Chapter Sixteen:

There was pain when he breathed, much like the pain of his skin being sliced apart; but he did not truly remember receiving the wound that had felled him so he could not be sure. He only knew that with each breath it felt as though he were being cut open again, and it had not been so this morning, when he had stood alone on his ship with Deniau at his side. So much pain and still the door had closed to leave him in this room alone. His veste lay on the floor, and René glanced to that before looking to the door again, not bothering to smooth his frown.

His legs and belly too, were knotted with aches and pains, his legs shaking in a manner that displeased him though he was certain that no others had seen it. There had been no one with him to see for hours, aside from the plump little official returning his letter of mark and taking news of their capture back to the city offices. Equally plump officials would take their share, or perhaps more than their share, and then deliver the King’s share to Paris, and René wondered at his ship, the corsaire, the Black Devil, that had not turned pirate when there had been opportunity. He knew it was from no loyalty to him, though those he had allowed to live had protested they had thought him dead. That they had then served his killer they had wisely left unspoken.

It was a strange silence that had held his ship for the days since he had awoken from his fever, with eyes that looked to him and then away to another for guidance. Not even Deniau had dared to disturb the air with a whisper about that, and René let his fingers tape against the blade buried in the sash at his waist. He looked up into a set of eyes that he knew were gone, studying them until his touch became less gentle, and a hint of steel showed.

He needed no protection.

His throat itched with the awareness of the longing to cut it, to hang his head from the bowspirit and sail back to the Caribbean. But the men would be rewarded, and they would leave for parts of the city tonight, visiting with whores or even families, and by tomorrow they would be poor again and longing for the roll of a ship under their feet. That is the way they would live until they died. Only Deniau would choose to die with his knife in his hand, that wish was clear in his eyes, no matter the odd thoughts that he sometimes shared when sampling the dark wines of dead Spanish noblemen.

“Thierry longs to be with you always, Villon. Perhaps you can tie a knot with him to end his misery,” Deniau had murmured close to his ear, though loud enough for Honoré to have heard, and the startled look of confusion on his navigator’s face had caused the laugh to come from René’s mouth when he had not meant it to.

James had frowned and walked away at his laugh, staring at the land in the distance as though the walls of Saint-Malo had been visible. Perhaps he had thought of England instead, if he knew how close his homeland was, and longed to return to pale faces and women with eyes that would gleam at his return.

“You will hurry.” René had turned away to ask the plump man’s back and received a hurried nod as the figure slipped through the door. The letter René had tucked into his coat, taking a hand from the wall to do so.

The world had grown unsteady, teetering so sharply that he had flung his hand back out, finding the rough wooden moulding where the inn’s two walls met.

Thierry would find the price of the sugar to better help them bargain for its sale, and then his navigator would see a whore or two before he returned to guard their prisoner. That was safe for now. That was good, to think on the suffering of the dog in his hold.

His fingers had clawed at the spiraling column of wood, but his view steadied, and he had inhaled despite the pain. This time his stomach turned, and he had choked, longing for the wine he had refused from the inn’s keeper an hour ago. He would return to the ship in a few moments, rather than stay here. In his hamaca he would rest and prepare for the work of the morning and the sickness would leave him. Deniau detested the city and would join him there. A steady presence, though one he would not have at his back.

The trip to England would take only hours in a fast ship. By rights part of their earnings belonged to James, and he would have the funds to return if he wished, if he had fought alongside them. Deniau claimed to have seen the blood at his mouth; but Deniau had been mistaken.

René blinked, certain he was no longer dizzy but that the world itself was moving. The child would go with James despite his hatred now. That boy would follow him to any spot on earth and question nothing so long as James would lower a hand to touch him.

Eventually James would take a child so lovingly offered. He had taken others, in the month of darkness in René’s memory and in the silent days since then. Eyes watched him that knew every piece of his lovely body, and James had known it, walking with no shirt to hide his nakedness, no shoes to hide his feet, as though he were any man.

René’s knees had burst with a sudden pain, his thighs shaking as even his hold on the wall would not steady him. The inn’s parlor had seemed to grow as he had landed on bent legs, staring at the filth of the inn’s floor, thinking distantly of fleas but unable to lift his arms to push himself back up.

He did not wish to be on the floor, not now without wine making him warm, and he parted his lips to pull in air, gasping and losing it when his shoulder seemed to pull from his body.

“You are in England,” he had told the shadow above him. James, who opened the door to the light outside and blinded the demons at his feet, like the angelic warriors who had first cast them from Heaven.

“You are on the floor.” It was not embarrassment that had brought heat to René’s face; it was his anger at James’ presumption, at his daring to come here now and speak calmly.

“So,” René heard his own words again and inhaled deeply, watching James floating and twisting on his head as he had before. “You have found your tongue.”

