MedicineWorm: ((Gimme some info on Celino’s room again would ye?))
Cranedance: (Second floor at the back, small, neatly made bed, small table by the small window, chair by the table, hooks on the wall, everything empty. Celino leaves nothing behind.)

—–

In a word, boring. In another few words, boring protected by a lock that was worth precisely one wet shit from a dying dog. It was Van’s professional opinion that though the mechanism was a touch rusty, a determined six year old with a butter knife could have jimmied it. The reason for Celino’s lack of concern was clear; Van had been given little time to examine the room itself in previous instances, being otherwise occupied with fighting, then fucking. Dimly, he recalled the pillows were a bit dusty.

The walls were plaster, and Vanguard first made an examination of the various cracks and dents in them. From there, he moved onto an indifferent examination of the tiny table, the smallish bed, and the pillows, which were in reality less dusty than previously imagined. The window offered a dazzling view of the wall of the building opposite. To kill a little more time, Vanguard practiced cracking the lock on the window as well; it wasn’t as lousy as the door, but once one figured out that the catch was sticky, it wasn’t hard either.

As plans went, it was rather a good one; the only snag was Celino’s timing. In the mage’s absence, once the redhead had tried to stave off boredom by surveying everything within the lackluster room worth surveying (the list was woefully short and consisted primarily of comparisons between it and his own), he was left with little else to do. Eventually, the initial plan evolved in the name of entertainment; Vanguard even had time to wander back to his own room and procure a book then wander back again. By the time the door handle jingled warningly, the redhead had curled cattishly amid a heap of Celino’s pillows, and was picking his way through a the tin of tiny dessert squares he’d brought while picking his way through a book of inappropriate wood cuts.

First impressions might have included a concern that the halfling was in fact drowning in a sea of black fabric. This was of course, a hazard involved with stealing items based on their colour without taking size variation into consideration (and to be perfectly honest, anyone who was stupid enough to hang a good silk shirt out on a line two measly stories above street level deserved to lose it). The collar, meant for broader shoulders than it currently graced hung crookedly where it was not hidden by the lazy russet spirals of his hair. While the shirt clearly belonged on a body thrice his breadth, the fawn coloured breeches beneath it fit perfectly enough that it was quite unthinkable that they could have been made for any other. Consequently, ignoring the little gathering of wrinkles that bracketted his bent knees, one might have succumbed to the illustion that they were painted on.

—–

It was so late, it was early, and Celino whistled cheerily at the sleepy potboy as he let Celino in. If the potboy was up it was four o’clock; six to the smells of breakfast, seven to get up, that was three hours of sleep, and that was fine, just fine; all of life was fine, the potboy was lovely, the creaky stairs were lovely, the cave-dark upstairs hall was lovely, and loveliest of all was the guard captain who smiled cheekily in Celino’s mind. Celino bounced upstairs to his room borne on clouds of bliss that were a very particular shade of blue, and opened his door to find–Vanguard, curled up in his bed like silk-clad temptation.

Celino looked from Vanguard’s too-pretty face, to his shirt that cried, “Take me off, I’m drowning!”, to his breeches so fine and close that they looked like they couldn’t be taken off (but memory reminded him that they came off just fine), to his bare pink toes. A fluff of black sock lint dangled from one toe, and that was painfully adorable. Celino looked back to Vanguard’s face and tried to ignore the way Vanguard’s mouth looked as he bit into something gooey and sinful. “I thought you hated me,” he said cheerfully as he closed the door behind him.

Now, how to get the boy out of–into–something. A preposition change was required. Celino’s imagination offered up a couple of examples, neither of them likely to be Captain-approved.

—–

Silk shirts are delicate creatures, and not likely to withstand the sort of abuse Vanguard was currently heaping upon it well. At Celino’s tardy entrance, the halfling gave his shirt an apologetic brushing-off, which scattered crumbs in all directions, and took pains not to get any of the cherry filling on his front (a small darker spot about nipple-high suggested he was in fact trying not to get MORE of the cherry filling on his front).

“Just ’cause you’re an arrogant jackass?” Vanguard swallowed a mouthful of cherry and chocolate and smiled pertly. “Actually, it#s a religious visit.” For a minute the freckled features managed a patch on solemn, then that smile returned ruining the illusion of piety. “Not supposed t’be alone for harvest’s dawn ‘n all.”

