PeregrineTook here. I'm posting this to a new, smut-only account because my grandmother follows the other one. (I know, right?) Anyway, here's the thing: This story is silly, even by the standards of internet slash fiction. In fact, it is *so* silly that I've been hiding it away for months, afraid to publish. But I read back over it yesterday and decided to finally give it a shot. It's no "Dust to Dust," but it has its moments.
So. Let's see how this goes.
Bast has come to hate twilight.
It isn't the empty inn that troubles him, or the sound of Chronicler snoring a few doors down. It isn't the oncoming winter, the bite of the autumn wind as he stares out the open window of his bedroom towards the huddle of timber and stone that passes for a village in this forgotten corner of the world. It isn't the smothering vastness of the night sky here at the edge of the Eld. It isn't even the endless wait for sunrise, and the end to the innkeeper's tale.
No, what troubles Bast is the silence. That damnable, thrice-cursed silence.
That silence, that dogs his shadow by day and slips between his teeth at night.
That silence that thrives in the hollow place behind his ribs, the infinite distance between his master and himself.
When Bast pictures the end of the world, he pictures that silence.
Pat did this, he thinks, not for the first time. He gave the silence a name. Before it was only silence. Now it's a 'silence of three parts.' Now it's the 'cut flower sound of a man waiting to die.'
A man waiting to die. Is that what his master is? Is that what he has become?
Bast's shoulders slump. His head bows.
He has tried so very hard.
He closes his eyes, presses his forehead to the window frame, and allows himself a single, fleeting, human moment: a moment of regret and shame and discontent. Then he straightens, and faces the silence the only way he knows how.
He listens.
He listens to the clink of bottles as his master wipes them down and tucks them away behind the bar. He listens to the swshhh of the broom as he sweeps ash from the hearth, the thunk of rearranged chairs and latched shutters. Bast listens, and loses himself for a time in the tiny sounds that are an innkeeper's bread and breath and bone.
The more he listens, the more he hears: A snippet of song, sotto voce. A heavy pause, and a muttered curse. The steady beat of a slow-breaking heart.
No, wait, he's confused his own heartbeat for that of his master. But he can hear the other man's footsteps on the stairs, the groan of that one loose floorboard on the landing, the rustle of cloth as he leans against Bast's open door.
"You're still awake."
Bast hears the frown in the innkeeper's voice. He cocks an eyebrow. "So are you."
"Just closing up." The man called Kote plucks pointedly at his perfectly starched apron, as if to say, I'm an innkeeper now, remember? I do innkeeper things. I bake pies. I chop wood. I don't court the fae, I don't slay demons, and I certainly don't meddle with dark forces better left alone.
Bast nods agreeably. "I suppose the floor did have to be swept …"
"Mmm."
"… three times."
A pause. "Three is an auspicious number."
Bast snorts. He shakes both index fingers at his master, mimicking superstitious old Goody McKeel, who lives way out in the Eld and only comes to town on Mourning. "An' did ye sweep deasil, wi' bent laid o'er the broom?"
He hopes to wring a smile from the red-haired man, but Kvothe only looks thoughtful. "Bent is for rheumatism, right? White fiber on the casings? I think they call that 'rush' here."
Bast purses his lips. "That's not really my point."
The innkeeper sighs, then nods. "I hear you, Bast. But it's best to stay busy."
He pads over to the fireplace, and Bast follows. "Is it the story that's troubling you?"
Kvothe's lips quirk. "The one we're in, or the one I'm telling?"
Bast shrugs. "Either. Both."
"Mmm." Kvothe lifts Bast's bone knife from the mantel and twirls it in his fingers, expression distant. "No, not tonight."
Bast props an elbow up on the mantel and rests his chin in his palm. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Kvothe shudders. "Merciful Tehlu, no." He glances around Bast's room and gives a faint laugh. "Truth be told, I'm not even sure why I dropped by. I should probably just get out of your hair."
"I like you in my hair," Bast protests, but Kvothe is already halfway to the door. He's too lost in thought to notice that he's still holding Bast's knife.
"Reshi-" Bast says, reaching for the blade.
Kvothe pauses in the doorway, then sighs. "Ah, Bast, I suppose you're right. I shouldn't keep secrets from you."
Bast blinks. "Exactly my point," he lies, after a beat.
