Hark!
Name: telynmurali
Recipient: smokey2307
Personal message: I have a memory from when I was very young of one lazy, average Boxing Day - it was the day after Christmas Day, I had surveyed and played with my presents, and was a little bored. And then, my Uncle Ted (sadly deceased now, but remembered fondly) turned up, unexpected as always, with a bag of gifts for all of us. I remember I was so thrilled to be getting presents on Boxing Day, and that it was a fab idea to prolong the Christmassy feeling. I hope this does the same, and that you’ve had a wonderful Yuletide already. :)
P.S. There’ll be another gift along shortly...
Gift:
Title: Consolation
Wordcount: 3,033
Rating: R-ish
...
London. The last major stop on a series of them, that took Robin of Locksley, the young Earl of Huntingdon, (and his manservant) down to the south coast and thence to vistas unknown on a quest for the King. It was nothing new, at least not to London.
London was an open sewer, a gutter, a vortex of filth and noise and motion. It was full of fug and stink and yells, the smell of violently roasted meat on streetside stalls, and wafted beer and song from the open doors of taverns. It was like Nottingham, pace kicked up a notch and multiplied a thousand times. Robin was dazzled by it; Much found it just bearable if he was with his master.
And then -
It was a silly thing, really, the argument that drove Much out onto the streets that night. It was over nothing, over orders, over the home far behind, over Marian. Over nothing.
He couldn’t even remember what he’d said to Robin now, or what Robin had said to him, that made his face flush and all the words he’d bitten down on in the past years come bubbling up behind his lips, scalding and angry and ready to be said. So many words - so many, in fact, that they jumbled up on his lips and Much found himself stumbling over the syllables, stopping and starting, fire eventually petering out. Only to be rekindled again by the curve of Robin’s lips when he laughed. This time, with no words to be said, Much turned silently and slammed out of the room.
Still with the blood beating in his cheeks, Much found himself on the street, the on-and-off rain dribbling down his face in greasy trickles and dripping down inside his collar. He had come out without his cloak. London streets - they couldn’t be too different to Nottingham, surely? And he could find his way around Nottingham with his eyes closed. In Nottingham, if it rained and you were without a place to go, if you had some money in your pocket you had, essentially, two choices: an alehouse, or a house of girls (and boys, and children, and freaks, if you were that way inclined).
Much didn’t trust London whores. He had heard horror stories. So he was left with only one eventuality.
Public houses were easy to find. You could be blindfolded, spun around and shoved in any direction, and you would walk smack bang into one and knock yourself out on an eave. He chose one that didn’t look as if he would be robbed within five minutes of walking into, and sat, experimentally, with a little flutter of the heart - mingled fear and excitement (alone in London!) - and spent his money. He could tell each coin’s story, all the many miles from Nottinghamshire - he watched with a tremor in his chest as each was taken away, to pay for drink after drink. Yet with each mug’s volume emptied, replaced on the bar, he found himself liking London more and more.
Yes. He liked its hustle and bustle, he liked the life and reek of it. He could lose himself here. He could be someone else. Maybe John Thatcher from Nottingham, as he pretended to the barman (half to himself, as well, at first for kicks and then for comfort). Maybe, in time, a real Londoner.
Until he caught sight of a familiar shape in the lamplight, briefly silhouetted in the hurly burly light from the street outside (torches, lamplight, reflected from windows) as the door swung open then shut. In that moment, the moment he saw Robin, standing with awkwardness written in each limb and looking about with nobleman’s eyes, he knew he could never run away and be anyone but Much of Locksley, the Earl’s man. And the Earl, no matter how many forbidden taverns he’d frequented as a boy, in disguise (his little manservant in tow to keep him safe), just didn’t belong here.
Much tossed his last coin to the barman and slipped off his stool, stumbling only a little and nodding to the ‘all right there, John?’. The room had become a lot more difficult to navigate since he had come in. It pitched and swam around him, and if he’d have been in a laughing mood, he’d have found it hilarious. As it was, Robin had caught sight of him halfway across the barroom, and pinned in his master’s gaze it was all he could do not to put his head down and bolt. The look that Robin was giving him spoke volumes about the words he was going to hear once they got outside.
