “He showed me visions of this, two very different versions,” Aiae's cheeks reddened, “one with a much happier ending than the other.  It was meant to solidify my determination to speak with you, because after all of these years, I was afraid of how you might react.  The happier version he gave me as an incentive.  The other was to show me that I had nothing to fear, that you would not be angered by my advance, that even in the worst of outcomes, I would still be given hope for the future.  He told me that he would attempt to show the visions to you, as well, if it would not offend our gods.”

            “You've had visions?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.

            Touching Aiae's smooth, blushing cheek, Eatoune asked, “Did you share with me all of yourself?  Did you experience it as I did?”  Had Aiae felt the fire and the ecstasy of their lovemaking?

            “I,” Aiae's voice was soft as his fingers rose to trace Eatoune's lips, “I lost myself in your passion.”  His flickering gaze met Eatoune's, and then he added, “I've never known such a burning.  It was as if the sunrise and then the sunset had moved through my body.”

            Taking Aiae's hand, Eatoune kissed those blessed fingers, then kissed the back of Aiae's hand, then kissed Aiae's softly bowed lips, drawing him close again, sliding a hand down his back as his arms rose around Eatoune's neck.  The feel of Aiae's firm little ass in Eatoune's cupping hands was familiar, because their bodies were known to each other.  They'd already made love.  They'd already shared that great, unparalleled intimacy.  “Seuoalaiaete,” he whispered, lifting Aiae slightly against himself, wanting to feel Aiae's naked perfection again.  “My beloved Aiae.”  The scent of Aiae, the taste, the feel, all so real, all so familiar.

            “Tell me that you'll be with me,” Aiae said, kissing him urgently.  “Tell me that you'll marry me and come to Eiapelai with me.”

            He couldn't promise that, he had his father to think of, his brother, the farm.  “Yes,” he said, his mouth answering for his heart.  “Yes, anywhere, with you.”

            “Will you please go inside?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.  “You'll scandalize everyone with this behavior.  You aren't in the big city yet, and this sort of activity doesn't go over well here.”

            “I've always loved you so much,” Aiae whispered, kissing his mouth and caressing his chest, stroking around and between the buttons.  “I've always known that there could only be you for me.”

            No pharaoh, no Orina Anoris, Aiae was here, with him, here, for him.  Eatoune had told himself sternly, many times, that he wasn't in the right position to be with Aiae, but he'd also spent long nights fantasizing on how he would treat Aiae if they were together, and he'd need privacy for certain aspects.  Eatoune broke the kiss and turned to Ouneaoaunaeat.  “You may stay outside in the shade a little longer, but go into the house if you begin to feel weak, even slightly.  Promise me.”

            “I promise,” Ouneaoaunaeat said with a smile.

            “We'll be in the barn if you need anything.”  Giving his brother a firm look, Eatoune added, “Don't need anything.”

            “I won't,” he said, laughing.

            Eatoune took Aiae's hand and led him into the barn. He couldn't believe that this was happening, but he didn't want to be interrupted.

            After clearing his throat and patting distractedly at his hair - - he never wore it down, and he didn't seem to know what to do with it now - - Aiae glanced over his shoulder.  “How long has he been outside?”

            “He'll go into the house, he'll be fine,” Eatoune said, guiding Aiae toward the ladder and urging him up, admiring his ass along the way.

            “I haven't been up here since we were children,” Aiae said, climbing up into the loft.

            “I know,” Eatoune said, and when Aiae sat on a bale of hay for lack of a better place to sit, he knelt between Aiae's feet, on the floor, running his hands over Aiae's suddenly tense thighs.  “It's something that I regret every day.”

            “Eatoune,” Aiae said, worried, hesitating, putting his hands over Eatoune's to still them.  “I've never...”

            “I know,” Eatoune said, kissing Aiae's neck and licking along his jaw.  Mmm, he always smelled clean and sweet.  “I love your scent.”

            “I don't know what to do,” Aiae whispered, as if ashamed of it, ducking his head and running his fingertips across the back of Eatoune's neck.  “I don't know what you want.”

            “We've already made love,” Eatoune reminded him, kissing his pink cheeks and his pretty red lips.

            “That wasn't real,” Aiae protested, but he kissed Eatoune back, wet and deep, leaning back easily as Eatoune crawled up onto him.  Moaning and grinding his hips up to rub his arousal against Eatoune's growing hardness, he arched appreciatively as Eatoune began to stroke his chest and unbutton his shirt.

            So impossible, to have this, so fast, so much like his fantasy.  Too good, too much.  His body eager, his blood fast and hot, his dick hard, Eatoune closed his eyes and buried his face against Aiae's shoulder.  He inhaled Aiae's scent, wanting to cement himself in this reality, to know that this really was happening.

            Shuddering, Aiae whispered Eatoune's name.

            Unbuttoning Aiae's shirt, Eatoune exposed a tight little nipple that begged to be kissed.  Sucking at it gently, he heard Aiae's surprised moan and felt a ripple of needful tension pass through Aiae's body.  Nothing could calm Eatoune's heart or ease the ache in his body that told him to rock and grind until he came.

            Gasping, driving his own hips up for friction, Aiae clutched at Eatoune's back.  “Come home with me, come to Eiapelai with me, I'd like you to come to court, to meet the king, and I'd like for you to accompany me when I'm, oh,” his eyes fluttered shut as he rocked subtly, helplessly, against Eatoune.  “I'd like you to join me for functions,” he said breathlessly.  “There's plenty of space for a small garden, and there are, are, are, oh, oh, Eatoune…”

            “There are what?” Eatoune asked, shifting his weight and nudging his knee between Aiae's thighs.

            With a soft whimper of pleasure, Aiae mumbled, “T-t-the h-higher schools,” and rolled his hips up, grinding against Eatoune's thigh.  “And there's a lot of, oh, demand for, ah,” his head went back as his spine arched, “copiers, and you have a gorgeous hand, so, oh, oh, Eatoune, please, please, ah…”

            The tortured pleasure on Aiae's face, the edible line of his neck, the slow writhing of his body, the very fact of his desire as his hips moved and his fingers dug ineffectually into the hay beneath him, made Eatoune's body burn with the need to satisfy him.  But Eatoune had learned in seconds that he'd get a much better result if he held back and let Aiae direct the action between them.  So, restraining himself despite the gorgeous display of need before him, Eatoune ran his fingers across Aiae's flat stomach and asked, “You think that I could go to school?”  To appease his own appetite, he kissed Aiae's neck, lightly, softly, just to feel the skin against his lips.

            “You're, ah, so, ah, oh, smart,” Aiae moaned, turning his face to one side, biting down on his lower lip.  “Oh, Eatoune, touch me, please, touch me,” he groaned, taking Eatoune's hand and guiding it down from his stomach to the hard bulge of his erection.  “Oh, uh, oh, Ea, Ea, ah!”  Squeezing Eatoune's hand, he held it to his dick, which was hard and long where it jutted against the front of his tight, burgundy pants.

            “Seuoalaiaete, Seuoalaiaete, it's all right,” Eatoune murmured, cupping and rubbing as Aiae twisted in desperate agitation of need.  Sliding his other hand over Aiae's ass as Aiae's hips rose and bucked, he located the fastening of Aiae's pants, and began to undo the little hooks.  Licking sweat from Aiae's neck, he rubbed Aiae's erection harder as Aiae begged for it.  “Hold on, Laiaete, hold on for me,” he murmured, trying not to tear the fine fabric.

            “Yes, yes, please, oh, Eatoune, more of, more of, more of that, yes, yes, please, oh!  Oh!  Ah!”  Grabbing Eatoune's wrist hard enough to bruise it, Aiae froze for a moment, not even breathing, and Eatoune felt a series of pulses and twitches under his hand.  Shaking, Aiae inhaled again, slowly relaxing, gradually releasing Eatoune's hand.  “Oh,” he whispered, uncertainly.

            Aiae had achieved climax.  He'd made Aiae come.  “Aiae,” Eatoune murmured, nuzzling his cheek and kissing his soft lips.  If his hand and a few kisses could provide Aiae with such pleasure, Eatoune would enjoy showing Aiae what other joys were available to him.  “Seuoalaiaete,” he whispered, unfastening the last hook with one hand and reaching into Aiae's pants with the other, sliding his fingers down until he cupped the softening length of Aiae's dick.  The heat of Aiae's body, the sticky wetness of the pool of ejaculate, the fact of Aiae's dick naked in his hand, aroused Eatoune with their undeniable reality.  What they'd done, what they could have, it was all true now.  It wasn't his long-denied fantasy or his wet dream or a god-inspired vision, it was real.

            “I'm sorry, Eatoune,” Aiae said softly, sounding terribly embarrassed.  “I've longed for this intimacy with you for enough years that having you here with me overrode my sense.  I didn't mean to get carried away.”

            Kissing his mouth, his nose, his chin, Eatoune said, “I won't allow you to apologize for sharing this pleasure with me.”

            The deliberate but fleeting brush of a thigh to Eatoune's stiff erection made him gasp at the unexpected contact; Aiae moaned softly and said, unsure yet daring, “But it wasn't shared, as such things should be.”

            They'd been friends for long enough that Eatoune knew all of Aiae's expressions, or so he'd thought.  But now, there was a new look on Aiae's face, desire in his eyes, anticipation, and the sight of it stole Eatoune's breath.  Aiae wanted him.  Nakedly, openly wanted him.  No more denying.  No more pretending.

            Lifting his half-open shirt a few inches, pulling up the fabric to expose his flat, firm stomach, Aiae asked, softly, “Will you spill yourself onto me here?”

            Heart pounding, erection throbbing, Eatoune bit his lip to hold back a groan of lust, then put his hand over that smooth expanse of skin and, needing to know, needing it, asked, “Why?”

            “When I,” Aiae blushed prettily, “when I find my own pleasure, and I feel the kiss of my own ejaculate, I often pretend that it is yours.  I would like to feel that and know that, this time, it truly is yours, that you truly are here with me.”

            Hot, urgent lust churned within Eatoune as he quickly fumbled open the snaps at his fly; his erection jumped out eagerly, and Aiae made a surprised, aroused noise, reaching for it before Eatoune could get a hand on it, caressing with a look of appreciation.  Cursing under his breath, Eatoune struggled for self-control as Aiae's inquisitive hands explored the needful, aching length of his erection.

            “Another beautiful part of you,” Aiae said, rubbing his thumb around the head, making Eatoune's muscles knot with the tension of holding back.  A warm palm cupped his heavy balls, and Eatoune groaned, gripping Aiae's thigh and trying not to come.  “Tell me what you want,” Aiae whispered, slowly fisting Eatoune's erection, pumping it twice fast, then slower again, then faster, then slower, in an unbearable tease.  “Show me what you like.”

            “That,” oh, gods, yes, “just that,” ah, ah, “Aiae,” yes, he was close, “yes,” he was so close, “oh,” that impossible rhythm, just when it brought him to the edge it let him breathe again, “ah, ah,” it kept him right there, hovering, on the edge, “Aiae,” on the edge, “please,” on the, “oh!”  Feeling a sharp, harsh burst of ecstasy, a sudden sense of weightlessness and breathlessness, he gasped, gripped by, yes, yes, oh…

            “You…  You spent yourself on me.”

            Aiae's voice was so awed, Eatoune had to open his eyes to see.  He had, in fact, come on Aiae, although Aiae would never use so common a term for it.  His seed was splattered across Aiae's naked flesh, in wet pale stripes without pattern.  Aiae's hand, still loosely holding Eatoune's dick, dripped with it.  Glistening pearls of cum nestled in the black curls around the root of Aiae's dick, where Eatoune's ejaculate had joined Aiae's.

            “Eatoune!”

            While Aiae turned red and yanked his pants back up, Eatoune held onto his patience, counted to ten, and called back politely, “Yes, sir?”  Lowering himself onto Aiae's body, he kissed Aiae's cheek and neck, whispering, “It's all right, he can't see us,” and then adding, even more quietly, “I've loved you forever, and you'll stay with me tonight.”

            “What are you doing?” his father called.

            “I'll be down soon,” Eatoune called.  “Aiae's come for a visit, and he's invited us to move up north with him.  We're going to marry.  If you go into the house and check on Ouneaoaunaeat for me, I'll come in and we'll all discuss it.”

            “Oh,” his father said, sounding understandably surprised.  “All right.”

            Closing his eyes, Eatoune rested atop Aiae's firm, slender body.  He had this now.  Aiae in his arms.  Aiae sharing in his love.  The happiness that he'd always rejected as unnecessary and not for him.

            “The city will be good for him,” Aiae whispered, caressing his spine.  “It will be a good change for him.  And I'll stay here with you for as long as it takes until you're ready to move.”

            Eatoune pushed himself up onto his elbows.  “It won't take long.  All we have to do is sell the farm.  There's barely anything to pack.”  Once they got there, they'd have to use the money from the sale to buy new clothes.  He had no intention of dressing up as a lord, but he knew that his current apparel was too rustic for him to appear as Aiae's husband.  After that money was gone, however, what would he do?  Live off of Aiae's wealth, and allow Aiae to support his father and brother as well?  “You said something about being a copier?”  Aiae's husband, he was going to be Aiae's husband, and Aiae would be his.

            “There's a high demand for them, now,” Aiae said.  His face bore a slight frown, the one he always had whenever he wasn't sure how to express himself.  “I want you to know that I don't care what you do in Eiapelai,” he confessed.  “I don't care if you find work or not.  I want you to be happy there, and if you find a dozen new hobbies or one new passion, as long as your heart is content, that's all I'll wish for.  I've had thoughts of you continuing your education, and if-”

            “I could never afford that,” Eatoune argued, despite the quick pulse of his heart.  He'd barely been able to stay in school as long as he had, due to the demands of farm and family, but he'd loved every second of learning.  His education had meant a great deal to him, and Ouneaoaunaeat had borne a great deal of pain with a smile to encourage him to remain in school.

            “We can afford whatever you'd like,” Aiae said, with gentle emphasis.  “We can afford care for Ouneaoaunaeat, and school for you, and entertainments for your father.”

            His pride, and his excuses for why he shouldn't be with Aiae, kicked back in.  “I can't take your money, and it isn't your responsibility to pay for my brother's-”

            “My money is our money,” Aiae said, “so you're welcome to do as you'd like with it.  Your family is my family, and if I'd like the best of medical care for my brother, I'll see to it.  If you have trouble sharing equally, perhaps we could cut everything in half.  You will have half of my money, and I'll take half of your family.”

            That was ridiculous, and Eatoune felt himself giving in.  “I won't plow through your money in excess.”

            “You do nothing in excess,” Aiae said.  Then, he smiled a heart-stopping smile.  “Except for your integrity, and loyalty, and selflessness.”

            He wasn't nearly as great as that.  However, “I did manage to hold myself back from seducing you every time you came to visit.”

            “I wish that you hadn't,” Aiae said, stroking Eatoune's jaw, his touch making Eatoune shiver with pleasure.

            “You could have seduced me,” Eatoune pointed out, ducking his head to kiss Aiae's chest.

            “I didn't think that you wanted me,” Aiae protested.  “You must have known of my desire for you.”

            In a word, yes, but, “What makes you think that?” Eatoune asked.

            “As if I need to spell these things out for you,” Aiae said.  “Eatoune, I adored you.  I came here all the way from Eiapelai repeatedly for no reason other than to see you.  I paint your farm obsessively.  Whenever I'm near you, I follow you around like a simpleton and gaze at you with what must amount to a dazed and captivated expression.  I'm noticeably aroused whenever we hug hello or good-bye.”

            Eatoune had burned for the feel of that proof of Aiae's desire, for the press of it to his thigh.  “And now?” he asked, shifting as Aiae's naked arousal stiffened against his stomach.  With a soft moan, Aiae arched beneath him as he gently rocked against it.  “Is this hello, or good-bye?”

            “Hello,” Aiae said, drawing him in for a kiss, licking at his lower lip.  “Hello, to our life together.  Hello, to love.  Hello, to us.”

            “Hello to happiness,” Eatoune said, kissing Aiae, loving Aiae, feeling freedom and hope open up to him, for him personally, for the very first time.  “Hello to life.”

A Brother's Tale

Propping his elbow on the windowsill, Ouneaoaunaeat watched the busy street below.  This close to the royal palace, the carriages were pulled by sleek, well-groomed horses, not the dusty, work-laden animals he was used to seeing.  Everyone wore fine, delicately stitched clothing of silk and lace, apparel that would be utterly ruined after a day's work in the fields.

            Life was different, here in the capital city.  Very different.  His little brother, Eatoune, was a scholar, taking classes at the local academy.  Most of the roadblocks instated against students who weren't of the aristocracy had been removed, since Eatoune was married to Aiae, the royal artist.  Their father, who'd been drifting away for years since the death of their mother, had been revived by the city's bustling nature, and had joined a local gentlemen's club, where he spent his afternoons arguing arcane intellectual points with his new friends on subjects that he, and they, knew nothing about.

            Here in Eiapelai, in the royal artist's home, Ouneaoaunaeat slept on silk, instead of patchwork, and dined on delicacies, instead of what came from his own backyard.  But his life wasn't very different at all.  Unlike Eatoune and their father, he had no new hobbies, no new friends.  He still burned with fever, still coughed and vomited and shook.  Occasionally, he ventured out into the flower garden to sit in the fresh air under his shade, but most days, he was confined to the house.

            Aiae and Eatoune had tried to help him.  They'd hired doctors, who'd poked him and tapped him and frozen him and burned him and bled him and made him drink disgusting medicines that never made a difference.  They'd created comfortable sitting areas for him all over the house, to give him variety.  They'd brought him books and strange new foods and various entertainments.  He passed most of the time in reading, except for those days when his head pounded and the words blurred and he couldn't bear it.

            Ouneaoaunaeat had hoped that someone here would be able to help him.  The country's best doctors were in Eiapelai; one of them must have answers.  But the more doctors he saw, the less hope he had, and the more he hated them.  They were rude, disrespectful, and showed no concern for his dignity.  Many of them were, in his estimation, quite stupid.  They seemed to be guessing, but couldn't admit that they had no idea what they were talking about.  A simple, “I don't know what's wrong with you,” would have been disheartening, but also refreshing.

            His father, who'd always left the care of him to Eatoune, suggested that he see the royal family's doctor, who seemed to be the only one left he hadn't seen yet.

            Aiae wanted to take him to Jacacea, where the world's best doctors and medical advancements were.

            Eatoune worried about how he'd fare on the journey to Jacacea, and wanted to try a few more local doctors first.

            Ouneaoaunaeat just wanted to be able to do something.  He'd been young and healthy, once.  He'd been strong and confident, a leader.  Now, he was little more than an old man who hadn't lived very long.  Diseased.  Useless.  Sexless.  A burden.  At least in Oukiea, he'd been able to sew things, or cook.  He couldn't contribute anything here.  All he could do now was take up other people's time, money, and energy.

            He had so much time to think, he gave a lot of thought to what he'd do if he were healthy.  He'd left school so early, he was almost entirely self-educated, from his studies of Eatoune's lessons.  He didn't have any real talent.  He'd always been best at gardening, at growing things, but that had been his old life.  No one needed him to plant seeds here.

            Sometimes, when he sat in the flower garden, however, he took it over in his mind.  In his imagination, it was his garden alone, to do with as he pleased.  He trimmed the bushes, and separated some of the plants, and placed the flowers in more pleasing order, and then he cut and sold some of the blooms.

            He borrowed one of Aiae's books on flowers and took it to his room.  Sitting on the couch near the window, he sipped at some detestable foreign tea that was supposed to soothe his cough, and read.  Aiae and Eatoune had hired a nurse for him, but after two days of someone forever fussing at him, tucking blankets around him and touching all over him to check for fever and forcing several gallons of tea down his throat, he'd convinced his well-meaning brother-in-law that he would very much prefer to tend to his own bowels without someone demanding to know the particulars.

            As he finished a page on perennial blooms, Eatoune entered the room and said, “Dr. Aeni is here.”

            Another doctor?  “Eatoune, I really don't-”

            “Give him five minutes,” Eatoune said.  “We met him last night at dinner, and he's here as a favor to Aiae.  He just got back from studying in Jacacea, and he isn't even charging for this visit.  If he irritates you, ring for me and I'll get rid of him.  Just give him a few minutes.”

            He'd studied in Jacacea?  “All right,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, feeling a tiny twist of hope despite himself.  “Five minutes.”

            “Great.”  Flashing him an encouraging smile, Eatoune ducked out of the room, returning seconds later with the doctor.  “Dr. Aeni, this is my brother, Ouneaoaunaeat Uialouepaiaimaenea.”

            Young.  He was young.  Shit, he didn't look any older than Ouneaoaunaeat.  Most doctors in Ouneaoaunaeat's experience had gray hair and disapproving wrinkles.  Dr. Aeni had curly, very short, very black hair and friendly, curious gray eyes.  He looked very healthy and very wealthy, with a tight, muscular physique under silk-and-velvet clothes in tones of bold wine and muted lime.  Lime green, Aiae had explained to Ouneaoaunaeat only yesterday, was going to be the most fashionable color of next season.  Ouneaoaunaeat already knew that only the best of the best would dare to wear it now.

            “Mr. Uialouepaiaimaenea,” Dr. Aeni said, with a polite inclination of his head.

            “Dr. Aeni,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.

            “I'll be in the next room,” Eatoune said, giving Ouneaoaunaeat another encouraging smile and nodding politely at the doctor.  “Ring for me if you need anything.”  Stepping out, he closed the door.  He, at least, always did his best to respect Ouneaoaunaeat's privacy, when he could.

            Usually, this was the part where the doctor asked a lot of questions, listened to none of the answers, and made Ouneaoaunaeat undress to be thumped and prodded.  Used to the routine and tired of it, Ouneaoaunaeat waited for it to begin.

            Dr. Aeni, however, simply smiled and strolled forward.  “What are you reading?”

            Wondering how that was relevant, he said, “A book on flowers.”  He tried not to look at the medical kit in Dr. Aeni's hand.  He hated those things; they were full of sharp, ridiculous tools that were invariably used against him.

            “Do you garden?”

            Ouneaoaunaeat raised his eyebrows.  “Are you aware that I'm ill?”

            Smiling, Dr. Aeni said, “Yes, I've been told that, but I'm unaware of the extent of your limitations.  Are you capable of gardening?”

            “On certain days, I'm capable of sitting on the ground and pulling up weeds,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “I wouldn't call that `gardening,' but you're welcome to, if you'd like.”

            “You find more involved tasks too draining?” Dr. Aeni asked.

            “Doing much more than that makes me dizzy, or nauseous, or feverish,” he said.  “Sometimes, I can't even do that much.”  Since the doctor was still listening, he added, “I used to plant seeds, but that was several years ago, and it was very taxing.”

            Nodding, Dr. Aeni gestured to a chair and asked, “Do you mind if I sit?”

            He should've offered the chair, but he wasn't used to doctors wanting to sit and talk.  “Please do.”

            Settling onto the elegant antique chair Ouneaoaunaeat had never used, since it looked too nice to sit in, Dr. Aeni asked, “The symptoms, the dizziness and nausea and fever, do they often occur immediately, during the task?  Or do they occur later?”  He set his medical kit down, as if he had no need for it.

            “The dizziness and nausea are immediate,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “The fever and coughing usually set in that night.”

            “Six hours later, would you say?”

            He hadn't timed it.  Giving it some thought, he said, “More like eight or twelve.”

            Nodding, Dr. Aeni asked, “Your cough, is it always the same?”

            “It's a cough,” he said.  “If it were different, it would be a sneeze.”

            Laughing, Dr. Aeni said, “What I mean is, does it hurt in some way, consistently?  Is it productive?  Productive meaning, do you feel anything in your throat or chest loosening or clearing when you cough?”

            “Yes,” he said, latching onto that.  “Yes, sometimes it clears things out.”

            “Good, that's good,” Dr. Aeni said as if he approved.  “May I hear it?”

            Everyone Ouneaoaunaeat had spoken to over the past years had heard it, so he had no reason to hide it now.  Bracing himself, he coughed.  Unfortunately, his two deliberate coughs turned into a wracking series of uncontrollable coughs, and he doubled over, sides aching.

            “Spit, spit,” the doctor said, suddenly closer and holding a pristine white handkerchief under Ouneaoaunaeat's nose.  Ouneaoaunaeat spat, and when he was finally able to inhale without choking, he sat back, drained.  No one had ever requested his spit before, and he raised weary but vaguely curious eyes to Dr. Aeni, who was investigating the contents of the now-soiled handkerchief with interest.  “I believe that you have an infection.”

            “An infection?”  Infections were contagious.  “That's not possible.  Eatoune and my father have never,” what was the term, “contracted this disease.”

            “Family history is important,” Dr. Aeni said, and studied him thoughtfully.  “I understand that your mother was taken?”

            “It was sudden,” he said.  “One of the wasting diseases.  I was seven.  A woman's disease, the doctor said.”

            “And how old were you when you first became ill?”

            “Ten.”

            Nodding, Dr. Aeni asked, “May I examine you?”

            He couldn't recall having been asked before.  He was strangely amused to think that if he said no, Dr. Aeni wouldn't press the issue.  “If you think that it would help,” he said, feigning nonchalance with a little shrug.

            “I do,” Dr. Aeni said, smiling.

            Setting the book aside, Ouneaoaunaeat sat up straighter, then hesitated.  “Do you need me to undress?”  Maybe he'd be spared that indignity, this once.

            “It would be a help to me, if you would,” Dr. Aeni said.  “I'd like to listen to your heart and lungs, and those sounds are greatly muffled by clothing.  But if you'd like to use a blanket to cover yourself, I'd be happy to fetch one for you.”

            Not used to having a doctor explain anything or express respect for his privacy, Ouneaoaunaeat wondered if this was a result of Jacacean training or simply Dr. Aeni's personal style.  “There's one folded there at the foot of the bed, if you don't mind,” he said, and gripped the sofa's armrest to lever himself up.  Dr. Aeni watched him rise as if calculating each movement, then got the blanket for him before walking casually over to the window and looking down on the street as if greatly interested in the passersby.

            Absurdly grateful, Ouneaoaunaeat stripped.  Aiae had arranged for a new wardrobe for him, much, much nicer than anything he'd ever worn in Oukiea, made of fine fabrics by an expensive tailor.  He didn't feel up to the task of wearing such upper-class fashions, and wore only the simplest garments he could get his hands on.  It was a stubborn point of pride for him to rise each morning and dress, although that had, on occasion, caused him to collapse, sweating profusely, in his own vomit, in which case Eatoune would, cursing angrily to cover sheer panic, clean him up and put him back to bed naked and hide his clothes from him to keep him from getting up again.

            With the blanket about his loins, Ouneaoaunaeat sat on the couch again, weak-kneed and sweating from his exertion.  Falling into another coughing fit, he curled a trembling hand into a fist and closed his eyes until the dizziness passed.

            “Is this a good day for you, or a bad one?”

            Opening his eyes to see Dr. Aeni crouching in front of him with a concerned expression, Ouneaoaunaeat licked dry lips.  “It's been a typical day.  I'm well enough for the most minor of activities, like walking down the hallway to the library and back under my own power.  I haven't thrown up anything.  I've been able to read.”

            “How often do you have good days and bad days?”

            He'd never been asked that before.  “I can usually go about five days in a row, and then I'll have a good day, and then I'll have an average one, and then I'll have two very bad ones.”

            Nodding, Dr. Aeni touched his throat and felt along his jaw.  “What type of illness do you think you have?”

            What?  “If I knew what was wrong with me, I wouldn't need you here.”

            Seeming to take no offense at that, Dr. Aeni reached over and opened his medical kit, withdrawing something Ouneaoaunaeat had never seen before.  “Some people compare their symptoms, their problems, to what other people have had, and draw their own conclusions about what might be ailing them.  Sometimes those self-diagnoses are more accurate than what doctors can determine, because patients have a better grasp of their own physical state than doctors do.  Sometimes they're terribly inaccurate, but it's always worth asking about.”

            Doctors never talked like this.  “I don't know what I have,” Ouneaoaunaeat said honestly.  “No one else seems to, either.  Every doctor says something different, but none of it helps.”

            “Have any of their suggestions helped, even for a few days or weeks?” Dr. Aeni asked.  “Did any of the medicines make a positive difference, even a small one?”

            “The ueueweai helps, sometimes,” Ouneaoaunaeat admitted.  “It cuts down a lot on the shivering and some of the coughing.  I hate it, because of how confused and tired it makes me, but I take it on really bad days, and more than half of the time, it helps.”

            “That's good,” Dr. Aeni said, sounding very pleased, giving him a proud smile, a flash of pretty teeth.  “Now,” he took out a very fancy gold pocket watch, “hold still, and hold your breath for just a few seconds.  I want to listen to your heart.”

            Inhaling carefully so as not to start a fit of coughing, he held his breath.  Dr. Aeni put one end of the implement to his chest and the other to one ear, and listened, studying the watch's face.  Just as Ouneaoaunaeat's lungs strained, Dr. Aeni sat back, apparently content, snapping the watch shut.

            “Your heartbeat seems fine,” Dr. Aeni said.  “It's faster than I'd like, but consistent.  Please sit forward a bit so that I can listen to your lungs.”  He did, breathing in and out slowly and deeply when told to do so.  One of the inhalations triggered a series of hacking coughs, and he was instructed to spit into a handkerchief again - - a second one, which made him wonder how many of the things the doctor carried around.

            Sitting back, Ouneaoaunaeat could only imagine what other strange foreign implements and methods Dr. Aeni had.

            “How often do you cough up blood?”

            “At least once a day,” he said.

            “Does anything worsen at night?”

            “Everything does.”

            “Do you often have trouble breathing?  Trouble getting breath?”

            “Yes.”

            “Are you ticklish?”

            Ouneaoaunaeat was about to provide a serious answer; then he caught himself and frowned.  “How is that relevant?”

            Grinning, Dr. Aeni said, “I'm about to touch you, and I don't want to startle you.”

            “No,” he said dryly, trying not to smile, “I'm not particularly ticklish.”

            “Good.  Now, please tell me if anything hurts, whether it's a dull ache or a sharp pain.”  Starting with his shoulders, Dr. Aeni felt down his chest, probing gently along his ribs.  Tense and unable to disguise it, Ouneaoaunaeat tried not to shy away.  He'd used to be a healthy, normal person, but he'd become this disease-riddled wreck, and his gaunt, weak, damaged body shamed him.  He hated to show it to anyone, even Eatoune on occasion, but it was freshly humiliating to be seen and examined by a handsome, healthy man his own age.  If he weren't debilitated by this wretched illness, Dr. Aeni was exactly the sort of man he'd flirt with.  Exactly the sort of man he was attracted to, and exactly the sort of man he'd like to have sex with.

            Sex.  Ouneaoaunaeat had lost all of his friends around age ten and eleven.  Most of the people in the village had shunned him, not wanting to catch or be associated with whatever was wrong with him.  The few people who hadn't shunned him had been either women, or too old for him, or Aiae, who'd always belonged to Eatoune.

            It was a blessing and a curse that despite his intellectual curiosity, about ninety percent of the time, Ouneaoaunaeat was too ill for his body to care about sex.  Five percent of the time, he resented the gods and the world at large for giving him a sexless life.  That left five percent of the time for him to think about sex, and try to imagine a scenario in which he'd legitimately find a way to have sex (maybe a stranger passing through town would stop at his farm?) and then try masturbating, which sometimes was a wildly beautiful thing and sometimes wasn't worth the trouble.

            Ouneaoaunaeat's body rebelled against him at every turn.  There was no reason for his dick to cooperate when nothing else would.

            Dr. Aeni, and men like him, would always see Ouneaoaunaeat as a patient, as a sexless disease carrier, never as a man, never as a potential lover.  He hated them for it, at the same time that he hated himself for it.

            “Has anyone ever prescribed aweieineuo for you?” Dr. Aeni asked, sitting back on his heels.  “Has it ever helped?”

            There had been so many prescriptions and suggestions and doctors' orders, Ouneaoaunaeat wondered how he ever kept them straight.  Aweieineuo, he remembered, was the one that smelled like a cow's ass.  “Yes, a few times.  It eased some of the sweating and other things, but it…”  He didn't want to discuss that.

            “Yes, it has some unfortunate side effects,” Dr. Aeni said.  “I'd like you to try a few medicines.  I apologize, because I'm going to attempt an experiment on you, and I won't explain why until I see how it's working.  I'll prescribe a set of medications for you now, and if you agree to take them, I'll have them sent here for you to begin tomorrow morning.  You must,” Dr. Aeni looked firmly into his eyes, “take them exactly according to my instructions, which I'll write out in detail.  I'll come back tomorrow to discuss them with you, and then I'll check in every day to see how you fare.”

            “An experiment?”

            “You've been very ill for a very long time,” Dr. Aeni said quietly.  “You have no reason to trust me above anyone else, and I don't expect you to harbor any great hope about my methods.”  Taking a deep breath, he added, “I don't say this lightly, Mr. Uialouepaiaimaenea, but nothing else has ever really helped you.  My plan may or may not, but it's not likely to make you any worse.”

            No doctor had ever volunteered to visit him every day.  No doctor had ever called him “Mr.” anything; the recent ones tended not to address him by name at all, probably having forgotten it immediately after hearing it.  “You think that you know what's wrong with me?”

            “I have very strong suspicions,” Dr. Aeni said.  “After we see how you react to the medication, I'll tell you more.”

            Any new medication was a risk.  But nothing had helped him so far; maybe this new way would lead to his cure, or at least to relief.  Dr. Aeni had new methods, fresh from Jacacea.  And Ouneaoaunaeat really liked the idea of seeing him again.  “I'm willing to try it, if you are.”

            A brilliant smile lit up Dr. Aeni's face.  “Fantastic.  I'll come by tomorrow with some new medicine and some new rules,” he said, closing up his medical kit.  Pausing to look into Ouneaoaunaeat's eyes, he asked, “Do you have any questions?”

            It was an actual query, not a mere formality.  Ouneaoaunaeat smiled at him.  “I'm sure that you'll answer them tomorrow.”

            “Be sure to ask me anything you want to know,” Dr. Aeni said, rising, kit in hand.  “The more information you have, the more you can do to take care of yourself.”  Offering his hand, he asked, “I'll see you in the morning?”

            Had he ever shaken a doctor's hand?  “I look forward to it.”

            Dr. Aeni's handshake was firm.  With a polite good-bye, he left.

            Slowly, Ouneaoaunaeat dressed, contemplating the idea of hoping for his own recovery again, thinking about Dr. Aeni's pretty black curls and intelligent gray eyes and respectful tone.  If he were well, he'd feign an illness just to get Dr. Aeni's attention.

            Hearing Eatoune's knock, he sat down.  “Come in,” he called, buttoning up his shirt.

            “He said that he's coming back tomorrow,” Eatoune said, entering the room.  “How did it go?  He said that he'll bring medicine for you.”

            “If he's informed you this fully, why ask me how it went?” he asked, and coughed.

            “He seems nice,” Eatoune said.

            “He's young and sexy and rich,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, since one of them had to.

            “Most doctors are rich,” Eatoune said, and grinned.  “I'd fuck him if I could.”

            “So would I,” Ouneaoaunaeat said dryly.  Eatoune winced; he rolled his eyes.  “Do you think that he likes women?  Is he married?”

            “He's single,” Eatoune said.  “And gay.  He spent all of dinner last night falling in love with Aiae.”

            “Everyone falls in love with Aiae.  That doesn't mean anything,” he said dismissively, but, privately, he felt a spike of something unpleasant.  If Dr. Aeni didn't respond to him but liked women, there was nothing in that.  If Dr. Aeni was attracted to men in general but not to him, that was a rejection, at least on some level.  Some days, Ouneaoaunaeat thought that the gods had rejected him; he knew full well that society had.  He didn't relish being reminded of a more personal rejection on a daily basis.

            He spent the evening coughing and sweating.  In the morning, he crawled out of bed, literally crossing the floor in animal fashion, and carefully washed before dressing.  Sipping at the wretched tea that the servants brought him, he read about flowers, nibbled his way through a piece of toast, and played along with Aiae's attempts to guide him into hoping that Dr. Aeni held the key to wellness.

            This time when Dr. Aeni arrived, Eatoune and Aiae were both present and remained in the room.  Dr. Aeni sat in the same elegant antique chair and addressed most of his remarks to Ouneaoaunaeat directly, instead of talking around him, as other doctors had.

            “You said that the ueueweai helped you,” he said.  Apparently, he really had been listening.  “That's a good sign.  There's a new medicine, called ceuthae, that I think will make progress.  It's Jacacean, and it does the same thing as ueueweai, but it doesn't bring the same exhaustion and confusion.  It's also less addictive.”

            “Addictive?” Ouneaoaunaeat and Eatoune asked together.

            “That's been a very serious problem in many cases,” Dr. Aeni said, and Aiae nodded.  Eatoune's brow darkened.

            Ouneaoaunaeat preferred illness to that smothering mental fog.

            “There are two other medicines that I'd like you to try,” Dr. Aeni said, and he described them in detail: when to take them, how to take them, what they were intended to alleviate, and what their side effects might be.  It was a refreshing change from simply being ordered to take something, with no explanation behind it.  “I'll come back tomorrow, if I may,” he said, “in case you have any questions, and to see how you've responded in the first twenty-eight hours.”

            It was amazing, to have a doctor with confident theories and a definite plan of attack.  Ouneaoaunaeat couldn't believe that after all of this time, someone finally, really was taking aggressive steps to help him.  He could tell by Eatoune's expression that his brother found it equally astounding.

            Aiae, who still hadn't grown accustomed to doctors being unable to help, and who therefore didn't realize how amazing it was to be given a strategy for wellness instead of platitudes and placebos, pushed for more.  “What about the diarrhea, or the shortness of breath?”

            While Ouneaoaunaeat turned red and wished that Aiae had said anything but that, Dr. Aeni said, “I don't think that we'll clear that up just yet.  But if the night sweats stop, that'll be an excellent sign of progress.  And the cough might persist, but you shouldn't see any more blood.”

            “Thank the gods,” Eatoune said.  “Thank you,” he added, sincerely.

