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They’ve been on the road for three months when his Patron visits in the middle of a storm. Water thrashes the outside of the tents, the humming threat of thunder roiling over the forested trees as lightning shatters apart the shadows for seconds at a time. Fjord tucks the water resistant cloak Caleb had gifted him further around his shoulders, blearily peering through the dark as his watch continues. Caleb sits just off to his right under the tarp of his tent, globules of light accentuating the sharp line of his jaw and the soft bruising beneath his eyes. Fjord settles down further.
They’re on second watch. The torrent of water darkens the night to near impossible visibility. Even with Fjord’s superior eyesight, he can barely make out anything beyond their ring of tents. Caleb shivers, bundling Frumpkin into the fold of his coat and yanking his sleeves down over his fingers. Fjord quirks a brow, gesturing with his cloaked shoulder in solidarity, and Caleb ducks his head with a smile. Fjord chuckles before continuing his watch.
The background hum of rain masks his Patron’s arrival. Fjord tucks his arms close to retain heat, crossing his ankles and rubbing his shoulders against the tree he’s propped against. Yawning, the dark of night gives way to the dark behind his lids.
He falls, fast and impossibly wild, arms flailing before the ocean surges up to enfold him. It sucks him down in greedy swirls, greens and blues and shadowed tendrils yanking him deep. Water thickens in his lungs but never quite drowns him. That instinctual panic grips his chest as he claws for the surface, the bubbles confusing his trajectory, circling him in a spiral of displaced air. He’s pulled deeper. His ears pop. His chest burns. He can’t find the surface.
A quiet hiss halts Fjord’s fall. Bubbles escape the corners of his lips, trickling forward and disappearing into the dark. Shadows shift around him, circling, gauging, and Fjord shudders. The great eye opens. Immediately, displeasure exudes from his Patron. Words boom in his thoughts, a harsh reprimand that rattles his bones loose and threatens to dislodge the delicate balance of water in his chest, a precarious seesaw of life and death. He pleads quiet forgiveness, and his Patron thunders another demand
Disappointment
Refusal
Lesson
before shunting him back into the ocean deep.
Up becomes down and pressure builds in his throat. Bubbles escape his lips, surging in a swirl around him, and Fjord cannot follow where they lead. He’s thrust back into darkness. He falls. His chest burns. He claws at the water around him, desperation a growing cancer in his stomach, hunger and despair and an insatiable need forcing those final bubbles from his lips. With a gurgling plea, the pressure in his chest breaks and he drowns in the ensuing onslaught.
A burst of air enters his lungs, crowding the water up and out of his throat and he heaves, gasps, chokes until the world is alive with bubbles. Another stream flows into his lungs and he breathes in greedily. The brutal dark of the ocean caresses his mouth. No, not the ocean. Another pair of lips, pressed crassly against his own, breathing for him. Water sloshes in his chest. Another breath. His back arches, mouth open to suck in more air, terror clinging to the base of his spine. He’s stopped falling. The surface is up.
He reaches. A calloused hand catches his, presses it to his chest, and lips lock with his once more. Another breath. Fjord chokes. The salt burns his eyes. Another breath.
Fjord comes awake fast and disoriented.
Lurching, he knocks foreheads with Caleb. Salt water and bile dribbles down Fjord’s chin as he rolls onto his side, gasping and choking and gagging for air. The rain thunders around them. Caleb’s fingers thread through his hair, ragged nails catching against the back of his neck and steadying him. Fjord swallows. Pants weakly against the mud and grass. Tears mix with rainwater and Fjord shakily lifts his head.
“Fjord?” Caleb asks, barely a whisper amongst the rain. Fjord blinks water from his eyes. His lungs heave. He vomits more salt water against the grass, whining in the back of his throat as he’s momentarily breathless. A hand smooths against his chest while the fingers in his hair hold on. His elbows shake. He can’t get enough air, the cloak around his throat tight as a noose, and he claws at it frantically.
“Ja, ja, calm, Fjord, I have you,” Caleb says, wrestling the cloak off of him and beginning to strip him of his leather armour. Fjord can’t assist, can barely function beyond drawing in air and holding it as long as he dares. Caleb eases the breastplate off and undoes the laces at Fjord’s throat. Water immediately drenches Fjord through, seeping into his clothes and prickling his skin. He’s afloat once more. Fjord catches Caleb’s wrist, pinning Caleb’s palm against the thunder of his heart, and just breathes.
