[Seasonal Event] For the Asking

It had been a day filled with light.

The sun had come down from the heavens to walk beside him, and he had turned his face towards it as eagerly as any flower. Warm and solid against him, Rory’s quiet presence had been blessing and balm and cause for joy, not just chasing away the shadows of his past but giving him strength to grab the present with both hands and, for once, to not worry about the future. They had shared beer and grilled magna vermis, met with friends, and nibbled sugary confections from Amalia’s booth. They had walked, and watched the other festival-goers, and let their clasped hands do most of their speaking for them, and if they leaned against each other whenever they stopped for a little while, well, they were quiet interludes that they had earned the right to enjoy.

The musicians had come for him eventually, and he had been reluctantly dragged away to join the largest field of dancers and music-makers, joining in with his harp for some songs, and his flute for others. Isuma had stayed on Rory’s shoulder, purring contentedly to keep his spirits up until the sun had begun to set and Jigano had been released from his duties for the day. He came hunting partially along the feel of his bond with the gryphon, but mostly with his own eyes, using his height to scan the throngs of merrymakers in search of a braided-and-befeathered head.

Vain as ever, he paused to fix his appearance in a barrel of rain water, smoothing his hair and straightening his tunic, trying not to think too hard about the flutter in his stomach as dusk slid gentle fingers across the Hollowed Grounds and coaxed the many lanterns scattered around the festival to life. The stars were beginning to blink sleepily overhead, called from their beds by the sun’s final rays before Jigano found who he was looking for, at a familiar booth from which tasty aromas still wafted. The day had come full circle, it seemed, as he returned to the beer booth and the familiar blond head that stood near it, a small gryphon on his shoulder dozing tiredly after such a long and exciting day. For a few moments Jigano stood tucked out of the way of traffic moving through the aisles, allowing himself the simple joy of drinking in his friend’s appearance. The lean body, muscled from a lifetime of work on the farm, the hair he wanted to run his fingers through, done up today in braids and feathers on one side and flowing temptingly on the other. Though turned away from him, he could imagine the eyes as blue as summer, but far more gentle. Like the Oasis they were dappled at times with shadows, and other times with light. The scar that traced the left side of his jaw and cheek was a reminder of his courage, a physical badge of his determination that disappeared into the embroidered neck of his festival shirt…

He could stand there all night, the bard realized a tad ruefully, enumerating the many good qualities of his handsome friend. Or he could do more than just look…

With a dangerous recklessness he slid back into the crowd, crossing the short distance between them on silent feet until he could reach out to brush his fingers over the soft cloth covering a pale shoulder, the scars he knew were there currently hidden beneath. ”Hey stranger,” he murmured, his voice low but holding laughter in its depths. ”Care to share another drink with me?”

There were a lot of things he could say about this Fiat Lux, but one thing was for sure: it had been very, very different from all the other ones. It wasn't just because of the influx of Outlanders, and the way they would invariably leave their own mark on the festival (something he was prepared for this time around, instead of the way it had happened at the Festival of Lights). No, it was more than that, separated into two neat, wildly differing categories, that were pretty much the same in cause but different in expression.

The first was partially the Outlanders, but mostly, it was Rory, Rory's temper, and Rory's tongue. The day had had a handful of confrontations (though in some cases, the word seemed too violent), bridges that he needed to check how badly burned they were. He had meant to get around to it sooner, at least with the ones where it mattered, but .. he was full of good intentions.

These things he tried not to think about it. He was too tired for untangling and analyzing his own messed-up foray into politics, so he shoved it to the back of his mind and returned to the beer booth for some sort of pick-me-up drinking. He felt tired in a way that had nothing to do with physical energy. Never before had he needed to spend the festival making amends for his quick temper and his attempts to keep his world from falling down around his ears.

The second thing was also partially the Outlanders, or one in particular. Though the musicians had whisked him away from Rory, there was still that feeling of attending the festival together, and that, well, that was something that hadn't happened before. Not like this.

The thought of Jigano returning to him had excitement simmering in his veins.

