Well, I was going to resist writing yet another slash-tastic story, but I found a slash-free fanfiction so I'll balance it out with slash. Yay!
Excuse the Princess Bride-ish beginning.
"Finally!" Fisk shouted, letting go of Tipple's reins and running down the grassy slope.
We'd decided to visit new places instead of struggling to find honest jobs. That had included a secluded area, called Elysian, of the country, a fertile land surrounded by huge mountains.
While up in the mountains, the last snow of the season had left us snowed up in a freezing cold cave, and we'd gotten cabin fever within minutes of being trapped in the relatively small space.
"Fisk, be careful for—"
He slipped and fell into a clumsy roll, with occasional somersaults.
"—Mud."
I ran down after him. He'd fallen into some tall grasses. I was praying I wouldn't find my squire sprawled out in some unnatural position. He was the only unredeemed one in this little knighthood, and he was the only reason I hadn't jumped off that mountain. I'd started glowing and giving off heat like a human lantern when we were stuck in the snow. My magic wasn't going away. It was getting worse.
"FISK!"
No answer.
Finally, I reached the bottom of the hill and crawled through the plants. Fisk was lying perfectly still.
"No," I whispered hoarsely. "No! Wake up, Fisk, wake up."
His eyes stayed closed, and I was shaking too much to see whether or not he was breathing. I hovered over him and pressed my fingers to his neck, trying to find his pulse.
"Please wake up."
"'Please' always helps." He said, grinning as he propped himself up on his elbows.
My hands lingered without my brain's permission. I leaned in and pressed my lips to his temple.
He shoved me off. "What the hell, Mike?"
"Sorry. I shouldn't have—" I stood up and started away, towards where Chant and Tipple were grazing at the bottom of the slope.
"Michael…"
"It won't happen again."
"Michael, you stubborn bastard, shut up and listen to me."
I turned, daring to half-hope he would say it was fine, wonderful…
"People go a little crazy when they get cooped up for long periods of time. Come talk to me when you're feeling normal, and then we'll work out what needs to be worked out." He said, putting his hands on my shoulders as if to steady me. "In the meantime we can pretend that never even happened. Let's go get a room at an inn so we can sleep in real beds for once. And you should have a drink."
"I don't drink."
"One little glass of whiskey won't kill you."
"If you say so…"
x-x-x-x
"Slow down. This is your eighth pint." I said, trying to tug the tankard from my squire.
"I haven't had anything but melted snow in weeks. I'll slow down when I die and not before."
"We've had enough irrationality today. You shouldn't make things worse by—"
Fisk leaned into my side. "You worry waaaay too much, Mike." He murmured with his lips against my collarbone.
"You're drunk, Fisk."
"And you should be. In all of our travels, we've never been totally drunk together. You've been drunk, I've been drunk, but not at once."
"Because someone has to make sure a bandit doesn't steal our money."
Fisk laughed. (He was definitely drunk.) "What money? I owe the innkeeper three days worth of work already!"
He shoved the tankard under my nose. And though I don't like whiskey, though I didn't want to be drunk, though I knew I'd have a hangover in the morning, I took the tankard.
I pressed my lips to the glass and couldn't help thinking that Fisk's lips had been on this glass too, that his warm hands had been wrapped around it, that it was the closest I'd ever get to what I wanted.
The drink burned on the way down, but it was nothing. I'd been heartbroken after Rosamund had ended up with Rudy. I'd slowly healed, but now I could see what—who—I truly wanted and it was killing me. But the whiskey made that part of me go numb, and I couldn't help being happy. Not with Fisk right there.
"Another whiskey!" Fisk yelled.