A brilliant wash of lightning illuminates the fear on Caleb’s face. Fjord spits to the side. “Thanks.”
“Of course,” Caleb says immediately. His fingers curl against Fjord’s clavicle, palm steady against Fjord’s heart. “That was no normal dream.”
“What gave it away?” Fjord closes his eyes. Each breath pulses through him, floods the adrenaline out of his system, until he shakes. A sharp knee pokes the inside of his thigh and Fjord cracks an eye open. Caleb’s close, other hand hovering. Another whip-snap of lightning cascades over Caleb and settles in the deep blue of his eyes. Fjord inhales.
“Just let me alone for a sec, ‘kay?” Fjord rasps out. Caleb frowns, a quick furrow of his brow before his expression settles out. Fjord’s heart rabbits frantically against his chest, trapped in the cradle of Caleb’s palm. His lungs slosh weakly. A terrible headache creeps up along his temples. When Caleb’s hand shifts as though to pull away, Fjord’s grip tightens, yanks, and Caleb steadies himself on Fjord’s shoulder.
“Calm,” Caleb repeats. Fjord exhales sharply, dizzy. The faint haze of Caleb’s lights play tricks on Fjord’s eyes; everything is muted and watery, shadows bleeding into the curl of a long tentacle and trees blending into forests of kelp. Fjord squeezes his eyes shut. Caleb’s fingers burn against his skin.
“What do you need?” Caleb asks. Fjord sucks on the inside of his cheek. He shivers. Opening his eyes slowly, he blinks away the rainwater that smears Caleb into a mess of browns and reds and vibrant blues.
“I don’t know,” Fjord admits. Caleb frowns. “It’s still got me.”
Understanding dawns. Caleb’s fingers twitch against Fjord’s skin, still burning, so incredibly warm. “Can you move?”
Fjord nods. With a flick of his wrist, the globules of light lower until they hover just around Caleb’s face, illuminating them both. Rain curls down Caleb’s cheeks and along his nose, over the flush of his bottom lip and the sharp line of his jaw. Fjord focuses on the spaces in between: the scruff on Caleb’s chin, the swirl of blue in his eyes, the shadows beneath the wet drip of his hair. Grounds himself in Caleb’s solidity. He squeezes Caleb’s wrist.
“I am going to release you now. I am not going anywhere.” Caleb gently pulls his hand back, pausing when Fjord stutters on a panicked breath. It’s painfully slow, divorcing himself from the nightmare that still sloshes in his chest. Caleb’s patience never wavers. The light pulses faintly around them. When Caleb finally extracts his hand from Fjord, it takes all of Fjord’s willpower not to snatch it back, to hold the careful flame of Caleb’s presence against his skin until he’s solid again.
“We are going into the tents,” Caleb says. The quiet cadence of his voice washes away the anxiety bubbling in Fjord’s gut. The surety stabilizes the ground beneath Fjord’s trembling legs. Fjord wills himself present. “We are getting out of this rain and this water and we are changing into warm clothes. I will ask Frumpkin to become something you can touch and then we shall sit until you are free.”
Thunder rumbles through the trees. Tingles race up and down Fjord’s arms, prickles that twitch over his skin in lightning shocks of pain. Caleb remains crouched in front of him, his clothing drenched through, Frumpkin’s luminous eyes peering out from beneath Caleb’s scarf. Fjord swallows and pushes to his feet, staggering a moment back against the tree. The bark cuts into his elbow. The bright bloom of pain jars him, snaps him more firmly back into his body, and Fjord shoves his hands through his hair.
“Tents.” Caleb pivots, heading toward the tent he shares with Nott. Fjord collects his scattered armour and borrowed cloak with shaking fingers, bundling everything up against his stomach before following. Lightning flashes.
Within the confines of the tent, Caleb’s lights rise and hover along the ceiling, catching the raindrops as they pepper the outside of the tent. The water echoes back on itself, creating a muted and strangely threatening atmosphere that raises the hair on the back of Fjord’s neck. He exhales through his nose, clenching his teeth still as he shivers violently. Away from the rain, the chill sets in fast; all that remains of any warmth is the remembrance of Caleb’s fingers against Fjord’s clavicle. Fjord closes his eyes briefly before searching for a clean spot to lay out his soaked armour.
