Harry feels like jelly afterwards. He’s kneeling there, legs shaking, hand on his sticky, softening dick, dizzy, staring at Iain, who’s lying sprawled like a startled satyr, and he’s still soaring, floating, unable to say anything.
Iain moves first, tossing off his new shirt and, naked, reaching down to help Harry up. Harry goes with him, pliant as a newborn lamb, and just works on remaining standing as Iain divests him of his shirt and braies.
‘C’mon,’ Iain says, pressing a kiss to Harry’s forehead as he leads him over to the washbasin. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’
Once there, he leans Harry against him, so they are chest to chest, their soft cocks nestling against each other. Iain drapes an arm around the small of Harry’s back, resting it right on the swell of Harry’s arse. It’s comforting. That’s all Harry can figure out to say about it. It’s casual and gentle and makes him feel good.
Iain soaks the cleaning rag in water with his free hand then tilts Harry’s chin up. He blushes, wanting to apologise for what a mess he is, but Iain just smiles at him softly and leans forwards and kisses him. They’ve kissed so many ways, even in their short time as lovers: hungry, furious, demanding, apologetic, chaste. But this is new. There’s no hurry, no purpose to the kisses. It’s just sharing warmth, just exploring. Iain will occasionally draw back and wipe a little of Harry’s chin or neck with the damp cloth, but he always leans back in to kiss some more.
Harry moves his own arms to the top of Iain’s backside. Not pulling him close, not grinding. Just creating another point of connection. It feels right, to have his hands there. Like they belong on that firm, silken swell of skin.
Iain moves down to cleaning Harry’s chest and stomach, and then their cocks, and every time Harry thinks that’s it, this is as intimate as I can get with another person, something simple happens, like his lover softly cleaning his spent cock while taking breaks for kisses, and another part of him is broken open, revealed to the sunshine that Iain pours into him.
At this point he’s not sure how he isn’t leaking light out of every pore, so enraptured is he with existing at this moment, with this person.
Iain tosses the cloth aside, finished, and they stand there for what seems a lifetime, loosely holding each other, bodies resting together, lost in a slow conversation of kisses.
Harry avoids Iain for the next day or two. He can’t help it. He has built his life around discipline, control and duty; it is the heavy shield he holds against the world.
And Iain can strip him defenceless with a look.
Harry feels like he’s lost control of himself. Since the infinite tenderness of their morning after Christmas, his limbs seem to want to move without his permission. His fingers itch to tangle in Iain’s hair. His body seeks to find its home against Iain’s. His lips seek his, always. His heart, his heart wants to float straight out of his chest to where it belongs, in Iain’s strong hands.
The problem is that he no longer trusts himself in front of others. He knows he’ll slip up, touching Iain in a way that will shout to the world, this is my lover. So he solves the problem by not allowing himself to be near Iain at all.
It is the worst sort of penance.
Annie corners Harry outside the kitchens the next morning. ‘Heard from your Lancastrian lass?’ she chirps.
‘Not yet,’ Harry says. ‘I expect I’ll see her in Dunstable, at the tournament coming up.’
Annie puts her hand on Harry’s arm and leans in close. ‘You need to find a wife, Harry,’ she says, under her breath.
‘I intend to,’ Harry says and blinks at her. ‘Annie, where did this come from?’
She just gives him a look, and then her eyes flick upwards, towards the windows of the solar. ‘Be careful, Harry,’ she whispers, turning to head back to the kitchen. ‘Lot of new folk about.’
For the rest of the day, Harry smiles and talks and goes through all the motions of being lord of the manor, but it’s as if he’s an automaton, a clockwork knight with nothing beneath its armour but hollow fear.
He rides up to Ordlington, checking with Rabbie’s squire, Mark, about practising before Dunstable. Much as he and Rabbie aren’t fond of each other, they can vastly improve their chances in the tournament by breaking a few lances together. He can’t practise jousting at Dartington, not yet, not until Iain learns how to hold a lance.
When Harry returns Libby to the stables, it’s just before supper, and nobody’s there but Iain. Iain in his damned new shirt that brings out the ice in his eyes and the warmth in his skin.
Harry takes a moment to gather himself, to say what needs to be said. He’s surprised to feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He looks up at Iain and opens his mouth.
Before he can speak, Iain turns away, his proud posture faltering.
‘Don’t say it,’ Iain whispers. ‘Whatever excuse you’re going to make, don’t.’
Harry steps forwards, and Iain flinches away, as if burned.
‘I know you’re torn up about the sins you commit with me. I know it keeps you awake,’ Iain says, his voice hoarse with barely controlled emotion. ‘Have you ever thought how it makes me feel?’
Harry stutters.
‘It’s destroying me,’ Iain mumbles, staring at his feet.
He paces in a futile