His gaze had settled on the frowning eyes in the tanned face, and as James blinked the world had stilled enough for René to see the displeasure marring its beauty.

“It is not I who needs to speak, René,” James had hissed at him, then firmed his lips and turned his head away. A bare moment later he was turning back, one hand swinging out as though he would have a sword in it.

He had seen James before with a sword in his hand, of that he was almost certain. With wings of light at his back, singing to him in a voice too terrible to hear, gutting a monster and staining his skin with the steaming entrails.

No. René shook his head and closed his eyes. Those had been dreams of his fever. He had seen James Fitzroy with a sword yes, held in quaking hands, pale against the blackness of his costume. There was no sign of the boy now, but he would be close. So impossibly close, holding tight to the warmth of James’ back as they slept, curled to his side.

“I wish to leave.” His voice seemed strained to his own ears, deserving of the disdain that answered it.

“I am not holding you, René.” James’ voice came to him from far away, and René made his eyes open, still to behold James in conversation with another man, both talking low to keep him from hearing.

James was turning from the other man before he had even finished speaking, nodding once before the man left. James watched him go, and René frowned at the smile that grew on his face.

“You will stay at this inn this night. You cannot walk back to your ship.” James had spoken as though he would give orders, crossing to him and bending down to rest on his toes. He leaned in, and René had allowed his lips to part, shivering at James’ breath on his mouth.

“I also, stay at this inn this night,” James had whispered to him, as flagrant as a dockside cocksucker. But his eyes had dipped a moment later, falling down upon the indigo-dyed veste that René had worn to walk the streets of Saint-Malo. Gold fleur-de-lis hinted at nobility, or perhaps the ambitions of its previous owner. He had not seen what James would find so interesting, but he looked to James’ own clothing, his gaze flat on the dull-coloured shirt next to his skin.

It was not the shirt James had worn in the fight for his ship, the gift from his Port Royal friend that René dreamed he had bloodied. That had been ugly too, scraps of cloth that made René long for the plain black of long ago. With great pleasure he then imagined James discarding it. His skin seemed to burn, and he wondered if his body had forgotten all its shame as it had not forgotten James.

“Who is it from?” He saw his own hand suddenly, grasping the laces at James’ chest and holding them in a fist.

“You are not well.”

He again felt the stiffness in his limbs at James’ coldness, raising his eyes when he could not lift his chin. James’ lips were the thin line that had held back his words for days and weeks and René glared at them, unmoved by the past touch of James’ hand to his. “And you need to bathe.”

That James should only stand there with the stink of other men on him and order him to bathe. That he should bring him to this place and leave him to care of water and soap and servant girls with ugly faces. He was no master here. He was no master anywhere. He was the ship’s whore, to be used and discarded at the whim of others, unless someone had stepped in to claim him for their own.

It was James who longed for the touch of the water. He had no doubt learned that even scrubbing with seawater would not rid his body of the sticky hands and dried fluids that burned the skin. Liquor could tear at a wound and keep it clean, but it would not draw out the shame in a man’s cheeks, if he had any to feel.

James would not feel shame. James would open his legs like a whore and moan for the world to hear and frown in his lover’s face for daring to hurt him. Then he would bite his lip to keep from begging for that same pain again.

Already his eyes had been warm, intent upon René as the women had left the room, their empty pails of water quiet next to their chattering. But none of them were so quiet as James, flicking one finger to the lining of René’s veste before he had looked to the partly filled bathing tub.

Without a word James took his hand from him and walked to the tub, around it to the fire. Using the same hand that had touched René he grabbed the metal poker and stirred the logs there, unafraid of the sparks that flew up around him.

Did he think René fooled by his expression of interest in his comfort? He was no fool. It was a diversion, or perhaps a feeling of guilt for what he had done. René had promised everything and James would have others instead and leave him without words, over what amounted to nothing.

Perhaps James had had the dog in his hold as well. It would be something to consider, when he was choosing which part of Saint-Cyr to slice off first. Only a few more days until they would reach Paris, only a few more days for the dog to live. Etienne Saint-Cyr, James had insisted upon calling him. Etienne. A name far too good for just a bastard in the streets. René would kill him and then lie in wait for who would come next.

The back of his legs fell hard to the room’s bed, feathers giving way and leaving him heavy and weak and startled, staring at the door with wide eyes.

No man dared to cross it now, but he had seen the expanding crack of light at the side, heard the creak as it had opened. It would be James returning to him, but his hands slipped on the hilt to his knife, shaking like a child’s at the soft scratch on the wood.

He could not come with so timid a sound, and René lifted his face to shout at who stood behind it, narrowing his eyes as the stream of noisy women returned. They glanced at him as they filled the bathing tub, their eyes noting the coat and veste left carelessly on the floor, looking back to him with minds that saw him naked.

