Again, talk lay useless. “I… It was—”
“Ai, do you really believe I’d forget you, Star Eyes?”
Do you really believe you are so easily forgotten?
I’m no one. Tokela’s teeth were abruptly chattering. I’m no one. There’s nothing in me.
Našobok leaned in close, body blocking the pelting Rain. His deep voice and presence seemed a refuge from any voice, internal or… Other.
Shelter from whatever storms would rise. The only haven. The only sanctuary.
Go with him. Run away. Make your own Clan…
Tokela reached up, fingers clutching at damp leather. “Našobok?” It was a choke.
Another frown. Našobok leaned closer, put his forehead against Tokela’s. “I gave you a start, didn’t I? I didn’t mean to.”
“Našobok.”
“What?” Našobok’s breath wafting soft across Tokela’s cheeks, spiced sweet-sharp—he’d been drinking. His hair fell over one tattooed cheekbone, his tunic gaped unlaced beneath his longcoat, his leggings slung low about his hipbones and barely held to propriety by clout and shell-and-lanyard belt… everything about Našobok including the lithe, well-lubricated bonelessness of his pose spoke to possibilities, abandon. Shivering, Tokela found his gaze following a long stream of wet dripping from Našobok’s turquoise-feather chieftain’s lock and onto his collarbone, trailing down his breastbone and disappearing sideways. Blood pounded in Tokela’s temples, accompaniment to the sticky singsong of panic still lingering in the pit of his belly, trying to overcome the not-quite-whispers of unknown/unknowable urging him just to let go, give in, dive in.
“I didn’t mean to, either,” Tokela blurted thickly. “I didn’t mean it.”
“You didn’t mean to kick me? I know. You said.”
“I didn’t mean it.” Tokela’s fists tightened, squeaking against wet leather and fabric. The not-whispers were even louder.
“I know. It is well.”
Leaning forwards, Tokela put his lower lip to the runnel of wet on Našobok’s chest, caught it with his tongue. Našobok made a small, startled sound, and his hands tightened on Tokela’s arms. With nary a wince, Tokela followed that tiny line of wet down and over muscle-sprung ribs.
They expanded with a sucked-in, sharp breath. The not-whispers curled into sighs.
Fingers tightened at Tokela’s nape as he suckled Rainwater and damp, risen flesh, then tightened, pulling him away.
“Tokela, I—” Našobok said—or started to say, for when Tokela’s eyes met his, Našobok left off the talk as if someone had taken his tongue.
Half-afraid of what might be limning his eyes, Tokela ducked forwards once more, this time reaching for the neck cords lying beneath the sopping braidlock of feathers and hair below Našobok’s left earlobe. The pulse beneath doubled as Tokela latched his teeth there.
Našobok juddered, hissed, “Sa yuškammanukfila ikšo!”
Rut me stupid? Ai, Našobok didn’t know the half of it. Because too much was rising within Tokela, and he wanted it tamed and trammelled. Like thisSun’s rising, when he’d lingered beneath the wykupeh with Našobok, having been rutted just that deliriously, deliciously stupid. That sated. That silent. That real: flesh and heat, bone and blood and the pounding of a heart drum against his own. Power headier than any inward whisper or presence. This. This.
Našobok pulled back. Tokela uttered a protesting murmur but Našobok touched his fingers to Tokela’s chin and raised his face up into Rain.
There were Stars above, peeking through Wind-torn clouds… or there were Stars behind his eyes, Tokela wasn’t sure any more, and he had fallen into Fire’s grip and come away unburned.
He wanted the burning, now.
Tokela pulled Našobok against him, and there was no hesitation at his importunity, only a return ferocity that melted his bones to butter. He growled into Našobok’s neck as Našobok tightened his arms, picked Tokela up as negligently as one of the feathers at his temple, and shoved him against the wall.
Rain came harder, seeking them. Wind gusted, swelling River beneath them, sending Ilhukaia rocking. Našobok didn’t so much as grab for balance; Tokela found his by clenching his knees tighter into Našobok’s hips. Muscle, sinew, and bone moulded close. No more whispers. Instead Wind flexed His wings, River foamed, Ilhukaia shuddered.
“I want—”
“I know what you want.” A purr against Tokela’s throat, and hands nimble at his clout. “For being such an undemonstrative sort, you certainly have an opinion on this, don’t you?”
The ship lurched beneath them, River slapping her sideways. Našobok rode her easily, lifted Tokela higher against the wall. Taking one of Tokela’s hands, Našobok guided it up, curled it about a thick wooden spar. In answer Tokela tightened his knees and snaked his other arm upwards, grabbing the spar with both hands, rolling his hips forwards. Našobok growled low in his throat and thrust up against him, driving a small cry from Tokela’s lips.
“Again,” Tokela pleaded. “Harder. Here.”
Here. Wet locks spidering, hard flesh straining, damp leathers creaking, the fur and silk and taut aching pulse captured between them, trailing slick tears and tangling, belly to belly. Tokela’s heart pulsed deep into his toes and back up against his temples, a passionate drumming to drown out the rhythm inside, to echo the driving of water, Wind and wood. Rain spattered against his exposed throat, to be lapped up by warm breath and even warmer tongue. Shadows, water, the roaring nearness, the voices of both washing whispers into sighs and silence. He could drown in it, in the sound and the pitch, the sweet-hot skin against his own, the rhythm of heart and breath knocking in and against his breast… and only thisNow, this breath and beat to drum it outside, away…
“Take it from me,” Tokela whimpered against Našobok’s temple. “Take it… take me. Please.”
Našobok caressed him, rough and tender, and Tokela clutched to it, writhed against it, buried body and voice and heart into wet hair and flesh. His fingers tingled upon the wooden
