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Pallas loved listening to his parents’ stories.
His family was not as big as most in Akielos, but it was enough, and he had two older brothers and an older sister and a younger set of twins, a devilish little girl and an angelic boy that caused more problems than her, to keep him company. They would all round up when it was time to listen to legends of warriors and kings and what came before the war between Akielos and Vere.
When he was young, his brothers let him sit in their lap, and later he did the same for the two little siblings. His sister made him the best lemonade to sip on.
Even when he started training, and earned himself a place, albeit low-ranked in the beginning, amongst the king’s soldiers, he still made time to come home and listen to a story or two. He did not know much about Vere, except that he was supposed to hate its people, and that he had cultivated a carefully selected vocabulary while listening to warriors talking in stories.
That’s why, the first time he met Lazar on the opposite side of the flag, he had no idea who the men forming the prince’s guard were, and could only frown. He also had no idea what King Damianos was planning, teaming up with Veretians, so Pallas would spend a while wondering if it’s time to hate the other soldiers or not during this temporary peace.
The second time was much alike – the Veretian prince was charming, but that alone was not enough for most of the men. Fights were bound to break out, and it was safer to hang around your own group, pray that Nikandros kept Makedon in line, and steal a glance or two to check if the Veretians were plotting behind your back.
Strangely enough, many of them had that same look on their own faces, cautious about any time spent with their enemies.
The third time happened at the beginning of their journey to Ios, when someone dug up a bottle of griva, and Pallas looked horrified as Lazar mistook it for water and downed one - and only - big gulp of it. Even if he was a Veretian, Pallas wouldn’t wish that poison on his worst enemy. He offered the man an understanding, apologetic stare.
From what Pallas could make out of his reaction, Lazar wanted this expedition to be over soon, just to physically get as far away from griva as humanly possible.
After that Pallas wondered for a while if the fourth time actually happened. He had earned himself a chance to battle the king during the okton, and he couldn’t stop grinning and beaming with pride. He lost, but each soldier passing by gave him an encouraging slap on the back and spared a word to compliment his skills. What he did not expect then was Lazar, the winner of the archery contest, to offer him both too, except that the slap was a little too low and the words a little too whistled.
His smile was genuine, though. And the touch lingered.
Then, the fifth time happened on the road around a fire. Whatever Laurent was saying Pallas had long since forgotten because he was too busy laughing, and Lazar next to him was flushing and hiding his face to Pallas' shoulder and his hair was so soft and pleasant to lean his cheek onto. Their shoulders bumped and touched, and Pallas was happy.
That night, they only left for their covers after taking their time sharing a smile.
Right after that came sixth time, when they were washing off dirt in the river and Pallas found a discarded Veretian shirt near a tree. He picked it up, curious to see how intricate it really was to tie up those laces. The voice behind, though, he didn’t expect, and he jumped and searched for a word of apology to the owner. He picked one from his limited vocabulary that felt right.
Lazar gaped, then burst into laughter, and shook his head.
“Uh, not the right word?” Pallas tried tentatively, with a hint of a smile. “Sorry?” He tried again, in Akielon.
“You curse well,” Lazar grinned.
Figures, Pallas thought. His brothers knew what words to teach him as a child.
"Yours?" He held out the shirt.
Lazar seemed to consider his answer and looked at Pallas before speaking.
"Yes."
“Really?”
“Yes. I need one. At night, it’s cold.”
“Oh. I suppose it is.” He handed the thing to Lazar, who placed it around his shoulders carelessly.
“You too?”
“Me?”
“Cold?”
“Oh. Yes. I usually,” Pallas struggled, opting for a finger pointed downwards, “my home is south. Ios, almost. Very warm there,” he grinned.
Lazar nodded. “Akielon clothing is lacking.”
“Hey!”
The older laughed and patted Pallas’ shoulder twice in apology. When the hand didn’t leave though, Pallas tilted his head and looked up confused. Lazar’s face had softened a little.
“What?”
“Say…”
“Pallas.”
“Pallas. I’m Lazar.”
“Lazar,” Pallas nodded. He knew that.
“If you are also cold, do you want to share?”
“Sha…re?” Oh, how wrong the Veretian sounding thing came off his tongue. He frowned, but so did Lazar, and his attempt at the Akielon word was even worse. The solution seemed to be to pull his shirt off and step closer.
“Share,” he repeated, wrapping it around Pallas and pulling him to himself. “Covers, in bed. At night.”
“Share,” Pallas said, and blinked at Lazar’s face.
“Uh…it’s cold?” Lazar’s grin was shy.