“Finish and leave!” he yelled into their startled faces, grasping at his chest as their mutters took a darker tone. He did not care for the threats of serving girls, and watched with great pleasure as they left the room. They could display their bosoms for the other fools staying here tonight.

If James thought him meek in his silence he was mistaken. He would not step into the water and cleanse himself to please the notions of another man. No matter if the man was James Fitzroy or Saint Denis himself.

René felt his eye falling once more to the veste that already lay on the ground atop his coat, frowning to see them there.

You are not well, James had told him before retreating to his silence, as though René did not ache with every step, as though he could not feel his skin pulling, itching where the steel had ripped it apart.

There had been words before, through his sickness he recalled only a few, what would have said to ease the fever of any man, what he would say to that boy were he ever to fall ill. Soothing and petting until the taste of ashes left his mouth and the dizziness eased, and prayers as well, whispered hymns to coax the angels into sparing him.

Snarling, René grabbed the cloth of his sash in a tight fist and tossed it to the side, his other hand trembling with the weight of the knife. His skin was raw with washings, the salt dried and raging in his wounds. This was nothing to that, but his breath was hard when it came, struggling to fill him.

Fire lit the room too well, so many candles burning alongside it that René could count the expense of each. The room held its own sunlight, blazing so that some men would have had water stinging their eyes.

His eyes were dry as he pulled at the laces of his shirt, only his skin feeling the difference as he lifted the bottom. The candles were very bright, but he stared at them as his wound pulled with the effort to lift the cloth from his shoulders. It slipped free of his head easily, after such a struggle to get it from his sweating skin that René felt himself smiling, watching curiously as the candles guttered with the force of some breeze. The very breath of God seemed to threaten them, one falling prey to the wind and leaving only the faintest trace of smoke behind.

Despite the fire the room was cold, harsh on the bared skin of his toes as his stockings were pulled from his feet, left somewhere near his shoes though René did not look to mark their position. There remained only his pantalons, and the dead candle was cold before he found his hand at the laces.

There were no pieces of mirrored glass in this room. The bath and the candles enough of an expense it seemed, perhaps even clean sheets if James were so particular about such things.

Copper gleamed in front of him, glowing with the reflection of the flames next to it. A faint scent teased his nose as well; if he had had the wine the innkeeper had offered, he would not have noticed it at all.

There had been whiskey on his breath before he had tasted the blood on his tongue, leaking from his cheek. His teeth, he had thought, his face so hard to the ground that he had not been able to open one eye. Sand was not as hard as wood, but it had rubbed his face with every push until he had felt it soften, wet and sticky below his mouth.

He thought perhaps the walls of the tub would break under his grip, but even that was not enough to support him, his arms giving way as he placed one foot in the water and leaving him standing unsteadily, shivering at the heat that touched only a part of him. After a moment his toes burned, but René did not move them, letting his skin be scalded away, wondering if that would please, if he were found as nothing but bones and boiled flesh.

With care, he returned his good hand to the edge of the tub, crawling in slowly though that did not ease the jarring to his limbs, the pounding in his head.

The scent touched his nose again, pleasant amid the pain taking his body, and René shook his head, unbalancing himself enough to nearly make him fall in. Water splashed at his thighs, messy on the floor next to the tub and the breath slipped from his teeth like steam. There was no escaping, and his mouth opened to let out the cry as he fell to the bottom, heat hitting him everywhere, agony at his shoulder.

He let the colours run through his mind, echoing and splashing like the tides with each tight breath, and when they had receded to hints of shade he opened his eyes, shuddering to see himself. His gaze turned to the room, to what he could see over the sides of the bathtub, counting the many candles as the water’s sting buried itself into his skin.

It was up to his chest, nearly to his shoulders, and though it did not reach past his wound, René lifted his chin, straining to keep at least his head dry and out of the cursed water. His hair would have been wet at the ends now, if his hair had been left to him.

A month later, and the chill reached him even now though already his hair stood out in even spikes. He would need a rich fool’s wig to even look presentable.

He raised a hand from the edges of the large bathing tub and rubbed along his skull, carefully not dipping back too far toward his neck, though that wound had long since healed. That wound, but not the other, but he could not angle his head to see more than the pink and red skin.

It was because of that that he was here and it throbbed as he thought of it, answering him as though the devil were under his very skin, spreading pain and weakness. His arm above his head already grew weary, and he let it fall, sending water splashing up into his face, dripping orange and rose scented water down his cheek.

He had not expected it to still be so hot, this far from the kitchens, and turned his head away from the fire at his right.

The flames roared as fierce and threatening he imagined lions roared and he wondered if other men would have sweat on their faces from the heat of those flames. René could feel only the wet of the water, lapping at his chest, and the cold of the rest of his body.