"Besides," Kvothe adds, nodding to himself now, "I suppose this is your area of expertise."
"Oh. Good." Bast scratches his jaw. "Um. What is my area of expertise?"
Kvothe rocks on his heels like he's about to take flight. Then he grunts, "Desire."
A disbelieving grin spreads across Bast's face. "Desire?"
"Yes. Well." Kvothe gives an embarrassed cough. "It's just that lately I find myself thinking a great deal about the nature of it. Its … mutability."
"The mutability of desire," Bast repeats, expression blank.
Kvothe's blush deepens. "I mean to say … Do you think that we're born to our desires? Our … um … preferences? Or do they evolve, in response to circumstance?"
Bast crosses his arms. "You're being vague on purpose."
Kvothe scrubs his face with his hands. "Fine. Yes, I am. What I mean to say is-and Tehlu anyway, you're not making this easy—" He takes a deep breath. "Do you think it's possible for someone to become …"
"What?"
"Well … gay."
Bast freezes for a moment, stunned. Then he throws his head back and laughs.
"It isn't funny!"
Bast can't help it. He only laughs harder.
Kvothe folds his arms over his chest. "Really, Bast, that's quite enough."
Bast chokes down the laughter. He covers his mouth to hide the smile that he can't quite wipe away. "I'm sorry, Reshi. It's just ... Anpauen, I thought it was something important."
"It's important to me," Kvothe points out.
"Well yes, but ..." Bast's smile slips a bit. "Really, I'm surprised at you. There's no shame in desiring men."
Kvothe looks puzzled for a moment, then laughs himself. "Don't be ridiculous. It isn't the morality of it that troubles me. It's ... it's ..." He plants his hands on his hips and glares at the floorboards. "Damn! How to explain?" He scrubs his fingers through his hair until it sticks up like a pile of lit kindling, then starts to pace.
Bast watches with growing alarm. "Reshi-"
"It's like this." Kvothe spins on his heel and jabs a finger at Bast's chest. "I knowmy own mind. I always have. My whole life, it was the one thing I could always count on. The thing nobody could take away from me. And part of that-part of knowing myself-was knowing what I wanted. Do you see?"
"I suppose …" Bast says. He schools his features, tries for understanding rather than perplexed. Kvothe's too fixated on the floorboards to notice.
"Right. So you see, I've always known my mind. But ever since Chronicler arrived ..." He shakes his head. "I'm not certain that I know my mind after all. It feels … well, it rather feels like I'm losing it completely." He stops pacing and stares up at Bast, green eyes wide with bewilderment. "If you only knew, Bast. The feelings I've been having lately … the desires ..." Then, unexpectedly, he laughs. "Bah. Listen to me. The world has caught fire, and here I am worrying about-"
"No," Bast says. "Go on."
Kvothe waves a dismissive hand. "It's nothing. Forget I spoke of it."
"Reshi-"
"Honestly, it's nothing but exhaustion and-"
Bast rolls his eyes. Then he seizes Kvothe by the jaw and kisses him on the mouth.
Kvothe doesn't just fall silent then, he absolutely freezes. His jaw slackens with shock, and it softens and parts his lips so that Bast cannot help but delve deeper, grip tighter ...
The bedpost cracks in half when Kvothe throws him into it.
Pain lances across Bast's chest: sudden, searing, scarlet. He doubles over, clutching at his breastbone.
He stares blankly as blood pools beneath his fingers. There's a gash across his chest now, a bright fissure of broken skin. But wait … his back struck the post, so why is his chest bleeding? He's confused until he looks up and sees the blood on the bone-handled knife cradled in Kvothe's palm. He stares up at his master, eyes wide and horrified.
Kvothe glares back, expression cold and distant. He steps forward, arm raised.
"Reshi, stop!"
Something in Bast's voice catches Kvothe off-guard, puts a crack in that frozen mask. Confusion crawls out from behind the mask first, followed by horror. Last of all comes shame.
Kvothe drops the blade and stumbles back. "Oh, Tehlu." He twists his apron in his hands, and blood smears the crisp white fabric. "I'm so sorry, Bast. I … forgot myself, just now. Can you forgive me?"
Well. Bast isn't ready for that just yet. He ducks his head, prods at the gash in his chest and avoids Kvothe's eye. Eventually, though, he admits to himself that it's barely a scratch.
It was a shock, that's all. Just a shock.