As the light began to fail Rory made his rounds around the festival grounds, lighting his lanterns, before heading to the beer stall for that much-needed top-up of his mild inebriation. It was a strange feeling, as if getting ready for something, butterflies breaking out in his stomach as he waited.

Besides, thinking about—waiting for—Jigano was nicer than dwelling on what sorts of nasty side-effects he'd caused with the whole Spire business. He couldn't apologize for trying but damn, what a mess it had turned out to be.

He tried to swallow the thoughts with the beer but they kept coming back up his throat.

Then: a touch to his right shoulder, light and feathery. ”Hey stranger,” a familiar voice murmured, sending all sorts of shivers down his spine. Just the knowledge that Jigano was standing behind him made him feel weak at the knees. Slowly, he turned his head to the side, looking at him. Warm firelight and silver starlight warred for dominance, accentuating the honeyed color of his skin and the pale mane of his hair.

He was handsome—desirable—in a way that was nearly painful now that Rory allowed himself to feel it, fall in it.

But he showed restraint. His lips twitched into a wry, pleased half-smile, and his eyes darkened, pupils widening, with the adrenaline surge. "Uh-huh," he breathed, turning slightly to offer Jigano the tankard.

Gods most fortunate, Rory was even more handsome close-up, with the shadows of the night giving him a mysterious air only underscored by the exotic hairstyle and feathers. His blue eyes seemed to glow for a moment with reflected firelight that caught the shining gold of his hair and teased hints of orange and red into it. Jigano wanted to reach out and run his fingers through it, his hands balling into fists as he reminded himself, forcibly, that they were in public and that Rory had given him no such permission to take such liberties. Liberties that he had never entertained so strongly before; the crushes of boyhood and the one he had admired from afar as an adult nothing compared to the nearness, the realness that was Rory.

Rory, who accepted him. Rory, who was gentle and kind to him no matter what shape he wore. Who was patient with the fox's secrets and his strangeness. Rory, who touched him in ways he'd thought he would never allow himself to be touched, who called out the softness and light hidden beneath all the lorekeeper's sharp edges and tarnish just by being by his side. Rory, who wanted him, flaws and all, and whose eyes were a song Jigano was drowning in... and learning that the water was as sweet as air.

"Thanks," he managed, hoping he didn't look quite as dazed as he felt. An afternoon of playing music had reminded him that he needed to keep up his harp calluses better, but he had lost none of his staying power as the light had faded from the sky. If anything he was aching to move, to be up and doing, and to not be so alone while he did... whatever it was he ended up pursuing.

No, that was a lie. He knew exactly what he wanted to do.

He lifted the tankard to his lips, drinking deeply in spite of knowing how strong the brew was. He watched Rory over the lip of it, and his eyes shone with fey heat even though the alcohol had yet to reach his system. He licked his lips as he offered the tankard back, capturing the drops that lingered and savoring them as much for the knowledge that Rory's lips had been where his had just been as for the taste of the liquid.

"Have you... had a chance to dance yet, today?" he asked after a moment that stretched too long. There was a note of yearning his voice, and perhaps just a hint of worried envy, that someone else had captured the handsome hunter's attentions while the bard had been helping others to make merry.

(Every word you say has magic powers—)

He watched with the intensity of a hunter: eyes dark and wild and hungry, though not yet as unfettered as he wanted to be. He tried to rein it in, to hold it back, the primal urge to push Jigano against the nearest solid thing and press against him and run his fingers through that white hair warring with his uncertainty of what was too much, too soon. He didn't want to frighten Jigano, but there, in the flickering lights of the Fiat Lux, his need ran deep and hot.

His nostrils flared as he breathed, caging everything inside of him as he watched the tankard rise. He hadn't know what Jigano would do with it—he somehow didn't seem the drinking type—but the way their eyes met as he drank deeply of it had a feral, pleased smile curving Rory's lips.

It seemed like a challenge, and a promise.

He felt electric.

He liked this version of Jigano. It felt dangerous and full of potential, and Rory accepted the tankard back. Still he said nothing, but when Jigano spoke, Rory raised the tankard to his lips. He didn't care how much was left in it: he felt reckless and restless and ecstatic, so alive he thought he might burst into flames.