It was because of James that he suffered, with his damned English silence when there should have been a mouthful of questions and uncertainty. How dare he be silent? For the very same month there had been only silence for him when there had been words for others. For René he thought himself to be Marechal, waiting with eyes that refused to speak.

“Fool,” René blurted into the emptiness of the room, looking down at last to the pale length of him blurred and distorted by the water’s moving surface. He shifted his knees to the side, pressing them together and against the warm metal of the tub. His good shoulder was pressed to the tub now too, and if the tub’s walls had been higher, he could have buried his face into the copper.

Before he could attempt it, a door swung open behind him, creaking slightly as it was slung shut, and the silence made him jerk his head up, though he kept his body still. With narrowed eyes he watched James cross to the opposite wall and put down a bundle of clothing only to pick up another, smaller bundle of thick white cloth.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, cursing his body anew when James raised his eyes to him and blinked, as though telling him the answer were obvious.

“Would you rather I sent in a servant?” James stopped, hesitating at last as René brought his arm up but then continuing to walk when René dropped the arm across his stomach, over the gold of his cross, spreading out his fingers until they covered the ribs at his side. The bones were sharp, protruding hideously and contrasting with the swollen colours of his shoulder.

“I have already seen thy body naked.” How softly he spoke, now that he had found his words. René extended his fingers and then curled them into his flesh, wishing there was more skin for him to hold, that he were not dying of this.

Then the voice had been James, in his sickness, and the hands as well, and with his own tongue, René had sent him away by daring to speak the truth about his child. The boy had held dirty cocks in his mouth, what right did he have to press it to James’ lips? None had that right.

“I will bathe myself,” he spoke lowly, turning his head back to the side of the tub, and it echoed his words back to him, reverberating through his mind.

“You are tired.” James made his voice flat, condemning him as though there had not been work to be done, as though René had forgotten the shaking of his limbs only an hour ago, when they had been left alone and the world had swirled around him.

So tired, and the water was still so hot; he could feel the numbing pinpricks in his toes, at his ankles, urging him to lie back and let the water pour down over his head and to his feet.

“I will bathe myself.” He said it again, insistently through his teeth, and James snorted. It was the rough, ugly sound a horse would have made, and René glared at the water when he could not find it in him to raise his head.

“You can barely stand to piss at this moment,” James answered crudely and René did raise his head, looking across to the tall figure. “It will be me, or it will be some other servant.”

“What do you say, servant?” René repeated his word though he knew that in English well enough. James snorted again, and René found it uglier than he had before.

“You called me lover once, then sent me away. And I am not like those you call friend.” James tightened his lips and turned his head to the side. When he turned it back, he wore a smile that was sharp. “And you insult and offend those that I call friend. What else am I?”

“No!” It came out as a cough, followed by another that was stronger, and stole his air from him. His hand came up on its own, over his shoulder as he shook.

“So you will not tell me what causes your hate of Etienne Saint-Cyr?” James waited, for perhaps a moment but no longer, and then he was facing the door.

“James?” His foot slipped in the water as he tried to move, pressure exploding against his shoulder when he twisted. His breathing seemed too loud though he closed his mouth to stifle it, and it was that and not his word that made James pause and turn back.

“I will not,” René warned in the whisper that his aching chest would allow, but it was his shame that made his eyes fall. “This is not your affair, Englishman.” His voice deepened as he spoke, dismissive, and then he could no longer remain in his awkward position and had to fall back, losing sight of James.

“If you want to stop me from discovering the truth of this matter, then get up out of that water and do it.”

The quiet challenge stood between them for long moments, and then it was James who moved, coming closer though still remaining out of sight. “But you cannot, so I think I will not need your approval.”

“Quel est approval?” René demanded and pressed his feet hard against the end of the bathing tub, seeking to lift himself back up. “What do you mean?”

“Permission, then,” James amended his words thoughtfully, his voice so near that René paused in his struggles and fought instead to keep himself from turning his head to follow the sound.

“James?” He spoke like a fool, repeating the name again and again, and yet nothing else would come from him but that, and it pleased James, to draw that from him, for the other man’s voice was thick as it would have been in the depths of pleasure.

“Not even a servant.” There was a soft sound from behind him, and the whisper of cold air across his neck as something moved, and René licked his mouth, though keeping his head still. “So I am nothing to you?”

His body twitched, and faintly, René could feel the water splashing far up to his throat, a few drops in his hair, but his mind narrowed to only a small bit of skin, just below his ear, where warm breath tormented him.

He curled his fingers around the edge of the tub. He would not say it again and shame himself further. It was better that James find him cold, and leave him. Now they walked on the earth of France. Now it would end.