Caleb drips his way over to where Nott is curled up in her pillows and blankets and various bits of clothing and trinkets. She’s sprawled peacefully amongst her treasures, snoring lightly, hair caught in the corner of her mouth. With visible reluctance, Caleb crouches down beside her and shoos Frumpkin out of his clothes. Fjord straightens.
“Nott, it is time for your watch,” Caleb says, gently shaking Nott awake. Nott groans a protest, rolling until her face is pressed petulant against Caleb’s ankle. He chuckles. “Up, up, you must wake Jester to watch with you.”
Nott grumbles, flexing her claws against Caleb’s wet pants before she pushes up. Fjord nods when Nott’s sleep addled attention catches on him. Her lips pinch, eyes narrowing as her gaze bounces between Fjord and Caleb, curious, quick, before she shrugs and grabs her cloak. “I hate taking watch in the rain.”
“Bribe Beauregard,” Caleb suggests, unwinding his scarf. Frumpkin flops onto the rapidly depleting warmth of the pillow Nott just left. A flicker of jealousy curls in Fjord’s chest. “Better yet, bribe Yasha and inform Beauregard.”
Nott fixes the tangles in her hair, yanking them free. “No, Jester wanted to try something. Take my blanket, it’s warm.”
The tent flap resettles after Nott’s departure, leaving Fjord in the muted shadows of Caleb’s lights. Caleb shrugs out of his coat, gesturing for Fjord to do the same, and crouches near his pack. Space within the tent is limited, Nott’s belongings scattered over half of it and Caleb’s mostly covered by a haphazard blanket and pillow arraignment. While Fjord strips off his shirt and squeezes water out of the sleeves, Caleb rearranges the bedding until it’s mostly piled up in the middle, thin pillows and multiple blankets creating a haphazard nest of comfort. Frumpkin purrs from a pillow.
Running his palm over Frumpkin’s purring stomach, Caleb chides, “We talked about this.”
Frumpkin wiggles, tail snapping, green eyes shifting to Fjord. With a lazy yawn, Frumpkin rolls off the pillow and pads over to Caleb’s components.
Shoving his socks into his shoes, Fjord scratches at an ankle. He’s still cold, skin pebbling all over. Caleb busies himself with setting up the array for Frumpkin to sit in, sprinkling the incense in larger circles, water soaking his shirt transparent. “Caleb.”
“Hm?” Caleb glances over his shoulder, fingers smoothly finishing off the final sigil with a flourish as Frumpkin sprawls in the centre, lazy and content. Incense is placed in each corner of the symbol.
Fjord clears his throat. “You don’t have to do this. Truly. You’re wasting spell components to change Frumpkin into something he doesn’t want.”
Frowning, Caleb turns back to his cat. Frumpkin chirps. “He does not mind. Besides, you are in need of him.”
“I can just go back to my own tent,” Fjord says. Caleb’s frown deepens. Fjord coughs against the brackish burn in the back of his throat. “’m fine.”
“You nearly drowned,” Caleb whispers. His hands slap down on the ground and Frumpkin’s eyes flash, brilliant and wide as his body goes smudged and malleable. Fjord’s breath catches. From this angle, he can just make out the electric burn of Caleb’s gaze, the shimmering haze of magic that snaps wildly around him as he conducts the arcane. It’s impossible to look away. Caleb’s lips move soundlessly, shadows caressing along his cheeks and into the wet tangle of his hair, gaze impossibly bright and vividly alive. Fire scorches around the edges of the circle as Frumpkin shifts and grows.
The spell ends with a hiss of steam and Frumpkin’s newest form slowly comes into focus. He’s unlike any creature Fjord has ever come across: large tufted ears of black and red fur, a sharp canine nose and jaw, eyes of brilliant green mixed with fiery red. He stands about waist high, thick fur shifting from red to black with magma slowness, even as Frumpkin stands perfectly still. An air of impossibility surrounds Frumpkin when he ducks low and stretches, mouth yawning wide to showcase obsidian sharp teeth and a deceptively normal tongue. Of course Frumpkin would choose to represent a breathing representation of lava in dog form.
“You are a show-off,” Caleb says affectionately as Frumpkin pads over to him and nearly knocks him over. Caleb pats him on the head before shoving him toward Fjord. “Stay with Fjord.”
