Just Let Me
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Disclaimer: The characters and settings in this story do not belong to me, but to the amazing Hilari Bell.
Summary:When Fisk says, 'Just let me', Michael has to face the consequences of not being able to refuse.
OR
Here there be randomly named locations, several instances of drunkenness, whorehouses, convenient overlooking of several generally key plot points, Fisk being stupidly in love, and Michael just being stupid. Enjoy.
OR
Fisk gives Michael one drunken blow job and Michael is a dick after. Then they make up.
Word Count: Hot damn! This baby clocks in at 9,994 words.
WARNING: There is nothing explicit in this, but there are definitely implications (sort of fade-to-black scenes if you will), some language, and a hella lot of drunkenness. Rating is cautious. Also, slash, if that hasn't already been made clear.
If you prefer your Knight and Rogue fluffy and happy at all times, without considering that they might be doing any of the things mentioned above, this story's probably not for you. Liberties have been taken with the universe, such as the views on homosexuality and the traditions of upper-class families. Seriously, I don't want to ruin anyone's views of the lovely series. I just couldn't help myself.
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The festival was incredible. Bright lights and laughing people filled the streets. Good food and ale was available every ten feet, the music was fantastic, and the whole night was completed with a smashing performance by a particularly talented troupe of actors. By the end, Michael was happy, sated, and looking forward to his moderately comfy bed.
Fisk was drunk.
Michael couldn't fault him, since 'twas the boy's twentieth birthday. Michael even kept his own alcohol intake to a minimum so that he might better aid Fisk with difficult tasks, such as standing and walking. Currently his squire was giggling madly while sprawled in the grass after tripping over what Michael could only assume were his own feet.
'This is the best party ever. You, my good, good man, are brilliant,' Fisk slurred.
Michael had heard about the festival several months earlier through a traveling salesman. The man claimed 'twas the highlight of the year in Brambian and brought in folks from neighboring lands miles away because of the fine entertainment (not to mention the unlimited food). 'Twas sheer chance that it landed on Fisk's birthday which Michael took as a sign and began to plan.
Knowing his ability to lie left much to be desired, Michael worried that he wouldn't be able to pull off the scheme without alerting his squire to his intentions, but luck was on his side again. Fisk came down with a bad case of poison oak and refused to pay the ridiculous price for a magica remedy. He spent two weeks covered in rashes and nearly drove Michael to insanity with his complaining, but 'twas a sufficient distraction to keep him from noticing the knight's sneaky actions.
As subtly as possible, Michael suggested they travel to Brambian to find work because he had heard of some job openings that might consider placing an unredeemed man. 'Twas not too hard to convince Fisk, who had been complaining of their position as stable hands to a young lord in Fayetville. The man was as spoiled as they came and demanded impossible standards when it came to cleaning the stalls. Mentioning the large library Brambian boasted probably didn't hurt either.
After that the only problem was actually securing the jobs and lodging once they reached the city. Fisk managed to procure a job as an assistant banker only two days after arriving, which Fisk found ironic and Michael thought was hilarious. The position called for secretarial work more than anything else, but 'twas decent money and sounded respectable at least. Michael, who was turned away four times before getting hired, was not so lucky. Brambian was located on the coast of the Weif Sea and boasted the largest port in the northern part of the kingdom. A lot of manpower was needed to maintain such a port and Michael was given multiple duties including pulling the ships in, cleaning them off, and keeping them secure while visiting dignitaries went about their business. 'Twas dirty work and the pay was crap, but at least they seemed unconcerned about the marks on his wrists.
They had learned early on that failing to mention the tattoos to the folks they rented rooms from was not in their best interest. It meant much slimmer pickings on living accommodations, but the truth always came out eventually and they were rarely allowed to collect their belongings from the rooms before being evicted.
In Brambian, the choices for an unredeemed man seemed to be cramped, but passably clean or cramped and crawling with roaches. They picked the former which was one room containing two small beds (the second was an added expense), one rickety table and a cramped, dingy kitchen area. Sadly, 'twas not even near their worst and at least they wouldn't be camping during the chilly winter months.
