Round 4 Fic: Untitled Rating: MA
Laughter, wreathed in fragrant steam.
Günter tugged at the bloodstained lapel of his robe and pouted while Wolfram, his mouth spitting defensive threats, shepherded Yuri out the door. Murata followed with an apologetic shrug, leaving Gwendal alone with Günter and Conrart, the sake bottle sitting in rapidly melting bowl of ice between them. “That’s not the way you drink it,” Yuri had protested, “It’s supposed to be warm,” and Conrart had patted him indulgently and shooed him away. Günter near a naked Yuri, always a risky business, the bleeding nose inevitable. But now, with the distraction of his beloved king gone, Günter tied up his hair and licked the sweat from his upper lip.
“What? What?” he said, crossing his legs with an oddly feminine movement. Gwendal just shook his head.
“Has it ever occurred to you that you make His Majesty uncomfortable?” asked Conrart and Günter smiled.
“Has it ever occurred to you that His Majesty could turn me into a bloody smear at the bottom of a very large crater?” he replied. Conrart raised his eyebrows and toasted his former teacher and Gwendal, seeing how comfortable the two were together, found himself wondering if they’d ever had sex. The bathhouse was extremely hot and the three of them drank liberally from a water pitcher and in Conrart and Gwendal’s case, from a sake bottle as well.
“You make a fool of yourself,” said Gwendal with more than usual bluntness, but Günter shrugged it away.
“I have no pride,” he said, which was a lie because Günter was a proud man and downright vain as well. “Gwendal, you’re so rough on His Majesty at times. You’d be smitten too, if only you’d take that rod out of your backside.” Conrart snorted and choked. Gwendal helpfully thumped his brother’s back.
“I do not have a rod up my backside. I just take life seriously.”
Günter turned, produced a small ceramic bottle and a small ceramic cup. Removing the stopper resulted in the smell of fermented apples, oddly subdued by the steam. Scumble; it had to be kept away from metal as it tended to dissolve it, and was Günter’s liquor of choice on the rare occasions he drank. It never failed to puzzle Gwendal why Günter, the epitome of refinement, drank something that peasants made from windfall apples and anything else that couldn’t run away fast enough, and drank everyone else under the table while he was at it. Before Gwendal could protest a liberal amount was splashed into his sake bowl. “It’ll make a man out of you,” Günter’s voice was heavy with irony and innuendo that he would never, ever use in front of Yuri.
Gwendal, conscious of his brother’s daring grin, took a deep breath and knocked the scumble back in a single gulp. It burned its way down into his stomach, back up his spine, danced through his brainstem and blacked out his vision. When he came to he found himself slung between the two men as they dragged him to the door, opened it, and ignoring his strangled cry of, “Wait!” dumped him unceremoniously into a snowdrift. They stripped off their robes and jumped in after him, Conrart whooping and then yelping as Günter rubbed a handful of snow into his hair.
“You are,” Gwendal announced to no one in particular, “Shamelessly immature.” He buried his burning face in the snow and growled in protest when strong hands picked him up by the scruff of his neck and hauled him upright and back into the bathhouse. “At least put your robes back on,” he begged as the door slammed shut behind them. He was ignored.
More scumble was pressed into his hands and he eyed it with misgiving as Günter, taunt arse framed beautifully by the national underwear, slipped gracefully into the sauna. Strands of silver hair floated on the surface of the water and Gwendal sipped cautiously at the liquid. Conrart lounged on the bench, watching Günter out of the corner of his eye. He blinked innocently when Gwendal looked at him but Gwendal wasn’t fooled.
“I- I c’n she you,” glowered Gwendal, but the trademark scowl didn’t work so well when he couldn’t focus his eyes. Conrart just snorted and took a swig straight from the sake bottle. “Y’need t’be careful,” he continued, and Conrart finished off the sake and went looking for the scumble bottle.
“Looking for this?” drawled Günter, waving a languid hand, scumble sloshing gently as he shook the bottle. Conrart made a grab for it but Günter was too quick. Finally Conrart gave up, stretched out on the bench and panted, sweated beading across his scarred and naked skin. Gwendal swallowed and averted his eyes.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. He tugged the robe tighter around himself. The sake bowl was plucked from his numb fingers and he looked up to see Conrart licking up the last remaining droplets with a very pink tongue. Gwendal groaned and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he realised that he must had passed out, however briefly, because Günter and Conrart were sticky and entwined together on the bench across from his.