“What do you think you were doing, going off like that?” The tone of voice was almost exactly as Much had anticipated, so much so that he barely needed to hear the words. He paused outside the tavern to let the door swing shut and the cold air breathe against his hot skin. Robin planted himself in front of him, so that no matter where Much looked he couldn’t avoid his master’s glare. “You smell like a brewery.”
Much dragged one hand over his face. Somewhere in the midst of all this, his shoulders had tensed. He tried to relax them, whilst avoiding meeting Robin’s eyes. “I’m old enough, I had money.” The world did another sudden spin around him as he tried to move away, and he pitched forward. The wet cobbles rushed up to meet him, and the tavern’s lights danced golden in the corners of his eyes.
The next thing he knew he was kneeling in the street, dampness seeping through the knees of his trousers, with Robin’s arm around his shoulders. There was a dull ache in his nose.
“Much. Much?” Robin’s cool fingers on his jaw, tilting his head up. The alcohol was suddenly dizzying, sickening in his head. All he wanted to do was go somewhere dark and rest his forehead against cool stone. But he let Robin bring his head up so that he faced into the light.
As he did, Robin grimaced, brows pulling together tightly over concerned eyes. He was kneeling in front of Much, his hands were soft on Much’s cheeks and his face barely inches away. Robin’s thumb brushed across his upper lip; then he brought his hand away for Much to see. It was wet with something dark.
“You must have bashed your nose a good one on the cobbles there,” Robin said, and all the accusation was gone from his voice. Instead his words flowered and died as little puffs of warm breath on Much’s face. “You’re bleeding.”
Without really knowing what he was doing - except that it seemed the right thing to do - Much brought his own hands up to Robin’s neck and pulled him down to kiss him.
Their lips met, Robin’s startled open, and kissed; hot, and blood-wet, and reverberated through by a noise made deep in Robin’s throat. Much tasted salt and copper - his own blood on his tongue, on his master’s lips moving against his. When Robin made another noise - more insistent - Much pulled away. His hands, curled at the base of Robin’s neck, twined in the fine hair there.
Robin gazed at him from under heavy lids. He was breathing hard through lips smeared wet red with blood. Much closed his mouth and set his jaw, readying himself for whatever it was Robin was going to say next. What he did say surprised him enough that he couldn’t be sure he’d heard it right for the first few moments.
“We can’t do this here.”
“Master?”
“Not here.” Robin shook his head looking for all the world like a man struggling from the depths of a dream. “Home. The inn. Anywhere, not here.” Much was halfway through an automatic nod when Robin caught his jaw and pulled him closer, pressing a quick, hot kiss half on his lips and half on his chin before springing to his feet.
Much looked up. Robin seemed to tower over him, one hand outstretched. His nose throbbed with each pulse of blood that beat through his skull; it was getting worse now. He closed his eyes against it and took Robin’s hand blindly, let his master lift him up. On his feet, he swayed, and Robin’s arm was suddenly solidly around his waist. He sagged into Robin’s side, let his aching head fall onto his shoulder.
Once he realised that there was barely any need for him to keep his eyes open, the rest of the journey back to their inn passed in a gentle blur of footsteps and voices and Robin’s arm around him and Robin’s cheek against the top of his head and Robin’s murmurs into his ear. The heat of Robin’s breath on his skin and his lips on his ear tingled down his spine. He only opened his eyes to climb the narrow stairs to their room, and they passed with surprising ease to give unto their rattling and creaky-hinged door and then to the room, lamp-lit by a serving maid for the Earl of Huntingdon (looked down on as a poor country lord or not) and his manservant.
Much remembered, dully, as he flopped down to sit on the edge of Robin’s bed, that they were back on the road again tomorrow.
The door closed, and there was the click and slide of a latch and bolt, before Robin turned and regarded Much with hooded eyes.
It struck Much again just how young his master was. A limber and agile youth, with all the strutting confidence of his late teens, and an easy smile that spoke of a way with the ladies. Young, too young to be the master of all Locksley, surely. Much wondered who would look after the village while they were gone. Who would look after it if they never returned.
Robin crossed the distance between them in three easy steps and stooped to smother Much’s thoughts with a kiss. Different, this time. This time it was Robin doing the kissing, Robin coaxing Much’s lips apart with his tongue and pushing relentlessly forward with his hands on Much’s shoulders and a knee between his legs so that Much really had little choice but to acquiesce and let himself be pressed backwards onto the bed. Robin’s weight was on top of him, chest to chest, legs tangled in legs, Robin’s mouth not letting him breathe - but God have mercy on his soul, this was good, too good.