Still, Kvothe did just ruin his shirt, and his bed. The bed is no great loss, of course; they've got a surplus here at the Waystone. And come to think of it, the shirt was Kvothe's before Bast stole it from the laundry. But … well, it's the principle of the thing, isn't it?
What was Kvothe thinking, losing his temper like that? After all, he'd practically asked Bast to … it wasn't as though Bast had …
Oh.
Bast goes perfectly still. He thinks back on Kvothe's story with a rising sense of dread.
… I'd been chased before at night, several times. I'd been caught too. Two of them held me down. The third cut my clothes off my body. He cut me. They told me what they were going to do …
But … no. No, he'd fought his attackers off. And surely, if there were others, he would have fought them off as well. After all, he never said that he'd been
(but then he wouldn't have, would he? some stories don't belong to the world.)
Oh. Oh, Reshi.
Bast hangs his head in his hands. "I'm the one who's sorry, Reshi. I didn't mean to remind you … that is, I should have known better than…" He fumbles, tongue dry. "Well, never mind that. I was in the wrong. And I'm sorry. Truly."
Kvothe stares down at his shoes, expression so determinedly blank it might better be described as hollow. Then he puffs a breath of air through his lips and says, with a hint of his usual irritation, "I forgive you, Bast. But … merciful Tehlu, what were you thinking?"
"Well," Bast says slowly, "I was thinking that you want to tup me."
Kvothe flushes scarlet. "I never said-"
"You said you've been having carnal thoughts. About men."
"Bah. It was an idle thought. Purely theoretical."
"It was not."
"Fine. Perhaps not. But what makes you think it was about you?"
Bast gives him a look of scalding disbelief.
Kvothe scowls. "What? Just because you're … you're …"
"… the only person in this farm-infested village who really knows you? The most beautiful creature in a hundred miles?"
Kvothe sniffs. "Pride is unbecoming, Bast."
"Says the man whose pride led the world to war!"
There's a brittle, angry pause. "Then I know something about it, don't I?" Kvothe stuffs his hands into his apron pockets and stalks towards the door. "Sod this. I'm going to bed."
Bast scrambles after him. "Wait, you can't!"
"Why not?"
"Because you taste like juniper!"
Kvothe freezes, one foot out the door. "I beg your pardon?"
Bast darts around the innkeeper and plants himself in the doorway. "I like kissing you, Reshi. You taste like juniper. You smell like hearth smoke and iron, but you taste like juniper."
"You mean the gin? The new barrel -"
Bast looks offended. "It's not the gin, Reshi. It's you."
"That's preposterous. Why on earth would I ta-"
This time Bast asks before he kisses him. Not with his tongue and teeth, of course. That would be crass. No, he asks with his body, with his eyes and his hands. He asks with one palm on the other man's chest, the other at the small of his back. He asks with a small step forward. A gentle tug. A duck of his head.
Odd, that. Bast sometimes forgets he's the taller of the two. Well. Something to ponder later, perhaps. For now there's soft breath and shuttered eyelids and the sudden press of lips, all quiet and needful as a question with no words.
And the answer? A parting of lips. A probing of tongues, a flexing of jaws. Curiosity, and a building heat. Not much, if you think about it. A bit silly even. And yet … so overwhelming. It's everything Bast has ever wanted, this kiss, all pressed into a single dizzying moment.
A moment that tastes unmistakably like juniper.
He leans away and Kvothe follows. It makes Bast laugh. He might have known his master would take to this like a drunk falling off a water cart. Bast wants to melt into that sudden fire, but he has a point to prove first. He tugs gently on the curls at the nape of Kvothe's neck until he relents.
"It is you," he says, when he's caught his breath. "The juniper. I swear it by my hooves, Reshi. I swear it on the moon."
Kvothe stares at his apprentice for a long, silent moment. Then he scrubs his face with his hands and gives a wry laugh. "God, I sometimes forget how inhuman you are." He glances down at the illusion that hides Bast's cloven hooves, then shakes his head. "Here I am, arguing with a man who is half horse over whether my desire for his sex is unnatural."
"Half horse? That's an awful thing to say."
"Why? Horses are beautiful."
"Yes, but you wouldn't want to tup one."
"Well, no," Kvothe mutters. "No, there's that."