So he drained it, eyes on the sky for a moment. Stars upon stars upon stars were coming out, brighter than he'd ever seen them—there was nothing between him and them, only air.

He put the tankard down. Turned to Jigano. "No," he breathed. Stepped close, almost touching, heart thundering. He reached up to run a finger along Jigano's sharp jawline.

"So don't keep me waiting."

He had seen many sides of Rory already: the sunlight and the clouds, the sweetness and the storms, the caged beast yearning for freedom and the defender of his people at the cost of that freedom... He had come to care deeply for his friend - more than his friend (more than just caring) - with every new piece of himself that the hunter shared. But he had only ever seen flickers of the predator that wore a man's shape, too often leashed by a man's worries and uncertainties. Tonight, however, beneath a million stars, with the warm breezes of Flowerbirth caressing their skin, he found himself facing not a man but the wolf beneath that human disguise and fancy clothing.

Gods, he was a fool for not seeing Rory like this sooner.

A shiver traveled down his spine as Rory drank, but it was chased with heat, not cold, and a yearning to pull the hunter into his arms. He wanted, with a strength he'd never imagined he would feel, and Isuma's yellow eyes opened at last as she blinked at her companion with something that might have been smug satisfaction. When Rory set the tankard down she leapt to the counter and from there to the ground, watching the two men in silence as they fell into a world of their own.

Jigano barely noticed, captured as he was by the single word that filled him with relief and a fierce desire to fix what had been left undone. He might have found words, then, might have laughed in joy at the strength of emotions coursing through him and the enchanting intensity of those fiery blue eyes, but Rory reached out and silenced him with a touch. A single finger, tracing along his jaw, leaving sparks in its wake and snaring the bard as his breath froze in his chest.

The fox tilted his chin up at that touch, a subtle baring of his throat as he looked down at the wolf from beneath half-closed lids. He knew his own strength, his own speed, but he welcomed the hand that had done so much more than tame him. In that moment he would have done whatever Rory had asked of him, but the challenge that rumbled from the hunter's chest had him closing his eyes and savoring the words.

"Keep up," he murmured, but his own challenge was wasted when he reached out to clasp his partner's hand, pulling Rory along with him as he made his way through the festival-goers in their bright clothes and laughter, his grip tightening to make sure they weren't parted by the crowd. He didn't head for the larger circles of musicians, playing lively music for line dances and country dances, where partners were switched and shared and tossed about with much laughter and energetic merriment. He had no desire to share tonight. He wanted Rory in his arms and no one else's, just this once and more than once, and damn the consequences.

He found what he was looking for towards the edge of the festival, a pair of fiddlers and a flute and a half dozen couples pressed close and ignoring the other dancers - and the world - around them. The music was slow, the steps simple, and Jigano found himself suddenly hesitant, his fey strength abandoning him as quickly as it had come as he looked back to Rory with a pale brow arched in a silent question: was this alright?

A carnivore always wanting more—

Jigano's skin was smooth and warm beneath his flighty touch. And oh, it would be so easy to brush his fingers across his cheek, up behind his ear, tangle them in the white mane and pull him close—

For a single, blinding moment, it was all that he could think of as his breath stuttered in his chest. There was no thought attached to it, no visual idea of it, just that need to be closer, closer, closer, the urgent want only intensifying when Jigano's eyes closed.

It was like it had taken Fiat Lux to make him truly realize and internalize that it was reciprocated, that it was more than just a very physical and affectionate language of friendship; it was that near-kiss before Rexanna had found them, the way in which the arm wrapped around his waist claimed him.

It was every encounter leading up to this one, compounded and suddenly set ablaze.

It was the growl he wanted to let out at the counter-challenge.

His fingers closed around Jigano's and he let himself be led away, pressing through bodies, his gaze darting this way and that, but always returning to the white fall of hair over lean shoulders, the shape of his back (he wanted to run his hands along his spine, to feel the muscles beneath the skin, to trail his fingertips along it and raise goosebumps), the glimpse of his face as he changed directions.