Much found his senses somehow and brought his own hands up to Robin’s shoulders, intending to push him away - this wasn’t right, he wouldn’t let this happen, he didn’t know why he’d kissed him in the first place - but instead found himself fisting his hands on the old, soft material of Robin’s shirt and pulling him closer.
Robin made an urgent noise against Much’s mouth, hands travelling down Much’s chest, skimming ticklishly over his ribs. Much winced away, the corners of his lips curling up in an familiar smile. In a flash he was overwhelmed by memory - green grass, blue sky, Robin (younger but stronger) launching a spontaneous attack on Much with his hands, going straight for his ribs, wrestling him into submission and tickling him mercilessly as Much writhed and struggled laughed so hard that tears ran from his eyes. How many times had that happened?
Much’s hands found Robin’s shoulders, and shoved. Robin slipped backwards, legs skittering briefly then going from under him, and he hit the floor with a thud that must have been audible in every corner of the inn. He looked up at Much, eyes burning under childishly drawn-in brows, for once completely without words.
And Much found himself sitting up on the edge of the bed, fists clenching in the blankets, staring at his master where he sat, hands splayed, legs sticking straight out, on the floor. He had never seen Robin look so ridiculous. But for some reason the laughter that should have been there didn’t come. Instead, there was a sick weight, settling deep inside his gut.
Stiffly, Robin got to his feet. The silence stretched out like gum. After breaking Much’s gaze, Robin wouldn’t meet it again.
“Master, I...” Much’s words fell like dead weights in the air between them, and he faltered. Robin, half-turned, stood with his arms folded across his chest, looking at the floor, in dangerous silence. Much tried again. “I’m sorry!” He hated his own pleading tone, but Robin didn’t react, so he let his mouth run on. “I’m sorry for arguing earlier, and I’m sorry for going out without your permission, and I’m sorry I got drunk, and I’m sorry for letting you - for letting you do...” This. Each sorry lightened the weight in his chest, but still Robin didn’t react. Hadn’t sorry always made it better before? Why not now? Was he forgetting something? The ale still in his head gave a throb - the world sharpened, became briefly brighter, Robin turned toward him - he dropped his head and pressed the backs of his knuckles against his burning cheeks. Too hot. Robin’s gaze, on him now, too heavy.
Sin. The word came back to him with black-on-white vividity. Sin. To want Robin. To crave him. Sin. To let him do this. To lead him into. Sin. The gravest, most unnatural sin.
Robin knelt in front of him, all easy grace and clean lines. “Much. Look at me.” Much obeyed. (What else could he do?) Robin’s dark eyes shone in the light from the dying fire. The tension had gone from his face. He looked startlingly young. When he spoke again, his voice was as smooth as if a moment ago had never happened. “My father brought me up to show courage. You know that, because you knew him too.”
Much nodded, nonplussed, though he thought Robin was exaggerating a little. The elder Earl had been a formidable presence in the Hall, and a man not to be trifled with. To the servants, that was all.
Robin went on. “Courage is why we’re here tonight.”
Much’s stomach flipped over. The words, so provocative: we’re here tonight. All the implications and connotations: alone; together; all night.
“Courage is why we’re going to sail to the other side of the world - to reclaim our holy land.” Robin’s gaze faltered, and he looked away. His forehead creased. When he spoke again, it was quieter. “And suddenly, I find myself a little destitute of courage tonight.”
Much didn’t know if it was the drink or the look on his master’s face or that Robin had never admitted weakness before (and that was a little frightening all by itself), but before he knew what he was doing he had slipped from the bed to kneel in front of Robin, and reached out a hand and laid it flat against his cheek.
Robin looked up again, his eyes full of his soul. “I don’t want to die, Much. That’s why...”
The voice from moments ago echoed in Much’s skull: you are his guardian, you shall not... But he had an answer for it this time. He summoned up all his own meagre store of courage, and put it all into his smile for Robin. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said.
He was rewarded with a small smile. Robin’s lips moved; some sounds that were too quiet to be words came out. Much, hand still on Robin’s face, leaned forward to try to catch them.