—–

“Oh, is that the tradition around here?” Then why didn’t Aldr–Silver invite me to stay? Right–work. He works too hard at all the wrong times. This must be fixed. Celino kept his eyes on Vanguard (for security, not to admire him) as he toed off his low boots and untied his belt. He left his purse on the table, satisfied that Vanguard had learned his lesson about it. “And you couldn’t find a single person who wasn’t an arrogant jackass?’ he teased. He sat on the edge of the bed, his weight tipping the tin of dessert squares toward him. “Not a single man who wasn’t a know-it-all, a puff, an asshole, a–what was it you called me? The really charming name, the one you came up with when I–” He made an expressive gesture with his left hand. With his other hand, he loosened the buttons at his collar. He grinned at Vanguard, focusing on his face and not on the chocolate on his fingers or the drop of cherry filling in exactly the wrong place on his shirt. Blue, blue, think blue.

—–

“In this end of the country it is,” Vanguard shrugged absently, transfering the mangled remainder of the little chocolate square to his right hand that he could flip pages properly. One or two of those already bore the chocolately smudges of fingertips not properly licked clean, but given that it had been a cheap book anyway, he paid them no mind. Vanguard peered with a scholarly interest at the present page, and went silent a moment as he considered whether or not the act pictured was physically possible. At the litany of insults, he flicked his gaze upward again, and made a vague gesture at the bottle on the floor at the bed’s edge, dangerously close to where one might put a foot. “Less talk, more opening. I can’t get the stupid cork out. I can call you names later when m’not dying of thirst.”

—–

Celino glanced at the bottle. It was a heavy red, rich and expensive. He wondered whether Vanguard stole it, or stole the money and then bought it. “I appreciate the gesture,” he said, “but there’s hard work in the morning and not nearly enough night between now and then. If you want a bed partner for the dawn, I’m willing–” He paused to pull his robes over his head and shake out his rumpled hair. “–but it will have to be literal. Clean robes, keep together,” he said as his servant drew the robes into the purse.

—–

Vanguard, who had cocked his head ever so slightly to better appreciate the obscure angle at which bodies connected on the page in his lap, glanced up again at Celino’s tone more than the words. Oh, there was the telltale ‘but’ in there; it wasn’t however the sort he was looking for. Balancing the remains of the decadent square between his thumb and forefinger, Vanguard let out the kind of sigh that usually produced an immediate concern in those within hearing range as if by magic. It was not magic of course, but rather a honed skill. Packing such suffering, such disappointment, such pain into one small exhalation was no small feat.

“The blue pillows are mine,” Vanguard pointed out, eyeing the mage rather than the book while robes were removed. The tousseled hair thing was cute, in a weird sort of way. Like a cat with its fur brushed backwards. Popping the sticky remains of the chocolate square between his teeth, there was some rustling of blankets, and a general reorganization of bedding that had more to do with his appropriating two of three pillows and the heavy quilt than anything else. Slithering under the covers, he was even polite enough to move over. “What’s this hard work thing anyway?”

—–

Celino ignored Vanguard’s long-suffering sigh. He’d had a teenaged daughter. He’d had a teenaged daughter who took after him. No mere sneak-thief, even a lusciously beautiful one with cherry and chocolate on his breath, could equal her. It had been a long time since Celino had to ignore a long-suffering sigh, but he noted with pleasure that the mechanisms were still well-oiled and efficient. He felt not a pang of guilt as he untied his trousers and fed them into the purse. His servant obliged him with a nightshirt–only slightly sweaty; the other one was with the laundress–and he slipped into bed with a clean and shining conscience.

His easy sink into bed was interrupted by a flurry of brushing and patting when he discovered the crumbs Vanguard had so thoughtfully scattered (better than peeing in the corners, Celino thought, but maybe next time he could mark his territory less stickily), but at last Celino nestled against Vanguard, face tucked into the curve of his shoulder. Vanguard’s body was sharp against him, and tiny–Celino was perpetually surprised by how small Vanguard was. He already looked undertall when he was puffed out with attitude and stolen clothes. Touching him burst the remains of the illusion. He was waifish, delicate. It was a pity, Celino mused, that he couldn’t be taught to play the part of an aristocrat. With his slenderness and features, he could be the fine-boned aristocrat that Celino only appeared to be.

It would be like shaving a chimp, his judgement reminded him.