            “Don't thank me until your brother's improved,” Dr. Aeni said.  “Once he feels better, I'll be happy to take all of the gratitude and credit you can offer.”  Looking at Ouneaoaunaeat, he said, “With your permission, I'd like to speak to your other doctors.  I'm interested in their thoughts on your condition.”

            He didn't like the idea of them polluting Dr. Aeni's methods and manners, but he had little legitimate reason to protest, so he said, “It's fine with me.”

            “I'll give you a list,” Eatoune said.

            Ouneaoaunaeat raised his eyebrows.  “You have a list?”

            “A list of which doctors have seen you, what they diagnosed, and what they prescribed,” Eatoune said.

            His brother's unending toil on his behalf was a constant display of unconditional and selfless love, unparalleled in Ouneaoaunaeat's life.  “Too bad you had to write it all down,” he said.  “It's a shame your memory isn't as strong as mine is.”

            Grinning, Eatoune stood up and slapped the back of his head.  “I'll get the list for you,” he said to Dr. Aeni, and left.

            Unfazed at seeing his patient get smacked, Dr. Aeni said to Ouneaoaunaeat, “I hope that, just as you're trusting me to prescribe the right medication, I can trust you to follow my instructions?”

            “I'm willing to try anything,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.

            “Good.  Then you'll have no trouble staying in bed.”

            Staying where?  “I'll certainly sleep in my bed each night,” he said.

            “I want your body to be as relaxed as possible, to give the medicine every advantage.  If your body has to fight to recover from activity, that's just one more hurdle.”

            “I can relax anywhere,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.

            “Yes, but getting to and from places, the garden, other rooms in the house, puts a strain on your body.  I'm willing to compromise and allow you time on the couch there, if you're sedentary once you're there and you get help in moving there and back, but I don't want you to leave this room.”

            “We'll make sure that you have lots of things to do,” Aiae assured him.  “I'll bring you some new books.  I'll do some of my painting in your room so you can watch from your bed.”

            “That sounds fine,” Dr. Aeni said.  “I want you as calm and relaxed as you can be.  I want your body in a resting, healing state.”

            Ouneaoaunaeat narrowed his eyes, not liking this at all.  He resisted any small diminishment in his activities.  “For how long?”

            “Let's see how it goes, and then we'll negotiate,” Dr. Aeni said.

            He still didn't like it, but he couldn't come up with a reasonable objection.  “Fine,” he said.  “For now.”

            Dr. Aeni smiled, apparently pleased with his victory.

            Ouneaoaunaeat wanted to smile back.

            The medicines that Dr. Aeni had prescribed - - two powders and a liquid - - were as dreadful as medicines usually were, but, just as advertised, they didn't immediately envelop Ouneaoaunaeat in a fog.  After the first day, Ouneaoaunaeat couldn't report any noticeable change.  After the second day, he thought that he detected less blood when he coughed, and he thought that he'd had an easier sleep, but he couldn't be sure; maybe he was imagining it.

            The next day, Dr. Aeni questioned him thoroughly about his shortness of breath and the discomfort in his chest, then asked to see his stool.

            Humilated, Ouneaoaunaeat asked, “Are you joking?”

            “Mr. Uialouepaiaimaenea, I'm a doctor,” Dr. Aeni said in a gentle, respectful tone.  “This is my job.  What I see could be very informative.  You'd be surprised how much can be learned from-”

            “Ouneaoaunaeat,” he said, despite himself.

            “Yes?” Dr. Aeni asked.

            “Call me Ouneaoaunaeat,” he said.  “If you're asking to see my shit, you might as well address me by my first name.  Although I'm still going to refuse.”

            “Then please call me Iani,” Dr. Aeni said.  “And please be aware that if you refuse, I'll tell your brother and Aiae how important it is for me to see your stool, and you'll give in to pressure from them and do it anyway.  If we leave them out of it and you just give in now, things will be much easier and faster.”

            “That's not fair,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.

            “You don't need to be told that life isn't fair,” Dr. Aeni said.  It was another example of how different Dr. Aeni was from other doctors; direct with him, respecting his intelligence, not coddling him or lying to him or dismissing him.  He found it greatly appealing.

            But what Dr. Aeni asked for now, he couldn't do.  He really, really didn't want to show his…  No.  No, no, and absolutely not to young, handsome, Dr. Aeni.  Especially not now that they were on a first-name basis.  Iani.  “What if I just describe it to you?”

            After a moment's thought, Iani said, “All right,” and what followed was the worst conversation of Ouneaoaunaeat's life.

            Humiliated, Ouneaoaunaeat finally decided that if Iani knew him this well, then he deserved to know Iani well, too.  So, on Iani's next visit, he asked, “How long were you in Jacacea?”

            “Five years,” he said, consulting the little black notebook he used to jot down details of Ouneaoaunaeat's progress.  “It hasn't alleviated the wheezing?”

            “No.  Why did you go?”

            “Well, my peers considered it disloyal and unpatriotic of me, but I wanted the best training in the world, and that could only come from Jacacea.  Many of the older doctors here don't trust my education, but I've found a few open-minded people since I've returned, and the throne's been receptive.”

            “Why are you a doctor?”

            “Because the field of medicine fascinates me, and affords me a way to make a direct and positive impact on people's lives.  Cough for me,” he said, offering a handkerchief.

            Ouneaoaunaeat coughed and spat, then handed the handkerchief back.  “But you don't need the money.”

            “Which is why monetary gain isn't one of my reasons for becoming a doctor,” Iani said.  “Beautiful,” he murmured to himself, looking into the handkerchief.  “Can you give me a list of the people you've been in contact with since you moved here?  Visitors, friends?”

            He snorted, which made him cough.

            “What?” Iani asked, rubbing his shoulder.

            “Friends,” he explained, sitting back weakly.  He expected Iani's hand to move; it didn't.  Hand on his back, Iani sat down beside him on the couch.

            “You've had trouble making friends?”  Iani honestly seemed surprised.

            “That's a polite way of putting it.”

            “Ridiculous,” Iani said.  “A man like you…”  His words drifted into silence as he looked into Ouneaoaunaeat's eyes and saw…what?

            As much as he enjoyed the chance to study Iani's handsome face, the long silence was odd.  “Yes?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked, to prompt more words.

            A speedy blink, and Iani continued as if there'd been no lapse in conversation.  “For now,” he said with calm briskness, “I'd like you not to see anyone new.  Eatoune and Aiae are fine, and your father, and probably the servants, once I've spoken with them, but I-”

            “You still think that I'm contagious,” Ouneaoaunaeat realized.

            Iani nodded, taking the charge seriously.  “Yes.  I do.”

            “But I'm not,” he said.  “I can't be!  No one's ever caught anything from me, no-”

            “Dr. Uauloie had a patient three weeks ago who had weakness, fatigue, a fever, chills, and night sweats,” Iani said.  “There were traces of blood when she coughed.  I just took on a new patient who was recently treated for wheezing, mucus in his cough, fatigue, a low fever, shortness of breath, and discomfort in his chest.  Do you know, or has anyone you know been in contact with, Anuouni Iapeaila?”

            Anuouni?  “He's one of Aiae's friends, his father was one of Aiae's patrons, he was here a few weeks ago,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “But that doesn't mean anything, it's not…”  It wasn't possible.  “No one's ever caught anything from me.  It must have been from someone else.”

            “They were mild cases,” Iani said.  “But you and I can't tell, just by looking and guessing, who's more susceptible and who's less, who will contract something and who's more resistant.  So I want you, for now, to avoid meeting new people, until we get more of this under control.”

            “I'm not contagious!” he protested.  “I can't be!”

            “You aren't contagious,” Iani said.  “But what you have may be.  And part of my job is preventing other people from falling ill.  You were isolated on your farm, Ouneaoaunaeat, and you rarely interacted with other people outside of a certain select few.  The city's more crowded, and you'll have to be more careful, for now.”

            Ouneaoaunaeat hated being told that he was a threat to anyone.  “Then they were right to shun me?” he asked.  “They were right to avoid me?  They were right to leave me to the care of a practically orphaned eight-year-old?  They were right to-”  Breaking off into a painful coughing fit, he doubled over as his ribs ached.  He couldn't even make it through a fucking conversation without falling apart.  Wheezing, he tried to catch his breath.

            “The ways that we speak of, think of, and treat the ill are criminal,” Iani said, the hand on his back rubbing gently, comforting.  “I'd like things to be different, and I confront it whenever I see it, but I can't change what happened in your past.”

            He couldn't direct his anger at Iani.  Telling himself to calm down, he waited until his breathing was regular, then asked, “What happened in your past?”

            “Mine?”  Iani took his hand from Ouneaoaunaeat's back, but it was a casual, matter-of-fact move that Ouneaoaunaeat couldn't read anything into.  “My childhood was uneventful.”

            “You've lived this long without tragedy and loss?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.  “You've never humiliated yourself or almost ruined your life or fallen in love?”

            “I'm the only child of doting parents,” Iani said with a soft smile.  “I never wanted for anything.  They're both alive and well.  I had a fair number of friends, and got along well with most people I met.  Until my decision to leave for Jacacea, I was all set to be society's darling.”  Looking away, he smiled again, then met Ouneaoaunaeat's eyes.  “I did fancy myself quite in love with another medical student, which did lead to some humiliating moments, but that infatuation has passed.”

            Having lived so little of life beyond the confines of his now various homes, Ouneaoaunaeat was eager to learn more.  “Who was he?”

            “His name was Johau,” Iani said.  “He had very pale blond hair and an ironic little smile.  He was used to getting everything that he wanted, and so was I, and when he wanted a different kind of relationship from what I wanted, we had a lot of trouble accepting that we couldn't both win.  It was a learning experience, for me.  It made me grow up and learn things like compromise and negotiation.”

            “We don't all get everything that we want,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “No one does.  Why should you be the exception?”

            Iani looked at him in silence.

            Cheeks burning with embarrassment and resentment, Ouneaoaunaeat wished that he hadn't opened his mouth.  But he was so fucking bitter.  Iani was healthy and wealthy and educated and traveled and blessed and on top of life, everything that Ouneaoaunaeat wasn't and couldn't be and never would be.  Iani had the luxury of being spoiled and having lovers and only learning that life wasn't tailored to his personal whims when he was already an adult.  Ouneaoaunaeat had learned that lesson early in life, upon the death of his mother, upon the gradual disappearance of his father, and he'd had plenty of time to contemplate it, while he coughed and sweated and shivered and his little brother ran the farm.

            “I want you to be well,” Iani said.  “I will do my best to help you.  Direct your anger at me, if that helps you, but don't think that I'll take it personally.”

            “And I should be grateful,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, “for your selfless efforts on my behalf.  How good of you, to take Aiae's money.  No one has ever brought me a day of full health, and your fancy foreign methods won't-”  The coughing took over like thunder in his chest, and then he began to wheeze, and he couldn't catch his breath.

            “Close your eyes,” Iani said, cupping his chin and forcing his head back.  “Slowly, breathe slowly, it'll come.”

            Finding air, the struggle over, Ouneaoaunaeat sank back, defeated.  “I hate this,” he said, his eyes still closed.  “I hate this life.  I love life, just not this one, not like this.”  And if he was contagious, if someone else caught this, “I couldn't bear it if I passed this sickness to anyone else.  No one should have to live like this.”

            “We'll take certain measures, to prevent the infection from spreading to anyone else,” Iani said.  “But I know that you won't give up on me.  You and your brother, almost entirely alone, have brought you along this far.  Let me do what I can to help.”

            Opening his eyes, Ouneaoaunaeat studied Iani with suspicion.  “Do all Jacacean doctors treat their patients like people with names and lives, or are you an anomaly?”

            With a brief chuckle, Iani said, “Many of them do.  Patients are people, Ouneaoaunaeat, and anyone can fall ill.  It is ridiculous to treat patients with anything other than respect and compassion, knowing that you, your friend, your parent, your child, could end up the next to be treated.  No one is immune to disease or to accident.”

            That was a fact that none of Ouneaoaunaeat's previous doctors seemed to have noticed.  “And you?” he asked, gazing at the vibrant glow of Iani's health.  “Have you ever been ill?”

            “I caught a brief illness from one of my patients in Jacacea,” Iani admitted.  “That got me a short hospital stay.  But I'm generally in very fine health.”

            “Hospital?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.  “You've stayed in one?”  Only the most severely ill patients were transferred to hospitals, and they never returned.  Eatoune had promised him, promised him over and over again, never to allow anyone to take him to one, under any circumstances.

            “Hospitals in Jacacea are different from the ones here,” Iani said.  “They're more abundant, and they're more, well,” and then Iani launched into a long and fascinating description that kept Ouneaoaunaeat spellbound.  Hospitals sounded amazing, clean and healing, full of knowledge and cooperation.  Ouneaoaunaeat had never heard of such a wonderful place.

            “I want to go,” he said, as soon as Iani had finished.

            Catching his breath, Iani quickly said, “No, no-”

            “They're the best chance that I have,” Ouneaoaunaeat argued, grasping at this opportunity.  “They'll figure out what's wrong with me, they'll help me to be healthy again.”

            “You will be healthy again,” Iani said firmly, his gray eyes clear.  “Right now, you aren't well enough to travel.  That would endanger your health, and I can't allow it.  I'll do everything that I can, here.  I'm already in correspondence with some of my colleagues there.  Let me do as much as I can, before we take any more risks.”

            It was a risk that Ouneaoaunaeat was willing to take.  Nothing had ever made him well, nothing had ever made a real difference; the hospitals in Jacacea could.  He was willing to get worse, in order to get better.

            But Iani refused to entertain the notion, arguing against it, pointing out the dangers of travel, especially over the sea.  “I will do,” he said, “the best that I can for you.  I've already seen progress.  If you trust me, and keep working with me, when the day comes that you're well enough for travel, I will go with you, I'll take you to Jacacea myself.”

            Surprised, Ouneaoaunaeat found himself agreeing, bowled over by Iani's offer.  Take him across the ocean just to improve his medical care?  Send him, yes, but go with him, personally?  What kind of doctor would do such a thing?

            That night, Ouneaoaunaeat dreamt of Iani, of a ship, of being tucked away in one of those ship cabins he'd read about, on a narrow bed.  Iani was examining him, touching his chest, fingers caressing along his ribcage, pushing the sheets aside and exploring lower, lower, past his stomach and between his thighs, stroking, stroking, touching his aching hardness, so forbidden, so good, Iani's touch felt so good.

            Ouneaoaunaeat wakened to find a cool wetness sticky across his stomach.  Dazed, he poked at it, visions flashing in his mind of red lips and gray eyes and Iani's taut, round ass under those tight little pants that stretched across those firm thighs.  It had been a long time since Ouneaoaunaeat's body had been capable of sexual satisfaction, and last night, it had achieved it all on its own.

            Not necessarily the kind of progress that he wanted to tell Iani about, but definitely a good sign.

            When Iani came to see him that afternoon, Ouneaoaunaeat admired the very fashionable dark blue clothes he wore, a more formal cut than usual.  “Are you going to see someone important today?”

            “I'm here with you, aren't I?” Iani asked with a grin, checking his pulse.

            “You don't generally dress like this for me,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  Had that been flirting?  Had Iani just flirted with him?  Or had it simply been a lighthearted comment?

            “Well, you certainly deserve it,” Iani said.  “You're doing very, very well.”  The smile he flashed was bright as the sun.

            “Thank you,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, breathless in a way that had nothing to do with anything medical and everything to do with how handsome Iani was.  His mouth was deliciously red, as if his lips were ripe for nibbling.

            And right then, Ouneaoaunaeat got hard.  His dick was entirely, humiliatingly erect, rising up against the loose fabric of his thin pants, obvious and undeniable.  Shocked by his body's responsiveness, delirious from how good it felt, Ouneaoaunaeat froze, at a complete loss over what to do.

            Color building in Iani's cheeks, he said, in a marvelously professional tone, “That's a great mark of improvement.  Have you been able to sustain an erection before?”

            Praying that it would go away while simultaneously burning with the desire to touch it and experience raw pleasure, Ouneaoaunaeat didn't know what to do, other than answer Iani's question.  “No, only very rarely.”

            “You've noticed an increase in sexual function, over the past few days?”

            “Just, uh, last night and today, really.”  The stiffness of it, the pulsing of it, made his toes curl.  It felt so good, so good, and at the same time so absolutely mortifying, this entire conversation was surreal.  He was hard over Iani, in front of Iani, and they were discussing it - - his erection - - as though it were an ordinary medical fact, like the way he coughed.

            Continuing to sound calm and professional, Iani finished the exam and was out of the room in thirty seconds, cheeks a bright, embarrassed red.  As soon as the door closed, Ouneaoaunaeat unbuttoned his pants and looked down at the fiercely demanding red thing in his lap where meek, soft flesh had been before.

            Almost in awe of it - - a spontaneous erection?! - - he touched his fingers to the head, and felt strong prickles of wicked pleasure strike through his body, drawing up his muscles and only intensifying the ache of sharp, hungry need.  With an ecstatic groan of relief, he let his head drop back, his hand immediately squeezing and pulling, rubbing that gorgeous, wonderful ache, that impossible hardness, that shocking proof of need.

            Thoughts of Iani's ass and thighs flashed through his mind, and he thought of Iani looking at his erection, thought of Iani looking at him now; the idea of Iani quietly reopening the door right then and seeing him there, silently watching him pleasure himself, burned right through him and he came, moaning and whimpering and rocked by ecstasy.

            He paid for the exertion, exhausted and coughing for minutes afterward, but it was more than worth it.

            He'd just come.

            Now he simply needed to get over the intense humiliation of having been caught with an erection.  Iani's fierce blush was proof that underneath that professional exterior, Iani had been embarrassed, too.  Beneath their patient-doctor roles, they were both men, and Ouneaoaunaeat had just proven it.  He was a sexual man, with sexual needs and sexual desires, and Iani had finally been forced to see him that way.

            That evening, Ouneaoaunaeat took a break from his all-day task of furtively touching himself, teasing himself with his own eager responsiveness.  Sometimes there was an immediate tingle of awareness, and sometimes he had to toy with it a little to get a reaction, but his dick was alive, an alert and participatory member of his body.

            He was nowhere close to being healthy enough to have sex with someone, but he'd spent all afternoon fantasizing about feeling someone's mouth on his erection.  In his hottest fantasies, it was Iani's luscious red mouth in particular.  In other versions of events, it was a stranger, a passerby, a guest, even someone Aiae paid for - - Ouneaoaunaeat wasn't choosy, he just wanted the experience.

            He didn't, of course, mention any of this to Aiae, who was now in his room painting a lush green landscape on a small canvas.  When the conversation rolled around to Iani's visit, Aiae said, “When I saw him this evening, he said that you're making terrific progress.”

            “You saw him today?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked, wondering not for the first time if Iani's embarrassed blush meant anything like what he wanted it to mean.  It couldn't, but…what if?

            “Yes, he and Lord Peotau were at Lord Uilia's dinner,” Aiae said.  “They'd just come from the opera.”

            Ouneaoaunaeat listened to Aiae discuss the opera for a few minutes, slipping in, at the first opportunity, “Who's Peotau?”

            “Lord Aekoule's son,” Aiae said.  “He's not very bright, but he's wonderfully handsome.  He's Leetesrian on his mother's side, so he has very fine features.”

            Lord Aekoule was one of the most important patrons in Ilaeia, which meant that Peotau had influence and a great deal of wealth, in addition to his wonderfully handsome face.  “He's Iani's lover?”

            “I don't know about that,” Aiae said, giving the matter honest consideration.  “He may be.”

            Ouneaoaunaeat chewed over that all night, and in the morning, he was in a foul mood, his body in according rebellion.  Angry at having a newly potent sexuality that responded eagerly to a man who fucked other people and saw him only as a patient, he dressed in his simplest clothes and stayed in bed, coughing and wheezing, exhausted and aching, glowering at the world.

            When Iani came in to see him, smiling and bearing a ridiculously healthy glow, Ouneaoaunaeat resented everything about him, from his quick, easy movements to his obvious wealth.  He was handsome and happy and living merrily in his perfect existence, and Ouneaoaunaeat had been stupid to imagine his touch turning sexual.  Even a simple fantasy of it was ludicrous.  For all of his talk about treating patients with compassion and respect, he never interacted with Ouneaoaunaeat outside of that doctor-patient dynamic.  They weren't friends and they'd never be lovers.

            Iani had never treated Ouneaoaunaeat in a bed before - - he'd never seen Ouneaoaunaeat in a bed before - - and he attributed it to Ouneaoaunaeat's medical turn for the worse.  “I was afraid of this,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.  “You're no longer coughing up blood?  No more night sweats?  You're certain?  No more fever or chills?”

            “None of that,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, wondering how a reduction in symptoms could lead to a worsening of the disease.

            “Less mucus?”

            Ouneaoaunaeat nodded.  “How was the opera?”

            Surprised by the question, Iani hesitated before saying, “It was very well done.”

            “And Lord Peotau?” he asked.  “How's he?”

            “He's fine,” Iani said, polite but perplexed.

            “That's good to hear,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “Do you sit on his bed and ask about his erections, or is that just something that you do with patients?”

            Iani looked directly into his eyes, unflinching.

            Seconds passed.

            “It's all right,” Iani said calmly.  “Go ahead.  Get it out.”

            “Get what out?” Ouneaoaunaeat demanded, despite himself.  It was a trap, and he knew that, but he jumped right into it, frustrated with Iani's cool lack of response.

            “Whatever you want to say,” Iani said.  “Let me hear the rest of it.”

            “You'd rather talk about you instead of me, for once?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.  “That's fine, we can talk about you.  How's your sexual function, doctor?  Have you noticed an increase lately?  How well does Lord Peotau sustain his erections?”

            “Let's leave Tau out of this,” Iani said.

            “Tau?” Ouneaoaunaeat scoffed.  “Is that your little nickname for him?  Names even shorter than the king's, is that the height of fashion these days?  And what does he call you?  Or is that something that shouldn't be discussed during daytime hours?”

            “My personal life has nothing to do with-”

            “You know everything about me, you listen to my heart and lungs, you ask about my bowels and my erections, you're here to treat my disease, and my disease is not only very personal to me, it is my life.  Yet your life is off-limits to me?”

            “As your doctor,” Iani said, “it is my duty to maintain an air of professionalism.  There are boundaries that it would be unethical for me to cross.”

            “What can you tell me?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.  “Can you tell me that you went to the opera yesterday?”

            “Yes,” Iani said.  “I went to the opera yesterday.  Would you like to hear about that?  The writing was shabby, but the performances were excellent.”

            “Can you tell me with whom you went to the opera yesterday?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.

            “Yes,” Iani said.  “I was accompanied by Lord Peotau, a friend of mine.  He is the new patron of the lead soprano, and he wanted me to see her performance.”

            “Can you tell me if he's your lover?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.

            “No, I can't,” Iani said quietly, holding his gaze.  “It is common knowledge that Tau and I are friends, but the state of my sex life is not appropriate for you and me to discuss.  Ouneaoaunaeat, I'd really like to discuss your progress.  I want to prescribe some new medicines.”

            “Are you sure that it doesn't offend your upper-class sensibilities to call me by my full name?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.  “Maybe Naeat would be better.”

            “Maybe you should shut up and listen to me,” Iani said.

            “When do you think that I'll be well enough to fuck?” he asked.  “I think that I'm just about healthy enough to get head, for once in my life, but I don't think that the exertion and jarring sensations of fucking would be good for me.  What do you think?”

            “I'll bring the new drugs when I come to see you tomorrow, and I'll explain how you should take them,” Iani said.  “Over the next twenty-eight hours, expect an increase in diarrhea.”  With a tight smile, he got up and left.

            The door closed.

            Ouneaoaunaeat stared at the ceiling for a few minutes.

            He'd just acted like a child.  Like an immature teenager trying to provoke someone into a fight.  He'd acted like an ass and was, in immediate hindsight, more ashamed of that than of yesterday's unexpected erection.

            Even while he'd been rude and terrible, Iani hadn't given in to him.  Had, in fact, stood up to him.  Told him to shut up the way that Eatoune would, the way that an equal would.  Iani respected him well enough to poke back, and he liked that.  Being treated like an equal, like one of Iani's peers, was a novel, wonderful experience, and he loved Iani for doing it so naturally.

            Coughing and exhausted, he ignored his aching body's panicked anger and crawled out of bed, dragging himself across the floor and down the hallway.  Limping along on his hands and knees, he went out to the garden, took scissors from the shed, and trimmed off a dozen of the choicest blooms he could find.  He was finally on his feet and staggering back into the house when one of the servants discovered him.

            Eatoune yelled at him for a full ten minutes, but ended up sending the bouquet to Iani's office anyway, so Ouneaoaunaeat put up with it.

            An hour later, a servant brought in a note.

            Never having received a note before, Ouneaoaunaeat took his time, admiring the envelope, running his thumb over the engraving on the card, avoiding whatever was written on the back.  Eventually, however, his faith in Iani's unending generosity with him prevailed, and he flipped the card over.

            Ouneaoaunaeat, thank you for the flowers.  As your physician, I advise you to wait before engaging in any sexual activity beyond masturbation.  If I were your friend, I would suggest that you celebrate this new development in your progress by taking a long, hot bath and testing out your recently recovered abilities.

            Iani had just recommended that he masturbate.

            Ringing for the servant, something that Ouneaoaunaeat did only when absolutely necessary, which was no doubt why she returned with alacrity, Ouneaoaunaeat asked that a hot bath be drawn.

            Due to his constant fever, he hadn't indulged in a hot bath in many years.  Soaking in the tub, he closed his eyes, feeling his body relax, muscles loosening.  The soothing luxury of it made his lips part, thighs spreading as everything went limp.  He spent a few minutes simply sitting there, on the verge of slumber, head lolling back.

            Eventually, however, his mind turned to Iani's note suggesting the bath in the first place, and to Iani himself, with those hard thighs and that short black curly hair.  Handsome, sexy, intelligent, educated, healthy, wealthy, well-traveled, Iani was everything that Ouneaoaunaeat wanted and liked and envied and aspired to.  Ouneaoaunaeat didn't know whether he wanted more to be Iani or to have sex with Iani.

            Have sex with Iani.  Definitely.  The stirring of his dick decided that.  Tension rising in his body as the heat got to his blood, Ouneaoaunaeat slipped a hand in between his thighs, cupping his stiffening arousal and manipulating it gently, toying with it, cupping and fondling, moaning softly at the rise of his hardening flesh.  Stroking the length of it, he gloried in its responsiveness, its hardness, its size.  His other hand joining the fun, he palmed his balls as his knees rose and his back arched.  Oh, yes…

            Minutes later, spent, shuddering, moaning with pleasure, Ouneaoaunaeat collapsed against the back of the tub, legs splayed, body humming with fading ecstasy.

             This hot bath thing was going to have to happen every night.  It certainly was rejuvenating.

            In the morning, Ouneaoaunaeat felt like shit, and could barely haul himself out of bed, but he dressed carefully, if slowly, and sat on the couch with his favorite book on gardening.

            Eatoune and Aiae had breakfast with him; Aiae told him how handsome he looked, and Eatoune told him that sending flowers and dressing up wasn't going to make him any more attractive to someone who took samples of his mucus.  Ouneaoaunaeat said, “Well, Aiae still goes to bed with you every night, so miracles are possible.”

            When Iani arrived that afternoon, he greeted Ouneaoaunaeat with the same friendly demeanor as always, and Ouneaoaunaeat, flush with victory over his new potency, was as pleasant as possible.

            After a routine exam, Iani jotted down notes and then sat beside him on the couch, showing him a few new drugs and explaining how to take them.

            “I could open my own pharmacy,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, eyeing the array of medicines lined up on the table.  “Would you care to tell me what's wrong with me?  May I have a name for this disease?”

            “You may have three,” Iani said.

            What?  “Three?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked, staring at him.  “The disease has three names?” he hoped.  “Its name is three words long?”

            “You have three independent diseases,” Iani said.  “Quite frankly, and thank the gods for this miracle, you should have been dead many years ago.”

            “Three?” Ouneaoaunaeat repeated, again.  “I have three separate illnesses?”

            “You have uoweainaoui, ealouiekiuo, and ieowaueineoupe,” Iani said.

            “No,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, refusing to accept that.  “I don't, I can't.  Uoweainaoui, I don't have that, no one lives through that.  Ealouiekiuo, I'd be dead from that, and so would Eatoune, and our father, and Aaie, and you, and anyone who got near me.  Ieowaueineoupe, I don't even know what that is.  I don't have three diseases, no one does, I can't.”

            “You contracted ealouiekiuo from your mother,” Iani said.  “That's what took her.  I've been in correspondence with people from your village, including the new doctor who has all of her doctor's notes, and her illness was misdiagnosed.  It wasn't a woman's disease, it was ealouiekiuo in the early stages of a rare strain.  You were susceptible to it because you already had uoweainaoui.”

            “And how did I get that?” Ouneaoaunaeat demanded.

            “We believe that you were born with it,” Iani said.  “A mild form of it that went undiagnosed.  You had trouble gaining weight as a child?”

            “I was always skinny,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “Lots of people are naturally thin.”

            “You were slow to grow taller?”

            “Because I was sick, yes, but…”  Ouneaoaunaeat shook his head.  “I was born healthy, I was fine.”

            “You weren't fine,” Iani said.  “It just took years for anyone to notice.  I don't know exactly how you contracted ieowaueineoupe, but since your system was already compromised by an inherited disease and an infection, it took hold.  I think the fact that you were ill in three different ways - - at least two, in the beginning - - is why it's been so difficult for doctors to treat you.  They diagnose one of the illnesses, but not the others, and your other symptoms flourish, so you don't effectively get any healthier.”

            “And you've been treating all three?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.

            “I've been treating two,” Iani said.  “As a test.  It's working so well, I'm prescribing these new drugs, to combat the uoweainaoui, too.  If I'm right, and you're diligent about taking care of yourself, you should be much healthier by the end of this.”

            “If I have an infection, why am I not making anyone else sick?  If I have three deadly illnesses, why am I still here?  Why wasn't I taken?”

            “You have mild but deeply rooted strains of all three.  And all of them aren't necessarily deadly,” Iani said.  “You're so strong, you've managed not to succumb entirely, and I'm more eager every day to take you to Jacacea to figure out exactly how that's possible.  If you had any one of these diseases alone, you'd shrug it off and be just fine, but having all three at once is what's debilitated you.  The infections are mild enough that you have passed them on to other people, including your father, but no one's attributed it to you, because you're so very ill and they simply have a collection of symptoms.”

            “My father?” he asked.  His mind latched onto the mention of Iani taking him to Jacacea, which came up frequently between them.  Iani seemed sincere about the plan.  Every time the idea arose, Ouneaoaunaeat wondered if Iani wanted to take him as a patient, or accompany him as a friend.  Perhaps it was both.  Or maybe he should stop fooling himself, and accept that he was no more than a patient in Iani's eyes.

            “When I spoke with him-”

            “You talked to my father?”  Ouneaoaunaeat hadn't spoken to his father in weeks, and even then, it had been less personal and less informative than waving at a stranger from across the street.

            “Yes, and when I questioned him closely, he admitted that there have been times, a few times over the years, that he's had a respiratory infection.  He's acquired both ealouiekiuo and ieowaueineoupe from you without realizing it.  He spent so much time away from the house, away from anyone, really, and paid so little attention to his own state of being, that he didn't recognize it for what it was, and neither did you.”

            Ouneaoaunaeat didn't know how to feel about that.  He'd repeatedly made his own father ill.  Yet even that had failed to get his father's attention; even that had gone unnoticed.  His tone dry to hide the emotion beneath, he asked, “Did he happen to mention giving a shit about me?”

            “As a matter of fact, yes, he did,” Iani said.  “He said that it eats at his heart to see you suffer.”

            Ouneaoaunaeat had never in his life heard his father say anything like that.  “Are you sure that you talked to the right man?”

            “I'm fairly certain that I did,” Iani said thoughtfully.  “Eatoune introduced him as your father, and he has remarkably exotic eyes that I'd recognize anywhere.”

            Surprised by those words, Ouneaoaunaeat felt himself grow warm with embarrassment.  He'd inherited his father's eyes, passed down from a Lorbish ancestor, almost black in color and almond-shaped with curling eyelashes so long and thick he'd used to make his mother trim them so that old women in the village would stop pinching his cheeks and telling him how pretty he was.  Hearing Iani call them exotic - - not just exotic, but remarkably so - - flustered him, and he coughed as an excuse not to reply.

            “Now that we're working to fight all three threats to your health,” Iani said, “I need you to do everything you can.  Take all of the medications, exactly as I explained.  I'm going to leave a meal plan with the cook, and I'll need you to eat whatever's brought to you.  Stay in this room, and don't exert yourself.”

            Ouneaoaunaeat couldn't resist bringing up something he shouldn't.  “But then how will I send you flowers, if I can't go to the garden?”

            “You got those yourself?” Iani asked.  “From your garden?”

            “Aiae's garden,” he said, “yes.”

            “You have a great eye for flowers,” Iani said.  “And if you go out to that garden without my permission again, I'll have you locked in this room like a child.”

            Grinning at the threat, Ouneaoaunaeat said, “Yes, doctor.”

            “Good.”  Tucking his notes into his medical kit, Iani asked, his cheeks slowly turning pink, “I trust that you were able to enjoy your bath?”

            Iani never blushed over anything, hadn't turned any shade of pink or red while asking to see Ouneaoaunaeat's stool, but this topic consistently brought heat to his cheeks.  Fascinated, wanting to touch the bright spots of pink, Ouneaoaunaeat said, “Yes.  I plan to take a bath every night now.”

            Red creeping up to his ears, Iani said, “Just don't overexert yourself,” and was out of the room in seconds.

            The subject of masturbation embarrassed Iani.

            Or else what made him blush was Ouneaoaunaeat's dick.

            Ouneaoaunaeat's erections.

            Ouneaoaunaeat's sexuality.

            The next two weeks were bliss, for Ouneaoaunaeat.  He felt like shit every day, but he could report minor progress each afternoon during Iani's visit.  He never coughed up blood anymore.  The discomfort in his chest was gone.  No more mucus.  When his diarrhea finally cleared up, he danced Eatoune around the room.

            Then Iani sat beside him on the couch, looking handsome as ever in white and gray, and said, “I didn't want to raise your hopes, but I've been talking with my Jacacean colleagues, and I've finally convinced them to send me a new drug.”

            “More drugs?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.  He wasn't thrilled by the idea, but if it would help, he was willing to take it.  “Pill, powder, or potion?”

            “Injection,” Iani said, opening his medical kit.  “It's new, but it comes from very reliable people, and they'd never let it out of the country if it weren't safe.  This could be your path to complete wellness, but you may need to take it for the rest of your life.”

            “A shot every day for the rest of my life, versus what I've lived through until now?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.  “Shoot me.”  Eyeing the needle, he asked, “How badly will this hurt?”

            “I have a great deal of experience with injections,” Iani said.  “It should be painless.”

            He trusted Iani enough to believe that.  “Where are you going to stick me?”

            “There are four areas that we can try,” Iani said.  “Over the next four days, I'd like to attempt each one, so that you can decide which one's best for you.”

            It was unusual for a doctor to provide him with a choice in anything.  “What are the areas?”

            “Your upper arm, around your waist, your thigh, and your,” faint coloring on his cheeks captivated Ouneaoaunaeat's attention, “buttocks.”

            That made no sense.  Iani was far too professional to blush over a simple word like that.  Filing away that oddity for future pondering, Ouneaoaunaeat turned to his more immediate problem: he didn't want Iani near most of those parts of his body.  Being stricken with three wasting diseases had taken its toll; the past few weeks of healing hadn't repaired that damage.  He didn't like the idea of Iani getting familiar with his waist or his thigh, and his ass was out of the question.  “How about you inject me in the arm for the first few years, and we'll try those other areas later?”

            “It's my medical duty to provide you with the best care that I can, and-”

            “It's your duty to do what I want, since you essentially work for me,” Ouneaoaunaeat pointed out.

            “I essentially work for Aiae,” Iani said.  “Would you like me to discuss this with him?”

            “Would you like to show me your ass every four days?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.

            Turning red, Iani said, “I'm a doctor, this is part of my job, it's not-”

            “You are aware, aren't you,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, captivated, “that you're blushing in a very unprofessional manner.”  Such a fierce red blush, reaching the tips of his ears.

            “I don't want to presume too much, but it's common and understandable for patients to be hesitant when it comes to showing their bodies,” Iani said.  “They're often not proud of their physical condition, and they're sensitive about loss of privacy and control.  But you have nothing to be ashamed of, Ouneaoaunaeat.”

            “You don't know that,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, “so what makes you say it?”

            “I say it because I know you,” Iani said.  “Your intelligence, your wit, your pride, your humility, your determination, your strength, and your beauty are all very apparent to me, and have been since we met.  Your body may not be sculpted like Ariaeanie's, but there's no reason that it would be.”

            “It probably would be, if I'd never been sick,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  There were copies of the famous statue all around the country, but he'd never been mobile enough to see one.  “Does he really look as good as I've heard?”

            “He's an impressive study in human anatomy,” Iani said.  “His torso is perfectly proportioned.  He's not very well-hung, though.”

            Bursting into laughter, Ouneaoaunaeat didn't even mind the relatively minor coughing fit that followed.  “You can say that, but you blush at the word `buttocks?'”

            “We're drifting from the point,” Iani said.  “If-”

            “I can't ask you about this new habit you've picked up of turning red?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.  They were back to this, were they?  “May I ask if you plan to enjoy the company of your friend Lord Peotau tonight?”

            “I'll dine with my parents at their home tonight,” Iani said.  His gaze drifted away, as if he weren't comfortable meeting Ouneaoaunaeat's eyes.  “I have no plans with Lord Peotau.”

            They'd broken up.  “Your friendship has ended?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.

            “I found our conversations lacking,” Iani said, after a long pause.  “He isn't nearly as stimulating as…  As I would wish for, in a friend.”  Then, straightening his shoulders and meeting Ouneaoaunaeat's eyes, he said, “We'll begin with your arm as the site of the injection.”

            Unbuttoning his shirt, Ouneaoaunaeat forgot to be self-conscious as he studied Iani, wondering.  “I'm told that he's very handsome.”