A couple weeks before the event, Fisk and Michael were sharing drinks after a strenuous shift at the docks and Michael may have had a few too many. Fisk made a comment about the coincidence of his birthday and the festival sharing a date. He was only observing, no suspicion in his voice, but Michael was loose-lipped and crap at keeping secrets anyway and spilled the whole story. He hadn't known what kind of reaction to expect, but the wide, astonished smile that graced Fisk's face was better than anything he could have come up with. Fisk spent the rest of the evening grinning fondly at him and Michael felt so warm and happy he thought he might burst.
Now he stared down at his drunken squire in amusement.
'I hope you realize I will be repeating every nice thing you say about me in the morning. You're going to be quite embarrassed. The list is getting rather long.'
'You're much too tall Mike. Come down here.'
Michael rolled his eyes at the nickname, which Fisk always seemed to let slip when he wasn't thinking, such as when he'd had a few beers, or was tired, or concentrating on something... actually, Michael realized, he did it all the damn time. Lying down on his side, Michael kicked Fisk's feet lightly.
'What exactly are we doing down here, may I ask?'
'Just enjoying the atmosphere.' Fisk frowned. 'And waiting for the world to stop tipping quite so much.'
'I assume that will occur in the morning, when the world will be busy making far too much noise.'
Fisk just grinned dopily at him which Michael took to mean he was too drunk to be worried about a hangover.
'So what did you get me?'
'Hmm?' Michael said.
'For my birthday you goon. What did you get me for my birthday?'
'You mean bringing you here wasn't enough?'
'Of course not. You didn't plan the festival, it was just convenient.'
'It bloody well was NOT convenient! I had to get us all the way over here without tipping you off. That was hard work!'
Snorting, Fisk rolled over to face him. 'So you're telling me you didn't get me a present then?'
'Well,' Michael relented. 'I may have something back in the room. I expect gratitude.'
Somehow he managed to lead Fisk back to their dwelling, although they had to pause a few times when Fisk got distracted by the fireworks that were still being let off. Eventually they tumbled into the tiny room, Fisk collapsing on Michael's bed with a loud 'Oomph'. Michael fetched the package he had bought the day before and hidden in one of his work boots. 'Twas unlikely Fisk had found it there, even if he had gone looking, because his squire maintained that Michael could kill a man with one whiff of his dirty socks.
Fisk seemed to have calmed down a bit after dunking his head in a water trough they passed outside the lodgings before heading upstairs. He had graciously removed his shoes before sprawling further on Michael's covers, and he lifted his feet now to allow Michael room to sit underneath them at the end of the bed.
'Here,' Michael said and handed him the package.
Grinning happily, Fisk ripped off the cheap paper wrapping to reveal the soft gloves inside.
'You were saying your hands got cold when you copied ledgers at the bank,' Michael said, when Fisk remained silent, fingering the gloves. 'I know you always say buying things meant for work is counterproductive, but I gave them to you and I'm going to be to be very offended if you don't wear them.'
Fisk looked up at him, smile turned soft and sweet. 'No, of course I will. Michael, they're perfect.'
Sure that his cheeks were a bright shade of pink, Michael cleared his throat loudly and announced, 'Time to sleep, I think. Stop lying all over my bed' and shoved at Fisk's legs. Fisk didn't budge.
When Michael looked over, Fisk had placed the gloves out of the way and was staring intently at him. His skin prickled and Michael had just opened his mouth to repeat his statement when Fisk scooted closer and slithered off the side of the bed until he was kneeling directly in front of him. Hands as hot as fire rested on his thighs and Michael had no idea what was going on. Then Fisk leaned forward and mouthed at the fabric of his breeches and, suddenly, he did.
Michael almost kneed the squire in the face when he jolted back, but Fisk just tightened the grip on his thighs and shuffled closer again.
'Fisk… what…'
Fisk hushed him and kissed the inside of his leg before moving his hands to the laces of Michael's pants. Michael's mind raced and he felt heavy, disoriented. Tipsy, he must still be tipsy, but Fisk was wasted, out of his mind, which meant Michael needed to be the one to stop this. He covered Fisk's hands with his own, stilling them, and said, 'You've had a lot to drink.'