Gwendal started. His heavy limbs moved of their own accord and one failing arm knocked over the water pitcher, straight onto the coals. A great gush of steam filled the room and when it settled, Conrart and Günter were sitting primly side by side, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. Gwendal didn’t believe them for a second. He stood up, stumbled towards the door and threw it open. The sunlight reflecting off the snow almost blinded him and he shut his eyes, dove straight into a snowdrift. This time the cold shocked him to something approaching sober and he picked himself up, wiped his face with his hands.
“Gweeeeeendalllll,” whined Günter from the doorway. “You’re letting all the warm air out.” Conrart appeared behind Günter, grinning and shaking the scumble bottle enticingly. It didn’t even occur to Gwendal to leave so instead he stalked back inside, shut the door behind him.
“You’re making spectacles of yourselves,” he told them.
“You need to relax more,” Günter replied, pouring out scumble for himself and Conrart. Gwendal declined with a grunt and a wave of his hand. Conrart gulped down his and swayed, only to be caught by his brother and lowered gently to a bench. They say side by side and watched with grudging admiration as Günter polished off the rest of the scumble without so much as a shudder. “Just like my grandmother used to make,” he said with a hiccup.
“Your grandmother made this stuff?” asked Gwendal with a kind of fascinated horror. “What kind of woman was she?”
“Hell with an axe.” Tears appeared in Günter’s lovely eyes. “You know, she always said that swords were for weaklings. Axes I was never good with, but swords just feel so right. And no matter how good I am it always feels like I’m letting her down somehow...”
“Oh, for the love of...” Gwendal grunted in exasperation, held out his hand. Günter took it happily, sat down beside him and reached out over Gwendal’s lap for Conrart. Conrart lent over, Gwendal lent back, watched his brother and the king’s advisor share a lingering kiss. A hand slipped, went down between his legs and he groaned, a sound that held at least as much resignation as pleasure and Günter broke the kiss, turned his head, bit Gwendal on the jaw with very sharp teeth. The hand between his legs pinched, then stroked in apology. Günter kissed him on the mouth, Conrart on the shoulder and Gwendal closed his eyes knowing that the consequences would be dire and for once, not caring at all.
END?
Günter tugged at the bloodstained lapel of his robe and pouted while Wolfram, his mouth spitting defensive threats, shepherded Yuri out the door. Murata followed with an apologetic shrug, leaving Gwendal alone with Günter and Conrart, the sake bottle sitting in rapidly melting bowl of ice between them. “That’s not the way you drink it,” Yuri had protested, “It’s supposed to be warm,” and Conrart had patted him indulgently and shooed him away. Günter near a naked Yuri, always a risky business, the bleeding nose inevitable. But now, with the distraction of his beloved king gone, Günter tied up his hair and licked the sweat from his upper lip.
“What? What?” he said, crossing his legs with an oddly feminine movement. Gwendal just shook his head.
“Has it ever occurred to you that you make His Majesty uncomfortable?” asked Conrart and Günter smiled.
“Has it ever occurred to you that His Majesty could turn me into a bloody smear at the bottom of a very large crater?” he replied. Conrart raised his eyebrows and toasted his former teacher and Gwendal, seeing how comfortable the two were together, found himself wondering if they’d ever had sex. The bathhouse was extremely hot and the three of them drank liberally from a water pitcher and in Conrart and Gwendal’s case, from a sake bottle as well.
“You make a fool of yourself,” said Gwendal with more than usual bluntness, but Günter shrugged it away.
“I have no pride,” he said, which was a lie because Günter was a proud man and downright vain as well. “Gwendal, you’re so rough on His Majesty at times. You’d be smitten too, if only you’d take that rod out of your backside.” Conrart snorted and choked. Gwendal helpfully thumped his brother’s back.
“I do not have a rod up my backside. I just take life seriously.”
Günter turned, produced a small ceramic bottle and a small ceramic cup. Removing the stopper resulted in the smell of fermented apples, oddly subdued by the steam. Scumble; it had to be kept away from metal as it tended to dissolve it, and was Günter’s liquor of choice on the rare occasions he drank. It never failed to puzzle Gwendal why Günter, the epitome of refinement, drank something that peasants made from windfall apples and anything else that couldn’t run away fast enough, and drank everyone else under the table while he was at it. Before Gwendal could protest a liberal amount was splashed into his sake bowl. “It’ll make a man out of you,” Günter’s voice was heavy with irony and innuendo that he would never, ever use in front of Yuri.