            “He is,” Iani said, matter-of-factly, as he prepared the syringe.  Wetting the corner of a handkerchief with something, he eased the sleeve of Ouneaoaunaeat's shirt down and rubbed the handkerchief over his exposed upper arm.

            “What are you doing?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.

            “Cleaning the area,” Iani said.  “It should lower the risk of infection.”

            “I'd rather not contract anything else,” Ouneaoaunaeat admitted.

            “Very smart of you.”  Syringe in hand, ready to continue, he met Ouneaoaunaeat's eyes.  “You may wish to look away.”

            Ouneaoaunaeat closed his eyes.

            Nothing happened.

            “Are you finished?” he asked.

            The sound of Iani's throat clearing.  “No, I…  I simply…”

            He opened his eyes again, worried.  “What?  What's wrong?”  Iani never sounded flustered and guilty like that, as if having been caught at something.

            “I was struck by how…how healthy you look,” Iani said.  “You improve every day.  Every time that I see you, you look better and better.”

            Had Iani always blushed this often?  It was ridiculous.  “Thank you,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “You've been handsome since the first day we met, but it's kind of you to let me catch up.”

            Red-faced, Iani said, hastily, “Thank you.  Now close your eyes and we'll get this over with.”

            “I already did my part,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, closing his eyes again.  “You're the one who'd rather talk than work.”

            “Don't tease the man with the sharp needle,” Iani said.

            Ouneaoaunaeat waited.  A small prick like a bug bite, then nothing.  “Are you finished?” he asked.

            “Yes,” Iani said, and Ouneaoaunaeat opened his eyes in surprise just as Iani touched the handkerchief to his arm again.  “You're an excellent patient.”

            “You're an excellent doctor,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, looking at his arm.  His gaze slid to Iani's arm.  He imagined that it looked very healthy beneath Iani's shirt and coat sleeves.  It was probably firm with muscle, strong and masculine.  “Do you exercise?”

            “Yes, every morning,” Iani said, packing up his kit.

            “Sometimes the neighbors would offer to help Eatoune in the field,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “I stayed in the house, because if they saw me they'd suddenly come up with some excuse and leave, but sometimes I'd watch through a crack in the door.  It gave me something to do.”  Why was he telling Iani this?  He'd never told anyone this.  Then again, there'd never been anyone to tell, no one but Eatoune, who knew all about it.  “The young men, they always looked so healthy, so strong, so vibrant with life.  They'd work hard, and they'd sweat, and their shirts would cling to their muscular upper bodies, their broad, firm chests, their strong backs, their bulging arms.  I was fascinated by them, and jealous of them, and I wanted to touch them, to know what they felt like.”  He might as well finish it, and spill forth all of his shame.  “I've always had a complex relationship with healthy men.  I'm captivated by how different from me they are, I hate them for having what I can't, and I lust after them.  I'm always torn between wanting to hit them, wanting to be them, and wanting to fuck them.”  His gaze focused just past Iani's shoulder, he let his confession hang heavy in the air.

            After a moment, Iani cleared his throat.  “That's very normal.”  His voice was low.  “I want you to realize that, as your recovery continues, your options will change.  I wouldn't, as your doctor or as your friend, recommend that you hit anyone, but living a healthy life is increasingly within your reach, and having sex is also a more and more likely possibility.”

            Ouneaoaunaeat had never liked other people tossing out unrealistic expectations.  “No, it isn't,” he said, looking at Iani with irritation.  “No one's going to be attracted to me.  No one's going to have sex with me unless I pay for it.  Unless Aiae pays for it,” he corrected himself bitterly.

            “As your body becomes healthier, it will look healthier,” Iani said.  “Don't cut yourself off from your future before it even has a chance to-”

            “Look at you!” Ouneaoaunaeat exclaimed.  “You're so healthy you glow with it!  You're strong, you're vibrant, you-”

            “Look at yourself once in a while,” Iani said.  “You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen, but not only that, they're bright with life and energy and wit and intelligence.  There's color in your face now that wasn't there before.  Any man would be happy to kiss your smart, sarcastic, gorgeous mouth.  Your spirit is incredibly attractive.  You just have to give your body a chance to catch up.”

            No one had ever said anything remotely like that to Ouneaoaunaeat before, which was his excuse for why he just sat there, stunned into slack-jawed silence.

            Cursing under his breath, Iani turned a predictable shade of red, and left.

            Any man.  Any man would be happy to kiss him.  His smart, sarcastic, gorgeous mouth.

            Ouneaoaunaeat waited impatiently, flipping through the pages of his book without reading, until Aiae came to see him.  As soon as sweet but honest Aiae entered the room, Ouneaoaunaeat asked, “Am I good-looking?”

            “Of course you are,” Aiae said.  “You're very handsome.  It's always been apparent, but now that you're getting better, and your face is filling out, and there's more color in your face, it's even more present.  Your hair even looks healthier.  I think that you need another haircut, now that you mention it.”

            Ouneaoaunaeat had spent so many years disgusted by his body's betrayal of him, by his illness and physical frailty, that he saw only flaws in the mirror.  His sunken cheeks, the dark hollows under his eyes, the various yellows and grays of his skin.  He'd stopped shaving almost as soon as he'd begun to sprout whiskers, because not only were his hands not always steady with the razor, but the entire enterprise was more trouble than it was worth.  His alternative had been to have Eatoune shave him, and Eatoune saw to enough of his physical needs as it was.  One of the positive side effects of not shaving was that it was another excuse to avoid the mirror.  The beard was also proof of his masculinity, when he felt most sexless, neutered by disease.

            On the farm, Eatoune would cut his hair and trim his beard at random intervals.  Here in the capital city, Aiae hired a barber to come and do it, a simple maintenance trim.

            Now, though, the concept of a haircut was suddenly rife with possibility.  When men like Aiae and Iani got haircuts, those haircuts were fashionable, following the latest trend; not simply maintenance, like the cutting of toenails, haircuts were a mark of one's place in society.  A haircut could signify wealth, or an awareness of trends, or an attempt to conform.

            Ouneaoaunaeat wasn't solely a patient, wasn't nothing more than diseased flesh.  He was a man, a young man, living in a busy, important, fashionable city.  He was, apparently, handsome.  Any man would be happy to kiss him.  He grew healthier every day; he might, someday, be healthy enough to rejoin the society he'd left many years ago.  His life was changing; maybe his appearance could change, to mark the new possibilities before him.

            When he asked for a haircut, Aiae was pleased, and sent for a barber, right away.  Eatoune came home and, hearing the news, teased him for succumbing to vanity.

            He asked the barber to cut his hair into whatever style was most fashionable, something like Aiae's, and also asked for a close shave, since that was the latest trend.

            “You realize that you're going to have to shave every day now,” Eatoune reminded him, as the barber worked.

            “I remember how,” he said.  He was stronger now, healthier; he'd manage it.  Amazing, how steady his hands were these days.

            Once finished, the barber handed him a mirror.

            A stranger stared back at him, sharing his bewilderment.  Smooth skin, very pale but with a touch of rose beneath, not at all sallow.  Cheekbones high and prominent but not jutting sharply forth.  Pink, softly bowed lips.  Near-black, almond-shaped eyes with furiously curling, lustrously thick, too-long eyelashes.  His dark hair was cut close to his scalp, neatly trimmed and parted on one side.

            “What do you think?” Eatoune asked.  Ouneaoaunaeat could hear the smug grin in his voice.

            “Shit,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “I still have a girl's mouth.”  He'd prayed that he'd outgrow that one day.

            “Imbecile,” Eatoune said, laughing, “what do you think of your new pink cheeks and your expensive new haircut?”

            “It's a very nice haircut,” he admitted.  It looked like it belonged on someone else's head, someone handsome and prosperous; it was the haircut of a young patron with a dozen lovers.

            He wondered what Iani would think of it.

            Waking early the next morning, he shaved with great care, taking it slowly, getting to know his new reflection.  When he finished, he grinned at himself, and the eyes in the mirror glittered with amusement.

            So that was what he looked like when he smiled.

            Deciding to dress according to his new haircut, he put on a dark blue suit of clothes that Aiae had bought for him, something he'd never worn before, since he'd seen no reason, being ill and poor, to dress like a patron.  He coughed a few times, but lightly, nothing like the old fits that had used to wreak havoc on his body.

            When Eatoune found him, there was some teasing and laughter, followed by Eatoune calling him “Lord Beardless” all morning.

            Refusing to let Eatoune make him feel silly, Ouneaoaunaeat enjoyed his new outfit.  Constricting and binding and layered, it wasn't at all comfortable, but it looked great.  He didn't mind the new haircut, but the feel of his own bare cheek was startling.  His face felt extraordinarily naked.

            Iani's reaction was not what Ouneaoaunaeat had expected.  He walked in, looked momentarily stunned, and then smiled broadly, coming over to sit beside Ouneaoaunaeat on the sofa.  “You've finally decided to share that handsome face with the rest of us?” he asked, eyes bright.

            “You've worked hard,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “I thought that you deserved a treat.”

            “Thank you,” Iani said, laughing.  “It's greatly appreciated.  Well, you've outdone me.  I brought a surprise for you today, but your surprise tops mine.”

            “A surprise?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.  “I hope that it's not another new medicine, because I already ingest more medicine than food as it is.”

            “No, not medicine,” Iani said.  “Let's finish your check-up, and then I'll bring it in.  I take it that you feel well, today?”

            “I feel great,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “Relatively, of course.”

            “You look like you should be at court,” Iani said, opening his kit.

            “Yes, but my ability to get there is greatly hindered,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “Ask me to get downstairs and into a carriage, and I'll be coughing in bed for days.”

            “All of your rest and inactivity has allowed the drugs to do their work,” Iani said.  “Taxing your body makes it work even harder to repair itself.”

            “Yes, I know,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  He'd heard it all before.

            He answered Iani's questions, subjected himself to a bit of poking and prodding, then unbuttoned his vest and shirt to provide Iani with access to his upper arm.  The injection was quick, they discussed his current medication dosages, and then Iani asked, “Would you like your surprise?”

            “I would,” he said, buttoning up his vest.

            “I'd like you to remember that this is a good thing,” Iani said, getting up from the couch.  “Don't get defensive.  This isn't a permanent change, it's merely a temporary help.”

            “If it comes with that sort of warning, I don't think that I want it,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.

            “I don't care,” Iani said, stepping into the hallway and then dragging something in.

            A chair.  A chair on wheels.  A wheeled chair.  It was wicker and cushioned and on wheels, with two handles at the back for someone to push him.  “Where are we going?”

            “Down to the garden,” Iani said.  “This is yours, for as long as you'd like to keep it.  The stairs will be tricky, but you can use it to move around the house.  I'd like you to stay in it as much as possible, without walking about on your own, but you're well enough that keeping you trapped in this room is silly.  And the fresh air will be good for you.  Sunlight has very positive healing effects.”

            “I haven't seen the garden in weeks,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, getting up and sitting in the chair.  It was reasonably comfortable.  Being wheeled about wasn't a great boost to his self-esteem, but it gave him new freedom of movement.  Already, he was thinking of ways to wheel himself around, without requiring someone to push the chair.

            “Your health has improved,” Iani said, rolling the chair forward.  It was a slow, smooth ride, and Ouneaoaunaeat felt oddly like a watcher, not a participant, in what was happening as they entered the hallway.  “Which is why you have my permission to walk yourself up and down the stairs, as long as you have someone else to carry the chair for you.”

            “How generous of you,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, as Iani stopped the chair at the top of the stairs.

            “I think so, too,” Iani said.  “Let me go first.”

            Rolling his eyes, Ouneaoaunaeat stood and waited, leaning his shoulder against the wall and watching.

            The chair looked heavy, and it was an awkward, cumbersome shape.  Iani lifted it and actually hoisted it over his shoulder, carrying it upside-down.  As he walked down the stairs, his round ass looking firm and taut under his tight pants, he reminded Ouneaoaunaeat of a laborer, a worker; did patrons do such physical tasks?  Anyone else would've called for a footman.  When he reached the bottom, he set the chair down and looked up at Ouneaoaunaeat with an encouraging smile.  “Come on,” he said, absently and needlessly tugging his vest into place, a reminder that he showed absolutely no signs of having exerted himself.

            While there were days when any physical activity at all, such as breathing, was an effort, Ouneaoaunaeat had also done what he could to participate in life on the farm, and was used to straining beyond his body's limits.  Resting his hand lightly on the railing for balance, he walked down.

            But there was no ache in his chest.  No shaking, no sweating.  He did have to stop on the landing to cough, but even that was, relatively, mild.  By the time he reached the bottom, there was only a bit of that old shortness of breath.

            It was true.  He really was getting better.

            Beaming with happiness, glowing with pride, Iani extended a hand to him.  “Magnificent.”

            Shaking Iani's hand, Ouneaoaunaeat grinned.  “Let's do it again.”

            “We'll tackle going back up shortly,” Iani said.  “But I think that a trip to the garden is a worthy reward for your achievement.”

            As Iani gestured to the chair, Ouneaoaunaeat shook his head.  “I can walk.”

            “I'm aware that your legs work,” Iani said.  “You'll humor me and use the chair.”

            “I don't need the chair,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “I've walked to the garden and back in much worse condition than this.”

            “And why has your condition improved?” Iani asked.  “Could it be because I'm your doctor and you've listened to me?  And should you perhaps also listen to me now?  I don't want you to overexert yourself, Ouneaoaunaeat.  Your lungs have been badly infected.  You can't rest them by not breathing, but you can provide yourself with some relief by not putting your body through unnecessary stress.”

            What could he say?  Iani had been correct about everything else.  “You're something of a tyrant,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, sitting.

            “You're something of a rebel,” Iani said, and pushed the chair forward.

            The garden was, of course, beautiful, but after all of this time away from it, Ouneaoaunaeat could see more strongly than ever what it needed.  As Iani wheeled him down the paths, he rearranged everything in his mind, laying out a new map.  Some of the bushes needed to be pruned, some of the blooms needed to be cut; the longer he looked, the more he wanted to change.

            “Let's enjoy the sun for a few minutes,” Iani said, wheeling his chair over to the bench and sitting down beside him.  “How do you feel?”  Iani regarded him with attentive gray eyes.

            “Excellent,” he said honestly.

            “You've been quiet since we came out here, and that worries me,” Iani said with a trace of a smile.  “It isn't like you to sit in silence.”

            “I was enjoying the scenery.”  He wouldn't criticize Aiae's gardener; it wasn't his place.  He might say something to Eatoune, though.  Surely Aiae could hire someone else.

            “You seem very interested in gardening,” Iani said.  “I've never seen you read on anything else.”

            Surprised, Ouneaoaunaeat cast his mind back.  Had he truly not read about other subjects lately?  Surely he'd picked up a novel, or a volume of poetry.  “I like flowers,” he admitted.  “I'm good with plants.”

            “I wondered if I might bring you some books on flowers and gardening from my own library,” Iani said.  “They're a bit dry, but the illustrations are extraordinarily detailed.  They pack in enough information that, after thumbing through them, anyone who'd never touched soil before would be able to plant a flourishing flower garden.”

            He hadn't expected Iani to pay attention to his reading habits, much less encourage them.  “I'd like that,” he said.  “Thank you.”

            “When you're well again,” Iani said, and gestured around them, “what will you do with all of this?”

            Ouneaoaunaeat loved the sound of that.  When he was well again.  When, and again.  “Nothing,” he said.  “This is Aiae's garden, to keep as he likes.”  Aiae was the master of landscapes, a genius at capturing every detail of nature; Ouneaoaunaeat wouldn't dare to take over his garden.

            “He doesn't like it,” Iani said.  “He's been frank with me about his dissatisfaction with it, but he doesn't have the time to make the changes he wants, and he can't find a gardener he'd like any better.  No one here in the city, he says, has the right vision.  He's thinking of bringing in someone from the countryside.  I'm sure that he'd welcome your intervention.”

            His heartbeat picking up, Ouneaoaunaeat said, “He doesn't need to bring in anyone from anywhere!”  He had to get well, this could be his chance.  “I'll do it, I know exactly what's needed.”

            “What would you do with it?” Iani asked.  “What would you change?”

            Ouneaoaunaeat couldn't stem the flow of words that poured out in reply.  He told Iani all of his ideas, shared all of his secret plans.  What he'd move, what he'd rearrange, what he'd take out entirely, what he'd add.  How he'd encourage growth, how he'd discourage weeds.  How he'd take advantage of the sunlight and how he'd take advantage of the rain.  How he'd encourage and cut the choicest flowers to decorate the house and brighten the rooms.

            Living in the city, without farmland and meadows at hand, with only small, carefully sculpted parks as evidence of nature, it was Ouneaoaunaeat's theory that more flowers were needed in more places, to raise spirits and give everyone a touch of natural beauty.  He wanted to try to put more plants indoors, too, live plants in small pots.  Aiae said that potted plants were popular in Orina Anoris, and Ouneaoaunaeat wished that more people had them in Ilaeia.

            Ilaeians were so busy creating their own beauty in art, they overlooked the possibilities of beauty in its natural forms.

            It was a new experience for Ouneaoaunaeat, to discuss his private gardening plans, but Iani was a vastly receptive audience, encouraging and agreeing and asking intelligent, pertinent questions.  As their conversation continued, Iani showed no sign of boredom; it was as if they were simply friends, talking, discussing common interests, laughing and sharing opinions.  There was nothing of the doctor in Iani, no hint that he was only humoring Ouneaoaunaeat to keep a patient's spirits up; he was just a man, an acquaintance, a friend, openly interested in what Ouneaoaunaeat had to say.

            Expecting Iani to cut things short and leave at any second, Ouneaoaunaeat was privately amazed at just how long they sat out there, talking.  The sun was warm, the garden was beautiful, the light breeze brought the scent of flowers, and Iani was handsome and smart and engaging.  Dressed in the clothes of a patron, Ouneaoaunaeat could almost pretend that this moment was real, and natural, that they were two young men of wealth and leisure sharing a lazy afternoon.

            When their conversation turned to a specific corner of the garden, and Iani wanted to take a better look at it, they went over there.  Then they traveled along the pathways some more, until they reached the way back into the house.  It seemed like a natural progression to go back inside, and then they were at the foot of the staircase once again.

            “You go up first,” Iani said.

            “You like to stay at the bottom in case you'll have to catch me if I fall, don't you?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.

            “Yes,” Iani said, openly admitting it.  “I also want to watch your progress.  This will give me a good indication of when I can safely let you go without the chair.”

            Suddenly aware of how tight his pants were, and what an uninterrupted view Iani was going to have of his backside, Ouneaoaunaeat said, “You could go first and watch me climb up toward you.  That would be a better vantage point.”

            “And if you stumble and fall?” Iani asked.

            “I won't,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “I'm very steady on my feet.”  These days, anyway.

            “That's good to hear,” Iani said.  “Start walking.”

            Giving Iani a dark look and getting a pleasant smile in return, Ouneaoaunaeat headed up the stairs.  Up was harder than down, and he leaned more heavily on the railing, but it was, overall, a positive experience.  Coughing and wheezing, he watched Iani carry the chair up to him.  It was ridiculous that it was harder on him to walk up the stairs alone than it was on Iani to carry the cursed chair up, but such was his life.  Sitting down and catching his breath, he asked, “How'd I do?”

            “You were wonderful,” Iani said, wheeling him along the hallway.  “You're free to use the chair as you like, provided you have someone to help you with it.”

            It gave him new freedom of movement through the house…provided that he had someone to push him.  Still, it was better than being confined to his room.  “The servants don't have enough to do around here, anyway.”

            “I wouldn't tell them about that theory,” Iani said.  Coming to a stop in his room, Iani walked around to stand before him, looking pleased and approving.  “How do you feel?”

            “Good,” he said.  “The sun was nice.”

            “It agrees with you,” Iani said.  “Be sure to tell Aiae about your ideas for the garden.  I'll bring some books with me tomorrow.”

            Ouneaoaunaeat hadn't had a friend in so long, he was afraid to pin that label on Iani.  He had to remember that Iani was his doctor, a doctor who saw him only as a patient.  Iani had other people for friends, people who were cultured and educated and healthy.  Ouneaoaunaeat was a diseased country farmer, in Iani's eyes, in the eyes of the world.  But it was hard for him not to be grateful for all that Iani had done for him.  He was stronger now, healthier, with possibilities before him: gardens, sex, social interaction.  “Thank you,” he said.  “For the chair.”

            “You're welcome.”  Instead of leaving, Iani sat down, on the edge of the couch, leaning forward.  “You're making great strides,” he said, his voice quiet, his gaze direct.  “I want you to realize how well you're doing, and I want you to hear positive reactions and encouragement.  Eatoune and Aiae give you those things, but they're only two people, and they're family.”

            “I don't have anyone else,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  There was no one else.  His father?  The maids?

            “Which is why I'm going to give you my own, personal opinion,” Iani said.  “Not as a doctor, but as a friend, who's seen you every day through every step.”

            “This sounds interesting,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, sitting back.  He was very curious about what Iani might tell him now, that couldn't be said from the perspective of a doctor.

            It was exactly at that moment that Iani began to blush.

            Interesting, indeed.

            Looking painfully aware of his reddening cheeks and pinking ears, Iani plowed forward regardless.  “Your diseases are largely on the inside.  They don't manifest in broken limbs or in spots or in sores or in visible wounds.  However, years of illness have taken their toll, and when I first saw you, you were a gaunt, shuffling wreck.  Sallow, weak, shaking, wheezing, wracked with coughing.  Your brain was quick, and words never failed you, but your body couldn't hope to keep up.  Still, your wit, and the spark of life in your eyes…  You have the eyes of an aesou, Ouneaoaunaeat, you have beauty that inspires beauty.”

            Iani's monologue had just taken an abrupt and very sharp turn.  It hadn't started out very well, in Ouneaoaunaeat's opinion, but all of a sudden, he wanted to hear more.  A lot more.  In detail.

            Bright pink, Iani continued.  “It's been difficult for me to see you in pain, to know how much you've suffered.  I want to do everything that I can to help you.  The medicine is going to do its best, too, and I hope, I believe, that we can eradicate two of your illnesses and manage the third.  I have every hope that you'll be able to lead an active, involved life, the kind of life that disease stole from you.  You're so much better now, that every day of improvement only makes me want to work that much harder for you.”

            Iani wasn't in this for the money or the authority; he wanted to help and to heal.  Ouneaoaunaeat wished that doctors like him had been around since the beginning.  Even if they hadn't had the same answers and knowledge that Iani did, it would have been nice to have someone besides his brother to care and fight for him.

            “Ouneaoaunaeat,” Iani said, reaching out and taking his hand, “you look terrific.  When I walked in here today, I thought that I'd stepped into the wrong room.  You look amazing.  The clothes, the hair, it's such a distance from when I first saw you.  But I want you to know, also, that you looked amazing yesterday, too.  I don't miss the beard, because the sight of your handsome face benefits everyone, but you looked handsome and healthy before today.  Fancy clothes and a new haircut look good on anyone, but what's beneath all of that is health, and that's what you should feel happy about.  You're stronger and healthier and closer to what you want every day.  I don't want to make promises that I can't keep, and I can't predict every step of this journey, but I want you to know that you've come a very long way, and I look forward very much to the day when you won't need me as a doctor anymore.”

            “And what will we be, then?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked, his gaze locked on Iani's.  “Will we be friends?”

            “I would like very much for us to be friends, yes,” Iani said.  “I wish that we could be friends, now.”

            “Why can't we be?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked, tightening his grip incrementally as Iani began to pull away.

            “It's best for us to remain doctor and patient, for now,” Iani said.  “Too much blurring of those lines leads down many difficult paths.”

            “`Difficult,' that's a nice, vague word,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “It sounds negative, but it can mean anything.  Words are tricky, slippery little things, aren't they, Iani?”

            “When you think that you're being clever, I hear alarms,” Iani said, hand going slack, tone amused, eyes wary.  “What are you aiming for now?”

            “The word `any,'” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “It's a broad term, isn't it?  Fairly indiscriminate, all-encompassing.  Anyone, anywhere, anything.  Any man, for example, is a handy phrase that indicates that, of a crowd, one man or another, selected, would fit the description.”

            “What's your point?” Iani asked.

            “My point is that, if any man would be happy to kiss my smart, sarcastic, gorgeous mouth,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, “then you, Iani, would be happy to kiss me.”  Leaning forward, pinning Iani with his gaze, he asked, “Do you want to kiss me?”  He didn't know what he was doing, didn't know what he was saying, didn't know why he was pushing forward so recklessly.  But the compliments, the blushing, Iani couldn't continue to drop hints and then back away.  It wasn't professional behavior to act like a friend and then slam up walls, hiding behind his title as an excuse.  Iani was so professional so much of the time, his occasionally erratic behavior seemed like confused slips, bewildering and regretted.  If he intended to flirt with Ouneaoaunaeat, then he should come right out and do it; this back and forth wasn't fair.  It was hard enough, to feel that he was lusting after someone unattainable; it was worse to think that Iani was unintentionally flaunting that distance between them.  Flirting with someone who wanted him and couldn't have him, with someone he didn't honestly want, was terrible.  Or did he honestly want Ouneaoaunaeat?  How could he?

            “I'm your doctor,” Iani said, yanking his hand back.  “You-”

            “You're giving me your personal opinion,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “You just said that this is between us as people, not as doctor and patient.”

            “I'm still your doctor, and you're still my patient, and-”

            “So it's okay to tell me that I'm so attractive that my beauty inspires beauty, but not all right to say that you want to kiss me?”

            “This isn't about us,” Iani said.  “I wasn't talking about you in relation to me.”

            “Because there is no me in relation to you,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “I'm just a patient.”

            “Not just,” Iani said.  “But, yes, you are my patient, and that means-”

            “Then why do you blush when we talk?” he asked.  “Why are you red-faced right now?  That's not professional behavior, doctor.”

            “Ouneaoaunaeat,” Iani said.  “Please.  I ask you to afford me the same respect that I have shown you.”

            He was serious, Ouneaoaunaeat saw; his blushing no doubt embarrassed him.  It was, Ouneaoaunaeat knew, important to Iani to behave professionally.  “As you've said,” he said, letting go of Iani's hand, which Iani pulled back quickly, “your personal life is no business of mine.”

            “You have to understand,” Iani said.  “Just as there are doctors who are cold to their patients, there are also doctors who are overly familiar.  It would be wrong of me to dismiss you and not respect your experiences and opinions, and it would also be wrong of me to ignore your privacy and security in yourself.  If I spoke inappropriately, or touched you in ways that weren't medical, that would be an abuse of my role.  I want to be a certain way with you, as a friend, as a man, but to do so would be a betrayal of the trust you've placed in me as an authority.  I'm sorry, for the things I've said that have crossed that boundary between us.”

            Ouneaoaunaeat heard two very different things in there.  One was the concept of a doctor betraying a patient's trust.  The other was, “You want me?”

            “What have we been talking about?” Iani demanded.  “Yes, I want you, my desire for you is a ridiculous parasite that feeds on my every thought.”

            While he wasn't pleased about Iani's sexual interest in him being labeled ridiculous, he admitted freely that it was ridiculous.  “I'm ill,” he said, as if either of them required that reminder.

            “Then thank the gods that I'm attracted to you for more than just your body,” Iani said.

            “I'm diseased,” Ouneaoaunaeat insisted.

            “And I console myself with the truth that you grow healthier each day,” Iani said.  “It's a truth that haunts me, a truth that taunts me, since there's no denying that the healthier you become, the more handsome you become, and the stronger your attraction grows.”

            Baffled yet fascinated and very much thrilled, Ouneaoaunaeat grinned.  “No one's ever wanted me before.”

            “Fools,” Iani said.  “All of them.”

            “That's why you keep blushing?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.  “Because you're attracted to me?”

            “Yes, and you needn't continue to mention it.”

            Iani wanted him.  Actually wanted him.  “I've wanted you since we met,” he said.  “If the fact that you're my doctor is the only thing holding you back, you're fired.”

            “You can't fire me,” Iani said.  “Ouneaoaunaeat, your health matters more to me than whatever sexual attraction exists between us.  I don't know if we'll ever be more than friends to each other, but I do know that I can help you to get well.  No one can provide better medical care for you than I can.”

            Ouneaoaunaeat grinned.  Iani was sexy and healthy and smart; Iani wanted to have sex with him and wanted to make him well.  “You don't harbor any doubts that I want you, do you?”

            “How could I know that?” Iani asked.  “And if you do want me, it could simply be because I'm the only man you see of your own age who isn't a relative.  Or it could be based on gratitude.”

            “I am grateful to you,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, “very much so, but that's almost entirely unrelated to how much I want you to fuck me.”

            Bright red and laughing, Iani said, “You can't say things like that to me.  I'm your doctor, and will remain so until you're well.”

            “I'm not content with that,” he said.  “I don't agree with that at all.”

            “I don't see that you have much choice in the matter,” Iani said, picking up his kit and standing.  “When you're well, we'll discuss it again.”

            Wait, wait.  “You think that we won't even discuss this again until after I'm well?” he asked.  “You think that it won't come up until then?  Have you met me?  Do you really think that I'm going to hold my tongue, knowing that my desire for you is requited?”

            “I won't compromise your care,” Iani said, heading for the door.

            “I'm not asking you to compromise my care,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “I'm asking you to compromise my virtue.”

            The door closed between them before he heard Iani burst into laughter.  Grinning, he sat back, comfortably situated in his new chair.

            New chair.  New freedom.

            New haircut.  New possibilities.

            New information about Iani.  New power.

            For most of his life, Ouneaoaunaeat had felt separated from his body, burdened by it, trapped by it.  It was some strange torment he was held hostage by.  It didn't feel like his, it was foreign and hostile.

            Now, though, it cooperated with him, and he listened to it, as he and his body gradually renewed their acquaintance.  It grew stronger, and it spoke to him in new ways, stirring with desire, displaying sexual interest.  It was this body, the one he inhabited, that Iani responded to.

            It was this body that he'd share with Iani.  He had no other body to switch it in for; this was the one he was stuck with, the one he'd have to use.  He wondered how to make that idea more palatable, even to himself.  He couldn't imagine showing someone this “gaunt, shuffling wreck” in a sexual manner.  He'd have to make himself more comfortable with the concept, and he'd have to figure out how to make improvements.

            Eatoune liked his new chair, and sent him racing through the hallways.  Aiae was excited about the idea of him taking over the garden, and drew a few sketches of the garden in its current state from different angles so that he could think about what he wanted to do without making too many trips downstairs.  Aiae told him to send instructions to the gardener until he was well enough to shoulder more tasks himself.

            Thoughts of Iani, of desire as a consuming parasite, of Iani's hands on his body, burned through Ouneaoaunaeat all night, a new kind of fever, hot and intoxicating.  When he finally slept, he awakened, sweating, to find cum streaked across his skin, sticky and white.

            Dressed in red, not as strikingly fashionable as yesterday's outfit but a marked improvement over his customary attire, Ouneaoaunaeat sat down and wrote out a list for the gardener, with detailed descriptions of what he wanted and where.

            A polite knock, and Iani entered, medical kit in one hand, books in the crook of his arm.  “Good afternoon,” Iani said, with a smile.

            “I'm glad that you're here.”  Ouneaoaunaeat moved his notes aside.  It was true; he was always happy to see Iani.  “Tell me what I need to do to gain weight.”

            “You need to eat what's brought to you.”  Iani set the kit and books down and sat beside him.  “I've spoken with the cook, I've talked to your brother and Aiae, we've all tried to tempt your appetite.  It's up to you to do the eating, Ouneaoaunaeat.”

            “I was thinking more along the lines of exercise,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “Building muscle, to fill out what's left of this pecked scarecrow.”

            “Worry about muscle later,” Iani said.  “Just eat and let your body revel in nutrition.”  Frowning, he asked, “How do you feel?”

            “Fine.”  He'd been picking at his meals, but he wasn't used to eating regular amounts of food like everyone else.  He'd do better.

            “You look feverish.”  Iani touched his forehead.

            “Maybe.”  He felt warm, from how close Iani was leaning, that look of clinical and personal concern.

            “It doesn't feel very high.  It's probably a response to yesterday's exertion.”  Hand dropping, Iani sat back.

            “Walking up and down stairs?”

            “The infections are still fighting back against the medicine.  And don't discount physical activity.  Have you noticed anything else?”

            “No.”  Ouneaoaunaeat licked his lips, wondering how to get Iani to kiss him.  “Iani.”

            Averting his gaze, turning red, Iani asked, “Yes?” in a professional tone, opening his kit.

            That blush was a sign, a message, I want you, I'm attracted to you, I'm consumed by desire for you.  Ouneaoaunaeat  couldn't believe that he'd ever wondered what it meant.  “Are you seeing other men?”

            “Where would you like your shot today?” Iani asked, as if he hadn't spoken.

            He wanted to say, “In the ass,” to see how Iani would react, but he wasn't about to show Iani his ass, not now, not in this body.  His thighs were out, too.  Still, Iani had already seen his entire upper body.  “My waist,” he said.

            An increase of pink, but Iani nodded.  Then, readying the syringe, “No,” he said.  “I've found it difficult to maintain interest in other men.”

            If Ouneaoaunaeat didn't envy them their health and physical freedom, he'd feel sorry for those other men.  They probably did everything they could to attract Iani's attention, hungry for a smile from his lips, a glance from his dark-lashed gray eyes, a word in his cultured, educated accent.  He was so handsome, they probably all wanted to be near him; so interesting to talk with, they probably all clustered up to speak with him.  Ouneaoaunaeat imagined them eyeing Iani from afar, begging an introduction, flirting with him, expecting a positive response, hoping for a warm tumble in a nearby bed.  How frustrating it must be for them, when he grew bored, his thoughts drifting to… Ouneaoaunaeat?

            Meeting his eyes, Iani gestured to his torso.  “I hope you don't expect me to inject you through your clothing.”

            “Will you help me?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.  “This fever, it's worse than I thought.  Would you unbutton my vest for me?”

            “You used to drag your fevered, shaking, infected, coughing, diseased, fatigued body outside to help your brother harvest crops,” Iani said.  “And now, healthier than you've been in years, you need help with buttons?”

            “I was never very successful with the crops,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “Planting was easier.”  Except for when he'd get dizzy and pass out, but that wasn't worth talking about.

            “Open your shirt,” Iani said.

            “Sorry, I can't,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, shrugging.  “Too weak.”

            “If you'll stop requesting that I engage in behavior which specifically mimics my private fantasies,” Iani said, “I'll answer whatever personal question you can come up with.”

            Wow.  The gods had blessed Ouneaoaunaeat with new health and Iani with a loose tongue.  “You're not very good at keeping secrets.”

            “I'm aware of that,” Iani said, bright red but manfully continuing to maintain eye contact.

            “Any question that I want?”  Private fantasies?  Iani had private fantasies involving him?  Did he indulge himself, as Ouneaoaunaeat did, and touch himself, stroking stiffening flesh, moaning quietly and seeking pleasure, images slipping across the surface of his mind?

            “Yes,” Iani said.  “One.”

            All right.  He'd just get Iani to undress him tomorrow.  Unbuttoning his vest, he opened his shirt.

            “Admirably steady fingers,” Iani said.

            “Thanks.”  He wanted to ask about Iani's sex life, but he didn't know what to ask.  He'd discussed sex at length with Eatoune, and he'd teased bits and pieces of information from Aiae, but he'd never actually had sex, or even come close to it.

            “Breathe evenly,” Iani said, cleaning the area and aiming the syringe.  Not wanting to watch the needle puncture his flesh, Ouneaoaunaeat looked away.  “Very good,” Iani said, and he relaxed again.  As Iani put the syringe away, Ouneaoaunaeat looked at his hair, so dark, so curly, so short.  What would it feel like between his fingers?

            Iani had given permission for a personal question.  Any personal question.  Ouneaoaunaeat definitely had one, one that would be important to know, he hoped, in the future.  “What are your favorite sexual activities?”

            Cursing under his breath, Iani kept his gaze averted.  “I like,” he said, and he cleared his throat.  “One of my favorite sexual activities would be kissing.  Something I find incredibly erotic is watching the right man undress.  Which tends to cause complications during my time here with you.  But, to answer your question the way that I think you most truly intended it, I like to give head.  I like to be on my knees.  I like to suck dick.  It makes intense erotic pleasure thrum right through me.  I also like to fuck, to be on top, to penetrate.  It's powerfully orgasmic.”

            Seared by the heat of Iani's words, Ouneaoaunaeat let his lips part as his mind spun with ecstatic lust.  He'd expected Iani to avoid the question, or to give a basic, pat answer.  But this, this rush of words, the unexpected detail, the bare honesty, so bold, so explicit, made the reality of Iani as a sexual, sexually experienced man all the more striking.  All of the things that Ouneaoaunaeat imagined and fantasized about, Iani did, and enjoyed, and wanted more of.

            As if he hadn't made that shocking confession, as if Ouneaoaunaeat weren't staring at him in awed, stunned, aroused silence, Iani pulled his books into his lap, passing one to Ouneaoaunaeat, casually avoiding eye contact.  “I hope that you'll like these.  They're more scholarly than most people would prefer, but their information is invaluable.  This one has the best illustrations, but this one,” he opened one across his own knees, “is the most recent, with new theories and practices explained in what I found to be fascinating detail.”

            It was a fight, to reply to that, as if he hadn't heard Iani's confession, as if hot desire didn't continue to flash and burn through his body.  Still amazed, he wanted to go back and pore over Iani's words.  “I like to be on my knees.”  Just that single misleadingly simple sentence made Ouneaoaunaeat's mind spin with delirium.  His thoughts were awhirl, his body was restless with heat, and his stiff dick was desperate for attention.  But he remembered suddenly, clearly, Iani's quiet plea of yesterday.  “I ask you to afford me the same respect that I have shown you.”  Iani wanted to engage in professional behavior, wanted to maintain respectability as a doctor.  Giving in to him and to desire was a weakness.  If Iani could indulge him by answering personal questions, then he could indulge Iani by respecting Iani's wish to keep their visits as professional as possible.

