Will/Horace

It wasn't that he couldn't do it that annoyed him—it was that he knew that he was strong enough to do it. Or at least, he should have been. He was stronger than Will, he had pinned Will plenty of times—while practice sparing, while teaching him certain hand-to-hand combat moves, while in bed—tons of times! So it didn't make much sense for Will to be able to draw a piece of wood with a string back completely, and Horace not even be able to manage a half-draw.

"Horace," Will snickered, "try the recurve first. I didn't start with a longbow, let alone that one. Recurve is easier."

"But why can't I draw it?" Horace whined, frustrated.

"Because that's a ninety-pound longbow," Gilan yelled from across the lawn. "That's ten pounds more than the average war-bow, because Will likes to show off. You wouldn't be able to draw that unless you trained for a decade, Horace."

"What did you start with?" Horace squinted at Will, suddenly suspicious that he had been planning this.

"Twenty," Will said, delicately reaching across Horace to grab his bow. "But twenty on a recurve is a lot different from twenty on a longbow. I was knocked back down to twenty when I switched from a fifty-pound recurve to a longbow."

Alone as they were, Gilan going back into the cabin with Halt and Crowley, Horace grabbed Will's belt as he started to back away. Will looked as if he were expecting this, as he put himself against Horace's body without hesitation, looking up with an amused smirk on his face. "Are you planning something," Horace murmured, his face millimeters from Will's. "Because I will get you back later if I have to."

"Really? That's what I was hoping for." Will smiled, and pulled away, just as Gilan walked back out of the house, Halt and Crowley trailing after him. All three held mugs of steaming coffee. "But that'll have to wait."

Horace snatched the bow out of Will's hand, ignoring his boyfriend's sudden protests. Pulling the string back once more, Horace struggled to pull it back past his elbow. His shoulder muscles strained, not used to supporting this type of weight. Scrunching up his face, he pictured Will, Gilan, Halt, Crowley, all of the Rangers, drawing back their bows as easily as if there was nothing holding them back. He had watched Will draw back this very bow, just playing around, checking the aim. And Horace couldn't even pull it back far enough.

"You're holding it wrong," Will said from behind him, "three fingers, forefinger above, middle and ring finger below the nock."

He was holding it between thumb and forefinger, the small bead, that Will called the nock, digging into his knuckles. He didn't have an arrow on the string—that would have been too dangerous.

Grudgingly, Horace tried to readjust his hold while keeping it drawn.

Will hissed. "No, no, release, then readjust. Don't damage my bow."

Confused, Horace released the empty string. Suddenly, they heard a crack, something whipped against Horace's forearm, leaving a stinging welt. Surprised, the knight dropped the bow, a hand going to cover the welt.

"Meaning while you still held it, smartass," Will snapped, gingerly taking the bow from the ground in front of Horace. The bow had a large crack going down the top arm, bending so the string could slip out of the niche at any moment. The string, from what Will could tell, has also snapped, which was what cracked against Horace's skin. There was absolutely no pressure on the arms of the bow. Will's eyes were wide with horror, and his mouth slowly dropped open.

"That thing isn't cracked, is it?" Halt yelled from where he sat, watching them. "I ain't making a new one because your dear boyfriend broke it."