Fisk didn't deny it. His gaze was dark and heated when he looked up at Michael through lidded eyes, and Michael had to reevaluate just how drunk he himself was because there was no way he had missed something as big as the obvious want displayed there now. Nothing was making sense and then Fisk was saying—
'Just… let me. Mike, please.'
—and Michael must have stepped into a different dimension because his Fisk didn't beg for things. Certainly not while he had his mouth pressed right there.
Apparently in this alternate universe where such things did occur, however, Michael didn't continue to protest and explain why they couldn't do this, they could not do this. He didn't push Fisk into his own bed and make him agree that they would never speak of this again. Instead, it seemed, he just swallowed thickly and loosened his grip on Fisk's hands.
Then there was heat and moisture and Michael didn't think about anything else for the rest of the night.
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They don't talk about it. Michael woke up to Fisk's snores from the other bed and had to rush to the outhouse because he was sure he was going to be ill. He didn't get sick, but he did bang his head against the wall until he was seeing stars because he was so. damn. stupid.
Michael didn't go back to the room until the evening, when he knew Fisk would be at the bank. He was relieved to see that the room showed no signs of anything being amiss. Spare clothes were still strung haphazardly about the floor and Michael's sword was propped against the foot of his bed. Staring at the scene, Michael took a deep breath and let it out. Okay. He could do this. Nothing had changed.
He made dinner and waited for Fisk's shift to end. Fisk showed no sign of wanting to speak about the previous evening and Michael felt eternally grateful. Conversation was mostly made by the squire, who told mundane details about his day behind a desk and exclaimed over his new gloves (apparently deciding it was best to act as if he was only receiving them now and the previous night hadn't occurred) when it became clear that Michael was too distracted to hold up his end. A few queer looks were thrown his way, but Michael shrugged off Fisk's nervous, 'Something wrong?' and headed out to the barn to brush Chant.
They could get past this. No problem.
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Three weeks later Michael was still repeating the same line in his head every time he looked at Fisk. To his utter mortification, it appeared that every time Fisk sat down next to him, or touched him, or even just opened his bloody mouth, Michael was transported right back to that night and the feel of said mouth on specific areas of Michael's body. He didn't have much in the way of comparison, but it had put the two previous experiences to shame and then some.
His first time was when his father brought him to a (respectable) whorehouse when he was thirteen. Sir Sevenson had done the same with each of his other sons. In fact, 'twas a common practice among upper class families to teach their sons about the mechanics of sex in such a way.
For Michael, 'twas downright mortifying.
The girl had realized how awkward he felt and offered to play cards instead while waiting for his father to return. They played four games of Crowns before she set the deck aside, pushed him onto the bed and went to work. 'Twas supremely embarrassing, especially when he had to wait around a bit for his father to return, and Michael felt dirty and used for days.
The other time was with Anne, the daughter of a visiting Lord. Their fathers were good friends and the family stayed on the Sevenson estate for the entire summer. Michael and Anne were near in age and interests. She told him that she often snuck swords out of her father's armory to practice and they spent many afternoons in the woods mock battling each other. One day, entirely out of the blue it seemed to Michael, she crawled over him while they rested after one such spar and said, 'There are other things we could practice together.'
Michael had resisted at first, because he was raised a true gentleman, but she laughed at his protests and told him plainly that she wanted to. It had been passably enjoyable, if a bit fumbling and awkward. He didn't tell Anne, but Michael would have preferred the sword fighting. He made himself believe 'twas only because he was already in love with Rosamund that Anne's body didn't excite him much.
Now, of course, he no longer had that excuse, not that it was needed in this case. Having Fisk's mouth move over him like that had been better than any fantasy Michael had ever had. Even the mere thought of it had him embarrassingly hot and Michael didn't quite know what to make of it.
Mayhap he just needed to erase the memory by creating a new one. Most boys his age had already been with multiple partners; some were even starting families. Whorehouses generally weren't Michael's style, but the massive effect this simple act was having on him was probably because he'd only had his hand to work with for years. The situation called for an exception.