“I didn’t hear -”
Robin cut his words off with a kiss that smothered the end of the sentence into a noise against his mouth. Much was too startled to respond - either by kissing back or pulling away - and it was over before he could regain himself. Robin didn’t move away. He breathed against Much’s mouth, forehead resting against forehead, eyes closed. Much had felt Robin’s eyelashes against his cheek.
Slowly, in the quiet of their breathing, Much’s hand slid around from Robin’s cheek to palm the back of Robin’s neck, where his hair curled over the collar of his shirt (it was getting long, would need a cut). His other hand fell on Robin’s shoulder, and squeezed. Robin was trembling, very gently, underneath his shirt. “I promise nothing will happen to you,” Much breathed, and felt Robin’s eyes open again, seeking his. He pulled back a little, still with Robin’s warmth under his hands, and met Robin’s gaze as steadily as he could. “I promise,” he said again, “if you die, I die.”
Robin’s hands came up - shaking - and caught Much’s face, fingers rasping over the few days’ worth of stubble (he had felt ashamed of it until now), and pulled him into another kiss. Not like the other kisses - not drunk, not tentative, not delicate, but feverish and desperate. So young, Much had just the time to think before he was kissing him back, fingers curling in Robin’s hair, in his shirt, pulling him to him and leaning into the kiss so hard that Robin had no choice but to put his arms around him. They pulled together, half kneeling, half crouching; chest to chest, legs tangling in legs, hands everywhere, touching and stroking and tugging.
Somewhere, they broke apart, dishevelled and out of breath and both painfully hard; and one of them - it might have been Robin, or then again might have been Much - scrambled upright on unsteady legs, tugging the other after, to stumble the few feet to the bed and fall down again, each entangled in the other, onto the fleabitten mattress. Somewhere, each piece of clothing came off - a little torn, a little clawed - and was tossed aside, each baring more sensitive Nottinghamshire skin to London blankets, and somewhere Robin’s hand crept down to Much’s breeches and Much didn’t complain (beyond a harsh breath, then a whimper, then a moan; and Robin had the idea that those were something else entirely) and the thought of sin never crossed his mind (at least not that night). And somewhere in the night, they fell asleep, sweat-slick and exhausted, in each others’ arms.
In the morning, they were on the road again.
Recipient: smokey2307
Personal message: I have a memory from when I was very young of one lazy, average Boxing Day - it was the day after Christmas Day, I had surveyed and played with my presents, and was a little bored. And then, my Uncle Ted (sadly deceased now, but remembered fondly) turned up, unexpected as always, with a bag of gifts for all of us. I remember I was so thrilled to be getting presents on Boxing Day, and that it was a fab idea to prolong the Christmassy feeling. I hope this does the same, and that you’ve had a wonderful Yuletide already. :)
P.S. There’ll be another gift along shortly...
Gift:
Title: Consolation
Wordcount: 3,033
Rating: R-ish
...
London. The last major stop on a series of them, that took Robin of Locksley, the young Earl of Huntingdon, (and his manservant) down to the south coast and thence to vistas unknown on a quest for the King. It was nothing new, at least not to London.
London was an open sewer, a gutter, a vortex of filth and noise and motion. It was full of fug and stink and yells, the smell of violently roasted meat on streetside stalls, and wafted beer and song from the open doors of taverns. It was like Nottingham, pace kicked up a notch and multiplied a thousand times. Robin was dazzled by it; Much found it just bearable if he was with his master.
And then -
It was a silly thing, really, the argument that drove Much out onto the streets that night. It was over nothing, over orders, over the home far behind, over Marian. Over nothing.
He couldn’t even remember what he’d said to Robin now, or what Robin had said to him, that made his face flush and all the words he’d bitten down on in the past years come bubbling up behind his lips, scalding and angry and ready to be said. So many words - so many, in fact, that they jumbled up on his lips and Much found himself stumbling over the syllables, stopping and starting, fire eventually petering out. Only to be rekindled again by the curve of Robin’s lips when he laughed. This time, with no words to be said, Much turned silently and slammed out of the room.
Still with the blood beating in his cheeks, Much found himself on the street, the on-and-off rain dribbling down his face in greasy trickles and dripping down inside his collar. He had come out without his cloak. London streets - they couldn’t be too different to Nottingham, surely? And he could find his way around Nottingham with his eyes closed. In Nottingham, if it rained and you were without a place to go, if you had some money in your pocket you had, essentially, two choices: an alehouse, or a house of girls (and boys, and children, and freaks, if you were that way inclined).