Sniffing, Frumpkin approaches. His shoulders roll, a predator masquerading as domesticated. Fjord stills his hand from immediately reaching out, carefully extending one curved knuckle instead. While Fjord prefers dogs to cats, Frumpkin is Caleb’s and therefore Fjord prefers whatever form Frumpkin does. The Fey are messy beings, all tangled up in the areas between planar systems, with Frumpkin even more so. They’re so - unknowable. But Fjord trusts Caleb. This creature Frumpkin mimics came about from Caleb’s trust in Frumpkin to take care of Fjord. Frumpkin’s fur shimmers, heat rippling beneath like the flash of dying embers, sizzling out into sooty strands. Fjord pauses.
Frumpkin huffs and shoves right into Fjord’s space, leaning his side against Fjord’s thighs.
Fjord gasps, surprised, as warmth chases away the chill everywhere Frumpkin presses against him. It’s not too hot but blissfully perfect, evaporating the ice burrowed under Fjord’s skin. He slides his fingers through Frumpkin’s fur, sighing blissfully at the warmth that crawls up his arm. “Well, isn’t that useful?”
“He is being a brat,” Caleb says from his pack. He’s switched out his wet shirt for something dryer and is wrestling with his pants. Fjord raises a brow at Frumpkin who simply barks, low and chittering, an almost laugh. Caleb scoffs. “Yes, you are. I said dog not hell-beast with a twist.”
Frumpkin ignores Caleb, nudging and shoving at Fjord until he’s backed toward the bundle of blankets in the middle. Laughing low, Fjord catches Frumpkin’s face between his hands and gives him a good scratch, delighting in how Frumpkin’s ethereal eyes brighten and his tail begins to wag. Before Fjord can stop him, Frumpkin jumps up, all four paws scrambling for a moment against Fjord’s skin, and both dog and half-orc go down in a yelling heap.
While Fjord works his way free of fur and heat, a soft rasping laugh can be heard over Frumpkin’s disgruntled yips. Beyond the mussed blankets, Caleb has his hand over his mouth, smile threatening at the edges as his laughter shivers through the tent. It’s hiccupping and small but so very beautiful. Fjord closes his eyes, digging his fingers into Frumpkin’s fur while Caleb smothers his laughter in the corner.
“He likes you,” Caleb whisper-laughs as he crawls over to where Fjord is pinned beneath Frumpkin’s bulk. Fjord raises a brow but smiles, his chest clear for the first time since he awoke. Caleb’s eyes twinkle.
“Thank you for this,” Fjord says. Caleb pets along Frumpkin’s spine while his Familiar fails to bundle his entire self onto Fjord. With a disgusted sigh, Frumpkin stands up and circles around to Fjord’s side, flopping down beside him and shoving Fjord further against Caleb. There’s a moment where Fjord expects Caleb to pull away, but instead Caleb settles in, shifting enough that Fjord’s head rests against his thigh.
“It is best to distract when nightmares tug at us.” Caleb plucks at the sheets beside Fjord’s shoulder, gaze skittering away from Fjord’s for a moment before he sighs. “Though I can say having to save someone from drowning in the midst of a thunderstorm is somewhat new for me.”
Fjord winces, digging his fingers into Frumpkin’s ruff. “Apologies.”
Waving a hand, Caleb says, “None of that. We do not have to speak of it. Though: are you all right?”
Even with the heat from Frumpkin and the new closeness of Caleb, Fjord shivers. His Patron’s displeasure lingers beneath his skin, sucking at his marrow and tattooing itself into his blood. The chill persists. Caleb frowns down at him, hair haloed in rust and the ethereal smattering of rain above.
They don’t have to talk about it but, Gods above, Fjord wants to.
“I haven’t -” Fjord begins before stalling. Frumpkin drops his head on Fjord’s stomach. “I wanted to ask you about my sword. The - the Falchion and its design and purpose. I kept meaning to get you alone to ask but there was never any time.”
“We are alone now,” Caleb points out. His gaze holds, electric blue bright and unwavering.
Fjord swallows hard. “Yeah.”
Glancing away, Caleb says, “You do not have to push yourself. It has been a rough night -”
“I want to,” Fjord cuts him off, suddenly furious, “Gods, I want to, but this thing is dangerous, Caleb, I can feel it. I can’t tell you how and maybe I’m wrong, but if I’m not and I just start asking questions, things could go sideways.”