"As for this matter of your desire …" Bast adds, frowning, "I think you're right. I don't think it comes naturally to you. Reshi, I think …" he chews his lip, as if aware he is about to say something ridiculous, then blurts, "I think it's the fangirls."
"The fangirls?" Kvothe rolls the word around his mouth like he's never tasted it before. "What are you talking about?"
"Well …" Bast rubs his chin, expression intent. "You're always going on about the importance of stories. How they shape us. How they shape the world. I mean … it's why the Chandrian kill, isn't it? Why they go after anyone who writes their stories, or sings their songs. Anyway, it has me thinking … Pat and Chronicler aren't the only ones writing your story, are they? There are others, many others."
Kvothe's eyebrows rise. "You mean fanfiction authors? Please. I've worked Waterside docks with twice the integrity, and half the filth."
Bast snorts a laugh. "Yes, well … that's sort of my point. They like to write about—" he waves a vague hand "—this sort of thing."
Kvothe scowls. "And why should that matter a tinker's dam?"
Bast catches his master's hand and kisses it. "Come now, Reshi. You of all people know the power of a compelling tale, even one that's poorly told. Sometimes the words shape the man, and not the other way around."
Kvothe's expression becomes thoughtful, then troubled. Then the mask falls back into place, and he laughs. "This is ridiculous," he says, tone dismissive. "Though I will admit," he adds-and suddenly his eyes are twinkling-"this conversation is out of character. It's not like you to be so scholarly…"
Bast breaks into a sudden grin. "I can fix that."
He lunges forward. He wraps his arms around the innkeeper's chest, digs his hooves into the floor and locks his elbows. Then he puts his lips to the shell of Kvothe's ear and whispers, "Escape."
Once again, Kvothe freezes at the contact. This time, though, he relaxes quickly. This isn't a tryst, after all, it's a sparring match. An old game for them both, old and familiar.
Kvothe's first attempts to break Bast's grip are almost embarrassing. He rocks his hips back and forth and … well, that's about it, really. There's little power behind the thrusts; clearly Kvothe is only testing him. Or at least, that's what Bast thinks until Kvothe does it again. And again, and again.
Bast's grip slackens in confusion. Why isn't Kvothe using his shoulders, his elbows, his core? And why move just so, in lazy circles rather than a single sharp thrust? There's power to each roll of Kvothe's hips, true, but it's directed along the curve of Bast's thigh rather than into it. It's not painful. It's not effective. It's just … distracting.
More than distracting, really. It's … pleasant. Yes, in fact it's
Oh.
Bast gasps. He slides one hand across the flat of Kvothe's stomach, tangles the other in his hair …
… and Kvothe steps free. Bast grunts in surprise, fingers clenching at the empty air.
"Round one goes to me," Kvothe says. He busies himself with his apron ties, expression bland as he eyes his apprentice. "You've gone soft," he adds. His tone is neither licentious nor suggestive, but his eyes … his eyes are the green of summer's height.
"Soft?" Bast scoffs. He points down at the tent in his pants. "Hardly." (Not subtle, that, but then subtlety's never really been Bast's style.) He jabs an accusatory finger at the other man. "Anyway, that doesn't count. You cheated."
The redhead smirks. He tosses his apron over the arm of a chair and pumps three fingers into the air. Bast responds with a wicked grin. He's not sure what that gesture means, but he's pretty sure they don't teach it at the University.
Kvothe falls into a crouch. "Again," he says, and that is all the warning Bast gets before he lunges.
Bast dodges and Kvothe's fist swings past his jaw, missing him by inches. Bast pivots immediately and dives forward, slashing with the blade of his hand. Kvothe ducks, laughing now, fingers curling into a fist as he dashes forward.
Lunge and dodge, lunge and dodge.
Kvothe has words for these things, but for Bast that's all this is: Lunge and dodge.
So simple. So elegant. So electric.
Lunge, dodge.
The room is too small for this, but Bast doesn't mind. It feels so good just to move, to act on instinct and not design.
Lunge, dodge.
It's a dance of sorts, with an edge of danger. Their heels keep the tempo, a steady drumbeat of horn and wood. There's no melody here but there's music all the same: it's in the turn of their bodies as they leap forward, the slap of flesh as they come together, the gasp of breath as they tumble apart.
Lunge, dodge.
Bast grins, sharply. Then he begins to hum.
Kvothe missteps. "Now you're cheating."