What he wanted, so fiercely and so abstractly, couldn't be found here, and it was like Jigano had realized that when they found themselves at the outskirts of the festival. His body and his heart craved the fast beat of the music they had left behind, wanted the wildness to sing in his blood, the steady rhythm of a drum to spur him on—but he wanted Jigano and only Jigano, and they would've had no place at such a dance.

But as the fox hesitated on the outskirts of a slow dance, Rory's gaze swept over what it offered. Closeness, but none of the fervor he felt; it was too tame but what else was available, other than pushing Jigano into the grasses beyond the edge of the light?

He was not a slave to his desires; he was not a base creature. He tugged in a breath through his teeth, letting the cool night air expand his lungs, fire meeting ice. He looked back to Jigano's face, wanted to answer that silent question by dragging him back home, where they could be alone—

—but he was stalling, stalling, his blood cooling to the slow rhythm of the offered music.

Fiat Lux couldn't give him what he wanted, unless he wanted to stoop to the level of a teenager, making out behind some abandoned stall and hoping no one would stumble in on them.

So he'd take what he could have, beating back his frustration, banking the fires of it as best as he could; it was still almost bull-like, the way he advanced upon Jigano, using his body to try and force him a few steps closer to where the music was.

Rory had so very rarely and so deliberately been invited to touch him, and never in this way: it was not the flash-fire his body had howled for, but it was something else. He freed his fingers and brought his hands up, but he didn't touch him, not yet—

A shiver went through him. There was space between them, a habit, and Rory's gaze was on his own hands hovering over the rich fabric of Jigano's tunic.

There was a body beneath all of that.

He let the excitement simmer in his veins still, and placed his hands on Jigano's waist.

Jigano knew of music and dances that would give them both what they wanted: swift rhythms and athletic steps, heat and sweat and fierce grins of concentration around a blazing fire, while the pipes wailed and the drums crashed and pairs leapt and twirled and came together, wearing increasingly less as the dance wore on. Gleaming, oiled skin and flying hair and the flash of metal jewelry at wrist and throat - the flash of weapons, in the hands of some, warrior-pairs dancing fiercely beside the untried bucks and maids. Barbarians, the southern folk might have called the tribes of Numeria, but they knew how to welcome spring, how to dance for fertility of family and herd and field in the coming year. Jigano had never joined in such a dance, but he had played the music for it, and he knew the steps...

Steps that had no place here. He had needed to chose between fast or close, and in the end his desire to wrap his arms around Rory and not let go had won out and now he stood, unsure if he had chosen well or let his partner down.

A foolish worry, and he knew it as soon as he met blue eyes that were dark with desire. Rory looked at him with a gaze that devoured, with an intensity that stoked the fires already burning hot and eager in the once-kitsune, and left him weak in the knees and hungry for more. His confidence might have faltered but the hunter's had not, and it was the blond wolf who took the offensive as he stepped forward with clear intent to claim and to stay right where they were.

Instincts older than conscious thought moved him as Rory advanced, the lean, white-haired fox stepping gracefully back in coy invitation, slender stag to Rory's bull. Only when they were within the circle of the music did they drift to a halt, but Jigano had stopped well within reach and now he hesitated, heart pounding, as he waited to see what Rory would do. He watched, anxious, impatient, needing the hands that paused so tantalizingly close and he shook with the effort it took not to step forward first. He waited, waited, the bare handful of seconds stretching into an eternity of anticipation as he held himself back from spooking the proud hunter by moving too fast, too soon--

And was rewarded with the settling of warm, strong hands on his waist. Too much cloth in the way, too many barriers still between them. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he exhaled shakily, reaching up to cup Rory's elbows and then trace his fingers lightly up the soft blue fabric, wishing it was skin he was touching as he found his partner's shoulders. It was a very proper sort of position for a slow dance, he knew, with several inches of space between them and nothing to scandalize any watchers.

It was also entirely wrong for them.

