The Merry Men Masquerade

16. Restless

For the fourth time in as many rounds, Ronan dove head-first into the dirt.

He'd been mistaken to think Amir would go easy on him after two months without practice. Ronan's knife skidded across the ground until it collided with a tree trunk and Amir crashed over him like a storm, dagger aimed for his chest.

In a last-ditch effort, Ronan pitched onto one shoulder, just out of the strike's path, reaching for Amir's arm at the same time so that when Ronan tugged, Amir teetered off-balance on one-knee. A kick to his back leg was enough to break his stance. Ronan rolled, and Amir tumbled with him to the ground.

They grappled for control. Ronan gripped tight to Amir's wrist to keep the knife at bay and used his other hand to push at his shoulder, but it was a losing battle; Amir was stronger and had better leverage. He had the nerve to grin as he bore down on Ronan, knife hand creeping ever-closer to his face.

"Can't say I've seen that move before," he remarked, the blade suspended centimeters from Ronan's Adam's apple.

Ronan struck with his free leg, driving his knee into Amir's gut and using the momentary lapse as Amir recoiled to swat the knife from his hold. It landed next to Ronan's ear, and before Amir could take it again, Ronan grasped both of his hands, locking them in a stalemate. When Ronan tried to flip their positions, Amir forced his hands to the dirt and used both knees to press his legs into the ground.

Panting, Ronan let his head fall and his arms go slack. He could recognize when he'd lost.

Or, at least, when he needed to switch his strategy.

Smug lips parted when Amir noticed Ronan staring at them. A pink tongue darted out to wet them, and Ronan followed the movement with keen eyes. The tilt of his chin invited Amir closer, closer; Ronan lifted his lidded gaze, and that was all it took. Amir descended on him in a bruising kiss, releasing his wrists to squeeze his waist, and (after a moment or minute's distraction), Ronan used all his strength to overturn them. In the short second Amir lay winded, Ronan lashed out for the knife.

"Slit throat," he smirked, pressing the tip of the blade below Amir's chin. "Should've killed me."

Amir bared his neck, pressing into the blade until it indented his skin, just shy of piercing. "Your methods are deplorable."

"The dead cannot speak, Amir," Ronan taunted. "Really, you ought to have seen that coming."

"The embarrassing part is, I did."

Ronan leaned down as if to continue where they'd left off, only to pull away at the first brush of their lips. Amir tried to follow him, but the knife at his throat held him down. He slumped into the grass, defeated. Total conquest. Ronan pushed to his feet, victorious and none-too graceful about it, grinning from ear to ear as he extended a hand. "Again?"

Amir curled into a ball. "'M sleepy," he whined.

He grunted when Ronan kicked his side. "At least sleep on the blanket, then."

"The dead cannot move, Ronan."

Ronan lugged him backward by the armpits until he felt fabric under his feet, then dropped him unceremoniously onto the quilt. Amir flopped onto his back with a happy sigh while Ronan searched the basket he'd been gifted some weeks before until he found the strawberries. With sweetness on his tongue, he settled halfway on top of Amir, who gladly wrapped him in his arms and accepted the berry Ronan offered with an open mouth.

"I've been meaning to say," Ronan commented as he chewed. Amir wrinkled his nose and covered Ronan's mouth with one hand, so his next words came out muffled. "Thank you. For not telling Vito about the castle."