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The whorehouse was located on a side street that was easy enough to find, but sufficiently secluded to offer privacy to clients. Michael almost chickened out as he was approaching, but an image of sandy hair caught tight between his fingers made him steel himself and head inside. Girls of every shape and size lounged around the brightly decorated interior. An older woman, plump but pretty, took his arm immediately and guided him to a silk covered table in a corner of the large room. She smiled, lipstick a stark contrast to her teeth, and said, 'How can I help you sugar?'
'I…uh…' Michael stammered, eyes flicking around the room but never connecting with anyone. His palms were sweating and he rubbed them on his pants nervously. 'That is, I was hoping to…'
Mercifully, the woman cut him off. 'Dearie, I know why you're here. I just need to find out what your type is and settle the bill before I send you in.'
Michael winced. This was a horrible idea. 'I don't think I can do this,' he whispered without meaning to, but she heard him all the same and waved aside the comment.
'Aint nobody here gonna judge you, honey. Now, I figure you for a blonde—'
'No!' blurted Michael. 'Uh, no, the darker the better. And experienced if you don't mind.'
'Sure thing sugar, Moira will be perfect I think,' she said, writing something on a small ledger. She named a price and Michael agreed blindly, having no idea what the regular going rate for such an activity was. Then the woman (whom Michael still didn't have a name for) gestured at a pretty dark-skinned girl –Moira, Michael presumed— who was stretching in a corner. 'The room on the left, Moira. You two have fun,' she said, winking.
Michael stared dumbly as Moira sauntered over and lifted his chin. 'My, my,' she said, voice throaty. 'You're a handsome one.'
'You are the beauty, miss,' stammered Michael, always a gentleman. 'Twas the truth. Almond eyes intensified by kohl, dark curly hair reaching her the middle of her back, and tight healthy skin, unmarred by scars. Her smile bordered on genuine as she led him through a door, down a hallway, and into a dimly lit room.
Moira wasn't shy and Michael struggled to keep up as she divested them of their clothing. 'What do you want?' she purred while running her hands over his bare chest. Michael shook his head at first, focused on training himself against bolting from the unfamiliar touch, before his brain caught up with her question. Immediately his mind conjured the scene of watching Fisk's mouth opening and sliding down, lips stretched wide and so, so red. Throat going dry, Michael whispered 'wait' and dragged a thumb over the girl's plump, tacky lips. Message apparently received, Moira went to her knees obediently and Michael let out a groan.
'Twas nice, he supposed. Her hair was silky against his palm and her mouth was hot and oh so talented. Much more talented than his idiot of a squire whom he was most emphatically not thinking about. At all. It felt off to see his hands traveling over such fine skin, dark and clean and unfreckled, but Michael was determined to enjoy it, to love the smooth soft curves of her body, to revel in the wicked tongue moving over him, to want and desire her more than any mistaken fumblings that might have happened before.
It would work. It had to.
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After, Michael got spectacularly drunk.
'Twas an awful plan, but Michael seemed to be full of those today and he'd hate to ruin his streak of idiocy by ignoring his current masochistic tendencies. A dingy bar called Scott's was located conveniently near to the whorehouse and Michael downed three shots of an unidentifiable liquid without batting an eye. The rest of the evening progressed in a similar fashion, until Michael found himself laid out flat on the dirty ground and blinking up at the dark night sky. He had no idea how he got there, but he didn't really care and he shut his eyes against the world in general, waiting patiently for everything to make sense again.
Lifetimes later, Michael heard a familiar voice yelling 'Michael, gods, are you insane?' and felt hands trying frantically to lift him up. Anger swept through him, sudden and uncontrollable, because it was just. not. fair.
'Ah, Fisk. Excellent,' said Michael crossly. 'I believe I had just gotten you off my mind and now you're ruining it.' He flipped over dramatically, flailing a hand out to wave Fisk away. 'Leave, would you?
A pause and then, 'You're plastered. Michael, what were you thinking?'
'I was thinking that I would quite enjoy having a moment's peace without picturing your stupid mouth, you bastard,' spat Michael. 'And 'twas working quite splendidly until now. Much better than 'Moira' at least.'