He didn't step so much as shift, rocking his body closer as his hands slid inwards, downwards, to rest flat on Rory's chest. The space between them narrowed to a knife blade's thinness, and as Jigano began to move them to the gentle beat of the music he dropped them further still, slipping beneath Rory's arms to curve up and flatting his palms on his partner's shoulder blades. He bit his lip, confidence and uncertainty warring within him, heart beating like a hummingbird trapped within his chest as he leaned forward to nuzzle his partner's cheek above the burn scars, his fingers flexing through cloth to feel the warmth of the body beneath, the realness of him, the brilliant fire that burned in Rory and melted Jigano's shadows, leaving him nowhere to hide.

"Closer," he whispered, unaware that he had spoken aloud as his breath ghosted over Rory's skin, stirring blond hair, and he breathed in the scent of home as he fell into the gentle rhythm of the dance, oblivious to anything but the man who held him.

He had traded his urgency for anticipation, the fire for sparks: it had been that, or letting it all go cold.

Slow wasn't his modus operandi.

But this was something else he was building, the compromise more than acceptable as he saw Jigano's subtle shivering as his hands hovered. And gods it was what he wanted, what he needed and craved, the static between them as thoughts ran ahead but were so woefully inadequate compared to the pleasant lash of reality—

There were other ways to burn, and he felt the wildfire ignite under his skin when he heard the shaky exhalation. It was mirrored by something stuck in his chest, a growl he bit back at this practice in self-restraint, and Jigano's lean body under his hands was a specific kind of magic that blotted out most of his thought processes. He wasn't thinking, only feeling, trying hard not to press his fingers painfully hard into the muscles beneath them as the savage whispers kept on in the back of his head, more more more more

Then Jigano's hands were on his elbows, trailing up to his shoulders, and he felt strangely undone by it—adrift and pitiful and an animal, melting under a mere, innocent touch. It took effort not to bow his head into Jigano's chest and whine.

But the hands did not stop there. They left fire in their wake, a hyper awareness of the fabric separating skin from skin, the sudden nearness and all the scents coming with it—Rory had been stunned by the charged contact, but his fingers began to move, sweeping over the musculature beneath, contracting and releasing as he kept reminding himself to not tug Jigano's tunic up, as his subconscious seemed intent on doing.

He followed easily in the dance, pliable and responsive, too distracted to form any initiative of his own; he wanted his hands to go in every direction at once, to map and explore everything that was within reach, to fold around the small of Jigano's back and chase the last of the air from between their bodies until it was nothing but skin and fabric and skin.

And he wanted Jigano's hands everywhere, not just tamely upon his back, but he had no words to communicate it with, just one of his hands tracing the shape of a hip.

And again, that faint brush of lips over his cheek, each breath whispering over his skin, Rory's breath catching repeatedly in his throat. Closer Jigano whispered and closer was everything Rory wanted, desire running rampant in a way that had him wanting to bite whatever was nearest—his lips parted but he kept himself from doing it, just leaned forward, towards his neck, until every breath was reflected off that honeyed skin and right back in his mouth.

He caved.

One hand moved to the small of Jigano's back, pressing him close in a way that screamed of need, while his lips found the thin skin of his neck, something that was not quite a kiss, nor a bite, but full of hunger.

He could feel Rory’s hands on him, Rory’s body against his, Rory’s breath on his skin, and it was dizzying beyond his wildest dreams, even with their clothing still between them and the festival around them leashing the heat of desire that coiled in his chest and danced in his blood. Fingers flexed through fabric, teasing at tense muscles beneath and nearly distracting Jigano from the steps of a dance that required no thought at all, only instinct and rhythm.

Both of which were currently given over to the body that held his, drinking in everything that Rory gave him, with a hunger that only grew the more he indulged it. The strength of his emotions were exhilarating, intoxicating, and utterly irresistible as the hunter squeezed his hip with a touch that promised so much more if only they weren’t surrounded by an audience. What Jigano wanted was privacy and a closed door, soft sheets and no interruptions.

What he had was a dark night lit by stars and lanterns and the slow, sweet seduction of the strings and flute some little distance away.

Slow, he could do, if he had to. This was so new to him, so strange and wonderful, that he wanted to savor every second even as his body ached for more and made no mystery of what it wanted. Rory moved against him with a trust and responsiveness that had long fingers flexing again, possessive and eager, a low hum of approval rumbling through the bard’s chest as their feet carried them in slow circles over the cool grass.