            “It's very kind of you,” he said.  His voice, which had only ever shaken from weakness before, now shook with something else.  Repressed lust, maybe.  “I'm sure that I'll enjoy them greatly.”  “I like to be on my knees.”  Gods above, why had Iani told him that?  Now he'd be able to think of nothing else.  He'd always prided himself on having a working brain, at least, and now he'd been robbed of even that.  “Despite your best intentions, you may be the death of me,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

            “Don't say such a thing,” Iani said.  “That's ridiculous.  Here, before I go, I want to show you this section in the back.”  Flipping a third book open, he pointed to a page.  “These are the names and addresses of the men and women who were consulted for the writing of this book.  This one lives here in Eiapelai and is a friend of my father.  If you'll write to him, I'm sure that he'll be happy to correspond with you and answer any questions that you might have.”

            “He's a lord,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, seeing his title.  Ouneaoaunaeat was no one; his questions would be too basic for such an accomplished lord.  To be consulted for an authoritative text, he would have to be a man of achievement, and of wealth.  A patron, of course.

            “He welcomes conversation with anyone who bears a passion for the art of flowers,” Iani said.  “`The art of flowers' being his phrase.  His flower gardens have been not his hobby, but his life.  He'd rather pass hours with someone who shares his interest in gardening than a roomful of patrons who don't know one flower from the next.”

             Iani was optimistic and good-natured, but not unrealistic or naïve.  Deciding to trust his assessment of Lord Uilouiape, Ouneaoaunaeat said, “Maybe once I've finished reading, I'll send him a note.”

            “Fine,” Iani said with an approving smile, handing him the rest of the books.  “Have you spoken with Aiae about his garden?”

            “I have,” he admitted.  “He's asked me to pass along some instructions to the gardener.”

            “Good,” Iani said, rising.  “Just be sure to leave the work to others, for now.  I'll see you tomorrow, then.”

            So easy, for Iani to slip to his knees.  So easy, to shove the books from his lap, to let his thighs fall open, to unbutton his pants.  These nicer pants, patron's pants, were tighter than his regular attire, and the constriction around his swelling erection only served to make him more aware of the aching hardness.  “You don't have to leave so soon,” he said, having trouble holding Iani's gaze, his eyes straying down to wander over Iani's strong, lean body.

            “I have another patient,” Iani said, cheeks flushed, voice asking Ouneaoaunaeat to understand and let him go.

             Iani had confessed to him, had admitted to passions and desires, had professed lust for him.  All of those words, and the silent blushing, and the desire in gray eyes, would stay with Ouneaoaunaeat.  But what could he give to Iani in return?

            All he had was the truth.

            “I think of you.”  The confession made him vulnerable to Iani, exposed for ridicule.  But he saw sudden understanding, accompanied by a flare of heat, in Iani's eyes, and so he continued, wanting to arouse, wanting to reciprocate Iani's own very private admissions.  “At night, when I bathe, my thoughts are full of you.  I imagine what I might do to you, what we could do together.  My hands become yours, and…the result is…cataclysmic.”

            He wasn't schooled in the art of seduction, and worried that his words, in this arena, would fall flat, but the flames burning across Iani's cheeks told him that he'd hit his mark.  Looking away, bringing his medical kit in front of himself - - to hide a burgeoning arousal? - - Iani said, “Then you've found your sexual function to be consistent and responsive.”

            “Yes,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, watching his face, the tension in his body.  “Very.”

            Bringing his hand up, Iani covered his own mouth, wincing, rubbing at his jaw.

            He was compelled to say more, to unburden himself of this truth, to share his desire with the object of it.  “When you are in my dreams, my body finds its own release.”

            Iani's voice was low as it shared its secrets.  “I long for the day when you need not seek your own pleasure, isolated and alone.  My own dreams fill themselves with moments when I supply your pleasure myself.  As my flesh fills my hands, I think of no one but you.”

            Breathing air thick with denied desires, Ouneaoaunaeat pushed the books aside, surging to his feet.  “Iani,” he said, wanting Iani to look at him, to touch him, to-

            “I will see you tomorrow,” Iani said, reaching the door in wide strides.

            Lurching forward, Ouneaoaunaeat stepped into the hallway in time to see Iani rush away from the foot of the stairs.

            Ever since the first flicker of hope had entered Ouneaoaunaeat's life when he'd realized that a life of health was a possibility for his future, he'd been committed to becoming well.  Now, however, he was more determined than ever to achieve health.  He followed Iani's instructions exactly, eating whatever was set before him, making sure that he got plenty of rest, asking for help with his chair instead of doing everything himself.

            As the weeks passed, his progress became so great that, when he passed his father in the hallway, his father stared at him in his chair as if unable to recognize him.  “Ouneaoaunaeat?”

            “Yes, sir,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  Moments like this reminded him why it was sometimes a relief not to see his father.

            “You look…”  He shook his head, baffled.  “You look good.”

            “Thank you.”

            When he mentioned the encounter to Eatoune, his brother said, “Maybe he really didn't recognize you.  That healthy glow is so bright, it can be hard to see you.  Imagine what he'll say when you're running around here strong and fit.”

            “Call me by another name and tell him that I'm the new gardener,” Ouneaoaunaeat suggested.

            The possibility of being a healthy, strong, fit gardener was just within reach.  He felt better every day.  His cough was rare, his fevers were gone, and there was actual flesh covering his bones.

            His garden - - he called it that, now, taking pride in his possession of it - - flourished.  Lord Uilouiape was an entertaining correspondent, with dry wit and vast knowledge.

            “You do know,” Iani said one afternoon, bringing him back to his room after a trip to the garden, “that if it weren't for my insistence that you have no visitors, Lord Uilouiape would be here regularly.”

            “He wants to see me?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.  He had to admit that he'd like to see Lord Uilouiape in person.

            “He wishes to become your patron,” Iani said.

            “What?”  Moving from the chair to the couch, Ouneaoaunaeat reached for Iani's wrist and pulled him down to the couch, too.  “My patron?”

            Eyes bright with proud satisfaction, Iani explained, “He believes that the art of flowers is as worthy a pursuit as any other artistic discipline.  He's long wanted to find a gardener to support and encourage, and he believes that you may be the one.  He's mentioned plans, such as buying you a plot of land where you could begin your own garden.  You could sell flower arrangements, potted plants, whatever you like.”

            “A patron?”  The idea was ludicrous.  “Everyone would laugh at him.”

            “You must be aware by now that Lord Uilouiape doesn't care who laughs at what,” Iani said.  “How eager are you to fit into high society, and how do you weigh that against your desire to pursue gardening?”

            It was just what he'd dreamt of.  Gardening as his profession.  Selling what he grew, spreading his love of flowers, sharing their beauty with others.  “He needn't make an investment,” he said, still uneasy about having a patron.  Patrons were for great artists, men and women of lauded achievements.  “I have a garden, and I'm sure that Aiae would allow me to use it however I like.”

            “Lord Uilouiape would provide you with much more than that little plot of land,” Iani said.  “He talks of a great expanse of property, with all of the supplies you'll ever need.  That all does, of course, depend on how satisfied he is with what you've done here.”

            Real land.  Room to grow whatever he wanted.  Lord Uilouiape had access to rare, foreign seeds.  Now that the possibility hung before him, he couldn't help but want to grab it.  A patron?  For him?  “You continue to bring unexpected changes to my life,” he said, intrigued, wondering how Iani did these things.

            “I'd like to offer you one more,” Iani admitted.  “Now that you're doing so well, I want to discuss the possibility of a trip to Jacacea.”

            Jacacea.  “We'll leave tomorrow,” Ouneaoaunaeat decided.

            Laughing, Iani asked, “Then you'd like to go?”

            “To see the people who taught you so well?” Ouneaoaunaeat asked.  “Yes, I would.”

            “I've talked to some of my colleagues, and they're very interested in meeting you.  They'd like to study you - - just a few tests, nothing very invasive - - to figure out how exactly you, well, survived.”

            “My continued existence is a minor miracle,” Ouneaoaunaeat confessed.  “We'll go together, then?  You and I?”

            Averting his gaze, Iani said, “I imagine that Eatoune would like to accompany us.”

            “I'll talk him out of it.”

            A soft chuckle.  “You'll do no such thing.”  Iani's eyes were warmly affectionate.  “You wouldn't deny your brother this chance to go abroad.”

            “He can go wherever he wants with Aiae.  They're already talking about going to Orina Anoris, they just didn't know what to do with me.  This will be a perfect opportunity for them.  When will we leave, tomorrow?”

            “I'll need time to book passage, and to find doctors for my other patients,” Iani said.  “I'd also like you to be a little stronger before we go.  What do you think about using the chair only sparingly, and walking more?”

            “Praise the gods, I've been waiting for you to recommend that for weeks!”  With his foot, Ouneaoaunaeat pushed the chair away.

            “Don't overdo it,” Iani warned him, eyes sparkling at odds with his professionally stern tone.  “You're still healing.”

            “Don't worry about me,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  “You just buy those tickets and get me on that ship.”

            Over the next three weeks, there was much discussion in the house over who would go where.  Eatoune wanted to go with Ouneaoaunaeat, and wouldn't submit to any refusal.  Ultimately unable to deny his brother, who'd seen to his care for all of these years and deserved to participate in his final burst of wellness, Ouneaoaunaeat relented, and Eatoune and Aiae purchased a cabin on the ship.

            His father was not very interested in travel and wanted to stay in Ilaeia with his friends.  But he looked forward to Ouneaoaunaeat returning as a new, healthy man.

            The day before he was to go, Lord Uilouiape stopped by.  Physically intimidating and intellectually superior, he nonetheless spoke with Ouneaoaunaeat as an equal, as a fellow gardener with opinions and ideas worth hearing.  In person, he spoke as he'd written in his letters, straightforwardly and with authority.  As he left, he instructed Ouneaoaunaeat to come to see him upon return from Jacacea.  “There's some property just outside the city that would suit you well.”

            Eatoune threw him a very small, private party that night, just the two of them and Aiae.  They ate sweets, played games, and threw confetti at each other.  Eatoune gave him new luggage full of traveling clothes, and Aiae gave him paintings, of his old farm, of his garden.

            Having been confined first to the farm and then to Aiae's house, the idea of leaving the country and going across the broad sea was almost incomprehensible.  The whole way to Jacacea?  He'd only recently left his village!

            Eatoune helped him into bed that night.  “I can hardly believe my own eyes.  You've filled out, you move with ease, and I haven't heard you cough at all in days.  And now we're going to Jacacea.”  Eatoune sat on the side of the bed, voice quiet and confessional.  “This is what I've always wanted for you.  When we were young, I used to lie awake at night, terrified that you would be taken from me, like our mother.  Later, I felt guilty that I couldn't do more for you, that I couldn't find anyone who could help you.”

            The pain, the fear, the guilt; Ouneaoaunaeat knew them well.  “Eatoune, you were just a boy,” he said, touching his brother's hand.

            “Yes, but we both became men together, and I still couldn't find a way to make you well.  When I married Aiae and we came here, I was hopeful about new doctors, but I only expected to make your life more comfortable.  I wanted you to have an easier time of it.  I always thought that the best anyone could do would be to make you less sick.  But this, this recovery, this health, this full life ahead of you, it's more than I ever could have dreamed for you.  I'm so proud of the way you fought to get better.  The new medicine has been a miracle, but nothing could have helped you if you weren't willing to work for it.”

            Ouneaoaunaeat smiled, touched by his brother's happiness for him.  “Thank you. I haven't had many opportunities in my life to make you proud.”

            “I've always been proud of you,” Eatoune said.  “You've always been so smart, and stubborn, and independent.  Those parts of you, they were never gone, but somehow, lately, in the past few weeks, I feel like I've been given my brother back.  The brother I had before you got sick.”  Gripping his hand, Eatoune avoided his eyes, voice thick with emotion.  “Before we leave, I just want you to know that I love you, and I'll never be able to express how happy I am for you.”

            Eatoune had been by his side through the long, hard years.  Had kept him alive.  Ouneaoaunaeat would never be able to repay his brother for all of the work, loyalty, and sacrifice.  Ouneaoaunaeat's illness had changed not only his own life, but Eatoune's, as well.  All of the hope that had so recently been restored affected not only him, but also his brother.  His illness had taken over Eatoune's life; in his increasing wellness, maybe they could both begin to live for themselves.

            “I love you, too,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  His voice was rough; he wasn't good at moments like this.

            Clearing his throat, Eatoune returned to safer territory.  “Your handsome doctor will have a spitfire on his hands once you become his boyfriend.”

            “A boyfriend.”  It sounded so impossible.  “I've never been a boyfriend.”

            “Neither have I,” Eatoune admitted.  He grinned.  “If it's anything like being a husband, expect a lot of sex.”

            Stepping out through the front door the next morning, walking to the carriage, out on the sidewalk like anyone else, well-dressed, Ouneaoaunaeat paused to look around.  No one stared at him; no one passing by even noticed him.  Except for the walking stick that Eatoune had procured for him, that Iani had insisted he retain for balance, he probably looked like any other young man of means.

            “Are you waiting for applause?” Eatoune asked him.  “Come on, the ship won't wait forever.”

            “Applause is well-deserved, I think,” Aiae said, nodding.

            “I agree,” Eatoune said.  “Shall we cheer?”

            “Don't you dare,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, hurrying forward into the carriage.  As Aiae laughed, Eatoune applauded out on the street.  Embarrassed but privately pleased, Ouneaoaunaeat told them to quiet themselves and get into the carriage.  “As a wise man once pointed out, the ship won't wait forever.”

            The bustle at the dock was immense.  Not used to being in a crowd, Ouneaoaunaeat did a fair bit of gawking at all of the people moving in all directions.  Iani met them, in traveling gloves and hat, excited about their journey.  “I've spoken with the captain, and he is greatly honored to have Aiae on board.  He has promised only the best of accommodations for the family of our country's finest artist.”

            “How kind of him,” Aiae said, as if the consideration were an unexpected generosity.

            As if to prove the captain's sincerity, someone in a uniform Ouneaoaunaeat didn't recognize approached.  He introduced himself as a general valet, a position Ouneaoaunaeat wasn't familiar with, and ushered them on board the ship.  He showed them to their cabins first, then offered a tour.

            “Please, go on ahead,” Iani urged Eatoune and Aiae.  “Ouneaoaunaeat and I have much to discuss.”

            As Eatoune and Aaie left with the general valet, Ouneaoaunaeat asked, “Too much walking?”

            “You seem to be doing well. I just wanted to sit and talk with you,” Iani said.  “But a certain amount of walking around the deck is a good idea.  We'll stroll around later and determine how much is appropriate.  And while we're here, I'd like to give you your shot.”

            Not exactly the sort of activity Ouneaoaunaeat had hoped to engage in alone with Iani on the ship.  They entered Iani's cabin, Iani locking the door.  It was a nice suite, well-furnished, and Ouneaoaunaeat sat on the couch, looking around.  “Roomier than I expected.”

            “Most people grow agitated if confined to too small an area,” Iani said, opening his trunk, “as you may know from your own experiences, so the ship is designed with the illusion of space.  I recommend spending time on the deck, although I also recommend a sun shade.  The sun can become very intense over the open water.”

            “I never expected to experience the joys of international travel,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  He was eager to leave the port, to roam across the sea.

            “With that in mind, I procured these for you.”  Sitting beside him, Iani handed over three fat, beautifully bound books.

            Ashamed of himself for actually losing his composure enough to gasp out loud, Ouneaoaunaeat ran his hands over the books, admiring the spines, opening the covers.  “You got these for me?”

            “Accounts from experienced travelers,” Iani said.  “This one is about ocean travel, this one is about international travel, and this one is about one man's first year in Jacacea.  I had quite a time finding an Ilaeian translation.”

            They were perfect.  They were ideal, and thoughtful, and just like Iani.  “Thank you.”  As if he needed another reason to adore this man.  “At what point will you realize that you've done enough for me?” he asked, tightening his grip on the books to keep himself from reaching for Iani's hand.  “When will you allow me to do something for you?”

            A soft blush stole over Iani's cheeks.

            Knowing exactly what that meant, Ouneaoaunaeat felt his breath catch, his heart pounding.

            “I had hoped…”  Iani's voice was rough, and he cleared his throat, fingers sliding across the back of Ouneaoaunaeat's tense hand.  “I had hoped that you might…”

            “I will,” Ouneaoaunaeat said.  It was a promise, whatever Iani wanted.

            Desire in Iani's eyes, hope.  A flash of heat sizzled down Ouneaoaunaeat's spine.  The words were low, private.  “Undress for me?”

            The fact of Iani's lust, the reality of being wanted by Iani, of all men, guaranteed that he would do it.  Even now, healthier than he'd been in too many years, he was shy about his body, self-conscious about sharing it, about showing it.  But these months together had built trust between him and Iani, and he knew that he was safe here.

            As Iani's hand slipped away, Ouneaoaunaeat inhaled slowly, preparing himself.  It was here, it was time.  Finally, they would move beyond doctor and patient, past friendship, into this new realm, this untouched, unknown, unexplored territory.  Together.  He'd waited for Iani, hoping, trusting, and Iani now, here, as they left Ilaeia behind, was ready to guide him to another land.

            Shedding his coat, Ouneaoaunaeat felt strangely on display.  He was aware of his movements, the banality of them.  Did he look awkward?  Should he try to be sexy?  He didn't know how to be sexy.  He'd never needed to be, before, and he had no instinct for arousing behavior.

            His fingers were deceptively calm as he unbuttoned his vest.  Stripping out of it, he paused, uncertain.  His shirt came next, did it not?  Or should he take off his shoes?  He was supposed to get naked, wasn't he?  Entirely naked?  Gods above, was his naked body capable of arousing anyone?

            Trust Iani, he could trust Iani.  He loved Iani distinctly because of those intelligent, empathetic, generous qualities; if something went wrong now, Iani wouldn't mock him, reject him, or subject him to untold humiliations.  Besides, he was healthier now, and it showed.

            He took his shoes off hastily, peeling off his socks and dropping them to the floor.  That done, he began to unbutton his shirt.

            Beside him, Iani shifted, turning slightly to face him on the couch.

            Fingers slowing, Ouneaoaunaeat tried to breathe naturally.  He felt Iani's gaze on him, and the awareness of Iani's attention prickled over his skin.  Was he turning Iani on?  Was this really what Iani wanted?

            Shrugging his shirt off, baring his arms, he wondered if Iani was surprised to see an undershirt.  He'd gone without one, but leaving the house - - leaving the country - - was a momentous enough occasion that he'd dressed properly for it.  Lifting the hem, he pulled it up and off, dropping it aside, taking the movement as a natural excuse to glance in Iani's direction.

            Iani wore desire like a second skin, exhaling lust with every breath between parted lips.  Passion was in his eyes, arousal red across his cheeks.  When he'd spoken the words, “Something I find incredibly erotic is watching the right man undress,” the simple statement hadn't adequately conveyed the depth of his fascination.  But there could be no doubt, none at all, that Ouneaoaunaeat was the right man.

            Watching Iani, enchanted by the compelling need in Iani's eyes, Ouneaoaunaeat lowered his hands to the buttons of his pants.  Curiosity gripped him, as well as arousal.  He was turned on by Iani's obvious desire to see more, and he wanted to watch Iani react to him.  He'd never had this kind of effect on someone before.  What would Iani do if he exposed himself fully?

            Gaze tracking every movement of Ouneaoaunaeat's hands, Iani made a muted sound of minor pain, as if an ache had just settled into his bones.  As Ouneaoaunaeat unbuttoned, Iani bit into his lower lip, fingers digging into the soft plush of the couch cushions.

            Curious, Ouneaoaunaeat asked, “Do you want to touch me?”  It was a request for information, not an invitation.  He still couldn't entirely believe that this was happening.  It felt like a dream, an illusion.  Surely he wasn't undressing for the sexual pleasure of this hot, perfect man.

            Iani's reply was a barely voiced rush of vowels, as if it took so much of his strength to restrain himself, he couldn't spare any control to tame his tongue.  His words, half-formed, implied yes, yes, yes.

            His pants open, Ouneaoaunaeat pushed them down to his knees, lifting his feet to free them, nudging his pants out of his way.  In only his underpants now, he was aware of the heat of his erection rising boldly against the loose fabric, but he was more interested in the dire need etched across Iani's face.  Being wanted like this was shocking, overwhelming.  It was like nothing else he'd experienced, powerful, intimate, dangerous.  What would feeling like this do to him?  What was sex like, if it could make Iani want so starkly and strongly?

            Forgetting to be shy about his body, dismissing his self-conscious concerns, wanting to see what Iani might do next, Ouneaoaunaeat lowered his underpants, kicking them off of his feet, exposing himself entirely.  Naked, he sat back, his dick jutting upward, stiff and unhidden.

            “Ouneaoaunaeat,” Iani breathed, leaning forward, reaching for him.  Kissing him.  Iani's lips were soft and assertive, coaxing him to respond, and he mimicked the movements.  There was a rhythm to it, and when Iani's tongue slid and caressed, stroking into his mouth, he touched it with his own, this strange and arousing intimacy only encouraging him to experience more.  Iani's hand slid over his thigh, which made his body shake and tingle, his dick twitching eagerly with the hope of being fondled.  He touched it himself, the simultaneous relief and resurgence of need making him groan into Iani's mouth.

            Iani's mouth was, suddenly, no longer there.  Wordlessly, Iani slipped down from the couch, kneeling between his legs.  Wishing for Iani's mouth back, wanting more of that hot, intimate, wet kissing, Ouneaoaunaeat only belatedly realized what was about to happen when Iani's head lowered to his lap.

            The sound that he made, as Iani's lips brushed over the head of his dick, made it seem as if he were suffering great agonies, when in fact he was simply expressing an earnest truth: he was about to come, right then, right there, uncontrollably.  Yes, it was rather soon, but his body wasn't used to experiencing sexual moments with another person, and it was overexcited.

            Iani, not heeding the noises, gripped the base of Ouneaoaunaeat's erection in one hand, his mouth around the head, and began to squeeze and pull and suck, all at once, bringing orgasm right out of him, tugging on pleasure until it exploded into bright, hot ecstasy that poured through Ouneaoaunaeat like tumbling light.  The concept of orgasm was familiar, but this one was unusually strong, an intensity like being kicked by a horse, more than stunning, and what was entirely unfamiliar was the touch of another man's hand, the suction of a mouth, the intimacy and wetness and lack of control.  Someone else had done this to him, someone else had elicited this glorious sexual pleasure, someone else had provided release.

            Why people masturbated, when they could have this, he would never understand.  He wanted to do it to Iani.  He wanted to have that kind of effect on someone.

            Mmm, oh, kissing, they were back to kissing, Iani was kissing him again.  Wanting to participate, wanting to do to Iani what was being done to him, he ran his fingers through Iani's hair, finding the short black curls just as silky as he'd expected.

            “The bed,” Iani said, kissing him, hands sliding hot and firm over his flesh, over his thighs, up his chest.  Gods above, it felt so good to be touched.  “Come with me to the bed, Ouneaoaunaeat, let me make love to you.”

            “You make a compelling offer,” he said, brushing his lips over Iani's, then again, from right to left, left to right.  He licked at Iani's lower lip a little, and Iani moaned, kissing him harder.  “I only wonder why you make it now.”  After all of this time, after making him wait for months, why was today the day to cross this line?

            “Because you're healthier now,” Iani said, breathing roughly, kissing him, passionately and wetly consuming him.  “Because I want you to take you to Jacacea as more than my patient, even as more than my friend.  Because I can't wait any longer.”

            Convincing arguments, all, and Ouneaoaunaeat conveyed his approval by moaning when Iani's thumbs brushed across his nipples.

            It took a few minutes to get to the bed, since kissing was much, much more pleasant than walking.  Eventually, however, they reached the bed, and Ouneaoaunaeat sat down, leaning back on his elbows, eyeing Iani.  “Let me see you undress, as you watched me.”  The obvious bulge of Iani's erection strained against the tight fabric of his pants, tempting in its size.  “Save that for last.”

            “Forgive me for not moving slowly,” Iani said, hastily pulling off his shoes.  “Too much time has passed already.  I have waited too long for you, to linger over each step now.”

            “I approve of your haste.”  Ouneaoaunaeat's gaze roamed Iani's body.  Iani undressed as if in a rush to plunge into a lake for a swim, and it was a thrill to realize that Ouneaoaunaeat himself was that lake.  Iani was solidly built, with broad shoulders, a muscular chest, and strong thighs.  The black hair tufting around his penis was tightly curled, and his erection was long, rigid, bobbing slightly as he crawled onto the bed.

            Relaxing onto his back, Ouneaoaunaeat grew hot and somewhat giddy with anticipation as Iani climbed over him.  The lust in Iani's eyes glowed with intense heat, a fever that no medicine could cure.  Ouneaoaunaeat touched Iani's body, running his hands over strong shoulders and a hard, muscular chest as Iani kissed him.  Such a thrill, to touch a man like this, to feel this strength and virility and potency against his palms.

            “The succulent pleasures of your mouth ensnare me,” Iani whispered, kissing him slowly, deeply, tasting him.

            Were such niceties expected discourse in bed?  Ouneaoaunaeat wanted to return the compliment, but with his blood on fire, his thoughts were much more coarse.  “What must I say to get you to fuck me?” he asked, rubbing his hands down Iani's back and nibbling at Iani's lips.  The strength and weight of Iani's body between his thighs, against him, hard and solid and intimate, almost intimidating, intrigued, aroused, and challenged him.  The heat of Iani against his skin, the slide of flesh on flesh, so rare in Ouneaoaunaeat's life, so private.

            The sound of Iani's soft, rough groan licked at his ears and stroked his spine.  “Nothing at all,” Iani said, moaning against his lips, kissing him soundly.  “Nothing but that.”

            There was nothing clinical about the way that Iani touched him, nothing professional in Iani's demeanor now.  So much kissing, so much caressing, Iani did nothing without murmuring flattery against his skin, peppering kisses across his flesh, stroking him like a favorite pet.  Long deprived of such affection, Ouneaoaunaeat basked in it, feeling each caress soak through him and spread warmly outward, like drops of water on parchment.

            Being entered was a rich, intense sensation, pushing heat and arousal through his body, a heavy vibration making him ache with need.  He dug his fingers into Iani's muscular back, into the mattress, into the pillow beneath his hips, into anything he could find, as Iani sank in deeper, deeper, and Iani's low grunts and groans stuttered under Ouneaoaunaeat's moans of pleasure.  It was good, so good, better than anything he'd ever known, and he wanted more of it, now.  “Enter me again,” he ordered, panting softly, his words breaking off into little moans as Iani shifted and brushed again over that bright spot inside.  “Come into me.”

            “Gods above, Ouneaoaunaeat, you're so tight,” Iani gasped, grunting with pleasure.  “I can't take this, you feel too good, you-”

            “You made me wait for you,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, squirming and shifting to provoke movement, his hand running across the smooth muscle of Iani's ass.  “Give me, oh, give me-”

            “Stop moving, stop-”

            “Start moving!” Ouneaoaunaeat insisted, slapping the closest available flesh, Iani's ass.

            “You stubborn, demanding-”

            “Oh, yes, yes, ah,” Ouneaoaunaeat groaned, as Iani pushed into him again, again, again.

            “Gods above, gods above, Ouneaoaunaeat,” Iani panted, setting off a little pop of pleasure with every thrust.

            Tension knotted every muscle in his body, as passion built and intensified within him.  Each thrust rocked him, shaking his body, as Iani's weight and strength pushed against him.  Iani's dick drove deeper and deeper, pumping into him again and again, and each time it withdrew, Ouneaoaunaeat shuddered in protest, digging his nails into Iani's lower back, trying to draw Iani in again, wanting more, needing it again.  Climax was close, pressing out from within, ready to explode at the slightest provocation, needing only a few more thrusts, just a little, just - - “Ah ah ah Iani!”  Crying out, Ouneaoaunaeat felt himself shatter, ecstasy ripping him apart, as Iani jolted his body with one last powerful thrust.

            “Ouneaoaunaeat, Ouneaoaunaeat,” Iani breathed, surging deep, and he felt Iani tense and shudder, heard a blissful, satisfied groan.  “Oh…  Oh, yes…  Ouneaoaunaeat,” Iani sighed, sagging a little.

            Limp as a rag, Ouneaoaunaeat let his head loll to one side, his fingers unclenching, his legs relaxing, his body blissfully useless.

            “I,” Iani said.  He breathed against Ouneaoaunaeat's chest.  He was heavy, but Ouneaoaunaeat didn't mind.  “I have never felt happier about disgracing myself.”

            Sweet lassitude seeped through Ouneaoaunaeat's veins.  He wasn't inclined to move.  He only wanted to rest where he was, with Iani, and not be disturbed by any intruder.  “Disgracing yourself?” he asked, limply raising one hand and patting Iani's soft black curls.  It was nice to have Iani's head on his shoulder.  The idea of it staying there appealed to him.

            “I had great fantasies about this moment,” Iani said.  “I would seduce you slowly, introducing you to dizzying heights of pleasure, holding your body hostage through climax after climax, dazzling you with my sexual prowess.”

            “I'm seduced, dizzy, and dazzled,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, stroking his hair without great coordination.  “Your awesome sexual prowess has been duly noted.”

            “I could barely hold on long enough to make you come,” Iani said.  “Gods above, Ouneaoaunaeat, how is a man supposed to control himself around you?  Your bewitching mouth, your perfect pink nipples, your tight little ass, your wanton posture, your wickedly irresistible eyes.”

            “My posture has never been wanton,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, wondering if Iani had gone mad.

            “And your dick.”  A low groan, and Iani's forehead rested against Ouneaoaunaeat's shoulder, slender fingers stroking across his stomach and running over his dick.  “The finest meal I've ever tasted.”

            “I take it, then, that I didn't disappoint?”  If he'd worried about his own sexual performance, that ceased now.  A little smugly, pleased with himself, he caressed the back of Iani's neck.  “Imagine how well I'll do when I've had some more practice.”

            “I will be,” Iani promised, raising his head, “entirely in your thrall.”  A short, sweet kiss.  Another.  “Which I must admit that I have been, already, almost since we met.”

            “That raises an important question,” Ouneaoaunaeat said, one arm curling around Iani's shoulders, one hand reaching for the tiny jar of oil.  Raising it, he inspected it carefully.  “Will we have enough to last until we reach Jacacea?”

A Warrior's Tale

Born in the first month, under the full moon, T'rin was the first son of the great chief.  According to tradition, he was marked with his father's name, Y'nalin, and presented with a gift by everyone in the tribe.  The visions and prophecies surrounding his birth indicated that he would both lead and leave, and so he was named T'rin, He-Who-Goes-Forth.

            There was trouble on the plains.  There was an uneasy alliance among some tribes, and outright war among others.  Until the chief's son was old enough to enter battle, the chief led the warriors himself.  Seeing his father, painted and ready to fight, returning smeared with the enemy's blood, made resentment burn in T'rin's gut.  He resented himself, for being too young, for being too weak, for allowing his father to enter battle.  It was his fault that his father's life was at risk; it was his fault that the women hid, whispering, in fear, when the warriors were away.

            If he were strong enough to lead the men, his father would remain at home, safe.  He was the one who put worry in his mother's eyes and irritability in her voice.

            When their camp was raided, he was hidden in his aunt's tent, under blankets, behind pots, like a child, like a girl.  Useless, impotent, his cousins pinning him down so he'd stay put.  He wasn't allowed to protect his people, to fight, to take weapon in hand.

            His aunt, his mother's sister, was dragged from the tent.  He never saw her again.

            The raiders had murdered some of his people.  He had disgraced his tribe and himself.  T'rin would never again allow anyone to shelter him, would never again keep silent while one of his people was attacked.  He demanded to be trained harder, faster, in tracking, in hunting, in killing.  When there was no one to teach him, he practiced, spending days at a time away from the camp, honing his skills, becoming one with his animal spirits.

            There was much talk of war and peace, of battle and treaty.  It was simple, to T'rin: his enemies must suffer and die.  The tribes who attacked his people would perish at his hands.  They deserved nothing else.

            The men of wisdom who joined his father at the fireside for long talks, however, sometimes disagreed.  They spoke of the possibility of peace, murmuring to each other of the benefits of cooperation.

            Not understanding, T'rin asked his father about those conversations.

            “It is good that you listen,” Y'nalin said, with a sharp, approving nod.  “What do you think of peace?”

            “It is a wish of old women,” T'rin said.  “Men know that such things cannot be.”

            “You would breathe death on your enemies,” Y'nalin said.

            “Your enemy is mine,” T'rin said.  It was said often, in the tribe.  It reminded them that they were united, together, against common evils.

            “What do you want for your people?”  Y'nalin's gaze was direct and piercing, and often seemed like a challenge.  T'rin planned to look out on the world with those eyes, someday, when he was chief.

            “Safety.”  He'd learned how to clear his mind when he tracked his prey across the plains, but when he was in the camp, surrounded by his people, in the tent at night with his brothers whispering around him and a woman singing softly outside, his thoughts roamed, and responsibility pressed down upon him, tightening around him like the jaws of the lion.  He had given much thought to what he must provide for his tribe.  “Food.  Plentiful water.  Rich soil.”

            “And where will you find such things?”

            “The springs.”  It was commonly known that the land around the springs was the best.  T'rin's tribe, the Kela, hadn't lived there since the days of Y'nalin's father, who had fallen in battle many years ago.

            “And how will you acquire the springs?” Y'nalin asked.

            “I will take them from whoever lives there.”  At the moment, that was the P'patee, who were blood-thirsty and gruesome and mated among their own sisters and brothers.

            “Then you will doom the Kela to a violent death,” Y'nalin said.  “You will be forever defending yourself against attack, as everyone fights for such coveted land.”

            “We're at war now,” T'rin argued.  At least then they would be able to drink copious amounts of fresh water between battles, and bathe their wounds more easily, and grow better crops.

            “Imagine how much worse it will be then,” Y'nalin said.  “No, seizing the springs is not the way.”

            “What other way is there?” T'rin asked.

            “The P'patee could be convinced to share their territory with us,” his father suggested.

            Was that a joke?  “They would never.”  It was madness to think so.

            “You think not,” Y'nalin said, “because they are known to slaughter anyone who enters their territory.  They protect the springs fiercely, because it is theirs.  They took it from the Kanolek, who took it from the Tiha, who took it from us.  We all fight over this one precious resource.”

            Yes.  That was the way of it.

            “There is shade, in the trees there.  The ground bears plentiful crops.  We tear each other apart, for a moment in that paradise.  But what if we shared it?  What if we all tilled the soil together and gave each other an equal chance at the springs?”

            “Why would we do that?” T'rin asked.  “Whoever got it would just keep it.  I would.  Why should we share it with those-”

            “Because it is better to share with our enemies than to bury our dead,” his father said.  “Think on that, T'rin, and speak to me again when you agree with it.”

            He didn't speak to his father for weeks.  His father made no mention of it, but made no effort to seek him out.  Sometimes, when he sat alone under the sun, and watched the grass tilt gently in the hot, dry breeze, and cleared his mind as if stalking prey, he understood what his father had meant, and saw the truth of it.  But he couldn't agree with it in his heart; the anger had built up too strongly over years, and in his gut, he continued to wish the obliteration of all other tribes.  He would rather die than share anything with those filthy, savaging, evil, ravenous beasts.  They'd killed his people, raped, slaughtered, stolen.

            Then came the night of another raid.  He wakened to screams, smoke, panic, fire.  He ordered the youngest of his brothers to flee to the rocky place, ordered the rest to see to their mothers and sisters, and found himself snatched up by his uncle and taken to safety.  The burns, the terror, the scent of roasted flesh, the grieving families, the devastation, it wasn't what he wanted for his people.  They couldn't continue like this.  Despite all of the cruelties and evils and crimes committed against his people, despite the atrocities wreaked by his enemies, he would rather share the springs than put the Kela through this again.

            Then the purple woman arrived.

            She'd visited before, T'rin remembered, vaguely, when he'd been very young.  He remembered staring at her in fascination, wondering which tribe she was from.  She'd seemed to be in charge of the people accompanying her, which had been odd; what sort of tribe would allow a woman to lead?  She'd been all in purple, purple clothing, purple hair, purple eyes.  She'd worn a long robe, all the way down to her feet, with long sleeves all the way down to her wrists, and he'd thought that she must be suffocating in the heat.  But she'd been very kind; she'd been properly respectful to his father, and had given him a fond smile.  They'd been introduced, of course, because he was the chief's first son, and therefore he outranked any visitor to the camp, but he couldn't remember her name.  Just the purple.

            She came again, after the fire.  She was there, he learned, to speak with all of the chiefs, and was traveling from one camp to another.  She sat in council with his father and the elders, as if she were a man, and when they passed the bowl, she participated, like a man.  The bowl held the parts of animals, and the men, at important meetings, sat around the fire and passed the bowl around the circle, each man eating what he needed: heart for courage, eyes for wisdom, intestines for strength, tongues for leadership.  The purple woman ate eyes, two of them.  As chief, T'rin would have to eat whatever remained in the bowl after it had been passed, which was unfortunate, because he hated eating eyes.  He admired the purple woman for doing so.

            There were many whispers and rumors in the camp, when the purple woman was there.  T'rin asked a few questions of the servants, a few of his mother, a few of the warriors, a few of the elders, and learned who she was.

            She was a child of the gods, from a land far away.  She traveled in the air, in a big basket, and her sister was a god who lived among the people and sat on a throne, like a chief, like a king.

            None of this made much sense to T'rin, but he understood one thing: power.  This woman had a lot of it, a great deal more than even his own father had, and her sister had even more than that.  He didn't know how to help his people, but these foreign women might.

            The purple woman slept among them that night, in a tent, with her people.  T'rin's mother told him that as long as the purple woman was with them, no one would attack their camp.

            They had to keep her there.  If they kept her, they'd never be attacked again.  The tribe would be safe.

            In the morning, he approached his father, breaking the silence between them.  He spoke of small things, without making mention of what had passed before, and his father did the same.  After a few minutes, his father said, “Tell me your thoughts on Princess Riturihi.”

            “You should marry her.”  It was the perfect solution, the answer to everything.  “Take her as your wife.”

