AN: Okay, this one's a little short, but it's the YAOI chapter, so just a warning to all those who read:
WARNING: If you are offended by sexual situations between two men, please do not read this chapter!!
Other than that, I certainly hope you enjoy! And please cross your fingers for my computer. It's been acting up lately, and I just need it to last through finals!! Really! PLEASE!!
Chapter Eight:
Cain was in awe. Ambrose's story was . . . absolutely fantastical. But at the same time, the tin man couldn't help but believe every word.
"So . . . how old are you?" He questioned warily, not sure if he really wanted to know the answer.
Ambrose smiled sadly. "Very old," he sighed, his eyes reflecting the light of the campfire. "And very tired." It had taken him nearly all day to tell the story, and now that they had settled for the evening, Cain could see the exhaustion on the other man's face . . . though he was sure that the 'tired' Ambrose meant had nothing to do with the events of the day.
"And I thought I was feeling my age," the tin man laughed, trying to lighten the mood. His smile slowly waned as the inventor looked down at his hands. "It must have been lonely in that house for all those years."
Ambrose shook his head. "I tried not to think about it. I lost myself in my work." He smiled. "There was a window in the house on the second floor, where I could watch people walk in and out of town. I loved seeing what they would buy, what they would wear. I could see . . . everything." His eyes glazed a bit. "A scolding, a theft, a . . . stolen kiss." His hands were wringing nervously. "I've never . . ." He faltered, swallowing and laughing anxiously.
"You've never kissed a woman?" Cain asked with amusement.
"I've never kissed anyone," Ambrose admitted, eyebrows furrowed as he frowned at the fire. "Over the years, the queens I served would try to find me a suitable match. No one quite . . . fit." He looked up and offered Cain a strained smile. "Well, I think it's time to retire for the night."
He lay down quickly, his back to the tin man and his shoulders hunched tensely. The dying fire flickered and popped, casting dancing shadows around the small site as Cain slowly stood on aching knees and circled the small expanse.
Ambrose was shaking, his eyes shut tightly and his arms wrapped mercilessly around his middle, imprisoning the sobs that so desperately tried to escape. He'd never felt like this in all his life. His insides throbbed, and his heart thumped firmly against his ribcage. Why was it that that he'd been surrounded by the most noblest of people for centuries – people who had riches and fine skills and similar interests – and it took a mere tin man to bring his heart this close to breaking?
"Ambrose?" Cain's gentle voice wafted over him, making his breath hitch and his entire body tense. A hand on his shoulder turned him onto his back, but he refused to open his eyes. If he kept them closed . . . he could pretend this was really happening. "Open your eyes, head case."
Ambrose shook his head.
Cain frowned. "Ambrose." The inventor swallowed hard and slowly opened his eyes, tears falling loose as he stared up into the other man's piercing blues. "Why don't you ever look at me?" Ambrose's eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he opened his mouth to reply, Cain continuing before he could say a word. "You don't. You see me; you stare through that mask of yours that you think no one can tell you're wearing. But you don't look. You haven't ever . . . at least not since you were Glitch."
The adviser stared at the other man for a long moment, his chest tight and his breaths coming in shallow gusts. "I'm afraid," he whispered.
"Of me?"
Ambrose shook his head. "Of what you might see." He closed his eyes again and drew in as deep a breath as he could. "I've seen many things, Wyatt. Too many. You couldn't even begin to . . ."
"Understand?" Cain suggested, a hint of indignation in his voice.
"Believe," the inventor corrected, carefully sitting up and opening his eyes enough to stare at the ground. "I want so badly to just . . . stop. I want to sleep and not have to worry about waking up. Ever."
"You don't mean that," Cain said with a shake of his head. "You can't."
"I can," Ambrose replied defensively. "I do."
"You can't give up. Not after so long."
"Why not?"
"Because there's someone out there, Ambrose. There's someone for everyone. It might take time, but it's worth the wait."