“Tell me to leave.” Who was this James, to torture him like this, speaking softly and asking him to move when there was no strength in him. René felt his eyebrows twitch into something like a frown and then his lips, trembling and falling open at the sight of James at last. Pale hair gathered at the line of his neck and nearly falling past his shoulder as he bent over the end of the bathing tub and plunged his hands beneath the water.

He had rolled the long sleeves of his thin shirt up past his elbows, and it was the still tanned skin of his wrists that René found his eyes watching as James’ hands disappeared from view.

There was a touch to his feet, and the muscles rippled underneath James’ skin, strength traveling up the length of his arms only to disappear underneath the material.

“What?” It was hard to remember the English, and he feared that he had not when James did not answer. Silent, James just immersed his arms fully in the water and wrapped his hands around one of his feet, spreading out his fingers between his toes and down further to rub hard against the arch. The hands on him were slick and strong and wet, and René nearly moaned at the heat that pulsed in him now.

He coughed as he tried to pull in air, frowning in pain and confusion as James rubbed the bit of soap up to his ankle and then pulled one hand from the water in order to grab a bit of cloth from the floor.

“You…will…not…” René breathed carefully as the words left him, and knew his eyes widened when the cloth scratched gently against his skin. Bubbles frothed at the water’s surface, and the sent of the soap reached him, making him jerk a hand free of the edge of the tub. He dropped it into the water a moment later, forgotten as James eased the cloth farther up his leg, past his calf to the bent knee just above the waterline. With both hands James smeared the soap over his flesh, pressing hard on the softer skin underneath and tracing deep circles that left René warm.

His gaze followed the hand for a moment longer, and then he drew his eyes up to James’ face, watched the serious light in his eyes and the colour in his cheeks from the heat of the steam. James did not return his stare, but his mouth pressed itself into a thin line. He was displeased, and René knew he was at fault. It was his shame that would not allow James to leave.

A palmful of warm water splashed over the pale skin of his knees, taking with it dirty streaks of soap bubbles, and then James was back over his feet, using his hands to cleanse it, ensuring that no part was left untouched.

René’s breath hissed from his mouth this time, knowing what was to come now as James bathed him, soothing his strong fingers across the knotted muscles, sharing enough heat to bring the itch of sweat to René’s face and shoulders.

“There is no need,” he murmured, and felt the steady, circling pressure at his heel, and then his ankle, soap and James’ hands sliding up his leg with slippery ease. A ridiculous ease, and René moved his hand from the water and placed it on his knee, somehow startled to feel James’ hand under his. From the side and above the rim of his glasses, James met his look at last, and then without even the pause of a drawn breath, James brushed his hand aside and shifted his large body closer to the water.

On his thigh, and René leaned his head back against the edge of the tub and parted his lips. He did not look but his mind gave him the sight regardless, and he could feel the roughness of his palms against the rawness of his skin, his fingers gripping the bone of his knee as James continued this invasion.

“James…” Weak little boy, just as he had always seemed, as white as the Virgin herself and helpless as a girl. And as though he knew it pained, James gentled his words, easing his thighs apart as though he were a woman, rubbing the tender flesh with the rasping cloth.

“I will have thee clean,” James answered him in his strange English, and René felt the moan in his chest before he heard it leave his lips. His body was hot, and it throbbed as it had only in his dreams for the past month, and so innocently James washed his flesh, dragging the cloth once up to his stomach. The cloth was hot where the cooler air touched him, and he forgot himself, lifting his arm away.

His face was warmer than even the water and he widened his eyes at the like red in James’ cheeks. If the other man felt shame there was no hint in his actions, and for that René stretched out his fingers so that the tips rested on the beautiful colour of James’ face.

James’ hands drifted to his chest and then fell to the side without touching him. His body would be straining, awkward and bent above him like this, and with his head tilted back, René could watch the effect of the effort on James, the frown of intent as James would not allow himself to fall. His own lips curved, and he slid his fingers to James’ jaw and throat, just glancing across his ear before returning to his chin and the pink mouth waiting for him. If James wanted this then he would have him once again, here in his country he would part those lips and…

“No.” James denied him roughly and raised his dripping hand to grab his wrist, pulling it back down to the water. Water splashed across both their faces, and René felt it streaming down his cheeks as he watched the droplets cling to James’ eyebrows. It fell against his lips and he stretched out his tongue for the taste of them before he spoke, wondering at the dryness of his throat.

“It is a word you have spoken before.” The tightness in his throat did not ease, making him swallow. The act seemed to only increase his great thirst, and he could feel a quickening of his blood, surprising him with the force when he had been so weary only moments ago.

The drops of water fell from James’ face as he drew his brows together, one leaving a trail on the glass of his spectacles before it too fell back to the water below. Then James shook his head once, with enough force to slide his glasses to the side. Impatient with the device it seemed, James removed it from his nose and tossed it to the side before leaning in until if it had pleased him to do so, he could have pressed his mouth to René’s for one of his kisses.