“Cold…it is cold. Yeah, it’s cold.” Slowly, Pallas realised and the grin on his own face outmatched Lazar’s. The other’s hips were firm beneath his hands. “I will share.”
The sixth time happened more than once, and Pallas hoped for it to keep happening forever. But this party would only be together until the two kingdoms had their rightful kings sitting on the throne, and then it would be over. So, he kept count, to remember well.
Because Lazar’s arms at night were easy to remember, casually finding their way around him while they blabbered stories in two broken languages. His embrace was soft, for a soldier, and Pallas wondered if this is how all lovers did it, or was it just Lazar. He had never paid attention to it before.
Lazar was more intriguing.
“Do you have brothers?” Lazar had asked one night.
Pallas nodded. “Older. And sister. And younger ones.”
“Big family,” Lazar laughed.
“Not too big,” Pallas said. Akielos did not mind lovers as much as Vere did, although their public affections were a little peculiar. “Many in Akielos have more children.”
“Not family though,” Lazar smiled and pinched Pallas’ cheek softly. He pouted, so Lazar placed a kiss on it instead. It made Pallas curl up closer. “So how many?”
“Five of us,” said Pallas.
When Lazar's brows furrowed at the provincial Akielon five, Pallas rolled his eyes and showed him his hand, all fingers up.
Lazar looked at it, confused, and then suddenly lit up and reached.
"Good fit."
Pallas stared at their entwined fingers and couldn't help hiding against Lazar's chest as he felt his face heat up.
He didn’t want this to end.
The seventh, there were many of.
Little things to court Pallas, not bold for a Veretian but bold for an Akielon, and he enjoyed every second of it. He enjoyed the winks as he passed Lazar’s group of friends, he winked back whenever he heard a whistle. Apparently he had missed the first one, Lazar said, the moment he had seen him.
He liked the side hug with one arm and much more those with two that lifted him off the ground in laughter.
He loved the lazy casualness with which Lazar leaned onto him and pressed kisses to his cheeks, or grabbed him by the waist when Pallas unexpectedly rolled all over his chest and woke him from a well-deserved nap.
He loved even more how giving in was so easy and Lazar fit next to him so well, and if there ever was a worry, feeling the other man move inside him and his back scratch the sheets – or seeing Lazar’s do so, when he flipped on top to tease him with a stupidly slow pace that they both loved and hated – made every problem seem unimportant.
But what he adored most was what came after, because whenever they fucked, in the evenings Lazar would find him. Like that one time, when he wrapped his arms around Pallas from behind, with a cover around them, and held him close. Pallas nuzzled into his neck, melting under the warmth.
“How are you?”
“Mm. Not cold now.”
“Yeah? Good.” Lazar kissed the top of his head. “Fire?”
Pallas nodded, looking for a comfortable spot to listen to more stories their kings would somehow manage to find.
A tree trunk was comfortable enough, and Pallas, as well as all others, have by then learned not to mind their closeness outside the tent. Pallas leaned onto Lazar’s side, let himself be wrapped in the cover again, and then lulled to sleep by a gentle hand caressing his side and kisses smiling against his forehead.
Lazar was strong enough to take him to bed afterwards, anyway.
The eighth time, Pallas hated.
It all happened so fast, Damianos, Laurent, the Regent, a trial, and then, then there was war. The new king and his throne had to be secured. Blood would be spilled.
Lazar.
Where was he?
Pallas turned around, trying to make sense of his surroundings. People were in panic, and it was not pretty. And Lazar was nowhere to be seen. Pallas swallowed, nodded at some soldiers and ran to scout the area around the throne.
Where were the kings?
“Pallas!”
“Lazar!”
Pallas shot up and looked around, Lazar still nowhere in sight. Then suddenly, he crawled up from a hallway, a little pale and out of breath and he-
“Lazar!” Pallas tackled him. “All good?”
Lazar tightened his grip and crushed their lips together shortly. “Well. The brother is dead, Damianos is not yet, and our prince will kill us all if he does die so-”
“Exalted-”
“No, he’ll be okay, but we- orders. Our prince gave us orders, we have to clear the area fast before anyone gets away,” Lazar rushed, intaking the situation as he spoke, “we need to- are you alright?”
“Yes, yes, I am! We have to go, just…find me later? Please? Lazar I-”
Lazar kissed him again. Shortly. It barely lasted long enough to count.
“I will. Or come with me. Vere stands with Akielos. Just…just be safe.”
Lazar pleaded. Pallas grabbed his shirt and nodded furiously, lips tight.
