The Merry Men Masquerade

18. The Fairest of Them All

If Ronan's favorite thing to do was to learn, then Amir's body was his new favorite subject. He studied, and studied, and studied.

Where Amir was earnest giving and long, drawn out pleasure, Ronan was teasing touches and slow torment. He grew addicted to the lilt of a plea on Amir's tongue, became an artist between his legs- he could lose himself painting strong thighs purple and red. The indents his teeth left behind were a thing of beauty, but nothing compared to the squeeze when Amir came undone, bowing tight in a magnificent arch with his head thrown back against the sheets - a crushing pressure immediately followed by achingly sweet hands at Ronan's cheeks, pulling him up Amir's body to indulge in the taste of himself.

Sleep came easier after they'd worn themselves out. Amir tended to succumb first, but he fought it every time, pouty whenever Ronan reached for the oil lamp. He seemed to have learned that Ronan was weak to his soft appeals for five more minutes. Weak in general when it came to Amir, but especially in the muted minutes between sex and sleep.

Worn, needy, and draped in a heady fog, Ronan was at his most vulnerable after he'd been strung out and kissed raw. He felt closer to Amir than ever, needed to get closer than ever or he'd start to quiver like a bowstring (at least, he felt he would - Amir never let him get far enough to find out). He savored those minutes for their emptiness, his mind quiet save for their hushed conversation and the ever-present, all-consuming awareness of Amir, Amir, Amir.

He hadn't realized, until now, that that emptiness was fragile.

"There's something on your mind," Amir noticed, tracing a hand over each knob of Ronan's spine. If he had been drifting off, concern had shaken him awake. "Are you alright?"

Ronan nodded, lying on his stomach as Amir mapped his skin. "Thinking about my family."

Tonight, they had outfought the quiet. They were loud, and very rude for disrupting his peace.

"Ah, that's never good." Amir drew five lines up his back, through his hair, soothing. "I try to avoid it."

And this was surely the smartest, if not quite the healthiest, way to live. At the least, it had been Ronan's tactic for years, and it had been working just fine. Family was one wound he would happily leave opened. He could handle the occasional memory outbreaks, the unfortunate flare-ups of the mind, if it meant he could go his whole life without facing his past.

But that had been impossible the last few days. What started as a harebrained thought had grown into a harebrained plan, and now Ronan was lucky for a moment where he wasn't thinking about his family. Lucky for Amir, who had the power to wipe his mind blank with something so measly as a smile.

Magical Amir, who had just, upon reflection, said something ridiculous.

"You do it all the time," Ronan pointed out, because he knew Amir didn't lie awake at night thinking about nothing, the way he did. They never discussed what was on his mind, but Ronan could well enough guess.

Amir's eyebrows betrayed his surprise, but then he shrugged. "I suppose I do."

His voice came quiet and pensive and not nearly as indifferent as he'd probably intended. Ronan winced. He should have just allowed the white lie. Amir's eyes began to dust with a look Ronan normally only saw in the dead of night; it was even sadder in the lamplight.

Ronan had been careless again. Here he was, feeling withered and raw over one man's rejection, which had lasted all of five minutes and taken place seven years before. Amir's own had lasted twenty-one years and had come from his father, his brothers, even the mother he still spoke of so fondly, and Ronan had called attention to how clearly it bothered him, like he needed the reminder.