He wanted, just as Rory had said he would—

A shiver ran through him as hot breath ghosted over his neck, a reminder of his vulnerability in that moment, heart and soul and body given into the care of his handsome, gentle, fierce, brilliant partner, and he should have been afraid.

With anyone else he would have been.

A strong arm wrapped more firmly around him as Rory’s lips closed on his neck, and Jigano tilted his jaw away from the kiss - the bite - baring more of the sensitive golden skin as his hum turned into a low growl of approval as pain and pleasure inextricably mingled in a wave of sweet fire. Fingers dug sharply into the hunter’s back, bunching in the cloth of his shirt as the fox slowed their steps further. It was getting hard to concentrate, hard to think beyond the moment while his heart raced and his breath came short and shallow. He was used to being the predator, but in every step of this dance he had been the prey and now Rory had caught him close.

And he had no intention of being set free again.

Fingers opened, releasing fabric, one hand sliding up to press high between Rory’s shoulder blades and hold him close while the other stretched down, mirroring the hand on his own hip as he helped to lock them together, close enough that neither could break away without the other’s permission as the dance spun on and the lanterns shone off of heads of silver and gold becoming more and more entwined in the moonlight.

But gods, all he wanted was a solid surface—a wall, a tree, he wasn't that picky—to shove Jigano up against, to trap him where there was no escape, where he could press hard against him without them falling over. Was it so much to ask for? His mind flickered with half-formed ideas and impulses, a flash of the memory of his fingers gracelessly twisting into white hair—Jigano leaning across him—shy touches and hugs that still retained all that space between their hips—

His blood was liquid fire as he leaned against him, feeling his heartbeat and his desire pressed against him. He was safe in the knowledge that it was wanted, unafraid and brazen, spurred on by the fingers digging into his back and wishing, aching, for them to be somewhere else, where he could stop reminding his hands to not undress them.

He drifted along with the slowing steps, led in a dance that was quickly forgetting that it was supposed to be a dance. The sound he drew from Jigano left him breathless and with his hand tightening into a fist full of tunic, his lips ghosting over the smooth skin, down to the edge of a bared collarbone. He kissed it, his breath shuddering in a muffled groan as Jigano's hands finally abandoned their safe, proper positions, one of them sliding down to rest over his hip (still too safe, still too proper). He wanted more, drunk on the taste of Jigano's skin, shuffling them along in a semblance of dance so as to not blow their cover, lips brushing over the collarbone and to the intrusive edge of the tunic—

His hand crawled up Jigano's spine until it found that long, pristine, white hair, tangling in it with surprising gentleness.

And he pressed himself closer, his other hand moving first to the small of Jigano's back to push their hips together, then a little lower; not proper, nor scandalous, shameless in his wanting and his taking.

The night was dizzy, or maybe it was just him. The stars spun around them, flickering behind his closed eyes as the normally-wary fox tuned out the world until he felt only Rory's touch on his body, heard only his breath and quiet groans, drowned in the intoxicating scent of the man who was still not close enough. For a moment the feel of the hunter's hands was drowned out by the whisper of lips tracing over his skin, an intimacy he had been dreaming of more and more lately, since his dreams had returned. Only...

This was no dream. It was wonderfully, wickedly real and they were both afire with the need for each other. No questions about 'wanting' or 'needing' remained - they had already been answered, in quiet growls and soft groans that needed no words. Jigano inhaled sharply at the kiss to his collarbone, so different from the harder attention to his neck - and just as passionate, in a different way. His breath came shallower as fingers flexed and yearned to slip beneath fabric to caress silken skin, to trace the hollows and planes of that lean, taut body with hands and lips until he had memorized every inch of it - and then start all over again.

And then Rory's hands moved again and the lorekeeper forgot that they were surrounded by an audience as a quiet moan slipped from his throat and he tilted his head back against the sweetly gentle hand in his hair, and the far more knowing hand that brought hips together and left him aching in a way his friend and partner could not fail to mistake. His graceful feet stumbled to a halt as he wrapped fierce, careful arms tight around the incredible man who was doing such amazing things to him, and he pressed his lips to Rory's ear, his normally-musical voice a husky purr.