Caleb raises a brow. “More dangerous than drowning from a dream?”
Blowing out a breath, Fjord twists until his cheek is against Caleb’s thigh, just above his knee. He can’t - having Caleb watch him itches in a way Fjord can’t quite categorize. There’s so much behind those bright eyes, so much that Fjord wants to pick and prod at, and in return open himself up for. Not now though. Not with his Patron furious and his mind scrambled and his insides churning like the sea. Silence and warmth and nothing more. Frumpkin huffs annoyingly behind him but just settles into the curve of his spine, warmth bleeding out and over Fjord’s chilled skin.
Licking his lips, Fjord says, “The drowning is only dangerous to me. It doesn’t hurt anyone else.”
Caleb tsks, a sharp hiss that is coupled with the sudden flick of Caleb’s nails against Fjord’s ear. The pain startles more than hurts and Fjord jerks away from the touch with a yelp. When he resettles, he’s close enough to Caleb’s stomach that he can count the loose threads on the hem of his sleep shirt.
“Das ist Kacke. When you hurt, the rest of us hurt. You taught me this.” Caleb reaches over Fjord’s shoulder to poke at Frumpkin, nearly smothering Fjord in the process.
Fjord closes his eyes. “Vanderin liked to say, ‘Do as I say not as I do’.”
Snorting, Caleb resettles. Fingers brush absently over Fjord’s bare shoulder. “Perhaps you should take your Vanderin’s words into practice. I would prefer you do as you say and not as you do. It would certainly alleviate the stress.”
A smile tugs at Fjord’s lips. The combination of Frumpkin and Caleb has nearly chased the cold from Fjord’s skin. “Am I stressing you out?”
“You all regularly stress me out,” Caleb deadpans, lazy and affectionate. Fjord laughs. They settle into a simple silence, Caleb warm beneath Fjord’s cheek and Frumpkin smoldering like a hearth at Fjord’s back. It’s deceptively calm, wonderfully blissful, and can’t last. The dream was a lesson or a warning and Caleb had saved him from learning it. Fjord’s eyelids droop. He bites the inside of his cheek to remain awake.
The globules of light have drifted higher, circling in slowly dimmer increments. One settles just beside Caleb’s shoulder. The shadows of rain overlap with the dread of tendrils reaching and Fjord rubs his face against Caleb’s thigh, hand coming up to catch at Caleb’s hip. It’s stupid, and silly, but holding onto something physical may keep his Patron from orchestrating a repeat performance. The quiet tension bundled under Caleb’s skin vibrates against Fjord’s palm. He rubs a thumb against Caleb’s hipbone.
“I know you don’t much like touching,” Fjord whispers to the folds of Caleb’s nightshirt. Shadows splatter against the fabric. “But do you mind?”
Caleb doesn’t respond save for a delicate touch on the back of Fjord’s neck. Callused fingers rub against Fjord’s hairline, ragged nails scratching against the grain. Fjord shifts forward, rolling until he’s practically curled around Caleb as much as he can bear. Behind him, Frumpkin huffs again and stands up, shaking out before he stalks over to rest against Fjord’s back once more, hot nose against Fjord’s spine. It’s warm. It’s safe. Fjord fists his fingers in Caleb’s nightshirt, fits his palm into the sharp point of Caleb’s hip, and breathes.
Outside, thunder grumbles and lightning shatters across the sky. The rain drums a familiar beat. Beneath the petulant drawl of nature, Nott and Jester can just be heard, giggles and exuberant stories exchanged to fend off the boredom. Fjord curls closer.
Mimicking the rise and fall of Caleb’s chest, Fjord digs his thumb in enough to memorize the hum of Caleb’s heartbeat in his veins, and breathes in a mixture of road dirt and lavender that Molly sneaks into their clothing when they find a stream to wash in. Safety wraps around Fjord as tightly as Fjord does Caleb. His eyelids droop. Caleb’s fingers scribble runes into the back of Fjord’s neck and down his shoulders: some Fjord recognizes but most he does not. It’s delicate. Intimate. Fjord shudders out a breath and burrows closer.