“Indeed you have quite addled my mind with pleasure,” James agreed in a calm enough voice, and René knew himself to be a fool for not seeing before the traces of lightening behind James’ eyes. It was naked before him now, James’ anger, and he flinched before he could control himself, his breathing uneven. “Yet you did not make me so dizzy that I did not notice that you have never said the same to me.”

The metal was hard against his back as he pushed against it, his hand splaying out over his stomach as though somehow he could escape this, push past James and hide his nakedness.

He was cold, shivering as he shook his head and fought the pain in his shoulder until he could raise his arm and press it to James’ chest, wanting him gone. James leaned in, dismissing his pitiful strength, and his lips were hot, open against his cheek and then shuddering above his mouth, hesitating long enough for René to remember the taste of him.

Between his legs a hand moved, and in his shame René moaned into James’ mouth, weak and burning as James laid his hands to his flesh. At his touch René shivered, feeling his mind slip away as his prick hardened, pounding his want against James’ palm.

“Over a month without this.” James’ longing was in his voice, as deep as his own if he had been able to speak. Openly, James wanted, rubbing his palms slowly over René’s cock, breathing heavily above him.

It was not he who had held himself away, though the strength of his own body startled him now, and he wondered if James had known, if he was a witch for healing him with only a touch. His power remained in the brown eyes studying him, and René turned his face away, nearly moaning again when James removed his hands from his prick. Cupping warm water in his palms, he smoothed his hands down the pale skin of his chest, scratching curiously in the hair near his nipples, lifting the gold from him in order to leave no part of him unclaimed.

“Tis beautiful,” James remarked as though it were nothing, sweeping his hands underneath the cross again, separating him from the weight of it in his quest for cleanliness. He would place himself above even that then, content himself with scrubbing dirt from his body while René ached with touches ended too soon.

René pulled it back against his chest, crushing James’ hand to him as he did, knowing his eyelids fluttered at the newer, heavier weight of James on him, his body wracked with momentary fire. A pull, and James would topple, fall over him into the water, his mouth ready for the taking.

His arms lacked strength, or James possessed too much, and with a curse René turned to face the smile on James’ face, rage burning brighter than his lust for a moment, granting him enough force to raise up his arm and strike James across the shoulder. It went only as far as that, and then he stared in surprise at James’ hand on his wrist, pushing his hand back down underneath the water, feeling the hot, sluggish blood in his veins that would not allow him to fight.

“You do not like that I am stronger, that I clean you?” James let his smile fall away, running the soap-slick tip of his finger over his ribs, leaving René to shudder in his grasp. Each rib so clearly visible under the thin layer of his skin, and René wondered at James’ sudden love of it, stroking each bone as though they were the strings of a harp. “That I touch you?”

Mournfully, James bent his head, giving René only moments to try to clear his mind and fathom his meaning before James bent down even further and licked a slow trail up his chest, taking even the gold chain into his mouth before he was finished.

A noise reached his ears, rasping and desperate and loud, and that it was his own breath came to him only when James took even that from him, abruptly releasing the chain in order to roll his tongue around one of his nipples. He opened his mouth wide as he tasted, then pursed his lips, sucking softly on the throbbing flesh.

The soap that had been used to clean him still scented the air, still coated parts of his chest, and yet it was wrong. He shook his head until the world dipped and spun and still James would not cease, and though his mouth was open René could not speak, could not demand of him what he knew was right.

“Hmm, you taste as the water.” James released him and René fell back against the walls of the tub, unsure when he had left them. Eyes wide, he watched James, panting as James looked considering, as though he might climb into the tub too, and push himself hard between his legs. “Shall I wash the rest of you?” James asked politely, impossibly cold when they both knew of René’s hardness waiting between them.

“You watched me, all during this month.” Nothing would silence James now, nothing would stop his tongue as he punished René, and though René shook his head again, James ignored him, murmuring softly as he ran a hand over René’s good shoulder, sending cascades of water down his arm. “Do you want me to touch you, René? You would have had me beg, ought I demand the same?” Just as soft, his lips touched to the wet skin, and René had a moment of his nearness, his mouth only inches from the fall of light hair and the pink curve of his ear.

“I watched you,” as though he had not just asked a question, James continued to speak, his words humming down through René’s shoulder to his chest. “And I wondered.” There James stopped, with so much he would not say, and a momentary confusion was born in René’s mind, demanding more of James’ thoughts. But then that desire fell away, forgotten next to the temptations before him.