“It’s not over yet. You have to see me later.”
Lazar looked at him, let out a breath and ruffled his hair. The war wasn’t over yet. They were still here, and they would have time to be together after this.
They each ran to the flag of their king’s colour.
Not more than a week later came the ninth time, after king Damianos had recovered enough to be conscious, but not enough for prince Laurent to leave his chambers unless absolutely necessary. Somehow Nikandros helped them hold the state together, but not a single person had the luxury of being idle.
All Pallas had been able to do was to have found Lazar at night after that first day, unharmed and too exhausted to fuck, and since then it had only been tired teasing winks and kisses blown through the air.
In the evening of a week later Pallas had been summoned to the king’s chambers and he entered scared of what was about to come. Would he be ordered to protect the palace, or train at Kingsmeet, and be at last forced to stop counting his times with Lazar?
He entered the room as pale as his sun-kissed skin would allow him to be, and came out even paler. He looked around, not hearing people speaking to him, and ran to Lazar.
“Lazar!”
The door to a half-empty bedroom burst open and it was only by luck that one of the guards by the door managed to preserve his nose unbroken.
“Mmm- Pallas?” The young man pushed himself up from one of the beds with his wits still blurred from sleep. “Fuck, are you good- oof!”
“I-”
“Are you hurt? Tell me where, is it- fuck, how do you say it in Akielon- mmnf-”
“I made it!” Pallas exclaimed still in awe from his favourite sitting place on top of Lazar. “I did it.”
“Mma-wh-?”
“Oh, sorry!” Pallas quickly removed his hands from Lazar’s mouth. “I meant the guard!”
“The guard?”
“Royal guard!” Pallas repeated, breathless, and leaned closer and Lazar swallowed at the look in his eyes that shone like they did when Pallas pushed himself beyond physical limits in battle. “I made it into the Royal guard. I…I get to go with king Damianos. Even to Vere. And when he meets your prince. I get to go, I get to-”
“I get to see you.”
“I get to see you,” he let out a breath, “yes. You get to see me.”
“Fuck,” Lazar growled and pulled him down.
Pallas laughed against his skin and laughed louder when kissed roughly and when he wrestled the young man until they were comfortably squeezed on the bed.
“Oh, I’m going to fuck you so well tonight,” Lazar murmured like a cat against his lips, lazy and slow like he couldn’t care for any orders right then.
“Get a private room.”
“You get me one, or get yourself another!” Lazar groaned at a fellow soldier laughing at them as he left. “Why are you all even here? Get out, I’m not sharing this one.”
“No one wants to touch a bed you are in, Lazar-”
“Oh shut up, I know how I could make you beg, you idiot, I know you secretly-”
“What are you arguing about?”
Lazar looked at the warm brown eyes staring at him.
“Nothing important, some Veretian stuff.”
“It sounded fun.”
“It would be if these guys had any taste. Too late now.”
“For what?”
Lazar laughed and kissed him. “Nothing. I said I’d fuck you well, didn’t I?”
“Mm. Now?”
“Yeah…”
He didn’t. Lazar fell asleep on Pallas’ chest, and Pallas was not going to complain. He held him tight and followed suit.
Last was the tenth time.
After a brief period of Damianos and Laurent dealing with the damage following their return, they were to meet in the centre. To make arrangements, to rule it together. Damianos’ guard arrived to Marlas along with their king. The Veretian side was already there.
“He’s in the gardens with others.”
Jord was smiling. Pallas almost flushed. Yet, after a moment he smiled back instead and judging from Jord’s face managed to use the right word for thank you as well.
“Lazaaar!”
Lazar turned. A grin appeared on his face as Pallas ran towards him, crashing into Lazar with all of his force, so the older one barely managed to keep himself and the lover in his arms standing. Two legs gripped tight around his waist.
“I’m here!”
“Pallas,” Lazar laughed, “you’ll scare them away.”
Pallas turned around and saw some new faces staring a little perplexed, hands on their sheaths. He grinned and blurted out an apology, that sounded much less like an insult than it did the first time he told it to Lazar.
“I’m here.”
“You’re here. And so is my bed.”
Pallas smiled and kissed him, until Lazar complained he would make him walk to the bedroom because Pallas’ face was blocking the path.
So he complied and moved, holding onto the man, digging his fingers into Lazar’s well-toned back.
Pallas smiled to himself. He only had two hands, five fingers each.
He had worried once, which would be the one bending as he listed the last moment he would have spent with Lazar.
But ten was enough. He was fine with that, now.
Now future was a little more certain, and he had no reason to count anymore.