            “A fine idea,” his father said calmly, seated comfortably under the rising sun as the women prepared breakfast, “but she is married already.”

            “Then kill her husband.”  A small sacrifice for the good of the Kela.

            “I will not raise a hand against her or those who walk with her,” Y'nalin said.

            “Does she have no other sisters?”  There had to be someone whom his father could marry, some way to tie their tribes together.

            “None interested in marriage to me,” Y'nalin said.  “But her sister, the pharaoh, Anosukinom, has a son.”

            Frustrated, T'rin wanted to hit something.  What good was a son?  He'd found the perfect answer to all of their problems, and his father offered him the purple woman's family history?

            “Anosukinom's first-born son will inherit the throne,” Y'nalin said.  “He is your age.  And, someday, he will seek a husband.”

            What?  A husband?  What…

            Y'nalin looked into his eyes.

            T'rin understood.  His father couldn't marry the purple woman, but T'rin could marry the next pharaoh.

            Power.

            Safety.

            If they couldn't win peace, he would force it.

            T'rin spent the next years of his life preparing himself to lead and to leave.  He proved himself a man and commanded the warriors.  While his primary goal was to protect the tribe from attack, he was fearless when going into battle, and became the most feared warrior on the plains.

            He was satisfied to note that he was attracted to men, which would undoubtedly aid him in his pursuit of the future pharaoh, although he would have continued in his quest regardless.

            After discussion with his father and the elders, he left the plains for the first time in his life and went to the first village he found.  Hiding himself, he tracked a child to a schoolhouse and discerned which man was the schoolteacher.  Then, when the children left, he followed the teacher home.

            It was revealing, what people did when they assumed that their lives were in danger.  T'rin had learned not to relent to fear and never to panic, but the schoolteacher had not.

            After assuring the teacher that no harm was intended, the two of them arrived at an agreement.  And so T'rin learned not only how to speak and read Anorian, but some important historical and cultural facts, as well.

            He took a harem for himself, of captured warriors from other tribes.  He was very careful to select the right men, and not to treat them too brutally.  Once he decided that they could be trusted, they were given women's tasks, to occupy their hours.  When he was in the heat of battle, hand drawn back for the killing strike, and the man at his feet begged to be permitted to live in his harem rather than die in the grass, he knew that his reputation had grown.

            The evening after a two-day battle with the Kanolek, as his sister stained his flesh with the tale of his victory, one of the scouts returned to camp with news.  The purple woman had returned.

            Y'nalin sent the scout for more information.  The healers tended to the wound on T'rin's thigh as they all waited for news.

            As it turned out, the purple woman had not returned.  Instead it was her nephew, Prince Orinakin.  He was with the Tiha, and would move between the tribes over the next few days.

            After waiting a day, T'rin sent the warriors out to hunt.  With the prince on the plains, there would be no attacks.

            As soon as word came that Prince Orinakin was near, T'rin cleaned himself, then ordered everyone in the tribe to dress.  Cramming their feet into boots, his brothers muttered among themselves, but he paid them no attention.  It was customary for Anorians to cover themselves, and he would show the prince respect by following that tradition.

            Late one morning, horses were seen approaching.  Nearing the camp, the riders dismounted.  Calmly, on foot, unarmed, one figure came alone, his hair and robes a flowing purple.  The children playing at the edge of the camp hurried to their mothers, round-eyed and whispering excitedly.  As was proper, Prince Orinakin stopped there, waiting to be welcomed.

            According to tradition, a warrior or two should greet him, then take him to the center of the camp, to the chief.  T'rin, however, wanted to greet this visitor himself.  Striding forward, he looked into the prince's eyes.  Prince Orinakin was young, and very handsome, with the clear gaze of a man of understanding.

            “Your Highness,” T'rin said, stopping before him and bowing.  “Welcome to the Kela of Chief Y'nalin.”

            A smile, of the delighted, uninhibited kind T'rin saw only on children, opened widely across his face.  “You speak Anorian.”  Then his smile became proud and respectful.  “You must be T'rin, son of Chief Y'nalin.”

            He was pleased that the prince had heard of him.  It was a good sign.  “And you are Prince Orinakin, brother of Anosukinom.  We are honored by your presence among us.”

            “I am grateful for your welcome,” the prince said.  He wore his hair down, unlike his aunt; the purple tones of his hair were a gift from the gods, a sign of their favor and blessings, and it could not be by chance that he wore it so boldly on display.  “I have looked forward greatly to speaking with you, and I humbly request an audience with your father, the chief.”

            Curious about the prince and calculating how best to win an invitation to court Anosukinom, T'rin took him to Y'nalin.  Much discussion followed, as Prince Orinakin and Y'nalin spoke together, T'rin and the elders joining them.  Like Princess Riturihi, Prince Orinakin spoke confidently and calmly, in formal Kelan, with boundless knowledge of the tribes and their history.  He ate the eyes of the snake, but when, at the end of the night, the cup of h'achee was passed, he politely refused.

            Unashamed to do the work of a woman when it suited his needs, T'rin showed the prince to a private tent.

            Orinakin surprised him by casually glancing around, then asking, quietly, “Will you walk with me?”

            The words sounded like an invitation to sex, but the tone was respectful and polite.  T'rin was aware of Orinakin's sexual interest in him, and returned the attraction.  But there was something else behind the question, something more official and less primal.  “Yes.”

            Together, they walked away from the camp.  Orinakin seemed, as always, calm, walking with measured steps, his hair lifting slightly in the warm breeze, and T'rin wondered at his balanced nature.  “You are not afraid?”

            “I am grateful for the protection of the gods,” Orinakin said.  “I walk beside the deadliest man on the plains, and I assume that you would strike in defense of me, not against me.”

            T'rin approved of his sensible conclusions.

            Absentmindedly tucking his hair behind his ear, his ring glinting in the moonlight, Orinakin said, “No one mentioned that you speak Anorian.”

            “No one beyond my camp knows.”  He had been careful to conceal his activities.

            “It is an advantage that you do not wish for them to realize?” Orinakin asked.

            “Yes.”

            “I can only see one advantage that it would bring you,” Orinakin said, “and you put yourself to a great deal of trouble if you only sought my favor.”

            He gained nothing by holding his tongue.  “I seek the favor of one greater than you,” T'rin said.  “You are my path to him.”

            “Anosukinom.”  Orinakin stopped walking, turning to face T'rin, his expression careful, his tone wary.  He was protective of his pharaoh, his brother.  “What would you have from him?”

            T'rin never showed weakness.  Not even to the face of a child of the gods.  “The throne of his king.”

            The Anorian way of life was as different from the Kelan as the bird's to the beast's.  T'rin had been aware of the major differences, but nothing could have prepared him for the vast number of minute ones.

            He did not win the hand of the pharaoh.  He won something even more important.

            For as long as he could remember, T'rin had been determined to fight for his people.  He would work and bleed and do everything within his power to improve their lives.  If peace was the best way, then he would strive for it.  But in all of the agony and misery and blood and sweat and violence and loss, he'd misplaced some of his most vital weapons.

            Hope.  Faith.

            In Orina Anoris, in smooth, pale, unblemished skin, in sweet kisses and silver eyes, he'd found inspiration.  There was no one like Rini on the plains.  No one among the Kela could afford to be innocent yet fearless, or trusting of strangers.  Even the children knew where to hide, when to run, not to cry.  Any male of Rini's age on the plains would already be a battle-scarred warrior, or dead.

            T'rin wanted to see his brothers, his friends, his sons, stroll across the plains as freely as Rini walked through Orina Anoris.  Happy, unfettered, with more experience of love and smiles and affection than of violence and screams and pain.

            When his brothers crowded around, wanting to see the knife that the great Anosukinom had given to him, and the sunlight flashed across the silver blade, T'rin smiled.

            He had his sister tattoo something new on his wrist.  A reminder.

            Le't-ton.

            One who is more.

A Commander's Tale

            An excerpt from Kudht Chzetstutt Hcuwtowektsz, Gidwetslik Liwoshkith's erotic memoir of his time with Commander Dranzhicthin Whzurchitz.  Translated by Kositet Baramin for the Royal House of Art in the time of Anosadim Inanodat Nisutalin A Lini.

            Kudht Chzetstutt Hcuwtowektsz (The Peace Commandment) was published after the death of Commander Dranzhicthin Whzurchitz.  A champion of international peace and recipient of many noted awards, including the Shoikcste Prize and the Grehtziwechk Medal of Valor, Commander Whzurchitz is largely credited with bringing peace to the Grintzadiwtch-Vektin Kchet border.

            The treetops, they sang.  The birds, they were the source of the music.  But I, Dranz said to me, I was the source of the light in his heart.  His hands, they cupped my face, gently.  Carefully.  With great care.  The kiss that he bestowed upon me brought a flutter to my heart that was not light.  Was not darkness.  Was a hopeful, wild desire to sacrifice myself to his caress.

            Between us, there had existed nothing sexual, before.  Nothing but friendship.  The friendship of emotional intimacy, but no secret glance, no touch more than a handshake.  The kiss that we shared, his lips on mine, his mouth given to me and mine to him, was a new gesture between us, but very, very old.  Older than the ground beneath the grass on which he lay me.  Older than the sun which turned its warmth on my bared flesh.  Old as the very gods.

            Confident, slow to move, quick to cherish, were his hands in undressing me.  My clothing was of no consequence but I, he, the touch of flesh, was everything.  The caress of his fingers on my sex was the most important of all.  Exhilaration was mine as his strong mouth moved over me.  With the peak of pleasure, silk spilled from me and into him.  His name fell from my lips as my seed dripped from his.

            Boldly, he entered me.  The bird song was nothing to me then.  Only the sound of him, of us, breathing, sighing, mating, did I hear.  I would have taken all of him into me, or given all of myself to him, if only I could.  If only.  All that we could do, all that was available to us then, was to share each other, together.

            The seed of Dranz was loosed within me.  It took hold.  Within myself, ever since, I have carried the love that we created.

            Many were the times that we shared our bodies with each other.  Countless were the nights that erotic passion took hold of us, that his strong hands undressed me, that his swollen sex made its home within me.  Legion were the moments that he whispered to me of his love.

            When I think of it, I shudder with a ceaseless, pulsing desire, and then he draws me close, into his most intimate embrace, and I am open to him, erect for him, created for him, Dranz.

An Ambassador's Tale

Wanderlust, his father had called it.  Eristheizke, in the old language.  It was why they'd spent the first fifteen years of his life abroad.  Years in Jacacea, in Ilaeia, in Morrain, in Lorbain.  Months in Leetesri, in Haffnasia, in Henberen, in Tragge, in Swoven.  Visiting, again, and again, the old country, being welcomed by his father's abundant and busy family, eating traditional sweitkaus and veichsnaze, hearing the old stories.  Returning, like one moon to another, to Mannillea, where Dillane would show off his foreign clothes and foreign manners to his cousins, and his mother would promise her aging parents that she'd stay at home for at least six months this time, at least four months…  And then they'd be off again, only a few weeks later, going to Vafiance this time, where they had apples as big as his fist, his father said, and everyone worshipped trees instead of gods.

            They never went to Orina Anoris.  Dillane's father was quite possibly the only person in the world afraid to set foot  in the land of Anosukinom.  Tree gods, sun gods, cave gods, sky gods, all fascinated his father.  But the living god, present and walking among the people, was the only person Frazhak Naelt didn't want to meet.  “I will meet my own gods when I meet my death,” he said firmly.  He had nothing but admiration for the pharaoh, however.  “Anyone with eight children and two spouses, who still has time to run a country, has my respect.”  Frazhak himself only had one wife and one son.  Having even one more dependent, Dillane always suspected, would have slowed him down.

            Dillane never slowed anyone down.  He thrived on the constant changes in his life.  He liked not being sure where he'd be in another month.  He liked knowing a lot of different kinds of people, speaking a lot of languages, being familiar with a lot of cities, wearing a lot of styles of clothing.  By the time he was ten, he'd been confused for a native, by other natives, in so many places, that he didn't really consider himself a citizen of any one country.  His father was Krestyzgian, and his mother was Mannillean, but Dillane wasn't really from anywhere in particular.  He was at home anywhere, wherever he happened to be staying at the time.

            His coloring helped him to fit in.  Or, it excluded him so universally that, wherever he was, he didn't look like he was obviously from anywhere else.  He was a mix of his parents' traits: his mother's height, his father's pale skin, his mother's black hair, his father's gray eyes.  No one ever knew where he was from, what his ethnicity was, and whenever he was asked, he just named the place he'd been last month.

            When he was fifteen, everything changed.  They were in Morrain again, and he and his mother were coming home from the market when they heard screams.  Always determined to help anyone in trouble, instead of running away from the screaming, his mother ran toward it.  Rushing along with her, carrying her basket of bread and fruit, Dillane dodged the people scurrying away around the corner, heard someone yelling for the police.  Lan re hazlan!  Lan re hazlan!  That was when he and his mother came upon an overturned vendor's cart, with his father sitting on the ground amid a spill of plump, rolling oranges, blood soaking his yellow and green shirt, white bone frighteningly visible in his leg.

            After that, they didn't travel anymore.  His father wasn't well enough to live such a nomadic lifestyle.  Dillane learned that their trips had been funded not solely by his father's somewhat nonsensical string of jobs; they'd really only been able to travel because of the generosity of his mother's family.  His grandparents had never really approved of Frazhak or his habit of dragging their only daughter all over the world, and “the incident,” as they termed it, was just the excuse they needed to keep her at home.

            Not even a full year after “the incident,” Dillane's father died.  Because of his injuries, everyone said.  Dillane knew better.  Frazhak had died because he'd been trapped in one place for too long.  His gray pallor, his fading expressions, his increasing lack of interest in life, weren't because of any physical ailment.  They were because, like the cool spring breeze along the Traggean coast, Frazhak couldn't last if he was kept in just one place.  When he moved, he lived.  When he stopped, he perished.

            Dillane and his mother buried his father in Mannillea, and then traveled to the old country one last time.  His mother never said anything about it to him, but he knew, from the way she gathered memories while she was there, from the way that she said good-bye, that they'd never come back.

            Stifling in his grandparents' home, chafing under the restraint of knowing, with dreadful certainty, that he'd still be there next week, and next month, and possibly even next year, Dillane sought a way out.  He vowed that, as soon as he finished his mandatory schooling, he'd leave.  He had to get away.  He had to be on the move.  Wearing the same style of clothing every day made his skin itch.  He wanted to put on silk from Morrain and wool from Grintzadiwtch and robes from Haffnasia and hats from Porrassea.  He wanted to visit the volcanoes and beaches and mountains and deserts.  He wanted to speak a language that wasn't Mannillean!  He tried, with his mother, but his grandparents put a stop to that.

            One of his instructors, a few weeks before graduation, pulled him aside and told him about a university program.  Dillane rebelled at the idea of more formal schooling, something that would keep him in place, something he'd never had until age fifteen anyway, but his instructor explained that, just this once, maybe he should look ahead and make long-term plans.  Because, his instructor said, with his background, his intelligence, his personality, and his skills, he just might be able to get a job with one of the king's ambassadors.  And then he could travel for a living, without worrying about money, without worrying about food or clothing or where to stay.

            For the first years of his life, Dillane had never worried about those things.  Then, around age ten, he'd realized that they were valid concerns.  He'd imagined that food was always available, that a bed was always free, but he'd grown up, opened his eyes, and seen that his parents had to struggle and barter and sometimes even lie to get him the necessities he took for granted.

            The freedom of change, of not knowing where he'd be next month, he loved.  The uncertainty of not knowing if he'd be able to eat tomorrow, he'd never found as much of a thrill as his father.

            Dillane talked with his mother about the instructor's recommendation.  She was enough like his father to love the idea of him traveling for a living, and enough like her parents to appreciate the stability of a steady job.  They agreed that, because of the long-term benefits, he should give it an honest try.

            It never occurred to him that, if he tried, he still might not make it.  He'd learned early in life that there was always a way; the trick was in finding it.

            He flew through his university courses and graduated early.  He spent a few months in the employ of an ambassador's assistant, copying and translating, sitting in a tiny office in the capital city, writing to his mother and threatening to quit, receiving letters telling him to wait just another week, just another few days, just a little bit longer.  In his small apartment on the outskirts of town, he kept his trunk packed.  When another translator stopped by to see him at home one evening, he expressed surprise at how empty Dillane's apartment was.  “It looks as if you've just moved in!”

            Or, as if he were poised to flee.

             He did so well at his job, and was so adept in so many languages, so familiar with so many cultures, that he was transferred to the employ of the king's senior ambassador.  Troal Inrill was an old man, a seasoned politician, and a long-time, very close friend of the royal family.  He became very fond of Dillane very quickly, and promoted Dillane to his personal entourage.

            “You're smart,” he told Dillane, one night in Seijaces.  “You're quick, you know your languages, you know your history, you know your culture, you know your way around every city you step into.  But that's not what's going to get you far in this lifetime.  Your strength is that you know your way around people.  You're friendly, you're easy to get along with, you like everybody and everybody likes you.  That's the skill that's going to get you farther in this life than any other.  And you're ambitious, Naelt.  You're always looking for a way to the top, because you think that there's more freedom up there.”

            There was.  Traveling the world with Ambassador Inrill, Dillane saw as an adult what he hadn't seen as a child.  Movement was freedom, but so was money.  So was power.  The need for money, the lack of power, held people down, locked them in, trapped them in poverty, immobilized them in drudgery.  The wealthy and influential could do as they pleased.

            When Inrill retired, he named Dillane as his successor.

            The only other ambassador important enough to travel in Dillane's political circles, of a similar age, was Prince Orinakin A Nimi, the Anorian royal diplomat.  Both young, friendly, and overly cultured for their ages, they became friends quickly, and sought each other out wherever they met.  Orina Anoris became one of Dillane's favorite stops on any trip, and when Orinakin asked him to court the pharaoh, the honor of anyone's lifetime, Dillane accepted.

            He viewed it as a new adventure.  A brand-new challenge.  What greater freedom could there be, than sitting on the Anorian throne?  If he married the pharaoh, he would have all of the power and money in the world.  If he wanted to get away, he could just close his eyes and ask the pharaoh to blow the wind of the Traggean coast through his hair.

            His grandparents had always said that his father was ruining him, that all of his great potential would end up in nothing.  What would they say to him, when he was King of Orina Anoris?

            In Anorian, in Mannillean, in Krestyzgian, the pharaoh spoke to him.  They talked of many things.  But the most important words of all were these:

            “I would be happy with you, Dillane.  But you would not be happy with me.  You are a traveler.  You are a wanderer.  The ground beneath your feet shifts, from road, to grass, to sand.  You were happy to come home to your mother each day because you loved her.  But you do not love me.  I could extend the walls of this palace until they stretched into infinity, and you would feel trapped in my home.  The world itself is your home.  The sky is your roof, the sun your lamp, the ever-shifting ground your floor.  You live in a house of many windows and doors, and no walls.  Someday, Dillane, someday you will find someone you want to come home to.  A partner you can share your love of the world with.  A partner who understands that home is not a location, not a building, but a bond, a connection, a shared sense of belonging.”

            Gazing into the pharaoh's eyes, Dillane had felt the very truth of those words sink into his bones.  His family's judgment and worry, which had nested in the back of his mind for all of these years, eased away.  He wasn't, as his grandparents claimed, hiding from responsibility, avoiding the realities of the world, or blindly chasing after his father's dreams.  He had made the right decisions for himself; he was on the right path for himself.  This was his reality, his dream, his life.

            And so he returned to the world.  His trunks were always packed.  His balloon was always waiting.  But he wasn't running, wasn't fleeing, wasn't determined to stay on the move.  He was simply comfortable.  In the air, on the sea, dining with a king, learning from a servant, he was at peace with where he was.  At peace with who he was.  In the employ of the King of Mannillea.  A citizen of the world.

Royal Greetings

Most Gracious and Royal Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki, Royal High Judge of Orina Anoris under the Reign of Anosukinom Mutotanosa Situkabulanin Elanilanulanori Banotuda Kudorin A Rituriti, Honored and Esteemed Friend of the Mighty Nosupolin Nation,

            Royal greetings from the great nation of Nosupolis. I trust that this letter finds you well and your people content. Many thanks to you for your great hospitality during my time in your fine country. The joy of your people upon the joining of our families was a wonder to behold.

            My return to my home country and the mighty people of Nosupolis was a heralded one. My work here is informative and exciting. I am, as always, proud and honored to serve my country and my king.

            As I travel about Nosupolis, I long for the closeness with my people that you enjoy with yours. The relationships that you foster with your commoners inspires me. I hope that I, too, may someday enjoy the fond embrace of my people.

            I hope that the newest horse in your stable provides you with a pleasant ride.

            With many thanks for the kindness that you and your family have shown to me, and with blessings in Grengar's name, I sign myself, respectfully,

            Prince Vade

            Most Esteemed and Royal Prince Vade, Honored and Beloved Friend of the Living God Among Us,

            Warm greetings from the great nation of Orina Anoris. I trust that you and your family are well. Your royal parents and Prince Tiko are spoken of often at royal dinners, and I have received inquiries into your fine country's affairs. Your own name is heard from the mouths of more intimately known friends; the particular acquaintances that you made at your brother's wedding celebration mention you still.

            I trust that Prince Bade keeps you informed of his travels. I understand that he and Prince Orinakin found the expected successes and disappointments in Lorbain.

            I am interested to hear of your own work within Nosupolis. You know your culture best, and you must use your own judgment in developing close ties with your citizens. My own ties to my citizens couldn't be closer, as I write to you from the fertile hills of Kapesuk, with the sweet valleys of Tepeni and Kelano close at hand.

            Continue to apprise me of your personal and political situations. I await your future correspondence with interest.

            Standing tall and firm in the belief that royalty should thrust itself diligently into the lives of its citizens, until welcomed with a warm embrace, I hold pen in hand and sign myself, happily,

            Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki

            Most Gracious and Royal Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki, Royal High Judge of Orina Anoris under the Reign of Anosukinom Mutotanosa Situkabulanin Elanilanulanori Banotuda Kudorin A Rituriti, Honored and Esteemed Friend of the Mighty Nosupolin Nation,

            Royal greetings from the great nation of Nosupolis. I trust that this letter finds you well and your people content.

            The task to which Prince Tiko assigned me was, simply put, “Get to know the people.” I am so passionate about this work that I toss and turn each night, thinking of many and various ways to get to know the people I see about me each day.

            There is one shepherd I met this afternoon, named Roekf, and I would very much like to become more familiar with the ins and outs of his life. It is my urgent belief that everyone should get to know him well. You, particularly, would appreciate his sweet and submissive nature.

            I fear that propriety forbids me from thrusting myself upon him as I would wish. A shame, that.

            A real, true shame.

            Perhaps you will bolster my flagging spirits by sharing with me a story of your own success in getting to know your citizens.

            Writing to you in hope,

            Prince Vade

            Most Esteemed and Royal Prince Vade, Honored and Beloved Friend of the Living God Among Us,

            Warm greetings from the great nation of Orina Anoris. I trust that you and your family are well.

            I read your recent letter with interest, and am flattered by your request. Ever happy to oblige, I send an immediate reply.

            I have numerous, extremely fond memories of a young man named Resekar whom I once knew. An Anorian citizen, Resekar was the son of a candle maker. We met when I was nineteen, and we bonded immediately. He was very handsome and quite skilled in speaking, singing, and other oral talents. I must say, he was a very greedy young man, always taking anything that I gave him, repeatedly taking from me, over and over again, until I'd given everything that I had.

            He was unbelievably lazy, as well. Every time I saw him, he was in bed. And he never got up without me there to tend to him, coaxing him up, guiding him upward with my hand and even my own oral talents.

            We were very close for several weeks. Some might even say that, for a time, we were tied up together. Caught close against each other in the knotted bonds of friendship. It may shock you, to think of me so roped in by a mere citizen, but I assure you, the experience was pleasurable. Very pleasurable. In fact, I'd even go so far as to recommend it.

            After a time, of course, Resekar and I grew apart. It's been several years since I last saw him, but I'd like to see him again. I wonder if he's retained the taut, firm body that he had at nineteen. Certain portions of his anatomy were disproportionately large, although I've noted for myself the strong proportions that Nosupolins bear. I wonder if your Roekf may be built as my Resekar was.

            Writing to you from the hills of Lokelon, the valleys of Tukaro, and the salty rivers of Doresat, I remain,

            Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki

            Most Gracious and Royal Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki, Royal High Judge of Orina Anoris under the Reign of Anosukinom Mutotanosa Situkabulanin Elanilanulanori Banotuda Kudorin A Rituriti, Honored and Esteemed Friend of the Mighty Nosupolin Nation,

            Royal greetings from the great nation of Nosupolis. I trust that this letter finds you well and your people content.

            The King of Granete has come to visit my father twice since we came back from Orina Anoris. Twice. Ambassadors and dignitaries keep stopping by. We haven't had this many guests in the castle at one time in my entire life. And now Bade and Orinakin are on their way, and I just know the dinner table's going to be overcrowded when they get here. My father's taking everything in stride, but Tiko's practically dancing around the castle. I'm so busy all over the country that I keep missing things, but I'm definitely going to be back home to see Bade and Orinakin. I'll write to tell you how they are once they're here.

            Prince Vade

            Most Esteemed and Royal Prince Vade, Honored and Beloved Friend of the Living God Among Us,

            Warm greetings from the great nation of Orina Anoris. I trust that you and your family are well.

            By the time that this letter reaches you, Bade and Orinakin will be with you. Be sure to greet them for me. I must admit to a certain amount of envy, that you'll get to enjoy their company. But that is uncharitable of me; if anyone misses them as much as I do, you would be he.

            When they return here at the end of their journey, you must come for a visit.

            Surely you had your fill of diplomatic dinners during your time here. Give not a thought to the crowded tables and the dignitaries storming the castle. Your time is better spent among your people.

            Prince Selorin A Diki

            Most Gracious and Royal Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki, Royal High Judge of Orina Anoris under the Reign of Anosukinom Mutotanosa Situkabulanin Elanilanulanori Banotuda Kudorin A Rituriti, Honored and Esteemed Friend of the Mighty Nosupolin Nation,

            Royal greetings from the great nation of Nosupolis. I trust that this letter finds you well and your people content.

            Please allow me to determine for myself where my time is best spent. It has come to my attention that, as far as some of our international guests are concerned, I am better able to demonstrate Nosupolin hospitality than my parents and brother. I have certain diplomatic skills, honed during my time in Orina Anoris, which certain visitors find extremely pleasing.

            Ilaeians, I have learned, are friendly people.

            Prince Orinakin's friend Dillane is very accomplished for his age.

            Prince Vade

            Prince Vade,

            I read your letter.

            My ears itched.

            Prince Selorin A Diki

            Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki,

            Are you accusing me of lying? Do you suggest that I have to exaggerate my accomplishments? Do you imply that Ambassador Dillane would not enjoy my companionship?

            Ask him. I'm sure that he remembers his time in my company with great clarity.

            Prince Vade

            Most Honest and Trustworthy Prince Vade,

            Dear friend, please accept my humble apologies. And my congratulations, as well, on your friendship with Ambassador Dillane. He speaks of you very highly and describes his time with you in the most glowing terms.

            As I am well aware of Ambassador Dillane's discriminating tastes, I should have realized that your charms, delights, and enthusiasm for life would have captured his attention.

            Continue to hone your diplomatic skills, and I will be happy to introduce you to a few of my close friends when you return to Orina Anoris. They will be happy to greet you with open arms.

            Prince Selorin A Diki

            Most Gracious and Royal Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki,

            I am, as always, eager to develop the most intimate of relationships with Anorian citizens. Your generous assistance in that area would be greatly appreciated.

            I understand that an invitation has been extended for some of our citizens to attend a summit you're hosting. An international discussion on education. Is that really something worth holding an international summit for, or are you just trying to look important?

            Prince Vade

            Prince Vade,

            Perhaps it has escaped your attention that I am important, and have no need for schemes to suggest it?

            At the summit, we will discuss teaching methods, what sort of information should be understood at which ages, continuing education into adulthood, and making more books more widely available.

            I look forward to meeting your father's delegates. You are welcome to attend, if you like.

            Prince Selorin

            Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki,

            I'd like to attend your summit, but my father assures me that I'm needed here. He tells the truth. (And, according to Tiko, my father has no intention of allowing me to set foot on Anorian soil unless Bade's there to keep me in line.)

            I heard the most shocking of rumors today. It can't be true, can it, that Orinakin means to visit Jacacea?

            Prince Vade

            Prince Vade,

            Yes, Orinakin intends to visit Jacacea. It is a simple diplomatic mission to end the silence between us and the Empire. When pressed, you will discuss it as such.

            Prince Selorin

            Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki,

            Orinakin wouldn't go to Jacacea after all of this time unless he needed something very, very badly. Is it about Pirsotu? Is it because of Rosenikra's new trade agreement? You can tell me the truth. Bade's going to tell me all about it, anyway, sooner or later.

            Prince Vade

            Prince Vade,

            When I tell you, “It is a simple diplomatic mission to end the silence between us and the Empire,” that is the truth. Ignore gossip and rumors. They serve no one well.

            Prince Selorin

            Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki,

            Do you have trouble writing down lies? Does it bother you?

            Prince Vade

            Prince Vade,

            Yes, committing a lie to paper bothers me. It should bother anyone with a conscience.

            Prince Selorin

            Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki,

            Thank you for the gift. I didn't expect it. It will prove very comfortable this winter, I assure you.

            Prince Vade

            Prince Vade,

            I sent you no gift. Perhaps I was remiss in not doing so.

            Prince Selorin

            Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki,

            On his return from your education summit, Groeg Hamivvet sent me a gift. It was wrapped in blue cloth, and it's a scarf of some amazingly soft blue knit. His note indicated that a servant from the palace gave it to him for me. Who else in the palace would send me a blue present?

            Prince Vade

            Prince Vade,

            A mystery. While I wish that I had been more thoughtful, I must confess that I sent you no gift. Lo Hamivvet seemed a strong-willed but honest man; I cannot imagine that he is taking part in a joke or plot.

            You'll excuse me; I paused in my letter to question my brothers. To my surprise, Remin is the one to blame. Rini, who remains abroad, asked Remin to send you a gift. With Nosupolin delegates in attendance at the summit, Remin took the opportunity presented. He says that Rini offered no specific guidelines, so he sent the first item he thought of: something warming, since he shivers at the thought of the Nosupolin climate.

            Why Rini decided that it was time to send you a gift, only Adanotu knows.

            Prince Selorin

            Prince Anosakim Inanodat Selorin A Diki,

            Thank you for uncovering the source. Notes of gratitude have been sent to the parties involved. And I just established that I am the first member of Nosupolin royalty to own a hariasuuke scarf. Of course, as soon as Bade finds out, he'll buy five in various shades of purple. But I'll always be the first.

            Prince Vade

            Vade,

            This one's from me.

            Selorin

            Curious, Vade set aside Selorin's note and opened the trunk. Lifting the lid, he moved aside pale blue cloth to reveal, “Holy shit.” Vade picked up a scarf, feeling his eyes widen. “He didn't.”

            Scarves. Hats. Gloves. Sweaters. Socks. Jackets. Each made of the supremely soft, extremely rare wool of the hariasuuke goat. Dyed in a variety of colors, all different shades, a rainbow of a wardrobe. Deep reds, gentle golds, light greens, dark blues.

            And then, at the bottom of the trunk, blankets. Thick, warm, hariasuuke blankets.

            Gathering up a blanket in two hands, feeling its beautifully woven softness against his skin, Vade marveled. Royalty from Granete had never given him anything to compare with this. His own royal relations had never given him anything to compare to this. But now, a trunk full of such rare finery…

            He couldn't even have sex on this. No matter how tempting the idea was, no matter how deliriously amazing the weaving would feel on his skin, he couldn't risk soiling or staining it.

            He had to thank Selorin for such a luxurious, priceless gift.

            What could he ever give in return? What could he offer an Anorian prince?

Welcome to Orikodisata

Today was Arikapo's first day at the bazaar.  He'd arrived early to set up his booth.  His father was a butcher; his mother, a chef.  He had rich and crusty rolls, jars of spicy mustard, and trunks of ice filled with chunks and scraps of seasoned meat.  He also had soup simmering over a fire, and bowls of his mother's sweet fruit punch.

            It wasn't much, but it was a beginning.  He'd have more food soon, more choices to offer passersby, and he'd be able to afford helpers.  But for his first day, he didn't want to overextend himself.

            He set everything up carefully, and when one of the bazaar managers came by to check on him, he was proud to say that he'd already met regulations and been registered as a vendor.

            Arikapo had grown up in the north, in the countryside.  This was his first time in Orikodisata, and he'd worried that he wasn't ready for city life.  Initially, being around so many people at once had unnerved him, and the bazaar itself was overwhelming.  But he liked being close to the palace; it made him feel closer to Anosukinom Mutotanosa.  And he had more of a chance to make something of himself, here.  Especially with access to the immense amounts of money that flowed into the bazaar.

            During his first hour, his parents stopped by to check on him.  He was happy to be able to tell them that he'd made a few sales, especially of the punch.  He hoped that things would pick up as lunchtime drew near and people grew more ready to eat meat sandwiches and soup.

            At first, it looked like he wouldn't get much more business at all.  He was a new vendor, and a small one, with a tiny booth and minimal offerings.  While he washed out each cup as it was used, other vendors all around him had a wide array of foods on display, had multiple assistants, and let people keep the cups and bowls and plates for a small fee.  Even Arikapo thought that their food smelled delicious as a light afternoon breeze wafted it toward him.  He knew very well that his father's seasonings and his mother's rolls were a delicious and satisfying combination, but maybe they were too boring, too countrified.  Maybe people here in Orikodisata preferred more sophisticated fare.

            For over an hour, he sold to no one, although the bazaar was busier than he'd seen it all day.  People walked right past his booth without a second glance, some rushing, some strolling and chatting, some in everyday clothes, some in silk and jewels, some Anorian, some obviously foreign and from locales he couldn't even guess at.

            And then, while he was preoccupied in watching a woman at the next booth argue the price of a red dress, a beautiful young woman with diamonds in her braids and curiosity in her eyes walked right up to him.  “Good afternoon.”

            “Good afternoon.”  Nervous, he smiled at her and wiped his hands on his apron.  He wanted to brush his bangs out of his eyes, but his mother had warned him not to touch his hair or his face while he served customers.  It would look dirty, she said.

            “Your soup smells delicious.”  She leaned forward, glancing into the pot.  “Mmm.  What kinds of sandwiches do you have?”

            He rattled off a short list, nervously adding, “And I have fruit punch, sweet fruit punch, from my mother.”

            “I'll definitely take some soup, and some punch, and,” she tapped her fingers against his table, “a chopped pork sandwich.”

            “Thank you,” he said, and hurriedly got to work, pouring and scooping and quickly passing the pork through the frying pan just to warm it up.  As he got everything together, another young woman, just as expensively dressed and just as beautiful, jogged over to the first.

            “Where have you been?  We thought we'd lost you.  What are you getting?”  The second young woman peered into the pot of soup.

            “I'm getting lunch,” the first young woman said with a laugh.  “I'm hungry, and the gods only know when His Highness is going to decide to stop and eat.”

            His Highness?  At the words, the ladle slipped right from Arikapo's grasp, landing in the grass.  Mortified, he quickly retrieved a clean one, hoping that they hadn't noticed his blunder.  His Highness!  Royalty.  One of the, oh, gods above, his heart thudded in his chest, one of the Seven Siblings?  No wonder these girls were so well-dressed, so beautiful: they associated with the Seven Siblings!

            “That looks pretty good,” the second young woman said.  “Those rolls look delicious.  Oh, is that mustard?”

            She wasn't talking to him, was she?  When her companion didn't answer, Arikapo glanced up, blowing his bangs out of his eyes so he could see.  She was looking at him expectantly.  “Yes, m'lady, it's mustard.”

            Her laughter was bright, her expression pleased.  “M'lady!  Where are you from?”

            Oh, gods above, he hadn't meant to say that!  It was habit, almost instinctual by now, but he'd sworn to rid his vocabulary of it so he could associate properly in Orikodisata.  “I'm sorry, it's my father, he says it to all of his customers, it makes them laugh, and a laughing customer is a happy customer.”

            “He's very right,” the first young woman said.  “What does your father do?”

            “He's a butcher.”  With great care, he handed over the sandwich, the soup, and the punch.  “Thank you.”

            She laughed.  “You're welcome, m'lord.”

            “I'd love some of that soup, please, m'lord,” the second young woman said.  “And some punch, I think.  And could I have a roll, with some of that mustard slathered all over it?”

            “She loves mustard,” the first one said.

            “Certainly, yes,” he said quickly.

            “M'lady,” she reminded him.

            He smiled, his nervousness waning in their good nature.  “M'lady,” he added, and got to work.  He moved quickly, and he was just handing over everything when two more people joined them.

            One was a young man, handsome and well-dressed and obviously part of the girls' party.

            The second was Prince Kuladin A Rini.

            Arikapo's heart pounded in his chest, his hands shaking as he passed over the bowl of soup.  Gods above.  Prince Rini.  It couldn't be anyone else.  He was young, and his hair was black and white and short and spiky.  He wore a snug white sleeveless shirt and light pink pants, and his jewelry was silver, and he was absolutely perfect.  His high cheekbones, his firm arms, the smooth skin of his neck, the delicate softness of his lips, the length of his taut thighs.  He was perfect.

            “You're having lunch without us?” the prince asked, sounding more surprised than insulted.

            “It was Tasum's idea,” the second young woman said.  She held her own food protectively, as if guarding it from something, which made sense once Prince Rini reached right in and picked up the first girl's spoon, tasting the soup.

            “We found a couple of paintings of Herzeho,” the young man told the first girl, who Arikapo assumed was Tasum.  Tasum, of course, was Princess Orinakin A Riturihi's daughter, and now Arikapo could only guess at who this other young woman and young man were.

            “Did they show the grand temple?” she asked, snatching her spoon back from Prince Rini and giving him a pointed look.  Arikapo didn't catch the young man's reply, because that was when Prince Rini looked right at him, and smiled.