"That's because I have poor role models, Reshi."
Kvothe bares his teeth. He darts forwards, and Bast dances back. He snatches at Bast's shirt and misses by a hair's breadth. He attacks again and again, and each attack ends in a draw or a miss.
Eventually, Kvothe falls back. His face is too flushed now, his eyes too bright. "Cheat," he says again, and then, because he cannot help himself, he laughs.
He throws himself at Bast once more, just for the sake of form, but it doesn't end how he intends. All of a sudden he's in Bast's arms, clinging to him like gravity's shifted and he's the new down.
"That song..." he pants, expression dazed. "Faen magic?"
In answer, Bast stops humming and begins to sing.
Kvothe's knees buckle. "Oh god. That's a yes."
Bast chuckles. "Yes."
"May I ..."
"Yes."
Kvothe reaches up then because he must-because he wants, because he needs, because he's so taut with desire he thinks he'll break-and buries his fingers in Bast's hair. He tugs Bast's head down, scrapes his open mouth across his jaw.
Then, inexplicably, he stops.
"What is it?" Bast asks, breathless.
A crease appears in Kvothe's brow. "This is wrong."
"Why?"
Kvothe looks uncertain. "I … don't want this?"
"No?" Bast hums into Kvothe's ear again, and his spine arches.
"Mmm … no." Then, more firmly, "No."
Bast laughs, less kindly than he intends. "An obvious lie."
There's an uncertain pause. Then Kvothe nips Bast in the shoulder, hard.
"Ow!"
"Didn't used to want this," Kvothe corrects, voice sharpening.
Bast's eyes narrow. He bites Kvothe back, gently, on the shell of his ear. "People change."
The innkeeper pushes Bast away. He's frowning now, a full-lipped scowl. "This wasn't my choice."
Bast hisses in annoyance. "It isn't a retelling, Reshi. Just a push."
"Coercion."
"Encouragement."
"You sound like Felurian."
Bast's anger is sudden and deep. He shoves Kvothe against the mantel. A bough of holly falls off its hooks and tumbles into the empty fireplace.
The world is white at the edges now, a warning that his eyes have changed color. (The better to see you with, my dear, he thinks, and then wonders where the hell that came from.)
"I am nothing like Felurian," he spits.
They stare at each other in silence for a long moment. Then Kvothe holds out his palm. "My choice," he says again, and this time his voice is clear and cold as iron.
There's a pause, then Bast nods. He spreads his hands and steps back. "Your choice."
Bast expects Kvothe to yell at him then, or attack him, or ... anything, really. Instead he just turns towards the door. He rolls the shoulder that struck Bast's mantel, expression dark as he stumbles away. "Fool," he hisses to himself. "What did you expect, taking in one of the folk?"
Bast flinches. "You're dying," he says. "What else can I do for you, but this?"
Bast recognizes the silence that follows. It's like falling ice, sharp and brittle and a breath from breaking.
"I've told you before, Bast. There's nothing you can do."
"I don't accept that."
Kvothe shrugs, too casually. "Then leave."
Bast stomps his foot. "You can't make me, Reshi! Storm and stone, if you even try-"
Kvothe gives a strangled laugh. "God's mother, Bast, I can't make you do anything! You dodge your lessons, you shirk your apprenticeship, you defy me at every turn. Tehlu take me if you aren't the most insubordinate, intransigent reprobate I've ever had the misfortune to teach."
Bast is still translating this into Faen in his head when Kvothe slumps against the wall and adds, voice hot with frustration, "And blow me half to hell if I don't need you just the same."
Bast's breath catches. Kvothe needs him? Actually needs him?
He steps forward, but Kvothe shies away. Once again, he's forced to freeze.
God, it's getting hard. Hard to hold back, to bite down on that supernova instinct exploding in his gut. Hard to keep the predator at bay, to ignore that shouting whisper that says
take him and claim him and love him and
Love? Who said anything about love?
Bast clasps his hands together to keep them from doing something stupid. "Just tell me what you want, Reshi. Just tell me, and I'll do it."
Kvothe's gaze drops to the floorboards. He gives a helpless little shrug. Then he looks up at Bast …
… and reaches out. "Just … come here, would you? Please."
Something skips sideways in Bast's chest and he is sprinting forward, ramming his head into Kvothe's shoulder.
Kvothe huffs a laugh. "Easy!"