Time stretches. Each blink lasts longer than the previous until Fjord is lost more to darkness than the shimmer of shadows mixed with rain. Caleb’s touch stretches beyond Fjord’s shoulders, drawing down the curl of his bicep and into the ticklish curve of his elbow. When Fjord hums a protest, Caleb shushes him, continuing the languid exploration. From beneath his lashes, Fjord tracks the delicate pad of Caleb’s finger, notes the deep contrast of light and dark. Caleb draws a quick sigil with the tip of his ring finger against the veins of Fjord’s forearm before sliding his palm rough and smooth back up Fjord’s shoulder to cradle the back of his neck. Fjord settles. Caleb has him.
“Fjord?” Caleb asks quietly. Fjord twists his lips but no sound escapes. He’s unbelievably relaxed right now, protected on all sides. A Fey at his back and a wizard at his front. Sleep crooks a tantalizing finger.
“I worry,” Caleb whispers suddenly, fingers jittering over Fjord’s hair, the line of his ear, the edge of his scar. Fjord fights to keep his eyes open. “I can protect all of you against ogres and hell beasts and the occasional magical illusion but I cannot protect you against this. I cannot ward your dreams against a being that forces you to drown on dry land. I worry that one day I will not be able to bring you back. That you will go where I cannot follow.”
“S’not your fault,” Fjord says. Caleb’s fingers still for a moment before resuming their petting. It’s hypnotic, lulling, but Fjord struggles against it. This is important. Gods, he’s so tired. He hasn’t slept properly in months. Not since that first dream.
“I covet support spells, you know. Not because I need them but because all of you do. I am good with fire and I am good with shielding, but I am not good with water.” Caleb smooths back Fjord’s fringe. Fjord nudges up into the touch. “I will become good with water, for your sake.”
“Y’don’t have to do that,” Fjord murmurs.
Caleb hushes him, thumb brushing deliberately against Fjord’s temple. “Sleep, Bärchen. We will discuss this silliness in the morrow.”
It’s surprisingly difficult to disagree when Caleb’s voice dips low like that, soft and fond and lovely. Frumpkin sighs loudly against Fjord’s back, shifting around as though demanding the two of them shut up and allow him his rest. Caleb hums his assent but continues to draw delicate symbols upon Fjord’s skin. A shielding spell, from the circular nature of it, followed by something similar to his Firebolt spell but more - wavy?
When Caleb speaks once more, his voice ripples, low, secret. “You are a puzzle I would very much enjoy figuring out.” Caleb draws a line down Fjord’s forehead, over his eyebrows, and against the swoop of his cheekbones. “If you would allow me such a privilege.”
Caleb ends his exploration with a thumb pressed against the corner of Fjord’s lips, the gentlest of touches that sparks a dizzying understanding down Fjord’s spine. It’s difficult, drawing himself free from sleep, but necessary. With understanding comes need, sharp and firehot in the pit of Fjord’s stomach, an ember fanned to flame. Mouth dry, Fjord flicks his gaze up to meet Caleb’s. A single globule of light hovers near the entrance of the tent, casting everything in lingering shadow, and smearing Caleb in a combination of light and dark. His cheeks are flushed but his gaze remains steady. Focused. Asking but accepting that it might not go his way.
Deferring to Fjord, even in this.
When Fjord shifts, Caleb’s hand withdraws. It’s not what he was hoping for but this entire fiasco hadn’t exactly been planned out. There’s a stunning power to being wanted, and to being wanted by someone who could easily reduce Fjord to ashes. Fjord licks his lips. He’s not - good, at this kind of thing but Gods he needs it.
Caleb’s eyes glow, dilating when Fjord pushes himself up with one arm, his lips parting when Fjord splays a palm over Caleb’s lower back. A heady thrum pulses at the base of Fjord’s skull. Attraction he knows; he’s aware of and understands how it works and how to manipulate it, though balks when it’s directed at himself. This though - this push and tug between the two of them tingles over Fjord’s skin in shocking rivets.
“I’m not good at this,” Fjord whispers, a reminder both for himself and for Caleb. Caleb burns under his hands, so warm. “I don’t quite know what I’m doing.”
With a stuttering laugh, Caleb catches Fjord’s jaw, rubs a thumb against his cheekbone. Fjord’s eyes flutter closed. “We are both rusty it would seem. You are tired, Bärchen, and have had a rough night. We can discuss in the morning if you are all right with this.”