            Silver.  His eyes were silver.  Arikapo had known that, had been told that, had thought about it, but actually seeing it, in person, that vivid, shimmering, shining, polished silver, gazing right at him, shocked him so much it almost hurt.  Silver.  Prince Rini was a child of the gods from his perfect eyebrows to his no doubt perfect toes, and he had silver eyes.

            “Hi,” Prince Rini said, in as casual yet friendly a manner as Arikapo had ever heard.  Then, impossibly, his smile widened as his gaze drifted down Arikapo's body.

            Blushing, embarrassed, painfully aware of how plain his clothes were, how worn his shoes were, how skinny and awkward he appeared to people, Arikapo just smiled and wondered what he was supposed to say to one of the Seven Siblings.  He'd known that, moving to Orikodisata and working at the bazaar, he'd be closer to them, but he hadn't imagined actually encountering any of them!  Yet here, right here, was Prince Rini, on his first day.

            “You know,” Prince Rini said, in a confiding tone, his grin both slyly seductive and boyishly charming, “it's not really fair.”  He perched on the edge of Arikapo's table, making Arikapo immediately worry about the table's stability and the cleanliness of Prince Rini's pants.  “I'll bet that you can guess my name, but I don't know yours.”

            It was hard to look at Prince Rini's eyes, but it was hard not to, at the same time.  They were unreal, yet fascinating.  Captivating, but impossible.  Arikapo wanted to get closer, to get a better view of his eyelashes.  “Arikapo,” he said, aiming for a friendly, conversational tone.  “Arikapo Murinoranin.”

            Prince Rini held out his hand.  For one anxious moment, Arikapo wondered what he wanted, and wildly sought something to give him.  But then, realizing, Arikapo put out his own hand, and Prince Rini shook it.  Instead of letting go, Prince Rini kept his hand, gently tugging him just a bit closer and saying, as if it were a secret between just the two of them, something gently teasing in his expression, “I'm Prince Rini.”

            Arikapo's breath caught in his throat, and he almost had to cough to get it out.  Since the idea of coughing in Prince Rini's face horrified him, he struggled past it and said, “Yes, Your Highness.”

            Prince Rini tugged him even closer, gazing up at him with an interested expression.  “You live here in the city?”

            “Yes, Your Highness.  I just moved here.”  Prince Rini was holding his hand.  He found it hard to interpret it in any other way.  He wondered if his own grip were too tight, too loose, too awkward.

            Prince Rini's face brightened, as if he found that information interesting.  “Really?  From where?”

            “From Horatinopar.”  Why had he said that?  No one knew where that was.  “It's in the north, near-”

            The prince laughed.  “I know where Horatinopar is.”

            “You do?”  Arikapo was so surprised, it made him rude.

            “Yes, I do.”  Prince Rini lightly squeezed his hand.  “But I've never been there.  My father's been there, and to, what's the town right beside it with the restaurant with the dogs in it?  Kariseke?”

            Arikapo stared at him in amazement.  Prince Rini knew about Horatinopar and Kariseke?  And about the restaurant?  “That's Lo Usamer's restaurant.  They're his wife's pet dogs.”

            “That's a long way from here.  Why'd you move the whole way here?”  Prince Rini's grip shifted, and Arikapo thought that the prince was about to release his hand, but instead, Prince Rini took it in two hands and began to stroke it.  A slow, intimate caress.

            “Horatinopar is a very small place, and there aren't many opportunities there.”

            “Hmm.  How long have you been here?”

            “Two weeks.”  The way Prince Rini was caressing his hand, massaging for a few strokes, rubbing, then lightly petting, across his palm, along his fingers, circling his thumb, made Arikapo self-conscious and jittery and hot.  It reminded him of when his friend Rasikol had used to play with his dick after sex, at once intimate and casual, stroking it but also just idly toying with it, carelessly yet deliberately arousing him.  Doing it with intent but also just because he could.  And the idea of that, the idea of Prince Rini doing that to him even in this way, the idea of Prince Rini physically flirting with him, the fantasy of Prince Rini toying with his dick, was so arousing that Arikapo found it hard to hold still.  Heat jumped through his body, flashing, and his flesh itched, and lust shivered up his back the whole way to his scalp, and Prince Rini was touching him.

            “Do you play any sports?” Prince Rini asked.  Tilting his head to one side, he suddenly tugged again, pulling Arikapo another few inches closer.  “I bet you're a great runner.”

            Prince Rini's uncanny insight into his athletic abilities shouldn't have surprised him, but it did.  “I do run, Your Highness.”

            “You probably haven't had a chance, yet, but when you have time, you should stop by the gym over near the Teraniko Theater.  The runner's club meets there every week.  They're a lot of fun, and some of them are really competitive but some of them just love to run for the sake of it.  Or you can just go into any of Adanotu's temples and talk to the priests.”  Looking down, Prince Rini examined the healing line of a recent cut across his left forefinger.  “What happened?”

            Embarrassed, Arikapo wished that he'd had more time before giving Prince Rini the image of him as awkward and clumsy.  “I cut myself.”

            Prince Rini glanced from his hand up to his face, those arresting silver eyes making his heart seize up in his chest.  “Doing what?”

            “I was helping my father.  He's a butcher.”

            “Matanori's blessings be upon you,” Prince Rini said, shaking his head.  “I could never do that.  I like to pet animals, and I like to eat them, but all of those stages in between, I can't do it.”  He shuddered, then kissed Arikapo's finger and glanced over at his cousins.  “Erame, you want anything?”

            Prince Rini had kissed him.  Kissed his finger.  He'd actually just felt, actually just seen, Prince Rini's perfect, god-begotten lips brush lightly over his own skin.

            “I could use a sandwich,” the young man said.  He and the two young woman had, Arikapo guessed, been standing to the side, talking together.  Arikapo had ceased to be aware of the rest of the bazaar for a few minutes.

            “I could use one, too,” Tasum said.

            “You just had one,” the other young woman said.

            “Yes, and it was delicious,” Tasum said.  “I'll get another one and split it with you, you have to try it.”

            “That's what you said about those pickled eyes, too,” the young woman said.  “`They're so good, they're the best thing ever, you have to try it!'  And then-”

            “They're a delicacy,” Tasum argued.

            “They're eyes!” the young woman protested.  “Eyes!”

            “I can't eat eyes, either,” Prince Rini said to Arikapo.  “My brother does it, and he says it's not that bad, but I can't do it.  What kinds of sandwiches do you have?”

            Arikapo recited his brief list, only stammering once, as Prince Rini laced their fingers together.  Such casual intimacy.  The delicacy of Prince Rini's skin, the strength of his hand, the warmth of his touch.

            “I think Tasum wants another one of whatever she just had, and Erame probably wants the chopped beef and some soup, and I want whatever you think I'd like.  And could I have some punch?”

            As Prince Rini released his hand, Arikapo missed the prince's touch with a sharp ache.  “Yes, Your Highness.”  He'd been so intent upon gazing at Prince Rini's beauty and experiencing the sensual wonders of Prince Rini's touch that his brain had failed to capture all of Prince Rini's words, and now he had to retrieve them from his memory before they were lost forever.  The parts he remembered clearly were Prince Rini asking him to choose what Prince Rini might like, as if he could be trusted with such an undertaking, and Prince Rini asking for some punch.

            The fruit punch, he could provide, and, eager to please his beautiful ruler, he poured a cupful of punch, handing it over and-

            Horrifying disaster ensued.

            Bright red, sticky sweet fruit punch poured down Prince Rini's chest, soaking his clean white shirt, dripping down across his thighs.  “Whoa, shit,” Prince Rini said, pulling back, but it was too late.  The cup rolled across the table and came to rest against a stack of plates, and Arikapo stared in mute horror at the red punch he'd just used to douse a child of the gods.

            “I'm fine, I'm fine,” Prince Rini said quickly.  The reassurance was necessary, since Arikapo had just drowned him in punch in public, and everyone nearby was gathering around to stare.  “Just a little wet.”  As he stood, punch rolled down his legs, soaking into his pants.  Mortified, Arikapo sought a way to help, and reached for a clean cloth, wetting it in the soapy water he used to wash dishes.  “And tasty,” Prince Rini added, licking a drop from his finger.  “Your mother makes some good punch.”  Arikapo was too horrified to reply to that, and Prince Rini saw the cloth in his hand.  “Good idea.”  Stepping around behind the table, right into the booth with Arikapo, he peeled off his shirt, casually dropping it onto the table.  “I don't want to walk around all day sticky.”

            Arikapo didn't know what to do, couldn't possibly do what he half-suspected that Prince Rini expected him to do, so he just stared in silent adoration.  Prince Rini was perfect.  He was long and lean, his build slim yet masculine.  His skin was smooth and taut, with not a mark, not a scar, not a mole, not a freckle.  His chest was firm and well-defined in a pretty, still-boyish way, clearly indicating the muscular strength of the man he was developing into.  His stomach was flat and ridged with muscle.  And his nipples were a delicate, kissable pink.  They were hard, and Arikapo wondered if Prince Rini liked for his partners to kiss him there.

            “Prince Rini.”  A male voice, young, confident, from beyond the booth.  “I'd be more than happy to clean you up, Your Highness.”

            No!  No, Arikapo didn't want Prince Rini to leave.  He'd spilled bright red punch all over Prince Rini, had ruined the prince's clothes, and he had to do something to make it right.  Cleaning up his mess was the least that he could do.  He just wasn't sure how to do that.  Surely Prince Rini didn't actually want, didn't really expect…?

            “That's all right, Rokore,” Prince Rini called with a casual smile.  “Arikapo's going to help me out.  But come back around here tomorrow for some punch!  It's great stuff.”  Reaching for Arikapo's hand, he said, in a low voice, “We'll never get anything done with this crowd watching us.”  With a bright, casual, “Excuse me,” he walked away, pulling Arikapo behind himself, exiting the booth and ducking between stalls.  Following him, dazed at the reality of it, the prince's firm grip, the startling flawlessness of his lean back, the starkly contrasting black and white of his hair, the pertness of his firm ass, Arikapo was captivated by Prince Rini and found that everything else - - the crowd, the booths, the sounds and colors and scents - - was a blur, vague, meaningless.  Prince Rini was everything to him.  A child of the gods.  Half-naked, quick and graceful, lean and athletic, leading him through the chaos of the bazaar, away from his booth, away from his livelihood, to where?  It didn't matter where.  It mattered only that Prince Rini preferred for him to be somewhere else at the moment, so somewhere else was where he would be.

            “Hey, Kinasepel, hi, Morutino, we just need to wash up, had a little spill.”  With smiles and chatty small talk, Prince Rini picked up a small wooden pail of water with one hand and ducked behind a red curtain, drawing Arikapo in after him.  They were surrounded on three sides by hastily formed wooden walls, sunlight trickling through the cracks.  With blankets and woven baskets crowding the small space, there was barely any room for the two of them.  “They can't see us, but they'll hear us if we get loud.”  When Prince Rini dropped his hand, Arikapo's heart fell, but then Prince Rini curled slim fingers in the front of his shirt, drawing him near, breathing softly, warmly, against his cheek.  As his heartbeat stuttered, his breath faltered, and he found himself gazing at the shiny silver chain at Prince Rini's neck.  Prince Rini's voice was a sweet, seductive whisper, his tone deceptively casual, his accent proper and citified.  “Do you partner with men often?”

            Did he - - oh, gods above, that was what Prince Rini wanted, it really, actually was.  Oh, praise the gods, Ilanosa have mercy upon him, Prince Rini wanted him, wanted sex, wanted sex with him, wanted, oh…  Mind awhirl, Arikapo struggled to find his voice.  “Not recently, Your Highness, but I, I have.”  What did that mean, what was he even saying?

            “Not since you moved here?” Prince Rini guessed, pressing soft, oh, light, ah, sweet little kisses down the side of Arikapo's neck, so casually, so intimately, with such soft lips Arikapo started to tremble, his insides catching flame.

            “No, not, not since…”  Sucking in air, Arikapo shuddered as Prince Rini's teeth grazed his jaw.  A child of the gods was nibbling on him.  He didn't know what to do, but the heat overwhelming his veins was giving him a few ideas.

            “Then it is my duty,” Prince Rini's hands stroked over his hips, “and my pleasure,” a breath of a chuckle and then Prince Rini's kissing, nibbling mouth was gone, and Prince Rini's wonderful nearness was gone, and Arikapo looked down to see Prince Rini kneeling in front of him, “to welcome you to Orikodisata properly.”

            Oh, oh, “Ah, ah, oh!”  Gasping, Arikapo felt sudden, sharp need crash through him as his pants were lowered to his knees and Prince Rini's hands, no, mouth, was on his hard-on.  The, oh, “Yes, fuck,” gods above, was this how it went in Orikodisata?  Was this how city people gave blowjobs?  So steady and rhythmic and deep and quick that he felt like he was going to shake right out of his bones, and then so, ah, “yes, please,” so sweet and languid and affectionate that he didn't know whether to melt or come, with little caressing licks and kisses that had him off-center and tipping over into a pile of blankets before he could catch himself.

            Landing on his back, Arikapo barely had time to breathe before Prince Rini was whispering, “I don't have any oil,” and climbing up onto him.  Prince Rini wasn't just over him, Prince Rini was on him, against him, touching his body with quick, curious hands and kissing him with deep, slow licks.  Afraid to touch Prince Rini's beautiful, freely offered body, Arikapo stared in amazement as the prince undressed with the speed of lightning, kicking aside shoes and stripping out of pants with graceful alacrity.  The sensation of Prince Rini's naked heat right against his straining erection was too much for Arikapo to bear, more than he could stand, and he did what his body needed from him, did what he'd done countless times at home, taking Prince Rini's mouth with hot, plundering kisses, rolling Prince Rini beneath himself and groaning at the sleek silk heat of Prince Rini's embrace, his hips grinding with the intoxicated passion of sheer lust.

            Panting beneath him, Prince Rini kissed him back with fervent desire, gripping his ass with both hands and urging him onward.  Prince Rini had a hungry mouth and hot, silky skin and the erection of a well-hung beast, and Arikapo couldn't get enough of him.  But then Prince Rini was moaning and twitching and shaking beneath him, and Prince Rini's slim, jeweled fingers were pushing into his mouth, and he realized that Prince Rini was coming, that the mind-shattering undulations were the throes of orgasm and that the wetness spurting across his skin was the cum of a child of the gods, and then he was coming, too, pleasure and fire crackling through him as he shoved his hips and spilled his jism and sucked hard on Prince Rini's fingers so he wouldn't yell as ecstasy boiled over.

            Oh, gods above.  He'd just.  With Prince Rini.  At the.  Oh.

            Just to destroy his mind completely, Prince Rini emitted a sexy little whimper and shifted restlessly under him, grinding against him and pushing another finger into his mouth.  Unable to resist, Arikapo sucked a little more, licking at a fingertip.  “I'm not finished,” Prince Rini whispered, thumb rubbing across his lips.  “Can you stay for a little bit more?”

            More?  There was more?  There couldn't be more, but just to check, Arikapo - - oh.  Yes.  There, rising prettily and thickly and perfectly, sculpted like artwork between Prince Rini's smooth, taut thighs, was more.  He liked dicks, but he'd never seen one nearly as beautiful as this, and he wondered if Prince Rini would mind if he sucked it for a day or two.  Imagining it, he softened his mouth around Prince Rini's fingers, fantasizing about the rhythm of it, sucking and mouthing and licking with increasing energy.

            Another whimper, a soft mewling sound, and Prince Rini scissored his fingers in Arikapo's mouth.  “Can you,” more restless shifting, a catch in his breath, skin flushed, his body spread panting beneath Arikapo, “suck my,” shudder, “dick like that?”

            Could he?  There wasn't a lot to do back at home, and Arikapo had been given plenty of time to practice skills besides running and butchering.  “Your Highness,” he whispered, his breath rushing through him as he released Prince Rini's fingers and shifted down toward that beautiful, perfect dick, the bobbing head rising for his mouth, “let me welcome you to Horatinopar.”

Homecoming

For the first few minutes after the balloon landed, everything was very proper and dignified.  Then, giving in to the emotion filling the air, Mindo threw a heavy arm around Bade, and Bade gripped his father tightly, and the real greetings began.

            Bade's parents welcomed Orinakin fondly, and Tiko immediately drew him into quick conversation.  Now that international attention had been drawn to Nosupolis, the palace was inundated with visitors, letters, and queries, and Tiko hoped that Orinakin might be able to provide some advice on how to deal with the influx.  While Orinakin spoke with Tiko, he was aware of the rich joy that Bade and Vade shared only a few feet away as they embraced.  There was great happiness in the air, the satisfaction of an emotional longing, and a pale note of regret that this visit would be all too brief.

            “Hey.”  Vade pushed lightly at Bade's chest, looking him over with a critical eye.  “You look the same.”

            “It's only been a few months,” Bade argued, while Orinakin felt Bade's flash of pain at having been separated from Vade for that long.

            “Yeah, but I thought that you'd, I mean, you're with Anorian royalty, now.  I thought that you'd look more sophisticated or something.  Your clothes are fancier,” he admitted, “but you aren't.  And I thought that you'd be thinner or tanner or something, from traveling, and you aren't.  You don't look any different.”

            “Yes, well,” Orinakin smiled at Vade, “one can't improve upon perfection.”

            Vade grinned back at him.  “Yeah, I guess not.”

            Hugging Vade, Orinakin was pleased to note how good and familiar it felt.  Vade, too, was just the same, and he was happy to see it.  He had to admire Vade's emotional resilience, and Bade's, as well.  “Hello,” he murmured, running his fingers through Vade's curls.  So soft, so tightly drawn, so familiar.

            He felt a flutter of Vade's emotional and sexual response.  “Hi.”  Vade sounded breathless.

            “I'm glad that you were able to come home for the occasion,” Wirra said.

            “I had to come home for my birthday,” Bade said, as Orinakin let Vade go.

            “And for Vade's,” Orinakin added.

            “Oh.”  Bade frowned, puzzled, turning to his twin.  “Is your birthday coming up, too?”

            Bade's home was familiar to Orinakin, but now he saw it with new eyes.  It wasn't simply a castle, wasn't simply the seat of Nosupolin royalty, was now home, his vinga's home, overflowing with memories of Bade's childhood.

            Mindo showed him the particular narrow, winding, dark stairway that Bade and Vade had used to race each other up and down, effectively getting physical exercise and shortening their mother's lifespan.  Wirra took him on a tour of the nursery where Bade had learned to crawl and then walk, the room where he'd said his first words (“no” and “why” and “Vade”), the tiny outfits that she'd first dressed him in.  Tiko showed him their great-grandfather's gravy-stained diary.  Vade gleefully pointed out the priceless antique urn that Bade had once thrown up in after a first forbidden taste of huunasik, the tree which Vade had consistently beat him in racing to, the classroom where he'd been repeatedly chastised by tutor after tutor, and the window Bade had used to peep through to spy on the footmen engaging in illicit acts with the maids.

            Bade pointed out, in return, that Vade had dared him to drink and encouraged him to down far too much in his first sitting; that Vade had always started running before declaring that the race had begun; that his tutors had chastised him for Vade's misbehavior.  He couldn't blame the spying on Vade, although he did admit that, from his current adult perspective, he'd seen only the tamest of activities.

            Previously, Orinakin had not entered the princes' private chambers.  Bade's belongings had been moved to the palace in Orikodisata, and what remained of his room was less reminiscent of Bade's childhood.  But Vade's rooms were unchanged, and Orinakin was fascinated by what he saw there, and what he didn't.

            Massive furniture, dark colors, and heavy wood.  The royal blue of the Nosupolin empire featured prominently.  There were very few personal items on display; a box of Bade's letters, Bade's half of the Maiden and Wanderer set of moons.  Most of the items were royal, familial, antique: symbols of the royal crest, royal jewels, a portrait of an ancestor, a traditional Nosupolin tapestry.

            Bade's quarters had been redecorated in purple.  To Orinakin, he felt uncertain about the change at first - - it was disconcerting, to be at home but not feel homey recognition of his intimate surroundings.  It made him realize how much his life had changed.  But the purple was familiar to him, and he came to appreciate the blend of the old and the new, his old room and his new color, symbolizing his old and new families, homes, and countries.

            Their first night back in Nosupolis, Bade and Orinakin were treated to a long, celebratory dinner.  Bade proved that he could hold his huunasik much better than he had as a youth, while Orinakin found his own intoxication in the buzz of joyful happiness singing through the air.  When the guests were gone and their elders had retired for the night, Vade joined Bade and Orinakin in Bade's room.  Giving them time alone to talk, Orinakin busied himself in bathing and grooming, relaxing in the tub while he heard the hum of their voices and caught flashes of Bade's excitement.

            Drawing on a long, heavy dressing gown, he finally left the bathroom.  While Bade and Vade continued their conversation in the corner by the window, he relaxed on the bed with a relieved sigh.  It was good to be in a place that, in its own way, felt like home.  The murmur of Bade and Vade in the corner, the rise and fall of their voices as they were alternately confiding and scandalized, soothed his soul, and he closed his eyes.

            Bade and Vade continued to talk, catching each other up on their new lives, Bade sharing tales from his travels, Vade telling Bade all about the work he'd been doing on behalf of the crown.  “Everyone I see is practically jumping with excitement over your marriage.  They run to meet me in the street just to ask me if I'll pass along congratulations.  It's like you personally invented the loom.”

            “They're just happy that their prince has made a good match.  They'll be excited about your marriage, too,” Bade said.

            “Bade, even I won't be as excited about my marriage as I am about yours.  You married - - great Grengar, look at him.”  Vade's voice dropped to a whisper.  “Tell me you aren't drifting through bliss in Purnent, being married to him.  You get to have sex with that every night.”

            “Shut up,” Bade whispered, embarrassment fading in and out.  “I don't know if he's asleep yet.  And we don't have sex every single night, anyway.”

            “What?” Vade demanded.  Half-asleep, Orinakin wanted to smile; Vade sounded outraged.  “What's wrong with you?  How could you not-”

            “There's more to marriage than sex,” Bade argued.  Then, reluctantly, he admitted, “We want to, but when we're on the balloon, everyone can hear us, there's not enough privacy.  As soon as we land somewhere, we make up for it, but when we're in the air, we can't.  Not…not satisfactorily.  We do things, we…  But I get loud.  I can't help it.”

            Orinakin felt the heat of Bade's embarrassment, and a different sort of heat simmered through him, as he thought of the frustrated whimpers that arose so quickly each night in the balloon as their bodies sought each other in the dark, as he thought of grinding against Bade's hot, half-naked body and clamping his jeweled hand over Bade's mouth and whispering, “Come with me, vinga, come with me, almost there, so close, please, almost.”  As he thought of finally landing, and tumbling Bade across a series of beds in a series of places, making love with fumbling haste and searing passion, starved for each other, seeking satiation in new heights and with desperate urgency.

            “Wait, then you didn't have sex last night?” Vade whispered.  “Why are you sitting here talking to me?  Orinakin A Nimi is in your bed.  Okay, so he's in your bed every night, you don't have to gloat about it, but don't take it for granted!  Do you know what I would give to have an Anorian prince in my bed?  To have anyone, an Anorian or a prince or even a man, in my bed?  You have to make up for what I can't have!  I console myself every night with the thought that at least one of us is still getting nonstop Anorian sex.  Don't ruin this for me!”

            “I haven't seen you in months,” Bade protested.  “I want to talk to you.”

            “Talk to me tomorrow!”  Vade's voice lowered to a scandalized, conspiratorial hush.  “He's naked under that robe, isn't he?”

            A sliver of happiness, of amusement, of pride.  “Yeah, probably.”

            “Oh, forget you,” Vade muttered.  “If you won't have sex with him, I will.”

            Bade laughed, and a tussle ensued.  Bade and Vade's rapport reminded Orinakin of his own twin, of his own brothers, and he felt a sweet pang in his heart.  Glad that Bade was with Vade again, enjoying their happy skirmish, he rolled over, flipping his damp hair over his shoulder.  Truth be told, he ached to share lovesex with Bade again, but he considered it much more important for Bade to reconnect with Vade.

            Hastily hushing each other at his movement, Bade and Vade fell suspiciously silent.  Then, uncertainly, “He is asleep, isn't he?” Vade whispered.

            “I don't know.”

            Irritation.  “He's your husband, you should know these things by now.”

            “Orinakin, are you awake?”

            At that, Orinakin had to chuckle.  “Yes.”  He loved that Bade had come right out and asked him.  “Come to bed.”  He was used to traveling in a variety of climates, but Nosupolis was cool, and he liked the idea of cuddling up to his warm, furry Bade.

            “I told you,” Vade muttered.  “The gods know what he heard.  Why did you let me-”

            “You, too,” Orinakin said.  Sleepily, he wriggled under the covers and tossed his robe aside.  With a shiver, he tugged a heavy quilt up over his shoulder.  Bade and Vade engaged in the expected back-and-forth, Vade pretending to object and making Bade talk him into it.  Eventually, Bade got into bed, all warm chest and firm thighs and hairy shins, and Orinakin pressed snugly to him, melting against his body heat and feeling an immediate flush of arousal.

            “Hey,” Bade murmured, and drew his hair back with one hand, pressing deliciously intimate, warm kisses down his neck.  If we need to kick Vade out for an hour to make love, he'll understand.

            The sweet burn of Bade's stubble, which Orinakin had developed a fully sexual response to, the erotic intimacy of Bade's embrace, and the hungry itch of Orinakin's libido urged him to respond to Bade's offer, to get what he wanted, to take what he needed, to feel the intoxicating blend of aggression and submission and domination and acquiescence that came whenever he drove Bade to fuck him until Bade's orgasm exploded through them both.

            But this wasn't about him and his needs; this was about Bade and Vade, being home together, turning twenty-three together, sharing precious days together.  His sexual needs were secondary to Bade and Vade's emotional needs.  If anyone understood that, Orinakin should.

            “In the morning,” he whispered, arching against Bade's strong, masculine body and dragging his fingernails across Bade's thigh, “you'll take me until I'm sated.”

            “Gods above,” Vade whispered.

            “Yes,” Bade breathed, pulling his hips closer, until their bodies were snug and he could feel Bade's arousal hardening beside his own.

            Imagining the powerful, shattering explosion of Bade's orgasm wracking his body, imagining the rough sex of Bade's moans in his ears, imagining the solid length of Bade's erection plunging into him, Orinakin shuddered.  He hadn't meant to instigate this, but how had he underestimated his own fierce passion for Bade?  Tomorrow, tomorrow Bade would satisfy him, tomorrow he'd pleasure Bade, tomorrow they'd pursue ecstasy together.

            But tonight was - - oh, Ilanosa above, the feel of Bade's silk underwear rubbing between their slowly rocking hips, heated by their passion - - no, no, tonight-

            “An hour,” Bade grunted, and Orinakin found himself on his back, moaning helplessly and arching in desperate abandon as Bade's knee shoved his thighs apart.  “Come back in an hour.”

            “What makes you think I'm leaving?” Vade demanded.

            “The oil,” Orinakin groaned, gripping Bade's arm and rocking himself upward, feeling pleasure and need burn through him as he felt Bade's solidity, Bade's masculinity, Bade's furry chest and firm stomach and hardening, lengthening dick against him.  The oil, he wanted Bade inside him, wanted Bade to fuck him, wanted-

            “Shit,” Vade whispered, as Orinakin shoved Bade back and ground down against him, gripping his body and kissing him fiercely.  Shifting into Bade's touch as sure, familiar hands rode his spine and cupped his ass, Orinakin shuddered into Bade's tense, needful groan.  “Okay, okay,” Vade whispered, sounding overwhelmed.

            “Get the - - ah, ah, Orinakin - - get - - oh, yes, yes - - in his trunk, in - - I'm going to fuck you so hard,” Bade promised, surging up beneath him, sending a flare of heat racing through his body, “I'm going to make you yowl like a cat - - the key's on the, in the, the-”

            “Are you - - I can't - - oh, gods,” Vade said, panicked.  There was a flurry of movement around the room as Orinakin rolled onto his back, yanking Bade over himself and cupping Bade's face in both hands, thrusting his tongue into Bade's mouth as his legs wrapped around Bade's waist.  He didn't want Bade's underwear between them, wanted nothing between them at all, and he pushed it down, sharing in Bade's groan as their naked erections made contact.

            The passion between them had quickly spiraled out of control, and it threatened to break loose as Bade panted, softly, “I'm going to come,” with a weak and overwhelmed groan.

            “No, no,” it wasn't time, yet, “no, yes,” he wasn't ready, but he could feel it starting, that rush toward the end, that hot pulse of light already starting up his spine, that-

            “Orinakin,” Bade panted, “Orinakin.”

            “Oh!”  With a sharp convulsion, Orinakin felt it overtake him, felt Bade's pleasure explode inside him.  A sharp burst of ecstasy, pulse after reverberating pulse of climax, the wet spill of Bade's seed across his chest as his spine arched and his breath shuddered out of him.  Oh, gods above, oh, yes…  “More,” he panted, clawing at Bade's chest and pushing.  “More, I, Bade, oh,” he was so hard, he ached with it, and while part of him was sluggish with thick satiation, the rest of him was only more eager to find further release.

            “What - - that's not it,” Bade protested.

            “What the - - that's all I could find,” Vade whispered furiously.

            “It's in his trunk.”

            “I looked in his trunk!”

            “It's little, it's round, it's purple-”

            “Everything's purple!”

            Vade and Bade's frustration sizzled along Orinakin's sexual frustration.  “Just get out, go, let me get it,” Bade whispered.

            “Thank you!” Vade shot back, hurrying from the room.

            As Bade got up, Orinakin rolled over, pulling in his own arousal, the lingering traces of Vade's shocked lust, Bade's sexual satisfaction and, already, anticipation.  It was a treasure to have found someone whose appetites matched his own, someone who could rotate through erotic stages as many times as he could.  Just as he reached down a hand to stroke himself, he felt Bade climb back onto the bed, heard a soft, low moan and felt Bade's fingertips caress down the cleft of his ass.

            Oh, gods above, yes.  Groaning, tipping his head back, Orinakin gripped his erection with a shaky moan and moved into Bade's touch.  “I want to feel you deep inside,” his breath caught on another moan at the light flick of Bade's tongue, “deep and thrusting fiercely into me.”

            “I'm going to fuck you,” Bade promised in hoarse words, stroking smooth oil in slow circles around his asshole, making him choke on his own need as he pressed back against Bade's touch, “with the ferocity of a rampaging bull.”  They groaned, together, as Bade's fingertip slid in, Orinakin biting on his lower lip and rocking back, muscles quivering to accept penetration, sweet pleasure passing through him in thick waves.  “Come for me with the frequency of a spring rain.”

            Moaning, Orinakin shuddered and did just that.

            It was wrong to masturbate to thoughts of his brother's husband, so Vade did his best to keep his mind blank as he jacked off onto his pillow.  Coming with a harsh groan, he flopped onto his back, blinking in the darkness.  Holy shit.  Talk about a homecoming.  He'd never rid his mind of the image of Orinakin, naked, arching, begging for it, telling Bade to take him.

            And Bade, instead of doing it, had just come all over Orinakin.  Vade was going to have to explain how these things worked.  When an Anorian prince begged for oil and dick, it was absolutely imperative for those things to be supplied, immediately.  Vade couldn't imagine denying a horny Anorian prince anything, ever, for any reason.

            Bade was spoiled.  Too much exposure to Orinakin and that privileged lifestyle had ruined him, if he was taking Anorian sex for granted.

            But he really didn't seem any different.  Vade had, secretly, in dark corners of his mind, worried that Bade would become changed, cosmopolitan, sophisticated, Anorian.  But Bade was still Bade, still talked to him the same way, still blushed with the same frequency, still treated him like an equal, still spoke to their parents and even Tiko with honest deference.  Vade was relieved, and proud of him.  They'd always been able to count on each other, and he could trust that would never change.

            Vade fell asleep to the comforting knowledge that, finally, Bade was back, that Bade's room was once again occupied.

            He wakened to a thud and a whisper and a knee in his back.  “Move over,” Bade insisted, shoving him forward.

            “What the-”  Vade grunted in surprise and pushed at Bade as Bade shoved him to the edge of the bed.  And then his covers were being yanked back and Bade was getting in beside him, and it was dark but Vade was pretty sure that was Orinakin A Nimi getting into his bed.  “Great Grengar,” Vade whispered, pinching Bade.  “What are you doing?”

            “I've slept in your bed before,” Bade pointed out, shuffling pillows.

            “He hasn't,” Vade whispered, scandalized and embarrassed and ludicrously aroused and, gods above, Orinakin could probably sense all of that, which just made it all so, so much worse.

            “You've slept in his bed,” Bade said.  “It's only fair for you to share yours, too.”

            Oh, shit, there wasn't cum on his sheets, was there?!

            “I missed this,” Orinakin murmured, and his hand stroked lightly down Bade's chest.  “Sharing a bed with our brothers.”

            “You want to sleep beside him?” Bade offered.

            Vade pinched him again.

            “I think we're fine here.”  Orinakin sounded kind of amused.  Ah, shit, he'd probably heard or felt Bade getting pinched through their bond thing.  “Maybe next time.”

            And what did that mean?

            He was home again.  With his family.  In his cold, damp castle.  With the mountains and rolling green hills and the herds of sheep.  With Nosupolin voices and Nosupolin faces and Nosupolin names.  The familiar scents, familiar food, familiar cool breeze.

            Bade spent time meeting with his father and Tiko and their advisors.  Spent time with his mother, catching up on local and national and familial news.  Climbed the foot of the mountain with Vade, just to see if they could still do it.

            Word had spread, of course, that he was back in the country and that Orinakin was with him, so whenever he stepped out of the castle there were crowds of people waiting to get a glimpse of him.  Or probably of Orinakin.  He'd always followed the traditional path of avoiding social interactions with commoners, and he envied Tiko and Vade's recent time getting to know Nosupolins.  When Tiko suggested a ride, he was quick to agree.  The four of them saddled up and went out.  They took a meandering country path away from the castle, passing through the castle grounds and surrounding farmland.  On the way back, Vade recommended taking a well-traveled road, and so they did.  As they passed a party on horseback and wagon, instead of moving by like they always had, they slowed, and pulled up alongside the party, and exchanged greetings and civil small talk before passing on.

            The third time they did that, actual conversation took place.  It was strange and new for Bade to slow his horse's gait to keep pace with a commoner's wagon to facilitate conversation on the quality of care offered by the local doctors.  Tiko had a very understanding yet regal air, and Vade genuinely seemed to know what he was talking about.

            Bade wondered if this was what it was like for Orinakin, sometimes.  Being away for weeks and months at a time, then coming home and seeing his brothers so much more familiar with the people and their problems, feeling out of touch with his own citizens.  Orinakin was away doing important work for the pharaoh, for the country, but that prevented him from keeping a close eye on what was happening at home.

            Bade had known that marrying Orinakin would keep him away from Nosupolis.  He'd known that it would be a place he'd visit, but not somewhere he could really stay, at least not until Kudorin's children began to take over.  He didn't regret his choice to get married, but he did regret missing all of this.  Missing getting to know Nosupolin citizens, missing getting to see his brothers do this work.  He was proud of Tiko, and exceptionally proud of Vade.

            As they parted ways from the wagon, Bade nudged his horse alongside Vade's.  “When did you learn all of that?”

            “Hey, with you gone so much of the time, I had to find something to do,” Vade teased.  Then, more seriously, he shrugged.  “Father and Tiko want me to be familiar with what everyone's complaints are, and one of the things I hear about the most is people who get hurt or get sick and don't get better fast enough, or at all.  So I've been asking around.”

            “You're really doing something,” Bade said.  Vade was contributing, from inside the country, and directly helping their father and Tiko.  Exactly as they'd always wanted to do.

            “I know how much you want to contribute,” Vade said.  “If you want, we can trade.  You can do this kind of important work, and I can travel with Orinakin.”

            “Well, thank you for the generous offer,” Bade said, “but I think that Orinakin would prefer me.”

            “He won't even notice the difference.”

            “Right.  Because Orinakin's really bad at telling twins apart.  And the guy who can hear every thought in my head isn't going to notice a difference between us.”

            Vade grinned.  “Let me take your place tonight and let's test it.”

            For his birthday, Bade received a lot of purple gifts.  And a lot of traditional Nosupolin gifts, things he could take back to Orina Anoris, things to remind him of home.  Their parents and Tiko typically made an effort to offer different gifts to him and to Vade, but most other people didn't bother, so Vade, as usual, received a lot of items that were either exact copies of Bade's, or the same item in a different color, usually royal Nosupolin blue.

            The ball that evening was the first of Bade's birthday celebrations to include so many different people from so many different places.  He wasn't used to seeing this many foreign dignitaries in Nosupolis, but Orinakin assured him that he'd better get used to it.

            So many things were changing.  As he danced with the queen of Granete, he wondered what she thought of the changes.  He wondered what he thought of the changes.  He was married now.  Not just married, but married to the Anorian royal diplomat, and dressed in purple, and traveling the world, and moving in important circles, and related to a deity.  Nosupolis wasn't overlooked anymore, wasn't ignored; ambassadors and politicians and royalty and various important personages had come not only for Orinakin's visit, but to speak with his father, to see what Nosupolis had to offer.  His mother played hostess to different people at dinner every week, as visitors came by.  His father was receiving invitations to events no Nosupolin had ever attended.  Tiko was one of the busiest men Bade had ever seen.  And Vade was doing what Bade had only dreamt of, here at home.

            Bade was happy for them, and proud that he'd done his part to bring these changes about, and sad that he couldn't be a part of all of it here.  He didn't regret for one second his time with Orinakin, but he wished that he could be at home more often, wished-

            As the dance came to a close, Bade escorted the queen off of the dance floor, returning her to the king.  Turning, he felt a familiar hand on his arm, and turned to smile at Orinakin.  He was about to speak, when Orinakin extended a hand with the traditional flourish.  “I ask you, Your Highness, for this dance.”

            There was a quarter-second where Bade was puzzled, and then a half-second where he laughed, and then a fuzzy moment of shock.  “Orinakin, no,” he whispered, hoping that no one had seen.  Was hoping that people weren't watching the purple-haired child of the gods too much to ask?  “We can't-”

            “No one does,” Orinakin said, his voice quiet and friendly but firm.  “That doesn't mean that no one can.”

