"What the hell are those two doing?" Fitzcairn stared over his tankard of ale.
MacLeod peered through the smoky darkness of the public house. "Looks to me like they're going upstairs."
"Bit early for bed, isn't it? And I don't think this place keeps the whores upstairs." Fitz took a drink.
"One of them *is* a whore, you daft..." MacLeod grinned around a bite of meat pie. The food in this place was reasonably fresh and tasty. He'd have to go here again...maybe without his friend.
Fitz stared at him. "You can't mean...Sodomites?" He sounded like a priest from a country parish.
"What did you think...oh, come now, Fitz. You cannot be going all moral on me now. 'Twas just two nights ago we shared those two bonnie lassies." He smiled as Fitz sputtered.
"But...but...*lasses*, Mac. They were *lasses*."
"Aye, that they were, but whose mouth do you think that was?" Mac leered. Nothing of the kind had actually happened - MacLeod has been far too occupied with the wench in his arms - but Fitz was far too much fun to tease.
"You did no such..." Fitz stared at him. "No, you couldn't have...why would you...you're...are you mad, man?"
MacLeod smiled. "You're a fine man, Fitzcairn. I could ask for no better a friend or comrade in arms."
"I *don't* believe it." Fitz drained his tankard and filled it from the pitcher in front of them. "You're having me on."
"The room was full dark and there was no moon in the sky." MacLeod finished his pie and took a bite of cheese. They'd gotten into a fight with a pair of cutpurses earlier, and worked up an appetite, so the table in front of them was full of nearly empty platters courtesy of the inn's kitchen and the thieves' own gold.
Fitz blinked, and then got a suspicious expression on his face. "If that was the case, my friend, then you'd not be averse to doing it again." MacLeod nearly spit out his cheese. "Aha! You're a liar, MacLeod. You never took me in your mouth."
"It's not that." MacLeod thought fast. "It's...it's...that I'm shocked you'd want me to do it again. Or at all, for that matter."
"You're a coward and a liar, and you don't even lie *well*, so there's no use in you even trying."
"You doubting my word, Fitzcairn? You want to take this outside?" Oh, MacLeod, you're the daft one. This has gone beyond a joke. You'll be fighting your best friend now.
"Nay. I don't want to go outside with this. But I would not object to taking it upstairs, if you're so eager to prove you had your way with me." By the look on Fitz's face, he expected Mac to give up. Well, he'd do no such thing. Fitz would back down before *he* would.
He put a leer on his own face. "Upstairs, then, and gladly. Innkeeper!"
A fat man in a dirty apron came bustling up. "How may I help you two gentlemen? I trust the food was to your liking?" He eyed the pile of dishes and crumbs.
"Very much, good man. How much for a private room in this fine establishment?"
"Would that be for both you gentlemen?" The landlord frowned, obviously adding figures in his head.
"Aye, that it would be. And for none others." Mac looked at Fitz to contradict him. Fitz just smiled.
He named a price which MacLeod argued down by a quarter, and then split with Fitz, but still out of the money they'd gotten from the thieves. The man handed Mac a key and disappeared into the smoky kitchen.
"Shall we go, then?" Fitz grinned at him.
"Not till we finish the ale. Don't want to waste the cutpurses' silver, now, do we?" Mac poured the last into his tankard.
"You're stalling."
He was, indeed, but Fitz wasn't to know. "You're that eager, are you?"
Fitz blushed. "Well, I could do with a bit more of this brawn." The roast pork was down to gristle, but Fitz chewed on it anyway. "That's enough. You've finished the brew. Tis time to show what you're made of, MacLeod." He stood and, after some hesitation, reached out his hand.
MacLeod looked at it for a long moment, and then took it. It was hard and callused, like his own, and larger than any hand he'd held before. He let Fitz pull him to his feet and, still holding hands, lead him up stairs to their room.
It was a typical inn room - straw mattress on a rope bedstead, rush light on a small table. The sheets were coarse and musty smelling, but looked clean enough. The moon was up, forming a waxing crescent in the sky, providing just enough light for MacLeod to find his tinder box and light the rush lamp, which gave barely more.
And there he was, and there was Fitz and the joke from before was not a joke any longer, but Fitz had blue eyes that glowed in the lamplight and he was breathing hard. So was MacLeod, or so he discovered. He was sweating, too, as if he were a groom on his wedding night - a virgin groom at that.
"You...we can just share the bed tonight, MacLeod. You do not have to do anything. You have nothing to prove." Fitz was sweating, too.