Darting out his tongue before this too is held away, René licked a small path underneath and behind James’ ear, sighing at the salt on his tongue, the pleasure he knew James would feel. Another such caress and perhaps James will speak again, and turn to him to demand that René please him. Already his body shuddered as René allowed his lips to brush against his ear, and so René waited, hesitating when his lips did not form a smile, and instead the pull at his body was greater, the tension in his lap so great that he shifted, stirring the water.

Again his confusion made him pause, holding his body so still that his muscles ached with it, and even the skin of his scalp was tight with pain. And James pulled away from him, leaving him to sit back on his knees and stare. Only one of his hands remained in the tub, long fingers skimming along the surface of the water. Each idle pass created ripples that stroked at René’s chest, each one lapping a little bit higher; claiming more of his skin, and it would not rest. It sought more of him, sought to drown him, and René frowned as he shivered, and the thousand tiny bumps appeared on his arms now that he was alone.

Underneath René’s skin more of them waited, quivering with cold and terror as James sat and observed him, and it was not only his voice that shook when he spoke. “What will you do?” It was not a shout though somehow his voice was higher than it should have been, and for that he blamed James too, glaring when James only blinked at his words and let a smile turn up one corner of his mouth.

“He speaks!” James whispered in tones of amazement and René curled his hands under the water. James would not mock.

But James’s smile was brief; it slipped away before he spoke again, low and with heat. “Speak again.”

“No!” René answered immediately, though aware that he made no sense. James had turned him into this madman, and for that he would pay.

A slight frown crossed James’ face, and that pleased René, though he knew that he would not like what James would say next, and in truth he did not, slapping a hand onto the water and sending a flood over the side of the tub.

“You act like a child when I seek to please you.”

Despite the thin line of James’ mouth, the words were warm, and René twitched as they reached his skin, reaching for the strength to jump from the tub and finding it gone. He tossed his head, feeling the air on his scalp, so exposed by what James had done to him.

“Do you wish I were a child for you to please?” His voice had grown shrill and ugly, but he managed to sneer his words, to raise his chin as the shock widened James’ brown eyes and made him seem all the more like a young priest. And then he was not a priest at all, but a man, large before him as he rose on his knees to strip the clinging fabric of his shirt from his chest and toss it aside.

The rest of James’ body was hidden from his sight by the walls of the bathing tub as James leaned back on his legs, but René knew his eyes skipped back and forth across the expanse of skin, again rich with colour, and he remembered James had walked this way on board his ship, for all to see.

“Which angers you more, Villon?” The emphasis on his name was sharp, and James’ eyes were narrowed. “That you are not a child, or that I might please another?” James repeated his word with an obvious pleasure, and René cursed the fever that had taken him, leaving him weak and his mind filled with a month’s worth of shadows.

There was nothing for him to remember, nothing for him to say when he sat here naked and James possessed time without him. But he bit his tongue before it spoke for him and held himself still.

Slowly James approached, leaning in to him like a man falling in a dream, though his eyes held no hints of his daydreams now. With deliberation he lowered his hand into the water and placed it atop René’s, curling his fingers around the tight fist. It seemed to take him no effort at all to pry it loose and raise it to the surface, turning it around until both his palm and his wrist were exposed to view.

“I am here now, mayhap I shall please you.” Wet fingertips traced lines across the soft skin of his palm and René shivered, twisting his hand around only to splay out his fingers for more. He knew his eyes were large as he watched James’ thumb stroke the thin layer of skin at his wrist.

“Who would you rather please?” All his strength was needed to speak, but there was no hiding the harshness in his voice, as common as a cheese merchant’s wife shouting in the street.

James laughed, cracking the air with it, and he dropped René’s hand before René could think to struggle, shifting his body easily.

The aching muscles in René’s shoulders tensed and he fought for one moment, wanting to push himself from tub and instead only slipping painfully back to the bottom when James slid his hand between his legs. He shouted at the suddenly hard metal and the soreness of his ass, and then words were hissing between his teeth as James caressed his prick, gripping the hard flesh until it pounded.

His head went back, on something firm and he knew it would pain him later though he did not care now, not with his vision filled with James and his cock held in a steady hand.

His lips moved silently, and the punishing grip eased, though it did not lessen the tight, twisting arch to his back or the stiffening of his muscles. Instead there were light, curious touches, like the awkward explorations of a virgin, and René grunted, the light of memories filling his mind at last.

James on his ship, yes he had taken James there, had filled his senses and his mouth with all there was of him and then had enjoyed the greater pleasure of James’ hands on him, just as this. So curious, and his fingers found the head and his grunt became longer and fiercer, glaring at James as his body thrust itself upward into his hand.

“Look at you,” James whispered to him as though soft tones disguised his lack of mercy, as though he did not know how his fingers circled and pressed on the burning head of his cock, hard and then gentle, until the screams tore at René’s chest and some slipped past his lips, bringing a smile to James’ face.