            But they couldn't!  No matter what was done behind closed doors, dancing was male-female only.  No one danced with a member of the same sex!  Never, ever.  That wasn't how things were done.  Bade refused to embarrass his family by making a spectacle of himself.  For weeks, tongues would wag about Prince Bade and his new foreign ways and how that Anorian husband of his was scandalously strange.  No, he wouldn't do it.

            “I won't do anything scandalous, I promise.  I won't humiliate you.  I just want to dance with my new husband on his birthday.”

            Knowing that Orinakin was doing this out of sincere love, Bade realized that it was irrational to be angry.  But he resented Orinakin's attitude.  Wasn't Orinakin supposed to be respectful of cultures?  Wasn't Orinakin supposed to be respectful of tradition?  Wasn't Orinakin supposed to be sensitive and empathetic?  Then why couldn't he understand that this wasn't the time or the place for-

            “Bade,” his mother's voice said in the discreet yet chiding tone she'd often used on him and Vade in public in their younger years, “please dance with your husband.  It's rude to make him wait for your hand.”  With a rustle of skirts, she moved on past him.

            What…

            No longer waiting for him, Orinakin took his hand and led him onto the dance floor, where they found their spot among the other couples.  Bade didn't understand what had just happened to him, so he hoped that, as usual, Orinakin would have an answer.

            “And now you trust me again?” Orinakin murmured, flashing a teasing smile.  “I do respect traditions, Bade, and I also know when they've become flexible.  I am sensitive, which is why I broached the subject with your father yesterday.  I wasn't remotely surprised to learn that Tiko is very much in favor of dancing with other men, largely because he likes the idea of having certain important men as a captive audience for his plans, at least for a few minutes.”

            His father?  His father had agreed to this?

            “I sense that,” Orinakin said, “your father is so pleased with the political alliances that have formed from our marriage, that he will be very lenient with me.  And with you.  Now would be a good time to ask him for whatever you want.”

            As he moved through the dance, Bade saw a powerful duke bowing over his mother's hand, saw his father dancing with a princess, saw Tiko amid a cluster of politicians.  Saw Nosupolins mixing with powerful foreign leaders.  Saw Vade, who was flirting with the powerful duke's son, flash him a smile, then recognize that he was dancing with Orinakin and give him a disbelieving look.

            He was at home, with his family.  Nosupolis was growing.  He was dancing with Orinakin in the castle in front of his father, with his father's blessing.  He had two amazing homelands and two wonderful families and a full, rich, busy life.

            He smiled at Orinakin as the dance slowed to a halt.  “I have everything that I want.”

            Orinakin's hand slipped into his.  The complex purples of Orinakin's eyes were mysterious and beautiful in the candlelight.  “I do, too.”

            “You have to write to us,” Tiko ordered as servants readied the basket.

            “I do,” Bade protested.

            “Every day,” his mother added.

            “I do!”

            “Well, write twice, then,” Vade said.  “Are you ready to go?”

            “Almost.”  He was only missing Orinakin, who was off to one side, deep in conversation with his father.  The balloon was ready, and there was a flurry of good-byes, Tiko hugging him, his mother kissing him, Tiko giving him lists of instructions, his mother hugging him.  Then Orinakin came to say good-bye to everyone, and Bade hugged his father.  “Good-bye.  Thank you.”  For his birthday celebration, for his gifts, for being supportive, for letting him marry Orinakin, for being so good to Vade, for everything.

            “Good-bye.”  His father cleared his throat.  “Let's make your twenty-third year a little less exciting than your twenty-second.”

            At that, Bade had to laugh.  “I'll try.”

            While his mother asked Orinakin to take care of him, and his father asked Orinakin to keep him out of trouble, Bade looked at Vade.  “Happy birthday.”

            “Yeah.  Thanks for coming home.”

            They avoided each other's eyes.

            “It was good to see you,” Bade offered.

            “Yeah.  Good to see you, too.”  Vade glanced around.

            They didn't have time for this!  Seizing Vade in a tight embrace, Bade whispered, “Happy birthday and I love you-”

            “I love you too and I can't believe you're already leaving-”

            “-and I'm proud of you, I'm so proud of you-”

            “-it feels like you just got here, it feels like we're always saying good-bye-”

            “-and you just keep doing it, you keep helping Father and Tiko, you stay in touch with the people-”

            “-and I can't believe you're running off for more exotic places-”

            “-I know that I shouldn't be jealous but I am, I can't help it-”

            “-with Orinakin, of all people, I'm so jealous of you I want to throw up right here-”

            “-but I know that you're doing an incredible job and I love you-”

            “-if you don't fuck his gorgeous, gorgeous ass every time he asks for it I will hunt you down and hurt you-”

            “-and I miss you every day-”

            “-and he shouldn't even have to ask for it, why is that even happening?!”

            “-and you have to come to see us as soon as we get back to Orina Anoris.”

            “As long as there's any life left in your body, you should devote yourself to keeping him happy.”  Vade blinked.  “Of course I'm coming to visit you!”

            Bade squeezed him.  “I love you.”

            Vade squeezed back.  “I love you, too.  Have a safe journey.”

            Watching the high, rough mountains fade into the distance, Bade felt a tremor of homesickness ripple through him.  There it went.  His home.  When would he see it again?  When would he return?  How different would things be then?

            “They'll always be different.”  Sitting beside him, Orinakin wrapped an arm around his waist, watching the horizon with him.  “You'll come home, and your parents will look older, and Tiko will be engaged, and Vade will be more mature and competent than ever.  But they'll love you the same, and they'll laugh with you the same, and they'll want to hear about what's new in your life as much as you'll want to hear what's new in theirs.  And the mountains, the mountains will be there, just the same as always.”

            Bade glanced at Orinakin, feeling reassured, knowing that Orinakin knew all about being homesick, glad to be able to share even that with him.  “And you'll be there?”

            Orinakin's smile was warm, and Orinakin's kiss was even warmer.  “Vinga.  I'll always be there.”

A Prince's Tale

Gael had been born the third son of Erlric and Caipea.  Their other two sons, Elwuud and Daene, had been born twenty years earlier, and were rough, hearty, and shaggy-haired like King Erlric and most other Nalapkians.  Gael, however, had been an astonishingly beautiful child, and fair and delicate like his mother's people.

            While Elwuud and Daene argued in council halls, made trips on King Erlric's behalf, got married, bore children, and made speeches to thunderous applause, Gael grew up, prettily, daintily.  Erlric died, and Elwuud took the throne.  With her husband gone, Elwuud's wife straining to take her place, and her older sons busy with their own full lives, Caipea spent a lot of her time visiting with friends, traveling to her homeland, and doting on her beautiful boy, Gael.  She praised him to everyone and made sure that he wanted for nothing.  Since she lacked a companion, and he wasn't needed at home, Caipea took Gael with her on her travels.  The two of them journeyed extensively, taking an elaborate entourage wherever they went.

            Gael had never been considered an equal by his brothers.  He was closer in age to their children than to them.  Even as he grew older, they had no use for him in the government.  They were grooming their own sons for the throne.

            Extremely bright, Gael made a fine scholar.  He had a gift for languages which was only enhanced by his travels, and he read voraciously.  He disdained most athleticism as too much physical labor but enjoyed horseback riding.  He liked dinners and balls and parties, most especially when he was the guest of honor.

            His friends were all of high-ranking nobility.  He did not associate with commoners.  He was, after all, a prince.

            His servants complained that he demanded more work than anyone in the castle, and with less thanks.  With no thanks, actually.  In Gael's mind, since it was a servant's duty to serve, they were only doing their jobs; why thank them?

            When his formal education ended, his mother encouraged him to expand his talents.  She arranged for tutors to educate him in painting, in playing the aricapell, in singing, in writing.  While he excelled in each discipline, he found his tutors dull, found each subject too easy, and grew bored.  The paintings he'd bothered to finish, he had no interest in selling, because he considered it beneath him to earn any money.  There was great demand for them, however, and he carelessly allowed close friends to take them home.  He played the aricapell and sang in private performance upon request, to great acclaim.  His poetry was circulated and, with his permission, his mother had it collected and bound for sale, the proceeds going to the church.

            He was so well-read, so good with languages, and had such a fine hand, that he would have been a perfect scribe.  The work was, of course, beneath him, but when his mother asked him to translate and copy a volume of history for her brother, Gael humbly acquiesced.  Doing such work for a king, on behalf of his doting mother, the queen, was acceptable.

            His penmanship was so flawless, his translation so beautiful, that the king showed it off to everyone as a prized possession.  One of the people who admired it most was Prince Orinakin, royal diplomat and brother to the pharaoh of Orina Anoris.  After meeting with Gael, and making note of the prince's intelligence, talents, manners, and beauty, Orinakin invited Gael to Orina Anoris to court the pharaoh, Anosukinom.

            Everyone who knew Gael admitted that he seemed well-suited to the role.  His brothers finally saw value in him; it was time, they agreed, that he contribute something besides his good looks.  And so Gael's things were packed, and his mother tearfully kissed him good-bye, and he joined Prince Orinakin on a journey to Orina Anoris.

            Gael had met the important suitors before.  He'd known Xio Voe and Jonan for years.  Wamesh was a Chanitelle - - the son of one of the lesser brothers, but the name still meant something, Gael supposed.

            Having traveled a lot in his life, Gael was used to time in a balloon.  He talked with Heir Voe, with Orinakin and Bade, and with Jonan.  He wrote letters home, and he read.  He noticed that Xio Voe spent a lot of time with Bade and with Jonan, noticed that Wamesh and Lansester had already become fast friends.  He didn't have any special friends in the balloon, and didn't bother to make any.  He was used to having many acquaintances but few friends.  He wasn't very close to many people, and rarely confided in anyone but, on occasion, his mother.  He marveled at how close Wamesh and Lansester had become, how quickly.  He wondered why they found it so easy.

            Were they particularly simple people?  Lansester seemed like an intelligent man.  He spoke quickly and was more decisive, more strong-willed, than Wamesh.  Gael wondered if there was anything sexual between them; maybe that would explain their closeness.  He couldn't imagine jeopardizing an opportunity to wed the pharaoh for something as base as sex.

            Personally, Gael rarely engaged in sex.  It was never worth it.  All of the undressing and the moving and the sweating, and for what?  He preferred to masturbate.

            The only men he'd ever been with had been wealthy, titled, and handsome, and he'd been disappointed every time.  He refused to believe that commoners were any better.  Sex itself, apparently, was overrated.  A pity, too, because he so rarely got the opportunity to show off the beauty of his naked body.

            When he reached Orina Anoris, he found the pharaoh to be as generous, handsome, and enigmatic a man as he'd been told.  The pharaoh told him how beautiful he was, and he returned the compliment.  They spent quiet hours together, sitting in the courtyard.  The pharaoh would bring a book, and Gael would read aloud while the pharaoh listened intently, gazing at him with dazzling eyes.  He would read for a time in one language, and then the pharaoh would ask for another, and he would switch, translating as he went, and then the pharaoh would ask for a third language, and he would translate into that one.

            On occasion they shared a meal together, and the pharaoh talked with him about Orina Anoris' largely egalitarian society.  There were the Seven Siblings and the king and queen, and then there was everyone else.  The pharaoh's wife had been a commoner.  There was no nobility.  All of the princes' friends were commoners, because if they wanted any friends besides their brothers, there was no one else but commoners to consider.  The pharaoh suggested that Gael consider making friends with commoners.

            Gael thought that it was a frivolous suggestion.  He didn't require new friends, and if he did, he could find one with wealth and a title.  He had no need to become closely acquainted with poor, common people.

            When he wasn't with the pharaoh, Gael visited with the rest of the royal family, learning about Orina Anoris.  And he sat in his rooms, or in the courtyard, reading.  Anosanim was happy to talk about art with him, and supplied him with paints, an easel, canvas, and brushes.  He painted a scene from the courtyard, a grouping of flowers.

            In Orina Anoris, as he'd always done, when he was finished with something, he left it where it was, expecting servants to come behind him and take care of it.  Anorian servants weren't as quick as his, a point he was too polite to mention, and so on occasion, when he left something in the courtyard, it remained there for some time.  One afternoon, when he strolled back into the courtyard, he saw Wamesh and Lansester there, looking at his painting.

            “No,” Lansester was saying, “it's too stylized to be his.  Prince Talin paints much more exactly.”

            “I don't think it belongs to Heir Voe,” Wamesh said.  “Does Jonan paint?”

            “Prince Gael might.  He seems like he'd have all of those skills.”  Lansester touched his fingers lightly to the edge of the canvas, studying the painting.

            “I doubt it.  That would be too much like work.  If he lifted a paintbrush, he'd probably have to spend the next week in bed.”

            Gael's ears burned, and he quickly backed away, moving behind trees, furious, pained, not wanting to be seen.  The nerve, the gall, of that commoner, that senator, slandering him, saying such-

            “He's not that bad,” Lansester said.

            Wamesh chuckled.  “I'm not saying that I wouldn't want to spend the week in bed with him.  And trust me, I'd be willing to do all of the work there.”

            “With Prince Gael,” Lansester said, “that wouldn't be work, that would be pure pleasure.”  He'd continued to study the painting, and he touched it, briefly, again.  “I wonder if this is his.  It's exquisitely done.  The layering of colors displays a mature-”

            “For the tenth time,” Wamesh said, “are you sure that you're not an artist masquerading as a judge?  You know more artistic terms than legal terms.”

            “I know more artistic terms than you know legal terms,” Lansester said, laughing.

            “When you talk with Prince Anosanim, it's all names and techniques and references and which kinds of bristles make the best brushes.  When are you going to admit that you're an artist?”

            “I'll admit that I'd like to be an artist,” Lansester said.  “But judges get salaries.  Artists just get depressed.”

            Gael had been spoken of in dismissive terms before.  Most frequently, in his hearing, by his brothers, his brothers' wives, his brothers' children.  Never by his mother or anyone he considered a friend.  Never by a commoner, a mere senator, someone so crude as to make rough sexual jokes.  Was the innuendo meant as a compliment?  He did not take it as such.

            Frankly, he'd expected better of a Chanitelle.  And he had gotten better from Lansester.  The judge, at least, respected Gael's artistic talents.  And while “He's not that bad” was a pitiful defense, it was better than what his brothers offered.

            It was that evening when someone knocked at his door and a servant ushered Lansester in to see him.  While Gael had wondered, numerous times, why Orinakin had brought Lansester to court the pharaoh, he'd always conceded the fact of Lansester's quiet, masculine beauty.  Lansester was a very handsome man, with an athletic build, thick brown hair, and eyes of a not quite blue, not quite green, almost teal shade.  He moved with appealing confidence.  When he entered Gael's sitting room, he bowed respectfully.

            “Justice Steppins.”  Gael easily fell into speaking Turerngo, a language that any educated Henberian would know as well as Anorian.  “Is there something that you would ask of me?”  Strange, for a commoner to approach him alone.

            “Your Highness, you speak Turerngo?”  There was the faintest of rasps to Lansester's voice, what Gael had been told was the result of a childhood illness that had damaged his throat, and it brought a slightly rough edge to his words, a somehow masculine contrast to the smooth voices of Gael's personal acquaintance.  It should have reminded Gael of Lansester's humble upbringing; instead, it only made Lansester's poise strike him more strongly, made him more aware of the refined confidence of Lansester's words.  It was easy enough to sound genteel when one was born a lord; more difficult to do without that.

            “I learned it in my travels.”  It occurred to Gael that he could offer Lansester a chair.  He didn't like to encourage familiarity, but Lansester was the pharaoh's honored guest.

            “Do you also paint?  Senator Chanitelle and I came across a painting in the courtyard this afternoon, and its mature beauty caught my eye.  I can't imagine that Heir Voe spends his time painting, so I thought that it might be yours.”

            No, he certainly would not offer Lansester a seat.  “I am sure that Prince Nisutalin will be happy to hear that you find painting a pastime unworthy of The Heir.  Yes, the still life was mine.”

            Lansester stepped forward.  “I apologize, Your Highness, I intended no insult.  I misspoke.  I meant only that Heir Voe is a man so focused on his political work, he likely spends little time in finer pursuits.  I have great love for art, myself.  I am no painter, but I admire those who are.  Your own painting was captivating in its depth.  The way that you interpreted the play of light and shadow was astonishing.  Do you paint often?”

            Mollified, Gael gestured to a nearby chair.  “Please, have a seat.  No, I paint only rarely, now.”

            They talked at length about painting, about techniques, about mediums.  Lansester was very knowledgeable on the subject, and his opinions seemed reliable.  He was open about what he liked and candid about what he didn't, without fawning or rudeness.  He talked so much that Gael had to become assertive about jumping in, and, much to his surprise, Gael found himself in a rapid, exciting back-and-forth conversation, making his points with earnest conviction and defending himself passionately.  He felt intellectually challenged, in an energizing way.

            When the time came to dress for dinner, Gael parted from Lansester with reluctance.  He got along very well with his hosts, and Xio Voe and Jonan were not strangers, but he didn't have any real friends here.  He'd thought that he wouldn't need any, but maybe he'd been wrong.

            Lansester, of course, didn't require his friendship.  Lansester and Wamesh were practically inseparable.  But now that he'd had the experience, Gael thought about how much more enjoyable his stay would be if he could spend his nights talking with a friend.

            Stay, yes.  He didn't think that he would marry the pharaoh.  He had nothing but wonderful things to say about the pharaoh, but he felt no inclination to wed.  He would remain a respectable length of time - - until the first two suitors had left, possibly - - and then quietly return home.

            Truth be told, he preferred travel to being at home.  He loved his homeland, and he found the company of his friends there pleasant.  But when he was at home, he was painfully aware of his brothers' resentment, and their wives' and children's disapproval.  It was at best an awkward atmosphere; at worst, intolerable.  His mother was older now, and less inclined to travel, but Gael couldn't bear to be at home for too long a stretch.  He would either have to travel without her, or find a way to make staying at home endurable.

            He didn't know what could do that.

            “Perhaps if you had a hobby,” the pharaoh suggested, braiding strands of grass together.

            “I have tried singing and painting.  I enjoy riding, but I would rather not fill all of my hours with it.”  Gael sipped at his juice, watching a butterfly make its way around a low bush.

            The pharaoh's tone was mild.  “You enjoy writing and translating.”

            Gael stiffened.  “I am not a scribe.  You spoke of a hobby.  That is work.”

            “It is work if you get paid for it, or if you do not enjoy it, or if it requires effort.  If you like it, and you do it for free, and if it comes easily to you, then it is simply a hobby.  If you choose what to translate yourself, and keep the translations or present them as gifts, then no one will consider it a job of any kind.”

            “It is the work of scholars, but work nonetheless.  I will not lower myself-”

            “You're very worried about lowering yourself,” the pharaoh remarked.  “Do you think that if you lower yourself too far, you'll tip over and fall down?  Do you think that you'll lose your place?  Who would ever challenge your place as a prince?  Who would ever attempt to have you removed from the royal family or from the castle?  Who would separate you from your wealth?”

            Answers to those questions hot in his mind, Gael felt sick with shame.  They were supposed to be rhetorical questions, but they weren't.  He was useless to his family - - worse than useless, a burden.  They'd commented more than once that the money they lavished on him - - money which he “wasted” - - could be better spent elsewhere.  That the rooms he occupied, as was his right by birth, should be the realm of his brothers' children.  Behind his mother's back, his brothers had argued among themselves, as their wives had, about which child most deserved certain possessions of his.  No one had spoken a word on his behalf.  Apparently, whoever deserved his things, he wasn't the one.

            “Gael.”  The pharaoh's voice was unbearably kind, and Gael turned his face away, blinking.  He'd never cried in front of his brothers, never done it anywhere but in private.  It would be just one more confirmation that he was a weak waste of a title.  “When they come to see you as you are, when they come to appreciate you and respect you and embrace you, the choice to accept them or reject them will be yours.  But until that day comes, you have your own life to live.  Not theirs.  No matter the words that they mutter to each other and the sentiment that they foster, they will not disown you, or displace you.  Your place among them may be unpleasant, but it is secure.  And as it is unpleasant, I would recommend that you make it more pleasant.”

            “How?”  The question was bitter in his mouth, curdled and rotten to his ears.  “I have tried to win their affection, have-”

            “Do not seek to improve your life by being one of them.  Improve your life by being yourself.  Absorb yourself in your own pursuits.  You like to wear nice things and dine with friends and read, so do those things.  You've dabbled in singing and writing and playing.  Dabble in other pastimes.  You truly enjoyed yourself when you translated for your uncle, so translate something else.”

            He couldn't.  He wasn't a scribe, he-

            “Translate a book of poems.  Sweet, erotic love poems.  I'll have everything you'll need sent to your rooms.”

            Erotic poetry?  Gael had never read that sort of thing.  Anyone of worth considered it filth.

            The pharaoh grinned at him.  “You may find it educational.”

            He certainly did.

            As he worked, Gael strove to keep his mind on his penmanship, on the proper translation, but he continually became lost in the words, reading page after page, while heat crept through his body and arousal clouded his thoughts.  The first poems in the book had been about tender, romantic love, about budding affection, about tempting looks and chaste touches.  Then the poems had become more sexual in nature.  Now they were about something else entirely, about finding wild sexual release in the restraints of bondage, about being owned and dominated and possessed and ecstatically fulfilled, about rough, hungry, bestial fucking.  Gael had never read anything like it, had never imagined anything like it, and suddenly could think of little else.

            What would it be like to be dominated in that way?  To be pursued.  Once caught, to succumb willingly, eagerly, and then to be taken, ravished, owned.  It sounded as sweaty and messy as sex could get, but it also just might be worth it.

            Maybe his partners just hadn't been interesting enough.  Or assertive enough.  Or devoted enough.  Oh, they'd been devoted to him in their own ways.  They'd absolutely adored his beauty, his wealth, his title, his privileged lifestyle.  They went on at length about how extravagantly beautiful he was, about the blue of his eyes, about the delicacy of his features.  They liked his manners and his pretty voice and his clothing.  They even liked his paintings and his singing and his playing and his writing.

            They never really seemed to like him, however.  No one extolled the virtues of his conversation, or wanted to spend time with him simply for the sake of being with him, or was interested in learning his innermost thoughts.  It happened wherever he went.  People admired his beauty, and failed to notice anything else about him.

            To whom could he confide his worries?  To whom could he confess that he was only twenty-two and already his life had hit its peak and settled, that he had little else to do with his years, nothing to look forward to.  The decades stretched on before him, unrelenting in their monotony.  Things would only grow worse, as his brothers' children grew up and took more control.  And when his mother died, what would happen to him?  His closest friend, his staunchest defender, would be gone.  He would have no one, anymore, not really.

            He needed someone his own age; he knew that.  He needed a companion, a lover, a friend.  What he desired most was a man, but men who were attracted to him couldn't see past their own attraction.  They wanted only to look at him and fondle him, while he wasn't interested in sex and preferred to be more than a plaything or an accomplishment.  No one seemed to realize that, more than a pretty piece of art, he was a human being.  There was more to him than his appearance.

            He had more to offer than that.  At the very least, he was a wonderful translator and scribe.  He'd read enough to know that his own translations were superior to what was currently being passed around.  And his writing was both attractive and easy to read.

            He might take up painting again.  He'd been somewhat pleased with what he'd done in the courtyard, and he'd liked what Lansester had said about it.

            Lansester.  He thought that it might be nice to have sex with Lansester, if he could lie back and hear Lansester's soft, rough voice whisper some of the daringly erotic things he'd just read about.  Maybe Lansester would whisper in his ears and kiss his neck and, and he'd be on his stomach while Lansester was behind him, and Lansester would stroke between his parted thighs and whisper-

            “Oh, Your Highness, I apologize.”

            Shame flashed through him, prickling and hot.  Startled and guilty, his body aroused and aching and confused by the sudden appearance of the man he'd just had such shocking thoughts of, Gael stared up at Lansester, momentarily not understanding why Lansester wasn't ravishing him.

            Would Lansester pump away at him, thrusting in those boring, awkward, repetitive strokes?  Would Lansester grunt nonsensically and seek to reassure him that he was the best partner ever?  Or would it be the way that it was in the poems, passionate and anguished and transcendent?

            Nothing else in his life went the way that it did in books.  His existence wasn't remotely as dramatic or intriguing or filled with danger and adventure.  There was no reason to think that sex would be as it was written, either.

            Yet the idea of Lansester pressing him down across a soft mattress and murmuring arousing things in that sexy, husky voice, brushing aside his clothing and kissing-

            “I'm sorry, Your Highness, I didn't mean to intrude.  I didn't realize that anyone else was out here.”

            Confused, shaken, Gael shoved his papers aside.  Why was he this flustered by a mere interruption to his work, and why couldn't he stop thinking of Lansester's hands spreading his thighs?  His work spread out and covering a low table at his side, he struggled to rise from the blankets and cushions he'd been sitting on.  To his surprise, a firm hand grasped his elbow, and Lansester pulled him to his feet.  Heat flooding him, Gael remained where Lansester had brought him, unmoving, feeling caught, gazing into those mysterious blue and green eyes, his elbow still in Lansester's grip.

            If Lansester drew him any closer, their bodies would touch, and if he parted his lips, Lansester might kiss him, and if he dropped down to the nest of blankets and pillows again, Lansester might join him there.

            If he heard the low tones of Lansester's voice again, with its faint rasp, he would be lost.

            “Where did he go?”  Prince Rini's voice.  Unexpected, and too near.

            Feeling intruded upon in a way that Lansester's interruption hadn't evoked, Gael quickly drew back.

            “Your Highness,” Lansester said, in a quiet and urgent tone that was so intimate, Gael shuddered at the sound of it.  He didn't want to be seen like this, could hear Rini and Wamesh already coming closer, chattering animatedly to each other.  He should stay and greet Rini and act in a proper manner, but he felt so flustered, so confused, so unreasonably hot, that he couldn't stand the idea of making pleasant, meaningless conversation when he still felt the memory of Lansester's touch.

            So, like a criminal, like a child, he fled.  Hurrying away, he ducked quickly into his quarters, firmly locking the door.  As soon as the door was closed, he remembered what he'd just left behind.  Not just poetry, but erotic poetry.  He'd been translating a particularly explicit stanza.  And he'd left it there, for anyone to see!

            He considered rushing back out there to get it, but Rini and Wamesh had no doubt come upon it already.  Would they think him a sex-mad pervert?  Should he explain that the pharaoh had provided him with the poetry, or should he take the blame and ensuing shame upon himself?

            Wanting at least to see if they were perusing the poems or if they'd left the area entirely, he went upstairs and looked out of the windows to the courtyard below.  Kneeling on the plush window seat, he sought the corner where he'd sat.  There, he saw them, Rini and Wamesh and Lansester, standing together, talking.  A few feet away, on the other side of a cluster of shrubbery, was his nest.

            They talked together for a few minutes, and then Rini and Wamesh turned away.  Lansester looked after them for a moment, then glanced around and stepped behind the bushes.  Gael's heart raced.  He wouldn't, he couldn't-

            He was!  Gael was used to leaving things behind, never had anything to hide, and now, at such an inopportune time, with such unfortunate materials, he'd become careless!  And Lansester was…

            …was straightening things up?  Lansester was tidying things, neatening, stacking.  Why?  Why would he bother to - - no!  He was reading!  No, no, he couldn't read that, he shouldn't read that!

            What could Gael do?  He couldn't deny that those were his things; he'd been caught with them, that was his handwriting.  Maybe Lansester was a gentleman at heart, maybe Lansester wouldn't tell anyone, maybe Gael could pay him to keep quiet.

            Lansester glanced across the courtyard to Gael's quarters, then read another page.  Then, muttering something to himself, he went back to tidying up.  When he had the pillows and blankets with the table set to one side, he gathered together all of the writing materials, and then carried them to Gael's door.

            For a moment, Lansester was out of sight, hidden by the tree that grew just beside the doorway.  Unable to see him, Gael began to panic.  He wouldn't try to come in, would he?  The door was locked.  What if he knocked?  He knew that Gael was there.  But Gael wasn't necessarily there, might have moved deeper into the palace.  And Lansester had no right to place demands on Gael's time, regardless.  Furthermore, Gael's habits and activities were none of his business.  If he-

            Two ordinary raps against the door.

            Gael froze.  He wouldn't respond.  He'd been translating something for the pharaoh, at the pharaoh's request, and no one, certainly not Lansester, could question him on it.  Likewise, his private fantasies were just that, private, and not up for-

            Wait.  Lansester was walking away.  He'd left the poetry down there, by the door, and was crossing the courtyard.  Without looking back.

            Did he not understand what he'd read?

            No.  Lansester was a smart man.  Anyone who understood painting that well could comprehend an explicit poem.  He knew that Gael was translating erotic poetry.  And he'd brought the poetry to Gael, removed it from public space, as a kindness.

            Kindness.

            Watching Lansester walk away, Gael felt something like relief wash through him.  He'd been caught with incriminating material, but caught by someone intelligent and discreet enough to protect him.

            Without another glance, Lansester went into Wamesh's quarters.

            The courtyard deserted, Gael hurried back downstairs.  Opening the door, he lifted his work, hugging the poems and their translations to his chest.  He wanted to thank Lansester.  Wanted to convey his gratitude at the regard and sensitivity that Lansester had displayed.  Wanted to apologize for rushing away.

            If he'd opened the door earlier, at Lansester's knock, they might have spoken to each other.  Could have discussed poetry.  Could have read it aloud, bits of it, and he could've heard those sweet, filthy words in that sexy, husky voice, and if Lansester had desired him, he might have acquiesced.  He'd never had sex with someone like Lansester, but maybe it would be all right, just once.  No one had to know.

            And if someone knew?  If someone found out?  He could keep nothing from the pharaoh.  And if word spread, if someone saw or heard something incriminating, well, what then?  His place couldn't be threatened.  His home, his title, his wealth, were secure.  His standing in society depended on little else but those.  And his appearance.  He'd been assured more than once that his popularity, and his fuckability, were based primarily on how pretty he was.  It had been intended, each time, as a compliment.

            The pharaoh had suggested that he should pursue his own interests.  He was interested in books, in translating.  He was interested in Lansester.

            But how would he pursue anyone?  Another one of the pharaoh's suitors.  A judge from a foreign land.  A commoner.  A respectable commoner, too.  A dalliance with a servant would be understood and overlooked; that sort of thing happened frequently, to men with much more to lose than Gael.  But a liaison with a man of position would make it appear that he took a commoner seriously, as his equal.

            Still, he found Lansester intellectually stimulating as well as sexually intriguing.  A little conversation would be no crime.  And if they happened to share a bed one night, that was no one else's concern.

            It was impossible to spend any time alone with Lansester.  He was forever with Wamesh.  And when Wamesh wasn't with him, Prince Rini was.  Or both of them.

            Deciding to be assertive about it, Gael sent him a note.  A brief, discreet word of thanks.  It was the most daring and aggressive Gael had ever been, and as soon as he'd done it, he regretted it.  He lay awake all night, berating himself, hoping, masturbating with unusual and nervous energy.

            When Lansester did not reply and made no sign of ever having received the note, Gael could've cried from despair.  He'd pinned his hopes on Lansester, had thought that maybe he'd finally found someone he could speak with, someone who could understand him, someone who could respect him.  But Lansester cared for him no more than anyone else.  He was just another prince, to Lansester.  There was nothing between them.

            Maybe this was simply his life.  To be liked by everyone but those who were supposed to love him.  To be universally admired but never cared about.  To be adored and then immediately overlooked.  To be taken for granted and taken to bed, but never taken seriously.

            Wanting to prove that he at least could do something, he strove to finish the translation before he left.  As soon as it was completed, he would return to Nalapki.  He respected the pharaoh, but there was nothing for him here.  Nothing but the pain of Lansester's careless rejection.

            As he worked, he realized that pages were missing.  Two pages of his translation, two pages he remembered writing with great attention.  Those pages contained some of the most powerful passages, seductive in their sensuality, sizzling with eroticism.  He searched his apartment but found nothing.  He didn't remember having seen them since Lansester had interrupted him in the courtyard.  Most likely, Lansester had overlooked them when he'd cleaned up, which meant that the pages were out there somewhere, possibly in the hands of a curious servant, and-

            Or.  Or Lansester hadn't overlooked them.

            Lansester had taken them.

            And that was why Lansester hadn't done more than knock, hadn't confronted him.  Because Lansester had stolen some of his work.

            Had Lansester liked what he'd read?  What did he think of the translation?

            They could've talked about those things, they could've discussed the poetry at length, if Lansester had bothered to reply to his note.  But he wasn't worth Lansester's time.

            When would anyone find him worthwhile?  They liked him for his looks, but when they weren't looking at him, they forgot about him.  As he aged, his appearance would change, and what would he mean to them then?

            The festival was intolerable.  Desin was nice, but every time that Gael spoke, Desin's expression clearly said, “I'm thinking so much about fucking you that I don't hear a word you're saying,” and Desin's verbal replies communicated much the same thing.  Gael had this conversation every day of his life, it seemed like, but now that he'd had a sweet if fleeting hope of having something deeper, something more, it pained him to realize that his life would be nothing but this.

            And then, when he opened his purse for a coin, he found a note there.  A scrap of paper.

            Meet me in your rooms.  Three o'clock.  Wear nothing but your desire for me.  -L

            Lansester.

            Had the note truly been intended for him?  How had anyone managed to slip a note into his purse?  Was it from Lansester?  Was it a joke?

            He had to know.

            It might be Lansester.  It might be the response he'd been looking for.  Maybe Lansester had been waiting for the right time, had been waiting for enough courage.

            How did Lansester know of his desire?  Was this a trick?

            He didn't think that someone who'd been considerate enough to bring the poetry to him would play a cruel joke like this.   He kept thinking of talking with Lansester, of their long discussion of art and painting, of how well they'd gotten along, of how excited he'd been.  He wanted to have that again, wanted at least to talk with Lansester.

            As three o'clock drew near, he excused himself from Desin and Anosanim.  Hurrying to his rooms, he changed clothes.  It took longer than he'd anticipated.  He never dressed or undressed himself, and it was a clumsy, laborious process.  Naked, he washed quickly and then drew on a light, silk dressing gown.

            It might be a joke.  He'd claim that it was merely coincidence that he was here at this time.  He'd claim that he'd known all along, that he was only playing along to see how far they'd take it.  But who would play a prank on him?  Who would want to trick him?

            What if Lansester really did desire him?  What if Lansester really did want to have sex with him?  Could he submit?  He wanted to know what it could be like, to have sex with Lansester, but could he really share that much intimacy with a commoner?

            When he heard a quiet knock at the door, he was struck with how ludicrous he looked, in only a dressing gown, waiting for a mysterious liaison.  It was like something he'd read about, but it seemed ridiculous to be doing it in his everyday life.  Excuses ready, he opened the door, peeking out, afraid of what he might see.

            Lansester.  Those teal eyes widened in surprise, and then Lansester whispered a quick, “Prince Gael,” pushing the door open further.

            Why would Lansester look surprised to see him?  “What do you want?” Gael whispered, making sure that the gown covered him properly, suddenly embarrassed, self-conscious.

            “What are you doing here?” Lansester whispered.

            “Why are you here?” Gael countered.

            “I received this.” Lansester handed him a scrap of paper.  “It was slipped to me, I don't know by whom, I found it in my pocket.  But the writing isn't yours.  Is it?”

            A set-up.  A scam.  A joke.  A trick.  Gael wanted, suddenly, to weep with despair, to rage with frustration.  He couldn't have this, it was all a lie, he'd never have a friend, never have a companion, never even have anyone to talk to besides his own mother.  Lansester didn't want him, Lansester didn't care anything about him, this wasn't a story, this was just his life, his depressing, lonely, miserable life.

            He wished that Lansester had responded to his earlier message.  Wished that he'd written this one, had arranged a liaison.  Wished that he'd been bold enough for that, assertive enough to pursue what he wanted, wished that he knew how to seduce.

            Wanting to know what a suave, heroic, novel's protagonist version of himself would've done, he read the note.

            Come to my rooms at three o'clock.  I'll wait for you.  Bring oil.       -G

            Daring.  Sexy.  Bold.  Gael wanted to be that man.  The kind of man who struggled a little against his restraints before submitting and begging his lover for more.

            Why couldn't he be that man?  Why couldn't he go after what he wanted?  Why couldn't he be exciting and adventurous?  “Did you bring the oil?”

            “What?”  Lansester looked taken aback.

            “The instructions clearly commanded you to bring oil,” Gael said, tugging his robe close around his throat.  “Did you?”

            There was a long minute, and then an even longer one, during which Lansester simply stared at him, as slack-jawed as an idiot could be.  Feeling disillusionment and horrid, painful shame sweep through him, Gael refused to allow any of that to show on his face, and held Lansester's gaze, preferring to stare Lansester down rather than display his own mortification.  He'd been hurt enough times in his life to know how to suffer through it and cry when he was alone.

            Then, in a soft rasp, “What if I did?”

            That wasn't enough.  It made hope and yearning prickle eagerly up to Gael's nape, but it wasn't enough.  He wasn't going to list his base urges for this commoner.  “Did you?” he asked coolly.

            A thick curse.  “I wish I had.  Right now, I wish it more than anything.”

            Refusing to allow a foreign judge the opportunity to humiliate him with pity or with some crude come-on, Gael stepped back, pushing the door-

            “Gael, Gael!  Your Highness,” Lansester hissed, his voice low enough not to attract attention as he seized Gael's elbow and held the door open with his body.  “If I thought that I had half a chance to kiss you, if I thought that I'd ever be granted this opportunity, if I thought that you'd ever allow my attention, I'd carry oil with me wherever I went.  But I know that a man like you doesn't offer himself to men like me.”  Reluctantly, Gael stopped resisting, and Lansester's tone became gentle, more coaxing.  “You don't know how much I wanted this note to be from you, for you to have written those words and meant them.”

            Pulling his arm back, Gael turned away.

            He heard, behind him, Lansester step into the room and close the door.

