Page 27 of Something Human

It was like nothing Adares had ever done in bed before, the combination of power and sweet, untaught eagerness in the body under his so intoxicating, he lost all sense that he was directing the action; instead they were riding out a storm together, clinging to one another, their desire like a rough sea. Sweat-slick, muscles trembling with effort, they moved in a building rhythm, still kissing as their cocks rubbed and slid together. When Adares’s climax overtook him, he was so lost in the glorious strangeness that was sex with Rus that for the first instant he didn’t recognize it for what it was.

Then it rolled over him, familiar after all, but huge as a tidal wave, and he might have cried out—something he never did—and he clasped Rus to him, burying his face in Rus’s shoulder and Rus’s sweat-damp hair as the wave rolled slowly, gloriously down the beach.

He pushed himself up on one elbow as soon as his wits returned sufficiently. Rus looked up into his face with a rapt, fascinated delight.

“You, ah, you are very beautiful when you … ”

“Yeah?” His hand was on Rus’s still hard, hot dick. “Well, I’d like to see what you look like, but I have an even better idea.”

He moved between Rus’s legs and down, and this time there was no protest beyond a soft gasp, which hardly counted. He had technically never done this to a man before, but he’d had it done to him plenty of times by women, so he thought he understood the mechanics of it, and besides he was feeling charmed and invincible.

He took the thick, wet tip into his mouth, pushing down as far as he dared—the technique was more daunting than he had imagined, and he wasn’t sure he was doing a good job, but from the noises Rus made, it didn’t matter. The taste was a little like tears, and a little like soap—strange to think he had never tasted it before.

He cupped and stroked with his fingers, as he tried to figure out what to do with his mouth beyond alternately sucking and licking—but that may have been enough. He felt Rus’s hands in his hair, trying to grasp a handful and slipping out because it was too short, and he thought he was going to hear about that later, and shook with silent laughter.

And just as it occurred to him that Rus might not know enough to warn him when he was about to come—which he always did, because some people were happy to swallow, some not—Rus was arching off the bed with a cry, and Adares was too busy trying not to choke to make any decision about anything, and only realized afterward that he had reflexively swallowed.

He rolled off onto his back and stretched, with a long, contented sigh. Emotions aside, that was some of the most satisfying sex he’d had in years. His body felt easy, warmed and loose and somehow restored. He flung out an arm carelessly onto Rus, who had turned on his side, facing away into the room. He drew his fingers lightly down Rus’s flank, not bothering to follow the patterns.

“Even your ass is blue,” he observed with a soft snort of laughter.

Rus made a strange sound which Adares realized after a moment was laughing through tears. Adares pushed himself up and slid up the bed again to look over Rus’s shoulder. He was indeed crying, half-hiding it behind his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Rus began, “I … ”

“Don’t worry about that. It’s normal—lots of people feel a bit … overwhelmed, you know, after.”

“After you?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. Can I—say no if you want, but—can I hold you?”

“Please.”

He put his arm around Rus and snuggled close to his back.

Rus made a snuffling noise. “Not on the hair.”

“Oh, sorry. There’s just so much of it.” He lifted his head and scooped Rus’s hair out of the way, pushing it up onto the pillow above their heads. He brushed his lips briefly over Rus’s shoulder and settled back down again, his arm tight around Rus’s chest.

They lay for a little while in silence. Rus put his arm over Adares’s, lacing their fingers together. He seemed no longer to be crying.

There was a small, circular tattoo on the back of his neck, just above the torque, where it would have been hidden most of the time by his hair.

“This one looks different from the rest,” Adares remarked, kissing it. “What’s it mean?”

“Ah. That’s the sigil of the vahat, the … the artist who did my tattoos.”

“What, like a painter’s mark on a vase? That’s … ” Odd, he was going to say, but changed his mind. “I guess that makes sense, that he’d sign his work. He’s obviously very good.”

“She.”

“A woman did your tattoos?”

“Of course. It is woman’s work. Most women do it only for their own men, or you may have one in the hearth who is very good, so she does them for everyone. The vahat who does our tattoos is a specialist, she is highly respected, and she helps with the patterns for the kahar hall, and other things. Genet, the vahat now, she is very good, even though she is young—your age. I like her. We are friends.”

“Ha. Every time I think you don’t have any more barbarian stuff to surprise me with … somehow, I’m wrong.”

That made Rus laugh. Adares squeezed him tighter. He didn’t ask if Rus felt better; it had occurred to him that Rus’s tears might not have been simply post-coital melancholy but something more complicated and more real, having to do with being an offence against the great pattern of whatever, and maybe never having the opportunity to have sex with a man again.