'Moira? Who—you know what, never mind. C'mon Mike, we have to go.'
'Don't,' hissed Michael. 'Don't call me that.'
'Fine, whatever, Noble sir. Just get up.' The hands were redoubling their efforts to get him on his feet and Michael was too tired to resist. The ground lurched dangerously under him and he wrapped arms around the nearest object to steady himself.
'Oof, geez,' muttered Fisk from somewhere very close to his ear. The squire rearranged them so that Michael was leaning his weight on one side, arm slung tight over Fisk's shoulders. The walk home seemed to take eons, Michael stopping twice to expel what felt like the entire contents of the bar. The second time he just kept leaning his forehead against the stone wall he had dropped near, not yet willing to get up again.
Cool fingers swept the hair back from his face and rested on the nape of his neck. Michael wanted to pull away from the touch almost as much as he wanted to lean into it so he did nothing, just breathed and breathed, frustration mounting inside of him. A sob burst out of him before he could stop it, followed by another, and he punched the wall once, twice, three times before Fisk could get a good enough grip to stop him. Arms locked around his own, holding him in place, and Michael hung his head and curled his fists, drunk and exhausted and hating himself.
Fisk sounded terrified as he mumbled, 'Shh, shh, Michael, baby, it's gonna be okay,' into Michael's neck, but Michael couldn't concentrate past his own gasping sobs. Mud soaked into his trousers and a fine mist of rain started to fall. Still they sat, Michael trembling, nails digging into his palms, and Fisk murmuring frightened nonsense in his ears, until Michael quieted and drooped against him.
'Gods, Michael, Michael,' murmured Fisk, loosening his hold. 'What is wrong?'
A strangled laugh gusted out of him and Michael shook his head helplessly.
'I can help, I want to help,' babbled Fisk. 'Just… let me.'
Michael froze and he was right back in their little room staring at an imploring Fisk who was saying 'just let me' and 'please' and Michael was losing his mind and giving in and fucking everything up. And now Fisk was doing it again. Making it seem so easy, so right to simply agree and allow him anything he wanted with no thought of the consequences.
Michael hated him.
Fisk ended up flat on the ground when Michael shoved him. He stood up and glared down at his squire, dizzy and angry and upset about everything. His mind was a jumble of thoughts, each more horrible than the last. A part of him knew, knew he shouldn't say anything. Should just walk away, cool down, sober up, but—
'Just let you? Just let you? We both know what happened last time I 'just let you'.'
Fisk was staring at him in shock. 'Michael, what-'
'Why are you here Fisk?'
'I don't understand—'
'Why are you here?' Michael shouted, not caring if he was being unfair.
Fisk got off the ground slowly holding his hands out, to steady himself or in defense, Michael didn't know. 'Jake Hullan. Your coworker? He was in the bar with you.' Odd. Michael didn't remember Jake being there. 'He-he came to the bank, told me you were in a state and the bartender was getting ready to kick you out.'
'I'm not a child who has to be looked after you know. I don't need you,' hissed Michael and felt an ugly curl of satisfaction at the flash of pain on his squire's face.
'I know that,' Fisk said softly. 'I just wanted to make sure you were alright.'
'I'm fine,' he bit out, feeling just the opposite.
The scared, unhappy look Fisk had been wearing was replaced momentarily with disbelief. 'Yes, I can see that,' he responded darkly.
'Well, if I'm not 'tis your fault!'
'My fault?' Fisk was getting angry now too as he glared at Michael and Michael's body thrummed with anticipation. He wanted a fight. He wanted a reason to vent his frustration on the person who had him so messed up in the first place. 'How is it my fault that you're so drunk you can barely see straight because you seem to have spent the entire day attempting to win a new record for alcohol intake!'
Michael grinned viciously, knowing he could cut deeper. 'Oh, I didn't spend all day in the bar. Moira kept me company before that.'
'Who is Moira?'
'She's employed at Madame Hannah's House. 'Twas a lovely afternoon I spent there.' That was a lie, but he didn't care to let Fisk know, just reveled in the shocked look on his face.