Much didn’t trust London whores. He had heard horror stories. So he was left with only one eventuality.
Public houses were easy to find. You could be blindfolded, spun around and shoved in any direction, and you would walk smack bang into one and knock yourself out on an eave. He chose one that didn’t look as if he would be robbed within five minutes of walking into, and sat, experimentally, with a little flutter of the heart - mingled fear and excitement (alone in London!) - and spent his money. He could tell each coin’s story, all the many miles from Nottinghamshire - he watched with a tremor in his chest as each was taken away, to pay for drink after drink. Yet with each mug’s volume emptied, replaced on the bar, he found himself liking London more and more.
Yes. He liked its hustle and bustle, he liked the life and reek of it. He could lose himself here. He could be someone else. Maybe John Thatcher from Nottingham, as he pretended to the barman (half to himself, as well, at first for kicks and then for comfort). Maybe, in time, a real Londoner.
Until he caught sight of a familiar shape in the lamplight, briefly silhouetted in the hurly burly light from the street outside (torches, lamplight, reflected from windows) as the door swung open then shut. In that moment, the moment he saw Robin, standing with awkwardness written in each limb and looking about with nobleman’s eyes, he knew he could never run away and be anyone but Much of Locksley, the Earl’s man. And the Earl, no matter how many forbidden taverns he’d frequented as a boy, in disguise (his little manservant in tow to keep him safe), just didn’t belong here.
Much tossed his last coin to the barman and slipped off his stool, stumbling only a little and nodding to the ‘all right there, John?’. The room had become a lot more difficult to navigate since he had come in. It pitched and swam around him, and if he’d have been in a laughing mood, he’d have found it hilarious. As it was, Robin had caught sight of him halfway across the barroom, and pinned in his master’s gaze it was all he could do not to put his head down and bolt. The look that Robin was giving him spoke volumes about the words he was going to hear once they got outside.
“What do you think you were doing, going off like that?” The tone of voice was almost exactly as Much had anticipated, so much so that he barely needed to hear the words. He paused outside the tavern to let the door swing shut and the cold air breathe against his hot skin. Robin planted himself in front of him, so that no matter where Much looked he couldn’t avoid his master’s glare. “You smell like a brewery.”
Much dragged one hand over his face. Somewhere in the midst of all this, his shoulders had tensed. He tried to relax them, whilst avoiding meeting Robin’s eyes. “I’m old enough, I had money.” The world did another sudden spin around him as he tried to move away, and he pitched forward. The wet cobbles rushed up to meet him, and the tavern’s lights danced golden in the corners of his eyes.
The next thing he knew he was kneeling in the street, dampness seeping through the knees of his trousers, with Robin’s arm around his shoulders. There was a dull ache in his nose.
“Much. Much?” Robin’s cool fingers on his jaw, tilting his head up. The alcohol was suddenly dizzying, sickening in his head. All he wanted to do was go somewhere dark and rest his forehead against cool stone. But he let Robin bring his head up so that he faced into the light.
As he did, Robin grimaced, brows pulling together tightly over concerned eyes. He was kneeling in front of Much, his hands were soft on Much’s cheeks and his face barely inches away. Robin’s thumb brushed across his upper lip; then he brought his hand away for Much to see. It was wet with something dark.
“You must have bashed your nose a good one on the cobbles there,” Robin said, and all the accusation was gone from his voice. Instead his words flowered and died as little puffs of warm breath on Much’s face. “You’re bleeding.”
Without really knowing what he was doing - except that it seemed the right thing to do - Much brought his own hands up to Robin’s neck and pulled him down to kiss him.
Their lips met, Robin’s startled open, and kissed; hot, and blood-wet, and reverberated through by a noise made deep in Robin’s throat. Much tasted salt and copper - his own blood on his tongue, on his master’s lips moving against his. When Robin made another noise - more insistent - Much pulled away. His hands, curled at the base of Robin’s neck, twined in the fine hair there.
Robin gazed at him from under heavy lids. He was breathing hard through lips smeared wet red with blood. Much closed his mouth and set his jaw, readying himself for whatever it was Robin was going to say next. What he did say surprised him enough that he couldn’t be sure he’d heard it right for the first few moments.