"The Glade," he murmured. "Not far. I want to kiss you... please?" Not the most eloquent or sensible words he'd ever spoken, but Rory had already driven him beyond eloquence, and sense of anything other than the blond hunter's lips and touch was slipping quickly.

He was going to go mad if they stayed there, like that: he was losing himself in Jigano's shallow breathing, yearning for the hitches in it, listening only for his breathlessness. The rhythm of the fiddlers was entirely lost on him: he heard only the breath slipping past his head.

So when he heard the moan slip past Jigano's lips it tasted like victory, and he grinned—savage and pleased—against his chest, brushing the smile over warm skin. There was something wickedly pleasing about drawing such a sound from someone who always seemed so in control, and heedless of the crowd around them his fingers worked through the hair and against neck and scalp. He wanted more of where that had come from, his other hand skirting lower, circling down and then back up again to the hip—

He hadn't noticed that they had stopped until Jigano's arms wrapped around him, holding him tight, their wants and needs hidden from view in the press of their hips.

Breathing ragged, uneven breaths he held still for a moment, just feeling—savoring the moment, the feeling of their pulses throbbing. His fingers moved slowly and gently through Jigano's hair, twisting a couple of long locks around them. There, among so many people, he felt wild and dangerous, as if all his inhibitions were slowly being scrubbed away.

His head twisted sideways when Jigano lowered his, shivering as his breath and lips touched his ear. This was not what he had envisioned that morning when he had skulked onto the grounds of the Fiat Lux—something he had only entertained in brief bursts of thought, thinking himself too controlled and Jigano not quite ready, yet there they fucking were and there were just no questions left to ask about it.

Except one, apparently, and Rory felt his chest shake in silent amusement. Feeling devilish, he untangled his hand from Jigano's hair, placed his index finger over his lips. It didn't take much, just a little leaning and rising onto his toes, and he kissed Jigano's cheek—far more intimate, somehow, than kissing his chest, another kind of promise, making him shake—moving closer and closer to his mouth. But he kept his hand over it, ready to fend him off should he try to return the kiss.

Oh, it was a little evil, but he felt wicked, and besides, Jigano had shown far more restraint with his hands so far...

"How can I say no to that?" he whispered against his skin, before pulling back, tantalizingly out of reach (with his face at least). He felt giddy and stupid with the whole thing, with knowing that surely some people in the crowd had noticed that they were a little indecent, and with a breathless laugh he tried to disentangle himself from Jigano's embrace and grab his hand instead. He didn't care that his body shouted his intentions to anyone who happened to look down at him, because he was leaving anyway, tugging Jigano away with him, towards the dark and the safety from prying eyes.

Jigano might've claimed the Glade wasn't far but if Rory had any say in matters, they'd probably not even make it all the way there.

He hadn’t realized how much he liked having someone else’s hand in his hair until it was Rory’s hand, tangling in silver tresses and tugging gently as he explored and teased and took what Jigano freely gave him. He shivered at the sweetness of the lips that smiled in a way he felt rather than saw, though he had no trouble at all imagining the handsome face and the expression on it as it imprinted against his skin. And then there was the other hand that stroked and slid over his clothing and caressed the eager body beneath with a wicked promise of what it would be doing if those useless things weren’t in the way…

The pause was measured in heartbeats, twining and tangling together like the fingers in his hair, as they breathed and shook and pressed close against each other and gave up even the pretense of dancing. Everything was moving too fast (not fast enough) and too soon (not soon enough) and maybe it had taken the festival or the beer to give them that last little push but now that it had… now that they were wrapped around each other, closer than the rest of the dancers around them and conspicuous in their stillness…

He didn’t want it to stop. Not any of it. Not the hands that explored him, or the kisses that alternated between fierce and sweet, or the heart that beat against his and drove them to a far more primal rhythm than the distant music of the flute. What he wanted was to taste Rory, as the hunter tasted him. Wanted to lose himself in a kiss that he knew would quickly spiral out of control and he didn’t care, he just wanted, beyond all rational thought or propriety.