Gwendal, conscious of his brother’s daring grin, took a deep breath and knocked the scumble back in a single gulp. It burned its way down into his stomach, back up his spine, danced through his brainstem and blacked out his vision. When he came to he found himself slung between the two men as they dragged him to the door, opened it, and ignoring his strangled cry of, “Wait!” dumped him unceremoniously into a snowdrift. They stripped off their robes and jumped in after him, Conrart whooping and then yelping as Günter rubbed a handful of snow into his hair.
“You are,” Gwendal announced to no one in particular, “Shamelessly immature.” He buried his burning face in the snow and growled in protest when strong hands picked him up by the scruff of his neck and hauled him upright and back into the bathhouse. “At least put your robes back on,” he begged as the door slammed shut behind them. He was ignored.
More scumble was pressed into his hands and he eyed it with misgiving as Günter, taunt arse framed beautifully by the national underwear, slipped gracefully into the sauna. Strands of silver hair floated on the surface of the water and Gwendal sipped cautiously at the liquid. Conrart lounged on the bench, watching Günter out of the corner of his eye. He blinked innocently when Gwendal looked at him but Gwendal wasn’t fooled.
“I- I c’n she you,” glowered Gwendal, but the trademark scowl didn’t work so well when he couldn’t focus his eyes. Conrart just snorted and took a swig straight from the sake bottle. “Y’need t’be careful,” he continued, and Conrart finished off the sake and went looking for the scumble bottle.
“Looking for this?” drawled Günter, waving a languid hand, scumble sloshing gently as he shook the bottle. Conrart made a grab for it but Günter was too quick. Finally Conrart gave up, stretched out on the bench and panted, sweated beading across his scarred and naked skin. Gwendal swallowed and averted his eyes.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. He tugged the robe tighter around himself. The sake bowl was plucked from his numb fingers and he looked up to see Conrart licking up the last remaining droplets with a very pink tongue. Gwendal groaned and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he realised that he must had passed out, however briefly, because Günter and Conrart were sticky and entwined together on the bench across from his.
Gwendal started. His heavy limbs moved of their own accord and one failing arm knocked over the water pitcher, straight onto the coals. A great gush of steam filled the room and when it settled, Conrart and Günter were sitting primly side by side, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. Gwendal didn’t believe them for a second. He stood up, stumbled towards the door and threw it open. The sunlight reflecting off the snow almost blinded him and he shut his eyes, dove straight into a snowdrift. This time the cold shocked him to something approaching sober and he picked himself up, wiped his face with his hands.
“Gweeeeeendalllll,” whined Günter from the doorway. “You’re letting all the warm air out.” Conrart appeared behind Günter, grinning and shaking the scumble bottle enticingly. It didn’t even occur to Gwendal to leave so instead he stalked back inside, shut the door behind him.
“You’re making spectacles of yourselves,” he told them.
“You need to relax more,” Günter replied, pouring out scumble for himself and Conrart. Gwendal declined with a grunt and a wave of his hand. Conrart gulped down his and swayed, only to be caught by his brother and lowered gently to a bench. They say side by side and watched with grudging admiration as Günter polished off the rest of the scumble without so much as a shudder. “Just like my grandmother used to make,” he said with a hiccup.
“Your grandmother made this stuff?” asked Gwendal with a kind of fascinated horror. “What kind of woman was she?”
“Hell with an axe.” Tears appeared in Günter’s lovely eyes. “You know, she always said that swords were for weaklings. Axes I was never good with, but swords just feel so right. And no matter how good I am it always feels like I’m letting her down somehow...”
“Oh, for the love of...” Gwendal grunted in exasperation, held out his hand. Günter took it happily, sat down beside him and reached out over Gwendal’s lap for Conrart. Conrart lent over, Gwendal lent back, watched his brother and the king’s advisor share a lingering kiss. A hand slipped, went down between his legs and he groaned, a sound that held at least as much resignation as pleasure and Günter broke the kiss, turned his head, bit Gwendal on the jaw with very sharp teeth. The hand between his legs pinched, then stroked in apology. Günter kissed him on the mouth, Conrart on the shoulder and Gwendal closed his eyes knowing that the consequences would be dire and for once, not caring at all.
END?