Again, not what he was hoping for. Instead of answering, Fjord drops his forehead against Caleb’s, rubs their noses together when Caleb stutters on his next breath. He’s drunk on the warmth of Caleb’s body against his, warmed through and glowing at attraction reciprocated, want bubbling in his chest like cheap wine. He doesn’t know what to do. His experience is limited to the one fumble in the back of a shipyard, young and desperate to fit in and filled with self loathing for his heritage. That didn’t compare to this: this quiet acceptance and Caleb’s palms against his skin, lips parted and cheeks flush.
“You are making this far too difficult,” Caleb says. He nudges up, the barest hint of lips brushing. Fjord sucks in a shocked inhale. “May I kiss you?”
“Please,” Fjord groans.
Hands slide into Fjord’s hair and Caleb rocks up until their lips slot together. Fjord groans, wrapping his arm around Caleb’s waist as he surges forward, clumsy and inexperienced but eager as anything else. The burn of Caleb’s mouth against his isn’t enough; Fjord shifts so he can push forward into Caleb’s space. Caleb stutters out a sigh, fingers curling in Fjord’s hair to still him, to slow him, and that just won’t do, it can’t do. Fjord pushes. Caleb pulls. A flick of tongue, teeth cautioning but desperately wanted; everything slowing to a pace Fjord disagrees with heartily.
“Calm,” Caleb whispers against his lips. Presses a fleeting kiss against the corner of Fjord’s mouth, another against the line of Fjord’s jaw, before coming to rest back against Fjord’s lips as gentle, soothing kisses. Nothing like the heat churning away in Fjord’s gut. Calm. Fjord scrapes his nails over the thin skin of Caleb’s back, desperate for a reaction as heated as his own. The groan that garners him settles in his chest, turns everything heady and hot and sharp.
“Fjord,” Caleb says, pleads, fingers tightening in Fjord’s hair to still him. The whine is unbecoming but damned if it doesn’t get the point across. Fjord pulls. Caleb holds him steady, electric gaze blown wide with heat and affection and a hint of mischief. Fjord tightens his hold on Caleb’s waist, pricks his claws along the edges of Caleb’s pants, needling him into reacting. Fingers twist and fist in his hair, hard enough to almost liquify Fjord’s spine, before Caleb draws a palm down to cradle against Fjord’s cheek.
“It has been a long night,” Caleb says, voice deep and shivering.
Fjord bumps their noses together. “So, is that a no to more kissin’?”
“It is never a no.” Caleb brushes their lips together again, chaste and sweet. It’s easy to catch Caleb’s bottom lip with a light nip, easy to rekindle that which Caleb fights to soothe, easy to shuffle them both toward that edge beyond responsibility. Caleb licks into Fjord’s mouth with a singular focus and all Fjord can do is hold on. Mimic if he wants but just having all of Caleb’s attention like this is intoxicating.
With an annoyed sigh, Frumpkin shoves against Fjord’s back. Caleb startles, tumbling backward and dragging Fjord with him, a pile of limbs and legs and magic dog ending in a heap amongst the blankets. Laughter catches in Fjord’s chest and bubbles out, mixing with Frumpkin’s yip of disagreement and Caleb’s eye roll. Frumpkin nudges at Caleb’s fingers on Fjord’s shoulder, demanding pets.
Dropping his forehead against the pillow beside Caleb, Fjord runs his nose along Caleb’s shoulder and up against his neck, pleased at the shiver that garners him. He’s tired but content. Caleb’s right; it’s been a long night, made longer by lessons shoved aside in exchange for confessions and kisses. Fjord shifts until he’s not fully crushing Caleb but still close enough that he can tuck his head under Caleb’s chin, fingers splayed over a warm belly and sharp hipbones. Frumpkin pads over to sit once more at his side, pinning him in place and wiggling around until he’s on his back, paws in the air and exhaling in pleased doggy bliss.
“I believe that is our cue,” Caleb says, dropping a kiss in Fjord’s hair. Fjord hums his assent, lips bruised from their shared kisses, blood humming with promises and the excitement of tomorrow.
The lights had dimmed during their activities. Small whispers twist at the edge of Fjord’s subconscious, but the heat of Caleb’s touch along his spine chases them back and away, warming him through. A lesson saved for another day. It won’t be pretty, when his Patron drags him back down, but for now he’s protected.