Not bloody likely. Bast wraps his arms around the other man's waist, buries his nose in his hair and inhales the forest-deep pitch-smoke scent of him.
(Strange, how Kvothe smells like home.)
They stand like this for a long time. Eventually, Kvothe sighs. "Fine."
"Fighn?" Bast mumbles, lips pressed to the curve of Kvothe's neck.
"Yes. Fine. I'm not saying this is right. I'm saying we will discuss it … later."
Bast blinks. "And what," he says slowly, straightening up, "are we going to do right now?"
Kvothe stares at his apprentice, expression unreadable in the dimming light. "Right now, you are going to sing to me."
"Truly?" Bast hopes his smile looks more eager than hungry.
Kvothe grins back (a bit nervously, Bast thinks) then jabs him in the chest. "Truly. But make it a proper song, mind. Not some sonnet to seduce shepherdesses at sunset. I want a lay to make Felurian's sound like a jackdaw's cry. I want an aria to … to bring the angels to their knees. A song for … for kings. If I can string a … ah … sentence together at the end of it then you're … not … not doing your … fuck…"
Bast catches Kvothe when his legs give out. He tries not to let the strain of it show in his voice. Kvothe wants Bast's best, after all, and for once he's damn well going to get it.
He pins the younger man to the wall, shoves a knee between his legs and works a hand into his campfire hair. His other hand slides under Kvothe's shirt, traces his whipping scars from shoulder to ass. Slowly, they sink to the floor.
And all the while, Bast sings.
Kvothe just stares at first, enthralled. Then, hesitantly, he reaches out. His fingers fumble across Bast's cheeks, press against the wet slit of his lips.
"Gorgeous-" he gasps and swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing.
There, Bast thinks, and lunges for his throat. Kvothe groans and bucks as Bast's jaws close on his flesh. Bast moves with him then; he doesn't want to break the skin. He just wants to feel Kvothe's moans in the roots of his teeth, suck at that translucent flesh until it's raw and tender and pricked with blood. Wants to mark him: once, twice, thrice.
Thrice-marked.
Mine.
Bast draws back from Kvothe's throat, preening with pleasure. Anapauen, how long has it been since he felt this happy, this whole, this true?
Except, well … the floor's a bit uncomfortable, in spite of the rugs he's strewn about: it's cold this time of year, and hard on the knees. Dirtier than the rest of the inn too, since Kvothe expects Bast to keep it clean. Now if only they were curled up together in that beautiful, three-and-a-half-poster bed …
It takes a few tries, but Bast finally manages to hoist Kvothe into his arms and stagger towards the bed. It's not as easy as it sounds, though, actually getting there. Kvothe is heavier than he looks, for one thing. (All muscle, and isn't that a lovely thought … Still, though, heavier than he looks.) For another, Bast is dizzy. He's giddy now, feverish, drunk on the taste of gin and the smell of pitch, the writhing weight in his arms and the mounting pressure between his legs.
Kvothe isn't helping, of course. He's all hands and hips now, all teeth and tongue. Halfway to the bed, he plunges his fingers into the gap between their bellies and palms the head of Bast's cock.
Four things happen then, in rapid succession.
Bast says "Ack!" and topples over.
Kvothe lands atop him, a pile of pointy limbs.
Bast takes an elbow to the gut, and
his song ends in a flourish: a strangled squawk and a whoosh of air.
Well, damn.
Kvothe bolts upright. He stares around, eyes wild. Then he stares down at his apprentice.
"Ow," he says.
"Sorry."
"My head."
"Sorry!"
"My elbow."
"Sorry, I said!"
"My mouth."
Bast shoots to his knees. "Anpauen, Reshi, I said I was—wait, your what?"
The redhead presses his tongue to his swollen lips, eyes dancing. "I'm quite certain you've bruised it."
Bast settles back on his haunches and shoots his master a sour look. "You've got a lovely mouth, you know. Good for all sorts of things. It's a waste to use it to complain."
Kvothe's expression is a masterpiece of theater: one part wounded innocence, two parts confusion. "Then why ever did you stop singing?"
Bast's eyes narrow. "I'll start again if you like."
Kvothe inhales sharply. He looks Bast up and down, eyes bright and hungry. Then he shakes his head.
"No." He flops back against the rug and closes his eyes. "No, this is better."