"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I will not go back on my word, unless you give me leave." With that, he stepped forward and took his friend in his arms. Fitz gave a gasp as their chests made contact and reached up to cup Mac's head. Mac felt a jolt then, as if there had been a wee quickening that reached to his manhood. He bent his head as Fitz tilted his, and their lips met. The kiss was clumsy and harsh, the stubble on their cheeks scraping each other, their tongues cautious and shy, but it was like no other kiss Mac had ever shared with a woman - it was Fitz himself, his taste, his humor, his bravery. Mac could taste all of that and more.
They quickly removed all their clothing, helping and hindering each other, tossing garments everywhere, but laying their swords gently by the bedstead. Fitz was golden in the rushlight, his body glowing with sparse blond curls, his thick, heavy manhood full and hard, and MacLeod felt himself responding. He smiled at his friend and then, before he could let himself think longer, he dropped to his knees and began to lick Fitz's stomach.
Fitz moaned and tangled his hands in Mac's hair, pressing his body closer to closer to Mac's face, who responded by starting to kiss his way down Fitz's body, following the line of golden fur as it became thicker and curlier. He inhaled all of Fitz's odors - the sweat from the fight, dampness from the woolen trousers, salt, an overlying bitterness that had to come from maleness itself - and which, if anything, made Mac more aroused - and something that had to be Fitz himself, something strong but sweet.
He sat back on his heels for a moment, eyeing Fitz's penis. Aye, it was large and thick and there was a tiny pearl of liquid at its tip, and he knew it would be sweet and bitter in his mouth, but that when he did this, it would change who they were. He was thinking too much again, taking too long. Both of them were beginning to flag, and he couldn't have that. So, mustering up more courage than it had ever taken him to draw his sword in battle, he leaned forward and took his friend in.
Yes, it was sweet and bitter. It was also smooth and silky and filled his mouth as a sword fills its scabbard, as Fitz's moans and pants filled his ears. He took Fitz in as deeply as he could, and then used his hand to cover the rest of him, as he moved his head back and forth, making love with his tongue and lips. Fitz's hands in his hair were tight, painful, but that, too, was part of this.
Mac knew he was clumsy at this, knew that he needed more practice, but he did his best to spin things out, keep it going past his own point of pain - past the ache in his jaw and the tugs on his hair - until Fitz could hold on no longer and, with a shout, spilled himself in Mac's mouth. It, too, was bitter, more bitter than sweet, but he drank it down, accepting it as a gift.
When the final spasms past, Mac released Fitz and sat back on his heels, wiping away the final traces from his mouth. Fitz's knees began to buckle. Mac barely managed to catch him before he hit the floor. "You all right?"
Fitz's eyes didn't look quite focused. "I think you sucked out my soul." He smiled and somehow managed to find Mac's lips again. Mac could feel him frown at the taste there. "Is that me?"
"Aye."
"'Snot bad. Should find out what you taste like."
Mac's erection twitched at those words. "You mean that?"
Fitz sat back, his hands on Mac's shoulders. "I wouldn't say if I did not, you great daft Scotsman. My word's as good as yours is." He glanced down between Mac's legs. "And you need a bit of attention right now." He grinned and reached for him with one hard hand. As he pumped and MacLeod found himself unable to make more than incoherent noises, Fitz began to talk about what things they'd do for each other in this room. The images he conjured were more powerful than any quickening, and as Fitz described just what he had planned for Mac's "innocent" body, he felt his own pleasure rise and then burst out of him - all over Fitz, who jumped up and grabbed a shirt - Mac's - to wipe himself off.
"If I didn't mind swallowing it, why should you mind wearing it?" MacLeod lounged on the floor, laughing.
"Because it's going to stick and dry and God alone knows when we'll find a bathhouse here, that's why." He took the shirt and knelt before Mac to clean him off, too.
"And it won't hurt my shirt?" Mac endured the attention.
"You have another. There." He leaned in to kiss Mac's manhood again. Mac felt it jump. "Ah, waking up, are we? Shall we have another go, then? In this lovely bed?"
For an answer, Mac got to his feet, pulled down the blankets and sprawled over the lump straw mattress. He lay there smiling, his arms wide. Fitz fit himself inside of them.
"Seems you're not so averse to having a man in your arms, Fitz. So why the remark earlier?"
"I'm with this prig of a Scotsman who'd turn green at the thought." He hit Mac lightly in the shoulder. "Ir'a called finesse, my friend, and it got me right here."
"Ah." Mac pulled him closer and kissed him.
"And you never used your mouth on me with those girls, you liar."
"Again you insult my words." He couldn't help laughing.
"Trust me, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod...if you had, I'd know." With those words, he dipped below the covers and neither had much to say for awhile.
The End
Copyright 2001 Debra Fran Baker and NightRoads Associates