“We can’t do this here.”
“Master?”
“Not here.” Robin shook his head looking for all the world like a man struggling from the depths of a dream. “Home. The inn. Anywhere, not here.” Much was halfway through an automatic nod when Robin caught his jaw and pulled him closer, pressing a quick, hot kiss half on his lips and half on his chin before springing to his feet.
Much looked up. Robin seemed to tower over him, one hand outstretched. His nose throbbed with each pulse of blood that beat through his skull; it was getting worse now. He closed his eyes against it and took Robin’s hand blindly, let his master lift him up. On his feet, he swayed, and Robin’s arm was suddenly solidly around his waist. He sagged into Robin’s side, let his aching head fall onto his shoulder.
Once he realised that there was barely any need for him to keep his eyes open, the rest of the journey back to their inn passed in a gentle blur of footsteps and voices and Robin’s arm around him and Robin’s cheek against the top of his head and Robin’s murmurs into his ear. The heat of Robin’s breath on his skin and his lips on his ear tingled down his spine. He only opened his eyes to climb the narrow stairs to their room, and they passed with surprising ease to give unto their rattling and creaky-hinged door and then to the room, lamp-lit by a serving maid for the Earl of Huntingdon (looked down on as a poor country lord or not) and his manservant.
Much remembered, dully, as he flopped down to sit on the edge of Robin’s bed, that they were back on the road again tomorrow.
The door closed, and there was the click and slide of a latch and bolt, before Robin turned and regarded Much with hooded eyes.
It struck Much again just how young his master was. A limber and agile youth, with all the strutting confidence of his late teens, and an easy smile that spoke of a way with the ladies. Young, too young to be the master of all Locksley, surely. Much wondered who would look after the village while they were gone. Who would look after it if they never returned.
Robin crossed the distance between them in three easy steps and stooped to smother Much’s thoughts with a kiss. Different, this time. This time it was Robin doing the kissing, Robin coaxing Much’s lips apart with his tongue and pushing relentlessly forward with his hands on Much’s shoulders and a knee between his legs so that Much really had little choice but to acquiesce and let himself be pressed backwards onto the bed. Robin’s weight was on top of him, chest to chest, legs tangled in legs, Robin’s mouth not letting him breathe - but God have mercy on his soul, this was good, too good.
Much found his senses somehow and brought his own hands up to Robin’s shoulders, intending to push him away - this wasn’t right, he wouldn’t let this happen, he didn’t know why he’d kissed him in the first place - but instead found himself fisting his hands on the old, soft material of Robin’s shirt and pulling him closer.
Robin made an urgent noise against Much’s mouth, hands travelling down Much’s chest, skimming ticklishly over his ribs. Much winced away, the corners of his lips curling up in an familiar smile. In a flash he was overwhelmed by memory - green grass, blue sky, Robin (younger but stronger) launching a spontaneous attack on Much with his hands, going straight for his ribs, wrestling him into submission and tickling him mercilessly as Much writhed and struggled laughed so hard that tears ran from his eyes. How many times had that happened?
Much’s hands found Robin’s shoulders, and shoved. Robin slipped backwards, legs skittering briefly then going from under him, and he hit the floor with a thud that must have been audible in every corner of the inn. He looked up at Much, eyes burning under childishly drawn-in brows, for once completely without words.
And Much found himself sitting up on the edge of the bed, fists clenching in the blankets, staring at his master where he sat, hands splayed, legs sticking straight out, on the floor. He had never seen Robin look so ridiculous. But for some reason the laughter that should have been there didn’t come. Instead, there was a sick weight, settling deep inside his gut.
Stiffly, Robin got to his feet. The silence stretched out like gum. After breaking Much’s gaze, Robin wouldn’t meet it again.
“Master, I...” Much’s words fell like dead weights in the air between them, and he faltered. Robin, half-turned, stood with his arms folded across his chest, looking at the floor, in dangerous silence. Much tried again. “I’m sorry!” He hated his own pleading tone, but Robin didn’t react, so he let his mouth run on. “I’m sorry for arguing earlier, and I’m sorry for going out without your permission, and I’m sorry I got drunk, and I’m sorry for letting you - for letting you do...” This. Each sorry lightened the weight in his chest, but still Robin didn’t react. Hadn’t sorry always made it better before? Why not now? Was he forgetting something? The ale still in his head gave a throb - the world sharpened, became briefly brighter, Robin turned toward him - he dropped his head and pressed the backs of his knuckles against his burning cheeks. Too hot. Robin’s gaze, on him now, too heavy.