Bast expects this final rejection (inevitable, really) to be a disappointment. He just doesn't expect it to be so sharp, so crushing. He doesn't expect it to knock the wind from his lungs all over again.
Perhaps if I … No. No, he doesn't dare push his master further. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
Bast's expression darkens. He picks at the rug, glares at the wall panels, knocks his hooves together.
He should stand up now. Walk away. Get a drink of water, or something stronger. He should slip off down the street and climb through Emberlee's window, carry her off to that meadow by the bridge where the wild sage blooms. Fill this ache, sate this hunger. Come back tomorrow when the silence has broken. Pack this all away, bury it deep, pretend it never happened …
How mortal, he thinks, lip curling in distaste, to care so much.
Then Kvothe reaches out, and runs his palm down the inside of Bast's thigh. "I didn't say I wanted you to stop," he says, expression puzzled. "Just that I wanted you to stop singing."
"Oh!" Bast ducks his head. He's blushing now, and he can't quite believe it. A prince of the Telwyth Mael, blushing at the thought of sex?
Well. Something else to ponder later, perhaps. He looks up and finds himself grinning. "Bed?"
Kvothe kicks off his shoes. "Honestly? I'd prefer the floor."
Bast snorts. "Fine." He leans in for a kiss, but Kvothe presses a finger to his lips. "No more songs," he murmurs. "So what's our excuse for the rest of the night?"
"Perhaps we're in love," Bast responds. It's a strange thought, and a strangely pleasing one.
The innkeeper snorts with disbelief. "We are?"
Bast smiles a too-sharp smile. "Oh yes. Only we're men, so we're bad at expressing our feelings."
"Is that so?"
"Mmm." Bast's hand wanders downward. He cups Kvothe, just so. Then he rocks forward, and begins to stroke.
Kvothe's breath hitches. "I must say ... I think you are … expressing yourself ... quite well."
Bast looks up. "I can do better," he says seriously, and reaches for the laces on Kvothe's trousers.
They don't speak much after that. They fill the silence just the same. They fill it with the rustle of fabric and the press of flesh against wood. They fill it with soft laughs and sudden gasps and quickening breaths. They fill it with hunger, with heat, with frenzy. They fill it with a rhythm that builds and builds and builds until it
breaks.
There's a sweetness to the silence that follows. Bast leans into it and grabs ahold, pulls it down and wraps it round himself. Then he shimmies forward and drapes himself over Kvothe. He snakes his arms around the other man's chest, cradles his bare ass with his hips. He tucks his head against Kvothe's neck and thinks that this is as perfect a moment as any two people have shared since the beginning of time.
Kvothe makes an exasperated noise and throws Bast off with a twitch of his hips.
Ah. Well. Not a cuddler then. That's hardly a surprise.
What is a surprise is when Kvothe flips over to face him and laces their fingers together, closes his eyes and reaches out with his free hand to trace the lines of Bast's face.
The fae have a name for this: the blind man sees beauty. Bast does not give a damn what it is called, only what it means: I want you. And, because Kvothe has closed his eyes (and Bast keeps hatchets in easy reach), I trust you. Coming from Kvothe, of course, the latter means a great deal more.
After a time, Kvothe cracks his eyes open. He gives Bast a sleepy smile. "Hey."
Bast smiles back. "Hey."
Then (because this is Kvothe, and he forgot how to be happy a long time ago), he frowns. "Bast?"
"Mm?"
"Do you think we will still feel this way tomorrow?"
Bast shrugs a shoulder. "Who cares? Day 3 could be years away."
Kvothe huffs a laugh. "Good," he says. Then he rolls over, and falls asleep.
Bast watches over him while he sleeps, as he has done many times before. As he will do again, many times before Kvothe
(dies)
remembers himself.
Bast pushes away a flicker of doubt. Kvothe will remember
(die)
because he must, because he is
(mortal)
important, because he is good and just and necessary in a way that Bast will never be.
(Bast will never be.)
Bast sighs. It's too heavy a sigh for so youthful a face, but recall: everything about his appearance is designed to deceive.
He turns his back on the encroaching darkness, curls up against Kvothe and closes his eyes. Eventually he too sleeps, lulled into slumber by the rise and fall of Kvothe's chest, the twitch of his muscles, the warmth of his skin and the smell of his hair and the too-steady beat of his slow-breaking heart.