            “I offer myself,” Gael said firmly, “or not, as I please.”  He was almost trembling, and he crossed his arms over his chest, closing his eyes.  He couldn't do this, he couldn't go through with this.  Lansester was a commoner, a judge, neither titled enough nor low enough to be acceptable.  People might know, word might spread, and the last thing he needed his brothers to hear was that he'd failed to win the pharaoh's hand but he'd spread his legs for some common suitor.

            Lansester's words came in a low, husky voice directly from Gael's dreams.  “If you would offer yourself to me, if you would permit my touch, I would give my all to fill you with pleasure.”

            His voice was much nearer, now, and his hand curled around Gael's upper arm, strong, firm.  The intimacy of it was objectionable; Gael couldn't allow a commoner to take liberties with him like this.  But Lansester's grip was different from the way other men had touched him.  Confident, self-assured, but not pawing or brutish.  He decided, as his breath escaped him in soft, short gasps, that he would tolerate it.

            “I want to tell you how beautiful, how pretty, how lovely you are,” Lansester murmured, “but you've heard it from a thousand tongues.  I want to tell you how elegant, how refined, how talented and intelligent you are, but you know it already.  I want to tell you how sexy you are, how arousing, how the sight of you makes my heart pound and thoughts of you inflame my loins, how I wish to devote myself to pleasing you, but you've had lovers before.”

            Was it true? Was it merely seductive talk?  Did Lansester mean a word of it?  He should tell Lansester to leave him, should step away from Lansester's grasp.

            “Gael,” Lansester whispered, his hand rubbing slowly up to Gael's shoulder, down to his elbow, up again.  “I'll return home soon.  I can't remain here as the pharaoh's suitor when he and I are both aware of how strongly I desire you.  Before I go, it would be a great gift if you would allow me to give you pleasure, just once.  Likely our paths will never cross again, and I would berate myself for the rest of my years if I lost this opportunity.”

            Never cross again.  Yes, that was good, that was what he wanted.  One night, he could give Lansester one night, and they need never see each other again, never find reason to speak of it.  He could travel home, and put this incident entirely behind him.

            Yes.  That would be best.

            “I will permit it,” he said, and strode neatly into the bedroom.  As he removed his robe, he wondered what he'd just resigned himself to?  Ugh, sex again.  It was likely to be slow and boring.  Or, worse, crude and boring, with Lansester rutting away on top of him, grunting and telling him how pretty he was.  Such a waste of time, such a dull waste of energy.  No flesh-and-blood man had ever given him even an inkling of the thrill that erotic poetry elicited.  Well, Lansester had, but that illusion, he realized grimly, was about to be irrevocably shattered.

            Naked, he settled himself on the bed, on his back, arms at his sides.  He studied the ceiling, waiting for it to begin.  He wondered if Lansester would spend time in preliminaries.  The majority of men did, and sometimes it was nice.  A few of his partners had simply wanted to get directly to the penetrative act, but he found it embarrassing to recline with his knees up and his thighs parted, simply waiting.

            The men in the erotic poetry, even the submissive ones, had been active and participatory.  Gael had been more assertive, himself, initially.  But when he'd realized that his participation made no difference and had no real effect, he'd stopped bothering.  It was easier, less messy, less awkward, without all of the fumbling around.  So he'd just let it happen, perhaps making a few encouraging noises, and then tended to himself somewhere along the way.  Some of his partners tried to rouse him to orgasm, but he preferred to do it himself.  He rarely enjoyed the clumsy ways they groped his member.  Too gently, too roughly, without rhythm, it generally seemed designed specifically to prevent him from reaching climax.

            Masturbation really was best.  He could enjoy the pleasures of sexual release without all of that poking and probing and fondling and sweating.  Honestly, as if anyone really experienced any real pleasure in being sticky-slick with oil and ejaculate.  If he wanted someone's semen all over him, he could supply his own.

            And Lansester was a commoner.  Who knew how those people had sex?  What odd acts might Lansester attempt to coerce him into?

            This had been a terrible mistake.  He shouldn't have agreed to this.  He recalled, now, the terrible rumors of sadism and bestiality which had-

            “Your Highness.”

            The sound of Lansester's quiet voice entirely unnerved him, in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the gentle intimacy of it, and Gael sat up swiftly, his heart pounding, one hand fisting in the covers as he struggled with the urge to cover himself.  “I must ask you to leave.  I apologize for your disappointment, but I find that I am no longer willing to engage in sexual acts with you.”

            Instead of bowing, apologizing, or withdrawing, Lansester continued to stand there by the bed.  Fully dressed.  What had he been doing while Gael had been waiting for him?  “What's changed your mind?”

            The unmitigated gall!  “I have asked you to leave,” Gael said firmly.  “I need not explain myself to you.”

            “You're right.  I'm sorry.”  Lansester stepped back, rubbing his jaw.  “Before I leave, will you grant me the favor of a kiss?”

            A kiss seemed simple enough.  Then Gael could dress and rejoin the festival.  Or pack to go home.  Neither prospect cheered him.  “Yes.”  He wanted to know, to experience for himself, whether Lansester kissed like the men in erotic poetry or like an unsophisticated commoner.  Closing his eyes, he lifted his chin and waited.

            A touch at his chin, a light brush of fingers, and then a gentle grip, tilting him just a bit.  It was nice, not demanding or brusque, not shy or uncertain.  A touch at his lower lip, and his lashes fluttered as he began to open his eyes to see.  “Ssshhh,” from Lansester, a gentle shushing sound, and even while he became riled at being shushed, he found himself closing his eyes, calmly obedient.  He didn't have time to examine that, however, because he felt the gentle brush of lips.  Once, twice, and then a third time, the most chaste of kisses.  It was nice, much nicer than he'd expected, and he thought of how well-educated Lansester was, how surprisingly sophisticated, and he felt his lips part a little, a silent invitation.  It was only a kiss, after all, but he liked Lansester, and it wouldn't hurt to allow a few liberties.

            “Mmnnhh.”  With a quiet, hoarse sound, Lansester pressed in for more, licking at his upper lip, sucking at the lower, kissing him in slow, teasing rhythm.  It pleased him, intrigued him, and he responded in kind, matching Lansester's pace.  He wished that kissing could always be like this, gentle, refined, erotic.  When Lansester's tongue slipped between his lips to delve deeper into his mouth, stroking, caressing, Gael felt arousal simmer in his veins.  Yes, mmm, he wanted some more of this, wanted Lansester to kiss him this way all over, wanted to know what it would feel like if Lansester touched him.

            Carefully touching his tongue to Lansester's, encouraging, Gael uncurled his hand from the sheets and lightly skimmed his fingertips across Lansester's chest.  For someone who hadn't been born into wealth, Lansester dressed fairly well, in a plain but becoming style, and Gael wondered, not for the first time, about the body under those clothes.

            A light, lingering caress down his side drew him nearer to Lansester, elicited a desire for more contact.  But the bold grip of Lansester's hand on his hip startled him, reminding him how naked, how bare, how exposed he was.  Eyes flying open, he-

            “Ssshhh,” Lansester murmured against his lips, licking the protests right from his mouth, one warm, strong hand cupping the back of his neck as Lansester lowered him onto his back.  Relaxing, he shifted easily under Lansester's strong body, arousal pulsing warmly through him.  Lansester was probably going to penetrate him, and the realization brought a sort of lazy curiosity.  He wondered what it would be like.  It might be nice.  Kissing Lansester, at least, was nicer than kissing had been in a long time.

            Lansester's hand dipped between his thighs, easing them open.  Disappointed, Gael raised his knees, giving Lansester access.  Already?  So soon?  He'd hoped for more from Lansester than this, had hoped to be able to enjoy the preliminaries a little while longer.  He'd dared to hope that Lansester might be different.

            But why should Lansester be different?  Why should Lansester live up to the tantalizing beauty of fiction and fantasy, when no one else did?  Shouldn't it be enough that Lansester was handsome and sexy and intelligent and cultured?  Lansester intrigued him; it wasn't fair to expect anything more.

            Lansester surprised him by settling himself between Gael's legs fully clothed.  When coupled with such pleasant, confident, sophisticated kisses, the warm, heavy weight of Lansester's body on his was enjoyable, and Gael's eyes fluttered shut as Lansester kissed his collarbone.  Taken on its own, the way that Lansester tickled, titillated, and teased him with light licks, sucking wet kisses, and occasional nips of teeth all the way across his shoulders and up and down his neck was arousing, sensually inspiring, and explicitly reminiscent of the delightful erotic foreplay he'd read of.  But, as if that weren't enough, Lansester was all the while slowly and steadily rocking between Gael's legs, not pressing enough to grind and not fast enough to truly build momentum.  Just slowly and rhythmically rocking, reminding him of thrusting, making his body want it, his back arching, his toes curling, hips pressing upward.

            By the time that Lansester reached Gael's ear, Gael was trembling with lust.  Lansester's warm breath against his ear sent shivers down his spine as he was held enthralled by that thick, raspy voice.  “I can tell that you've experienced more sex than pleasure. Trust me to give you your fill of both.”

            As Lansester continued to kiss and lick and suck on his earlobe, strong hands slid down his body, massaging his skin, caressing him, keeping a similar rhythm to the hypnotic thrusting motion of their lower bodies.

            Gael ran his hands up the back of Lansester's shirt. He wanted to touch Lansester, to learn his body as well, but Lansester was still fully clothed, and the rough fabric against Gael's chest, thighs, even on his dick, excited him, the textures intriguing.  He was used to delicate fabrics, to the finest of linens and wisps of silk.  The friction of Lansester's clothing against his skin aroused him, and he rubbed himself against it, gripping it in hungry handfuls.

            Then Lansester's hands moved up his thighs, lingering on the sensitive crease where his abdomen met his legs, building Gael's anticipation, gradually moving onward.  Slow stroking between his thighs made him feel new, as if he were being explored, as if Lansester were learning the details of him.  There was an unfamiliar intimacy to it that made him warm in a way unrelated to the heat flaring to new heights as Lansester caressed upward along the shaft of his arousal.

            It felt good, in a way that made him shudder and ache, to be caressed so well.  So slowly, so adoringly, as if he were special, as if he were unique.  Lansester must have been with many men before, but he acted as if Gael deserved individual attention.

            And then Lansester began to slide down the bed, kissing down Gael's body, curling his hand around Gael's arousal and-

            “No, no,” Gael insisted, squirming and closing his thighs.

            “I only want to suck you,” Lansester said, rubbing his thumb just beneath the head and making Gael's body tense with need.

            Yes, he was well aware of that.  “I would rather you not,” he insisted, trying to sit up.  “I find the act unpleasant.  You're welcome to enter me and find your pleasure there.”

            Releasing his arousal, Lansester moved up his body in a slow crawl, pushing him down onto his back again.  “Why don't you like it?”

            Really, were details necessary?  He'd become frighteningly aroused by Lansester's caresses, but, “It's embarrassing and awkward.  I would prefer not to have someone's face in such a private area, and I usually prefer that the general groping and fondling be kept to a minimum.  I can direct my own orgasms very nicely.”

            Lansester didn't move for a moment, just looked into his eyes.  He waited for Lansester to go on to other activities, such as locating the oil.  Instead, Lansester said, “Close your eyes.”

            What?  For what?  “Why-”

            Whipping a handkerchief from his pocket, Lansester folded it in a strip and placed it directly across Gael's eyes.

            Blinking, Gael looked upward.  Light filtered in softly through the white cotton.  A touch, a shake of his head, would easily dislodge it, but he remained still.  It reminded him of the poems, of the yearning, blindfolded young men, unable to see what was happening to them, unable to see what was coming, able only to experience it.  A quick thrill raced through him, bringing goosebumps to his flesh, and he caught himself panting for breath, tense, excited.  The handkerchief was soft, and clean, with a faint scent of some sharp soap, and he thought, for a moment, that he might like to keep it.

            His thighs tensed as his arousal was caught in a warm, secure grip.  What would Lansester do?  Helplessness taunted him, as if seeing Lansester gave him some measure of control, as if without it he were entirely at Lansester's mercy.  And what if he were, what if he were at Lansester's mercy, what would that be like?  Would-

            “Oh.  Oh, ah, ah, ah.”  Hot pleasure melted through his body.  Wet, warm wet, hot wet suction, mouth, he was in Lansester's mouth, he was in - - deeper - - ooh…  “Ah, uh, ah, nnn…”  There was something coordinated and rhythmic in the movements of Lansester's hand and mouth, something very capable and experienced.  There was never a second of pause, no groping or fumbling, never a moment leaving Gael free to think, just sensation-sensation-sensation, wet-warm-hot, sucking-rubbing-pulling, a constant caress of hand and mouth, of finger and tongue.  He heard a lot of his own, desperate gasping and some soft, wet sounds, and the knowledge that Lansester could see but he couldn't, that Lansester knew precisely what was happening while he could only guess and catch up, was sweet torment.  He couldn't anticipate Lansester's next move, couldn't predict it, could only experience it and give himself over to it and let it happen.  He wondered what it looked like, his member disappearing into Lansester's mouth, Lansester's lips stretched around his shaft, the head creating a bulge as it rubbed against the inside of Lansester's cheek.

            Lansester's pace quickened and pressure built.  Lansester's hands held him, fondled him with a firmer grip, the suction growing stronger, more insistent and, “Ah, ah, ah!”  Gritting his teeth, Gael clawed restlessly at the sheets, fighting the powerful urge to come.  His erection had never experienced anything like this before, anything this deeply compelling, anything this shockingly good, and he wanted to achieve release.  Climax was only a whisper away.  But he couldn't ejaculate into Lansester's face!  Making a desperate, breathless, animal noise, he tried to squirm free, kicking and bucking.  He had to come, he had to come, ah, “Ah!  Ah!”

            Just as he finally broke away, twisting himself free, quick, rough hands caught him and flipped him, spinning him over onto his stomach and dropping him there, a hand on his hip and a low, rasping voice in his ear.  Stunned, disbelieving, viciously erect, Gael heard, “Let me make this clear, Your Highness.  When I want you to come, you come.”  Lifting his hips from the mattress, Lansester slid a hot, sure hand beneath him, cupping his sac and then stroking along the length of his erection.  Shaking, Gael heard himself emit the most shameful kind of whimper.  No one had ever handled him like this, had ever been so controlling, so dominant.  But he wasn't frightened, wasn't intimidated, wasn't angry.  He was horribly, embarrassingly excited.  Sexually excited.  And when Lansester started to give his erection long, slow pulls, it wasn't the physical stimulation which caused him to spill his seed.  It was the roughly whispered, “Now. Come for me.”

            Shuddering as hot ecstasy burst within him, Gael cried out, shocked by the pleasure of it, wracked by sweet, joyous climax.  As the trembling faded, as the tremors ceased, he lay there stunned, breathless, his heart racing and thumping in his chest, and he wondered what had just happened to him.  What he'd let happen; what Lansester had caused to happen.  This was the kind of naughty, scandalous, thrilling sex that he'd read about.  Lansester was in complete control; he was just there to do as he was told and to be acted upon.  This was it, the real thing, just what he'd fantasized about.

            He heard, in a soft whisper, low, gentle words.  “Forgive me, Your Highness.”  A light, almost tender caress down his side.  A kiss across his nape made him bow his head.  “I thought that if you desired me, you would ask for me.  I should have realized that it was my duty to come to you.  I would've been here long ago, if I'd known.”

            The quiet, heartfelt devotion in Lansester's tone, the intimacy of it, made Gael shiver.  Almost as if he were cold, he moved more closely against Lansester's body, pressing himself to the hard strength and warmth of it.  It seemed almost obscene, that Lansester remained fully dressed while his ejaculate cooled on the sheets.  He wanted to say that none of that was important, that what mattered most was that they were together now, that they'd found each other.  But what slipped from his tongue was, “You may call me Gael.  When we're alone.”

            “Gael.  Gael.  Gael,” Lansester murmured in a gentle rasp, kissing across his shoulder blades.  A firm hand cupped his ass, and Gael held still, wondering, waiting.  Did Lansester want to penetrate him now?  Would it be in this position?  He'd heard, had read, that it was often done this way, but he'd never experienced it.  What would it be like?

            “Gael.”  A purr in his ear, and he wanted to roll over, to see Lansester for himself, to gaze into those exotic teal eyes.  But Lansester had placed him here, and surely if Lansester wished for him to move, he'd know about it.  “Where is the oil?  And do you have anything that I could bind your wrists with,” a light, teasing caress along the cleft of his ass, “or would you like me to tear up your pretty clothes?”

            Sex with Lansester was every bit as explosive and transcendent as Gael had ever dreamt it could be.  Lansester was so powerful, so dominant, so controlling, that it encouraged Gael to participate, to react.  And what they did seemed important to Lansester, seemed to matter to him.  Gael seemed to matter to him.

            No sex partner had ever seemed this committed to him before, had ever seemed as invested in his pleasure without selfish pride.

            He felt dominated, felt a sweet, thrilling rush of helplessness, with every word, every touch, every command.  It was a new sensation, intoxicating, intensely sexually arousing.  He discovered that he wanted to be blindfolded, wanted to be bound, wanted to be pushed into place and told what to do, got off on submitting and acquiescing and letting someone else be in control.  Wanted to be rewarded for being obedient.  When he was on his back, a scarf tied around his head to cover his eyes, a handkerchief in his mouth to muffle his cries, Lansester's hand pinning his wrists above his head, with Lansester slowly, teasingly caressing him, taunting him with erotic caresses until his engorged member throbbed and his body shook with need, he forgot, for an instant, that he was a prince.  Forgot, for an instant, that Lansester was a commoner.  Forgot about titles and expectations and the hierarchy of life, and just shuddered and begged and lived solely for the bright, wrenching eroticism of Lansester's touch.

            By the time that Lansester was finished with him, Gael was enthralled by the sound of Lansester's every word, acutely attuned to Lansester's every move, and quaking with grateful joy at Lansester's every touch.  His heart leapt and yearned at the sound of Lansester's voice, his body quickly responsive.  And he was beginning to understand that, in return for the incomparable rapture, the tremendous release that Lansester brought to him, it was his duty, his responsibility, his pleasure, to ensure that Lansester, too, experienced sexual exhilaration.

            He'd touched other men's genitals before, but when his fingers skittered over Lansester's erection, it felt so hard, so silky, so long, so sturdy, that he wondered how it ever could've taken him this long to draw Lansester into his bed.  And as, finally, Lansester slept beside him, he burrowed as close to Lansester's muscular heat as he could.  He'd never shared his bed, never slept with anyone, never wanted to, but he felt drastically connected to Lansester, inextricably attached.

            His mind still couldn't fully comprehend the shattering, impossible ecstasy that Lansester had given to him, but there was more to Lansester than a sexy voice and a large erection.  Lansester was intelligent, an interesting and even challenging conversationalist, well-educated, charmingly sophisticated.  But he didn't seem sophisticated enough to be bored, or charming in that jaded, manipulative way that seemed to be in fashion lately.  He seemed like an honest, genuine sort of person, someone who would try to be truthful with commoners and kings alike.

            Gael liked him.  Wanted to speak with him and have sex with him and know more about him.  So much more.  But, what was even more important, what was even better: Lansester seemed to want to know Gael better, too.

            But what would become of that?  What would happen to them once Gael left for Nalapki?  Gael could travel, but Lansester had work.  And what kind of travel was a justifiable reason to visit a commoner in another country?  No, no, it was impossible; the shame of it burned Gael's cheeks.

            He'd have to take from Lansester what he could, and give to Lansester what he could, while they were together.  Because they would never see each other again.

            When Gael wakened in Lansester's embrace, time ceased to matter.  Nothing but Lansester retained any significance.  He lived in Lansester, breathing Lansester's desire, aware of no one and nothing else.  They took their meals together, they shared their beds together, and they bathed each other.  Lansester teased him with kisses, excited him with caresses, and penetrated him roughly.  He learned how to take Lansester's silken, turgid member into his mouth.

            During the hours when they weren't either asleep or sexually engaged, they talked.  As they discussed religion, art, and political affairs, Gael was no longer submissive.  He was in his element here, refusing to defer to Lansester, debating hotly, insisting on his points.  When they agreed, which was often, it still made for fascinating conversation, as they explored each other's tastes and interests, as they examined arguments.  But when they disagreed, Gael felt an energy arise within him, a passion for the discussion, and he found himself growing more vehement than he'd ever been in his life over the most ordinary of points.  He felt alive, suddenly, when he was with Lansester.  Not just physically, but spiritually.

            When Lansester said that it was time for them to go, he assented.  If the choice were his, he'd remain in Orina Anoris forever, and so would Lansester.  But he'd promised himself that he wouldn't whine or fuss or force Lansester to stay.  When Lansester declared it time to go, it was time.

            The two of them, aside from the servants, were the only ones in the balloon.  It was smaller this time, and the servants gave them a great deal of privacy.  Gael didn't cry, wouldn't lower himself or insult Lansester by making emotional demands, but he found himself growing quieter, lapsing into silences, losing the conversational thread.

            The closer they drew to Nalapki, the more intense his sexual need for Lansester became, and the less shy he was about what the servants might overhear.  Let them gossip, let them talk.  Once the balloon landed, and he parted from Lansester, his life would, for all intents and purposes, end anyway.  He found himself making bold sexual overtures, inviting sexual attention, whispering socially inappropriate things in hopes of enticing Lansester's attention.

            Desperation tried to claw its way to the surface of his mind, disturbing his every thought.  Gael wasn't unfamiliar with the sensation; he'd been desperate for acceptance from his own family for his entire life.  But this desperation was worst of all.  He'd found acceptance, and joy, and hope, and they were about to abandon him.  Was it any wonder that he continually invited Lansester back into his arms?

            Lansester noticed the change in him and repeatedly asked him what was wrong, but Gael insisted, each time, that he was fine.  Eventually the servants warned him that they'd reach the palace in the morning.

            He wondered if his mother were at home.  If not, maybe a friend or two would be there to greet him.  Although if no one knew to expect him, he'd only see servants.

            What a cold greeting that would be, to welcome him home as Lansester floated away again.

            He'd have to get used to it.  That was, after all, his life.  He couldn't bear the thought of staying at home, but his mother couldn't travel as she'd used to.  He couldn't go alone, but he could take a companion.  The only trouble was, the companion he wanted was unavailable.

            He wondered what would happen if he set up residence in Henberen.  He wasn't required in Nalapki, anyway.  But Lansester hadn't requested any commitment from him, much less that one.

            Maybe he could return to Orina Anoris and get work as a scribe.

            Ridiculous!  Running away from home, becoming a laborer!  He was royalty!  He belonged in Nalapki, in the palace, as much as either of his brothers or their children.  He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of chasing him out.  If he chose to copy or paint, that was his decision, but it would be a hobby, a choice.  They'd wanted to get rid of him for years, considered him worthless, but someone intelligent, educated, well-mannered, and wonderful thought that he was special.  A commoner, yes, but there was nothing common about Lansester Steppins.

            He was unusually vulnerable that night, shuddering at every touch, whimpering at every word, reaching climax with exceptional frequency.  He felt sensitive, raw, knowing how soon the end would come, knowing that it would all be over before another twenty-eight hours passed.  When the moons crossed again, Gael would be back in the palace, alone in his rooms, surrounded by family he'd just handed another half-dozen excuses to treat him badly.

            But even if his family were loving and kind, even if he were happy in Nalapki, even if he looked forward to going home, it would still be unbearable.  It would still be horrible.  He'd still feel desperation and grief threatening to overtake him.  He'd still be at a loss as to how to spend the rest of his life without this beautiful, wonderful, impossible man.

            When Lansester had taken his pleasure for the last time, Gael did something he'd never done.  He rolled away, turning his back to Lansester, curling up on himself.  The air was cold, the stars were bright, and he'd fallen in love with a commoner.  A commoner he couldn't have.  Lansester was too independent, too important, to abandon everything for him.  An everyday citizen might agree to be his consort, but a judge?  A judge as well-respected as Lansester?  Someone significant enough to be invited to court the pharaoh?  He might-

            “Gael.”  Quiet, softly rough, terribly intimate.  Shuddering away, Gael rolled forward, not wanting to be seen like this, not wanting to be caught in such a moment of weakness.  But a firm hand caught his arm, and he was pushed onto his back, Lansester easily pinning him down, gripping his chin to hold him in place.

            Reaching within for his royalty, for his birth and title, to shield himself with them, Gael made the mistake of looking up and meeting Lansester's eyes.  Gorgeous, captivating teal, so quietly confident, so gently understanding.  Feeling his defenses melt away, Gael let breath escape, unable to summon so much as a word.  He looked away, but it wasn't soon enough.  Lansester had him again.

            “Your Highness.”  A whisper, Lansester leaning down to brush a kiss over his cheek, light as a feather.  Gael closed his eyes, trembling inside at the kindness.  “There's no reason I have to return to Henberen immediately.”  Lansester released his jaw; he felt a light caress trail down the side of his neck, making him want to turn his head and arch his neck into it.  “I'd be eager to stop in Nalapki for a few days.  At the request of Your Highness, of course.”

            No, no.  “You can't.”  He'd told Lansester so much, but he'd never confessed to, to…  “My brothers, the queen…  They hold no respect for me, no affection, no interest.  I don't wish for you to see me so degraded by my own family.”

            “Ssshhh.”  A soft kiss at his lips, a sweet caress.  “My love and respect for you are contingent upon nothing.  Think nothing of them.  Think only of the opportunity to continue our days together.”

            Love?  His eyes flying open, Gael gazed up at Lansester, lips parting.  Love beat wildly in his own heart, but he'd never expected Lansester to be in love with him.  Love?  Could Lansester love him?  What did that mean?  “What-”

            “I will take every step to protect your reputation,” Lansester said.  “But I expect you, Gael,” his fingers trailed across Gael's collarbone, his voice quietly firm now, “to provide me exclusive, uninhibited access to your bed, your quarters, and your body.  For as long as I remain in Nalapki, and whenever I return, without fail.”

            That last sentence echoed through Gael's mind, and he turned it over, cherishing it more than any treasure.  “Yes,” he breathed, and then, with more assurance, “of course, Lansester, yes.”

            Lansester's voice hardened.  “And when I send for you, you will come to me in Henberen.”

            Send, come, “Yes, yes.  I will, immediately.”

            “You are a flower among thorns, Gael.  A diamond among pebbles.”  Lansester's caress along the side of his face stole his breath.  “Your beauty is unparalleled.  Your gifts are numerous, your talents extraordinary.  I have been infatuated with you, in love with you, and in need of you since we met.”  Taking Gael's hand, Lansester held it to his hard, muscular chest; Gael felt the powerful beat of Lansester's heart, so steady, so sure.  “If they don't love you, they've proven themselves unworthy of you.  If they won't demonstrate respect for you, then they've proven themselves witless, shameless fools.  Tolerate them or not, humor them or not, care for them or not, as you please.  No matter what you choose, I will continue to love you, for it is you that I love.  Not your beauty, or your body, or your title.  You.”

            It is you that I love, spun through Gael's mind.  And again, It is you.  Lansester would land in Nalapki with him, and stay with him for a time.  Return to Henberen, and send for him.  Release him to Nalapki, and then come to stay with him again.

            His life unfurled before him in brilliant color.  He had Lansester's love.  They would be together; Lansester would come to him, would send for him.  He would take up whichever hobbies he liked.  He would do as he pleased, and it would make him happy.

            Feeling a smile spread across his face, he let his fingers skim Lansester's chest.  “I owe all of my happiness to you.  You may come to me whenever you like, send for me as often as you please, and bury yourself between my thighs without reservation.  I will make myself accessible to you at all times and in all ways.”

            They would call Lansester a commoner.  They would cast aspersions upon Gael's intelligence, his maturity, his decision-making abilities.  They would never understand.  But they'd never understood him, or respected him, or believed in him, so their lack now was no loss.

            Gael had gone to Orina Anoris to make himself useful to the crown for once.  And now he would return, bringing with him something eminently useful to his own life: happiness.  Love.  Acceptance.

            He looked forward to his new life.  He looked forward to the years ahead.  And he finally looked forward to going home.

The Cabin

There was no running water here.  Which wasn't a hardship; Bade had spent the first twenty-two years of his life without running water.  But he hadn't spent those years hauling water from the well himself, and it lost its charm quickly.  Bade began to wonder how often Orinakin really needed to bathe.  He wasn't exactly rolling around in the mud.  He could skip a bath or two.  So much water was needed for just one bath, and then it had to be heated, and, ugh!  Bade had to talk to Tiko about how the servants were compensated.

            Orinakin offered several times to get his own water, but Bade couldn't allow it.  An Anorian prince, fetching and carrying buckets from the well?  A child of the gods?  Bade had to return to Orina Anoris and face Anorik, and he shuddered to think of the way she'd look at him.  No.

            He did, however, get to wash Orinakin's hair himself.  That made all of the hauling and splashing and cranking the well handle worth it.  Just pouring the warm water down over all of that long, glossy hair, watching it stream down, the rich shades of purple.  Bade was careful to get it wet all the way through, was careful to get a good lather with the soap, was extra-careful to rinse all of the soap out.  He knew that he was acting much more like a goat than like a lion, but he couldn't help it.  And when he had his hands full of Orinakin's impossibly gorgeous hair, he didn't care.

            There were no chamber pots; they were expected to use a tiny little shed behind the house.  Inside was nothing but a hole in the ground, and a little basin for washing up.  They only used the shed when necessary; most of the time they just peed on the trees around the house.  Which Bade still thought was hilarious.

            It was his own fault.  The first afternoon, he and Orinakin went for a walk.  This was a traditional getaway for the royal family, a place where, for centuries, newly married couples had spent their first week together, in the privacy and seclusion of the forest, dependent on each other.  It was supposed to be equal parts romance and endurance test, as Bade understood it.  As they were foreign, and past the first week of their marriage, it was a great honor to be offered the use of the cabin - - it had no more formal name, only “the cabin” - - and Orinakin had said that they couldn't possibly turn down the king's offer.  Bade had thought that it sounded interesting, and had been willing to try it.

            He also liked the sound of the great feast and celebration that would await them upon their happy return.

            Anyway, he and Orinakin had spent the first afternoon poking around, checking out the walkways, the stream, the forest around them.  The royal gamekeeper was charged with keeping predators from the area, so Bade wasn't afraid of any dangerous animals attacking.  No servants, no people at all, were permitted onto the property during the week of its use, so they were very much alone.  Bade wasn't used to such solitude, but it was nice.  Time alone with Orinakin sounded perfect.

            At some point during their walk, he realized that he had to pee.  Some small corner of his mind glanced around for a likely bush, and then he caught himself and started laughing.  Orinakin asked him what he was laughing about, and he tried not to answer, but Orinakin caught the memories bubbling to the surface, and started laughing, too.  Which was when Bade admitted that, occasionally, as he and Vade had played outside growing up, they'd found it more convenient to pee in the shrubbery than go all the way into the castle.

            Which was when Orinakin admitted that he'd never urinated outside.

            As far as Bade was concerned, Orinakin was missing out on a very mundane yet necessary aspect of childhood, and needed to catch up.  Although the idea of the very regal, highly respected, brother of Anosukinom standing outside and pissing on a tree was, in its own way, hilarious.

            In the end, Bade insisted that Orinakin had to spend all week peeing outside, and then laughed every time he did so.

            While Bade was in charge of fetching water and washing Orinakin's hair, Orinakin was in charge of preparing meals and washing Bade.  As far as meals went, Bade could have kept them fed all week long, if they'd only wanted to eat food that needed no preparation, such as cheese and apples and pieces of bread.  Although he could've put some meat on the spit, probably; he'd seen it done.  Orinakin, however, expected to eat better than that, and proved very capable in the kitchen, at least compared to Bade.  He was very handy with a knife, and cut the potatoes and vegetables and things very nicely.  He could cook without ruining anything and without burning himself, which neither Bade nor Vade had ever managed.

            Bade finally had to ask, “How do you know what you're doing?”

            “As it turns out,” Orinakin said, “at various international events, several of my ancestors shared in the making of meals, to demonstrate unity.  The theory was that if everyone cooks, and everyone eats, no one gets poisoned.  They were using ingredients similar enough to these that I can approximate amounts.”

            Bade found Orinakin's access to ancient memories fascinating, and spent a lot of time that week asking questions, getting Orinakin to tell him stories and share memories.

            They also spent a lot of time having sex.  There wasn't much else to do, and Bade found Orinakin's body and sexuality fascinating enough to entertain him for a week anyway.  Orinakin apparently felt the same way, and they whiled away many hours twined around each other on the couch, naked.

            It would've been understandable if, after all of that sex, Orinakin hadn't been all that excited about Bade taking a bath.  But he always became freshly enthusiastic all over again, and never missed an opportunity to push Bade's hands aside and do the washing himself.  Maybe it was the difference in textures; Bade's naked body was hairier than Orinakin's silky-smooth limbs.  Maybe Orinakin was just so attracted to Bade that further intimacy was always desirable.  Whatever it was, Orinakin washed him personally, with soap and two hands, not even a cloth.  He got Bade thoroughly clean, not missing an inch from the neck down, and then he'd move up and run his hands over Bade's neck, and kiss behind Bade's ears, and face-to-face Orinakin's eyes were always captivatingly gorgeous, and Bade's dick would be so hard that the head of his erection would be jutting up out of the water, and great Grengar, Bade had been washed by a lot of servants, but it was always brisk and impersonal, leaving his skin red from scrubbing.  Orinakin had him red from the heat of arousal, from the hot, sweet shame of his need.

            One night, Orinakin just leaned in, really close, making desire rise up in his chest, and licked his ear.  A soft, sexy murmur: “I know what you're thinking.”

            Hot, aching, Bade kind of groaned a little, feeling helplessly aroused.  Orinakin being able to hear his thoughts when he was bored during a long conference was not the same as Orinakin begin able to hear his thoughts when he was thinking about how much he wanted Orinakin to touch his naked erection.  Giving in to it, he moaned, weak with hope, “Just a little?”

            “Just a little with my fingers?” Orinakin asked, kissing his jaw, sucking lightly and making him moan again.  “Or just a little with my tongue?”

            Oh, yes.  He could see it, Orinakin's head lowering towards his lap, that gorgeous purple hair, those seductive lips, Orinakin's tongue licking out and wetting the head of his dick.  It was enough to make him groan, fire throbbing between his thighs.  “With your,” the thought of it made him dizzy, or maybe Orinakin's fingers playing with his nipples like that was making him dizzy, “with your tongue.”  Groaning, he couldn't take it; he kissed Orinakin, burying his fingers in Orinakin's hair, claiming that sleek tongue for himself.

            “Mmm, ah, Bade.”  Kissing him deeply, Orinakin pushed his knees farther apart, rubbed his chest, got him so aroused that he started trying to drag Orinakin into the tub with him.  And then he felt Orinakin's hand on his dick, rubbing it from the base upward, cupping it, jacking the head and making him shudder against the hot spasm of pleasure.  “I love you so much,” Orinakin whispered, breathing against his mouth, kissing him hungrily, touching him in ways that had him so excited he was jerking around and splashing water over the sides of the tub.  “I love your dick, Bade, I love the way you kiss me, I love the way I can feel your need inside me, I love the way you fuck me.”

            Bade would've been eager to hear those words regardless, but he knew that Orinakin didn't say them carelessly, didn't offer them for effect.  Orinakin said them honestly, after consideration, because he meant them.  And hearing, from someone Bade loved this much, from someone Bade wanted this badly, something like that, I love the way you fuck me, it had him so hot, so excited, so horny, that he was grunting and snorting and trying to get inside Orinakin right then and there.

            He knocked the tub over entirely, flooding the room, soaking the floor.  Orinakin's clothes were drenched, but Orinakin was kissing him feverishly, grinding against him and rubbing his dick and moaning his name, so he just worked Orinakin's soggy clothes open, one button after another, one layer after another, until he found hot, damp skin and the long, stiff hardness of Orinakin's dick.

            The floor was wet and they were rocking against each other desperately in a puddle, but Bade was too focused on Orinakin to care.  Kissing Orinakin's panting, hungry mouth, he felt around blindly for the oil, hoping that they hadn't spilled it.  With a decisive push, Orinakin rolled them over, and Bade had barely landed in the puddle before his body was twisting in on itself with ecstasy and Orinakin was mouthing the head of his dick.  It felt so good he wanted to come, and he heard himself making loud, bestial sounds, his body jerking and his hips pushing frantically towards Orinakin's mouth.  Oh, yes, he wanted it, yes, ah, mm, uh, yes-

            “The oil,” Orinakin said, climbing up his body, hot and wet and naked against him, kissing him passionately, rolling over and moaning beneath him.  “Fuck me, inside me,” Orinakin was groaning, kissing him, grinding lustfully against him, “I want it.”

            Whenever Orinakin was this hungrily aroused, Bade was happy to do whatever Orinakin wanted.  It took longer than it should have to find the oil, since he was too busy humping Orinakin's thigh to look for it, but eventually his hand fumbled across it on the wet floor.

            Between the oil and the water, soon Orinakin was slick inside and outside, accepting Bade's eager, pushing thrusts with low, heavy groans and rubbing his hands over Bade's chest.  They fucked for a long time, pounding and rocking against each other, Orinakin coming and coming and coming again, shuddering and cursing and begging for more.  But the eroticism was too intense, and Orinakin was too beautiful, and the hot grip of Orinakin's body was too good, and eventually Bade couldn't list enough dead kings to hold off the inevitable.  Letting the pleasure overtake him, letting the ecstasy wind through him, he came, shaking helplessly, emptying himself into Orinakin, breathless as some glorious white light spilled through him.  Crying out, arching and writhing beneath him, Orinakin came, too, calling his name and sounding weak from bliss.

            Every time Bade came, he always felt like he'd never come harder in his life.  Which meant that either he had a very short memory, or sex with Orinakin got better every single time.  Which was incredibly likely.

            Orinakin laughed softly.

            While Orinakin tidied up, Bade mopped the floor.  He wasn't too bad at it, he thought, although he didn't seem as efficient as he remembered the servants being.  And then he and Orinakin relaxed on the couch, and he kissed found Orinakin's neck so tempting and masculine and smooth that he kissed it, and Orinakin whispered in his ear, and he wondered if they could extend their stay for another week.

---