'Hannah as in – as in Hannah's Whores?' Fisk stuttered, gaping at him. 'Michael, you… Why?'
'Because I don't need you to satisfy those needs squire. I'm quite capable of taking care of it without you and your stupid bloody lips.' There was a burst of air and Fisk stumbled looking as though someone had punched him. Irritation bubbled in Michael. How dare he have the right to seem surprised? 'What, did you think I had forgotten? Conveniently overlooked the entire night? Believe me, I've tried.'
The fight had drained from Fisk and the man stood staring at him, dumbfounded. Michael wasn't done though, and he continued, embracing the manic glee he was receiving from watching Fisk flinch at his words, 'You know, I've never met someone so enthusiastic; even Moira couldn't quite obtain that level of delight from the task.' Fisk licked his lips nervously and his eyes flickered down to just below Michael's stomach, obviously against his will. Michael was filled with triumph and a sick fascination at the sight. 'Gods, Fisk. You want it so fucking bad, don't you?'
Fisk jerked back a step and Michael compensated without thought, rushing forward and crowding him against the alley wall. 'I tried to figure out what drove you to do it,' he spoke. 'You were drunk, sure, and you always get… touchier when you're drunk.' Fisk's ragged breath was hot against his chin and he couldn't get enough of the wide-eyed, frightened look on his squire's face. 'But I had no idea. No idea.You must have been imagining it for years. Am I correct?'
'M-Michael,' stuttered Fisk. 'I didn't – oh gods Mike.' Michael stared in wonder and disgust at the horror dawning on Fisk's face as the man shuddered under his hands. 'I didn't know,' he finished in a whisper.
Anger spiked in Michael's gut and he tightened his grip, saying flatly, 'You didn't know.'
Fisk's voice was stuttering and disjointed, as though he was working things out as he spoke. 'I don't, I don't usually drink that much. Alcohol's not – that is, I don't have much of a head for it, you know, and I was sneaking drinks while you weren't looking that night because I – you were driving me crazy – I just needed… shit. Shit!' He swore and paused his babbling, tilting his head down from where he had been staring at the sky so that their eyes met. 'Michael, I barely remember anything after the play at the festival. I woke up in the morning and I wondered, maybe if – you were acting so strange, distant, and you would barely look at me anymore, but I never imagined… I thought I might ha-have said something, I didn't realize I – oh gods. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'
'All this time and you didn't even know.' Michael felt furious, cheated. This was all Fisk's fault, all these messed up emotions were because of that one stupid act and Fisk had been living in the luxury of not even knowing. His head spun, alcohol and rage flooding his veins, and he barely even registered raising his fist. When it connected with his squire's face, however, he felt everything; the crunch of bone hitting bone, the slick feel of blood on his knuckles as he opened Fisk's lip, and the burst of satisfaction at the astonished, confused look that the squire gave him. It felt good, so fucking good, that he did it again.
Fisk put up an arm in defense this time, saying 'Michael, what the hell – ' and Michael pushed hard enough to make him stumble and followed him to the ground, not letting up, until Fisk was fighting back just as hard.
'What is wrong with you!' shouted Fisk while he had the upper hand, using his weight to momentarily hold Michael down. 'I'm sorry I did it, I was drunk, and I shouldn't have. I won't do it again if that's what we're fighting over; you've made it very clear how much you want to forget!'
Working an arm free really wasn't that difficult and Michael swung at him again, landing on an eye and using the distraction to flip their positions. How could Fisk not see the problem, not see how wrong everything was? 'It isn't just about forgetting!' he said, fervently. 'It never should have happened at all, I never should have let it happen because I'm not – I can't be – '
Michael came to a halt, staring at Fisk struggling under him, but he had a good grip and the advantage of size on his side. This wasn't something he talked about, ever, but Michael wasn't in a normal state, hadn't been for weeks, and the man beneath him was looking confused and devastated. His next words were spoken as clearly as possible, even though he still felt fuzzy and disconnected, because Fisk needed to understand.
'I had a cousin named Martin once,' he began, words spilling forth uncontrollably. 'He was quite a bit older than me and was set to inherit his father's lands. He was the perfect son in every way, save for one: the prettiest maid in the land wouldn't have been able to turn his head because Martin only had eyes for Tristan, a boy from the nearest village.'