"And what it that someone doesn't love me back?" Ambrose challenged, raising his chin slightly. "What if I find them, and they don't . . . they can't . . ."
"Then you have to make them see," Cain explained simply. "You have to make them look."
Ambrose hesitated before leaning forward slightly and whispering, "Then look."
The inventor's eyes gleamed as the firelight reflected back into the tin man's blues, and for the first time, Cain could see why Ambrose was so afraid to let others see him for who he really was. A deep, raw emotion lay hidden in those dark, ancient eyes – stories bursting to be told, tears that refused to be shed, silent screams that echoed endlessly. They frightened Cain somewhat, but they drew him in at the same time.
The tin man swallowed loudly. "You don't love me."
"If I didn't, we wouldn't be having this conversation," Ambrose pointed out, almost regretting so immediately.
"I'm not the right person for you. I can't be."
"There's only one way to find out."
Cain's voice stuck to the back of his throat as he desperately tried to remember how to breath. Ambrose wasn't seriously suggesting . . . The inventor knew better than to put him in that kind of position . . . didn't he? Adora hadn't even been dead for . . .
But somehow Adora's death didn't seem to have anything to do with the current situation. Yes, it still hurt to think about her, but with Ambrose . . . it was like the pain was eased. Cain didn't want that. He wanted Adora's death to hurt, to remind his heart that he had been in love and had lost one of the most important people in his life.
Not to say that Ambrose wasn't important as well. But . . .
But what? Cain thought. For some reason, there was no excuse.
"I s'pose so," he said quietly, his gaze settling on Ambrose's lips.
The inventor sucked in a breath. "Cain, I didn't mean . . . You don't have to-"
Cain closed the distance between them.
The kiss was clumsy, almost sloppy, but the tin man reached around the back of Ambrose's head to quickly center the kiss and take control, lowering the inventor onto his back and sliding between his legs to grind their hips together.
Ambrose broke the kiss with a surprised gasp, his chest heaving and his eyes wide.
"I take it you've never had sex either," Cain commented with amusement, breathing heavily. The inventor could see the darkening lust in the other man's eyes and wondered if his own reflected such an emotion, such a primal need. He shook his head with an anxious, breathy laugh.
"Never saw the need for it."
"Until now, I hope," the tin man growled.
"Oh, most definitely now," Ambrose whispered, his eyelids fluttering shut as Cain ground their hips together again. "Now, now, now."
And that's all the encouragement Cain needed.
He stood, pulling Ambrose with him, and shoved the inventor against the nearest tree, pressing up against him harshly. Their mouths collided again, teeth clicking and tongues clashing. Ambrose grunted as Cain shoved him harder against the tree, thrusting against him desperately. Shaking fingers fumbled with the buttons of the tin man's vest, the blond having to rip it off himself when Ambrose's efforts proved unsuccessful.
He tossed it aside, unbuttoning his shirt and doing the same before starting on his pants. Ambrose swallowed hard, beginning to unbutton his own clothing. His hands trembled, and his breaths came in shuddering gusts.
"Hey," Cain said, placing a hand over the other man's to cease his action. Ambrose looked up with wide, nervous eyes. "Are you sure about this? We don't have to-"
"Wyatt," Ambrose interrupted breathlessly, finally figuring out the buttons on his vest and shirt and nearly ripping the garments off, "stop talking."
In an instant, both of their pants were pooled around their ankles, Ambrose's kicked to the side as he was pulled up and his legs wrapped firmly around Cain's middle. He braced his back against the tree, hissing as the bark scratched mercilessly against his scars, and wrapped his arms around Cain's broad shoulders.
The tin man spit into his right hand, the fingers of his left clutching Ambrose's thigh to keep him steady. He looked up into the other's dark eyes apprehensively.
"This is gonna hurt," he said with a wince, slicking his hardening member and positioning himself. Ambrose merely nodded, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.