Rage fired in his blood, but his screams were just gasps now, too many to number as James stroked swiftly down the length of him and then back up to squeeze at the tip.

There was the sound of another splash, and distantly René could see how the water rippled, but his vision was growing darker, his eyes so wide that nothing should have escaped him. Alarmed, he tossed his head, and there was only that moment before the warm slickness of soap and another hand enveloped him.

His throat was hoarse, raw with some passion though he could not remember words, and he tried to frown, to name James for what he was for making him feel this, but his heart was too loud for him to hear what finally came from him.

But James was talking, quietly murmuring as René’s body rocked in the water and James’ slippery, gentle hands demanded that his seed be spilled between them. Demanded with even strokes, even as the other hand teased the aching, raw flesh underneath his foreskin, the heavy, wet tip of his prick.

He would have it now, with his legs spread and his body unclothed, with only scented water to shield him and James too far away to cover him. James would take pleasure in the sight, and the throbbing in his cock and belly increased when he should have sneered, and he arched from the water, needing more of James. James would be hard too, wanting him but not touching when he was here.

“Je suis tout nu,” that he heard, his foolishness. “Ici,” and his good hand clutched at his stomach, where the emptiness gutted him, made him twist and jerk around, into James hands and then away. But always back, and James’ strokes grew harder until the water splashed past his neck as he thrashed under James’ attentions and pushed himself into James’ waiting palm.

He was so hard now, ready to burst and still James would not cover him, would not ease the ache at his back now, inside of him where James would not touch.

“Harder, James. More,” he gave orders even as he spread his legs, demands just moans as the first spasms echoed in him and his body jerked. “Not enough!” he cursed as James cupped the pulsing flesh and pulled, his hand so hot and wet that René could remember his mouth, and the suction of eager lips and the ready tongue tasting as though he were sweet. He screamed as another spasm took him, and his seed shot from him, out into the water, hard and fast until he was shaking.

James softened his touches as the water reached René’s chin and spilled into his open mouth, taking it all from him, leaving him with no strength and aching legs, eyes too dry. He hurt, and James knew it, releasing him at last and breathing heavily somewhere above him.

There were no colours behind his eyes, just a thick black that pushed him down into the water, warm and tight around him. His body still pulsed, echoing in his ears every few moments, and he let his head fall to one side, searching for the sound of breathing.

Forever passed as it grew nearer, and his eyelids fluttered at the light touch, brushing through his lashes like curious fingers.

James sighed above him, tired and old, and René thought perhaps he frowned to hear such a sound from him. His eyes would open to show him James in his misery, he demanded, flexing his fingers into a fist. Black answered his command, and René caught his breath, turning his face into the warmth pressed against him now. It was warmer than even the water, and he grunted when he was pulled away from it and left to the cold.

“No,” he protested as something harsh rubbed across his skin, down the legs that would not move and then back up to his stomach and chest.

“No?” James mouth was at his ear, and René shivered before falling forward, pleased to feel that the warmth had returned and the cold was gone. “You do not wish to be dry?” James continued to murmur, continuing to talk in a voice that seemed louder, and René shivered once more at the rough feel of cloth at his shoulder blades. The skin under his cheek was smooth and firm and he shifted to feel more on his face, inhaling sharply at the motion around him and smelling soap and sweat and a scent almost like old paper before he was moved again.

A silken softness hit his back, and René frowned as his body sank into it, surprised to suddenly see light before him and the outline of James’ body, moving away. All but one of the candles were extinguished before René found his voice, glancing toward the fire.

“Do not,” he whispered and watched the figure of James grow still, turning back to him.

“I must bank down the fire,” James’ voice seemed to again grow louder, and René blinked, fighting away the weight at his eyelids. “Do you want one candle to burn?” James spoke with innocence, as though he did not know, as though he were not aware, and René stared into the darkness, concentrating at the spot of red that seemed far in the distance.

“Be quiet,” he ordered, and felt the smooth fabric of the pillow at his neck as he tossed his head. Silence met this, and René licked his mouth, longing for a taste to ease his thirst. “James?” he asked, and felt the hand at his cheek, across his forehead as though he were again on his ship and mad with fever. It had never left, and he sighed as fingers sought out even the remains of his butchered hair, and James’ palm curved over his skull.

“Paris.” He let his breathing slow, matching the careful sounds from James’, pleased at the stillness in the hand at his brow. “Tomorrow we go to Paris.” The only thing to answer that was a soft push of breath, and René was happy to hear James return to his silence. His own sigh seemed much quieter, forgotten when James skimmed a touch across his forehead and whispered low near his ear.

“Paris, then,” James murmured as the black behind René’s eyes grew impossibly darker, and spun him far away. “All of us.”

Copyright R. Cooper with all rights reserved

Please use your browser's "back" button to return to index