Fisk stopped moving then, though he stayed tense and guarded as he watched Michael talk. 'When it came out, his father had him disowned, flogged and banished him from the estate and the neighboring villages. Tristan was hung,' Fisk flinched, 'for 'manipulating an esteemed citizen with evil intent' or however the judicars phrased it to help them sleep at night. He was nineteen.'
'Martin came to my father looking for help, hoping he could convince him to talk with his brother about the banishment.' Michael could still remember the dirty mess of a man being hauled inside by the guards. Gods, he had seemed so young and terrified. 'Father kicked him out, but not before he said some vicious things about the value of 'sodomites' in the kingdom. Two months later I overheard he and Mother talking; Martin had killed himself.'
Fisk was frozen beneath him, fingers clenched tight on Michael's thighs. Vaguely, Michael realized he had loosened his hold on the squire and was now just brushing his thumbs lightly against the cloth covering Fisk's arms.
'My father,' he laughed humorlessly, 'was pleased. It has never been a secret in country society about the tolerance for deviant behavior. I was under the impression the same was generally true for cities as well.'
Fisk was silent a moment longer, before he said, 'Yes. It is,' in a voice low and hoarse.
'Then why would you do this?' hissed Michael, more tired than angry now.
'Not accepting it doesn't make it not exist,' said Fisk quietly. 'I can't help the way I am.'
Michael didn't answer and Fisk sighed.
'I'm sorry I dragged you into it. I – I've been very good about controlling myself up until now and you've obviously got enough to deal with without giving society another reason to shun you.' The squire looked away and added softly, 'It was a moment of weakness, nothing more.'
Michael wanted to ask what that meant, wanted to squeeze every last ounce of truth from the boy, open him up and determine just what drove him, but his stomach rolled from the earlier activities of the night and he had to scramble off of Fisk quickly before heaving up more alcohol. After he was spent once again, Michael collapsed on his side, holding his stomach and moaning. The night air ran over him, cooling his cheek and ear and making him shiver slightly as he lay on the ground, unwilling to move.
Several minutes passed, mayhap an eternity as far as Michael was paying attention, before Fisk hauled him to his feet and dragged him the rest of the way to their room in silence. He managed to remove Michael's boots and get the knight into bed without any further mishaps. Michael went quietly, tired and sick and disorientated as he was, right up until Fisk was lifting the covers to his chin. Fisk started when Michael wrapped a hand around his wrist.
'Why me?' he whispered and would have hated the desperate way it sounded had he been conscious enough to notice.
A moment passed in which Fisk just looked at him, wearing an infinitely sad expression. Dried blood stained his lips and chin and Michael thought, vaguely, I did that.Then Fisk brushed some hair back from the knight's forehead gently and there was no mistaking the longing in his voice as he said, 'It could only be you Michael.'
The statement was still ringing in his ears when Fisk murmured, 'Sleep,' and left the room.
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The morning dawned cold and grey. Michael woke up huddled under his covers, body aching, head pounding, and mouth tasting like the backside of a boar. The night returned to him slowly, a new piece surfacing each minute he spent staring up at the ceiling. He tried to remember a time he had woken up loathing himself as much as he did now and failed.
Dragging his unwilling body out of bed to clean was a chore in itself. Surprise swept through him when he noticed the pan of clean water sitting at the foot of his bed and Michael felt his stomach clench in guilt. Even after treating him awful for weeks and using him as an outlet for his anger last night, his squire was still looking after him.
Darting his eyes to the other bed in the room, Michael discovered it empty. In fact, the bed didn't seem to have been slept in at all.
It felt like Michael's head was clear for the first time since Fisk's birthday. He knew he had messed up and badly. The question was could he still fix it? Fisk had stuck by him these past weeks while he treated him as lower than dirt, but last night had been a boiling point. There was no knowing just what would happen now and Michael suddenly felt frantic with the need to get his hands on Fisk and not let him leave. Finished washing up and looking mildly presentable, Michael stepped outside and began walking.
.