Sin. The word came back to him with black-on-white vividity. Sin. To want Robin. To crave him. Sin. To let him do this. To lead him into. Sin. The gravest, most unnatural sin.
Robin knelt in front of him, all easy grace and clean lines. “Much. Look at me.” Much obeyed. (What else could he do?) Robin’s dark eyes shone in the light from the dying fire. The tension had gone from his face. He looked startlingly young. When he spoke again, his voice was as smooth as if a moment ago had never happened. “My father brought me up to show courage. You know that, because you knew him too.”
Much nodded, nonplussed, though he thought Robin was exaggerating a little. The elder Earl had been a formidable presence in the Hall, and a man not to be trifled with. To the servants, that was all.
Robin went on. “Courage is why we’re here tonight.”
Much’s stomach flipped over. The words, so provocative: we’re here tonight. All the implications and connotations: alone; together; all night.
“Courage is why we’re going to sail to the other side of the world - to reclaim our holy land.” Robin’s gaze faltered, and he looked away. His forehead creased. When he spoke again, it was quieter. “And suddenly, I find myself a little destitute of courage tonight.”
Much didn’t know if it was the drink or the look on his master’s face or that Robin had never admitted weakness before (and that was a little frightening all by itself), but before he knew what he was doing he had slipped from the bed to kneel in front of Robin, and reached out a hand and laid it flat against his cheek.
Robin looked up again, his eyes full of his soul. “I don’t want to die, Much. That’s why...”
The voice from moments ago echoed in Much’s skull: you are his guardian, you shall not... But he had an answer for it this time. He summoned up all his own meagre store of courage, and put it all into his smile for Robin. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said.
He was rewarded with a small smile. Robin’s lips moved; some sounds that were too quiet to be words came out. Much, hand still on Robin’s face, leaned forward to try to catch them.
“I didn’t hear -”
Robin cut his words off with a kiss that smothered the end of the sentence into a noise against his mouth. Much was too startled to respond - either by kissing back or pulling away - and it was over before he could regain himself. Robin didn’t move away. He breathed against Much’s mouth, forehead resting against forehead, eyes closed. Much had felt Robin’s eyelashes against his cheek.
Slowly, in the quiet of their breathing, Much’s hand slid around from Robin’s cheek to palm the back of Robin’s neck, where his hair curled over the collar of his shirt (it was getting long, would need a cut). His other hand fell on Robin’s shoulder, and squeezed. Robin was trembling, very gently, underneath his shirt. “I promise nothing will happen to you,” Much breathed, and felt Robin’s eyes open again, seeking his. He pulled back a little, still with Robin’s warmth under his hands, and met Robin’s gaze as steadily as he could. “I promise,” he said again, “if you die, I die.”
Robin’s hands came up - shaking - and caught Much’s face, fingers rasping over the few days’ worth of stubble (he had felt ashamed of it until now), and pulled him into another kiss. Not like the other kisses - not drunk, not tentative, not delicate, but feverish and desperate. So young, Much had just the time to think before he was kissing him back, fingers curling in Robin’s hair, in his shirt, pulling him to him and leaning into the kiss so hard that Robin had no choice but to put his arms around him. They pulled together, half kneeling, half crouching; chest to chest, legs tangling in legs, hands everywhere, touching and stroking and tugging.
Somewhere, they broke apart, dishevelled and out of breath and both painfully hard; and one of them - it might have been Robin, or then again might have been Much - scrambled upright on unsteady legs, tugging the other after, to stumble the few feet to the bed and fall down again, each entangled in the other, onto the fleabitten mattress. Somewhere, each piece of clothing came off - a little torn, a little clawed - and was tossed aside, each baring more sensitive Nottinghamshire skin to London blankets, and somewhere Robin’s hand crept down to Much’s breeches and Much didn’t complain (beyond a harsh breath, then a whimper, then a moan; and Robin had the idea that those were something else entirely) and the thought of sin never crossed his mind (at least not that night). And somewhere in the night, they fell asleep, sweat-slick and exhausted, in each others’ arms.
In the morning, they were on the road again.