Almost beyond propriety. His whispered suggestion – his request – had the entirely undesired consequence of losing the hand in his hair, and he made a faint, animal noise of protest before the finger to his lips silenced him – and the kiss to his cheek left him momentarily frozen, thrumming with tension and joy and desire at the gentleness of it. He melted against Rory then, his embrace losing none of its fierceness but softening subtly as something in him woke, yearning for the care the hunter showed him. He only tried to turn his head once, impatient to close the list sliver of distance between them, but a firm finger stopped the attempt and he twisted his own fingers in Rory’s shirt, holding back a whimper of protest by only the merest thread of control as he was so deliciously tormented by the only one he would allow such liberties.

Rory wasn’t playing fair and even if Jigano lacked his friend’s experience, he was still a creature of instinct beneath his civilized veneer. Hands slipped to Rory’s hips, then drifted lower, hitching up the beautiful blue tunic until he could brush the pads of his thumbs over the bare skin just above the hunter’s waistband—

And in that moment he was caught by the whisper - wicked, eager - that almost made up for how the blond swayed back even as Jigano leaned forward. He growled softly, playfully at the games his almost-lover teased him with, but there was bright heat in his eyes, pupils wide and dark and reflecting starlight as the hunter took his hand and led them from the dance at the edge of the festival and into the dark, away from the people, and prying eyes, and the sounds of conversation and laughter and music.  

They made it most of the way to the Glade, at least, before Jigano’s control frayed to the breaking point. He slowed and then stopped, tugging Rory to a halt with him – unless the wicked mage went ahead without him – and stepped close in a fluid motion that held more of a hunting fox than a courting human in it. One hand rose to cup his friend’s cheek, stroking tenderly over his scars as the lorekeeper tilted his head down with a smile that was almost shy in spite of the passion singing through his veins and demanding release now and here. ”I want you,” he said softly, finding the words Rory had once given to him and returning them with interest as he dipped his head to gently - thoroughly - capture the hunter’s lips, if Rory would let him.

It was good that they had left when they did: the memory of Jigano's hands finally slipping underneath the hem of his shirt, his thumbs stroking across his skin, was still enough to steal the breath right out of his lungs. When it had happened it had been like a blow to the back of his head, a blinding surge through his entire body as he'd shivered under the touch. It had taken so much to break away, only the promise of some solitude to feel those fingers across more of him to beat back the senseless desire to stay where they were just to prolong that moment.

Sooner or later, someone would've looked at them for longer than half a heartbeat, and taken offense to their youthful, shameless ways. And Rory desperately didn't want it to end.

So he dragged them into the dark, using the sounds he could hear from Fiat Lux to guide him away, into stillness and silence where the cool wind swept against hot skin and starlight bathed them in cold silver.

To his surprise, it was Jigano who stopped first, tugging on his hand. He came to a graceless halt, turning around with his heart set pounding anew, for this was it, this was where they could do exactly what they wanted, and this time, it was Jigano catching him, and not the other way around. A hand, pale in the darkness, rose to cup his cheek, elegant fingers stroking the scar, and Rory shivered with the anticipation of suddenly not knowing, of having relinquished control. This wasn't just his fire tugging Jigano along anymore.

This was Jigano wanting and acting on that want and it had him aching with a want to know—

His eyes were dark with want as he looked into Jigano's face, his hands hanging still by his sides. ”I want you,” Jigano said, and Rory's tongue began to fumble for responses: I'm here, so take me, I want you too, but none of them made it past his lips.

Because Jigano was kissing him, and for a moment, Rory was stunned by the sensation of it. The warmth of it, the taste of it, just the knowledge that it was Jigano kissing him in the dark, starlit forest.

Then he kissed him back, gentle, his hands rising again. His fingers teased the hem of Jigano's tunic, slipping beneath it to once again rest against his hip, but this time with nothing in between.

And it was electrifying.

Wrapping his other hand in the long hair again his kiss grew hungrier, and he pressed himself close, as close as he could, his breath fast and shallow, his blood hot, fingers wandering around the skin below Jigano's waist.