The first thrust was agony. The inventor fell forward onto Cain's shoulder, biting into it as he suppressed a moan. He had been prepared for pain, had even wanted it for a moment. But this . . . This was the reason he had stayed away from sex to begin with.
Cain continued slowly, closing his eyes and concentrating on his will power to do so. It was hard. He was aching with the need to hasten his speed, to pound into the other man without restraint. But he couldn't do that to Ambrose, not now, on this of all nights.
"Y-You can . . ." The inventor swallowed loudly, panting a few times before continuing. "You can go a little faster, Cain."
Cain didn't question the words, only complied. Granted, it still wasn't as fast as he wanted to go, but it was definitely more satisfying than before.
Ambrose was easing into the rhythm, his muscles finally relaxing as the pain began to dissipate little by little. It was still there, of course – a slick burning that seemed only to worsen as Cain went deeper and deeper – but it was less prominent if he concentrated on the meaning of their actions rather than the actions themselves.
Because what did this mean? Was it just two men caught in the moment? Desperation? Want? Need? Lust? Or was it something more? Something that would last once they returned to the palace? . . . If they returned to the palace. What if something happened to them? What if something went terribly wrong? What if . . . What if they just decided not to go back?
Would Cain mind spending the rest of his days with Ambrose? They could be happy, the two of them. Ambrose could make sure of that.
No, the inventor thought sadly, holding tighter to the tin man. Cain has a family, a son. And I belong to the palace, to the queen and every queen that comes after her. I will never-
Ambrose gasped, arching as a shock wave of pleasure erupted up his spine. "Cain," he breathed heavily, tightening his hold on the other man and capturing his lips with his own.
Pain no longer existed. The bark of the tree clawing at his back, Cain stretching him farther than should be possible, the contortions his body was suffering; they all melted away as the tin man steadily slid in and out of him, pressing harder and deeper with every electric stroke. They just didn't matter anymore – not with the look Cain was giving him, the fire that burned in the center of those ice-like blues.
Cain couldn't believe this was happening. He almost didn't want to. What would Adora think?
Gods, don't think of her now! He scolded himself, burying his face in the crook of Ambrose's neck as his pace began to quicken. But the inventor would not be denied this moment, a moment he had anticipated but never dreamed possible since he had met the man and knew was most likely a one-time event. He knew Cain was hurting, was thinking he was betraying his beloved Adora. And while Ambrose would never do anything to sully her name, it was time for Cain to move on. Adora would have wanted him to be happy, not to mourn her the rest of his life.
Ambrose strung his fingers through the tin man's short, pale hair, murmuring soothing words into his ear as he stifled the painful grunts that came with each strengthened thrust.
"Shh, Wyatt," he consoled softly, relieved when the other man seemed to gentle a bit. "Take it easy. We have time. No need to rush."
Cain panted heavily against Ambrose's neck, the salty bitterness of the man's sweat mixed with the sweetness of apples washing over his tongue. Ambrose always seemed to smell of apples, and Cain was delightfully surprised to find that he tasted of them too.
The tin man could feel himself building, and he gasped Ambrose's name, coming a few strokes later. The inventor followed quickly after, mouth open as he panted heavily. Cain's legs gave out, and the both of them toppled to the ground, Ambrose straddling the tin man's lap. The blond's arms came around the inventor's back, holding him tightly as he rested his forehead against Ambrose's shoulder. Oh, he could feel his age coming to haunt him – throbbing muscles, aching joints, overwhelming fatigue. All he wanted to do was curl up and sleep for the next annual . . . but there was still one thing he had to know.
"Ambrose," he wheezed, lifting his head and looking into a pair of satiated brown eyes.
"Cain, that was amazing," the inventor panted, smiling widely and capturing Cain's lips in a kiss of gratitude. The tin man smiled, nodding his agreement.
Now he could sleep . . . Well, maybe after he found his clothes.
AN: And there you have it! I might post the next chapter since this one was so short... Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side. :)