But a beautiful chimp, his libido countered. His body, fitted close against Van’s, said, Yep.

Blue. Think blue. Cold, cold blue.

“It has to do with heavy lifting and diplomacy,” Celino said. “You wouldn’t like it. Do you always sleep in your trousers?”

—–

He would have been more dismayed by the fact his sigh offensive yielded no positive result had not that been a mere#–well#–a mere vanguard of a tactic. An opening volley of proverbial arrows, just in case the enemy could be caught with their shields down. And having failed, he was just as happy to move onto a secondary line of attack. The addition of a nightshirt; that was an insult right there but in a moment of magnanimity Vanguard ignored it.

Vanguard couldn’t ignore the crumb-brushing fury that followed, and so instead gained some mote of satisfaction by remaining an intentional obstacle to the mage’s attempts to brush off his side of the bed. When Celino had finished, Vanguard felt that the minor crumb-victory had gained him some ground. Sinking back down amid the huddle of his stolen blankets and pillows, he was reminded almost instantly that Celino’s bed was a great deal less comfortable than his own. It figured the man would want a boring bed to go with his boring room.

Celino at least did not attempt to curl into an isolated little ball on one side of the bed. Though the mage’s vantage point wouldn’t offer a view of it, the half elf’s lips drew up in a cattish bow, all smugness and contentment at once as if he might break into a purr at any second. Celino was warm, and chilly fingers were unapologetic about their heat-stealing operative pressed against the mage’s belly.

“Politics and back pain; no thanks,” Van mumbled, turning his hands over when his palms had warmed adequately. Hard work seemed to Vanguard a ridiculous undertaking; particularly since most people made it permanent. Snugged up against Celino, the halfling threw a casual leg over the mage’s thigh and twisted slightly that he could find new places to put his hands, having sucked the warmth out of a stretch of stomach. “No–I just thought y’were in an all-fired hurry to go to sleep.” Some more wiggling ensued, demonstrative of an apparent discomfort. If his long suffering sigh was an A, then his innocent face was a flawless A+.

—–

Celino gasped and sucked in his stomach as Vanguard contravened of all rules of bed etiquette. “Can’t you shove them against my lower back like a normal person?” he said. “Your fingers are made of ice! What have you been doing, juggling snowballs?” He caught the boy’s hands and held them to his lips, breathing warmth into them. “I am in a hurry to go to sleep, but–” But the wiggling is distracting, either stop it or turn around and–blue, blue. He placed a firm hand on Vanguard’s hip and stopped the wiggling. Now Vanguard was wedged against him. Tightly. Warmly. Blue. Checkers. “–but I didn’t expect you to hop into bed fully dressed. You can keep your trousers on if nothing sticky or enterprising is going to roll out of the pockets, if that’s what you really want.”

This was the fourth bout of arousal he’d suffered this night, and his body was running out of patience. His skin tingled. You’re pressed so close to him that you’re practically inside his trousers, his libido said, and his trousers are so tight they’re practically inside his skin, so for all intents and purposes you’re already inside. What would one more little degree of “inside” hurt?

Wouldn’t hurt at all, his body said, and another aborted wriggle from Van provided illustration. Celino’s breath caught in his throat. He disguised it as an exasperated sigh, grateful that his face was still hidden against Vanguard’s throat.

Vanguard’s white throat, which was still faintly scented with the lavender soap he’d–

Blue checkers. A field of icy blue checkers.

—–

Bed etiquette was one of those things that Vanguard had been aware of since the approximate age of five. It was at or near this point that having been made aware of the general unpleasantness most people associated with having icy hands slapped against their stomach without warning, Vanguard began to do it on purpose. Etiquette was after all, just a prissied up word for rule–and plus, the faces people made were worth it.

“What?” Feigning ignorance was hardly a stretch, but helped to blot the glee from his tone at Celino’s spluttering protests. “‘Case ye hadn’t noticed, it ain’t terribly warm in here.” And there, things began to take on a wonderfully familiar tilt, and Vanguard decided the world was all roses and rainbows again.

Van’s thoughts were naught but a satisfied purr as Celino’s hand clasped his hip, ostensibly to make him stay still. Vanguard pretended to have found a comfortable position as the mage’s breath trickled between his fingers, pretended not to feel the thigh beneath his, or the hand on his hip or the warmth quickly accumulating beneath the protective cocoon of blankets. “Define enterprising.” Luckily, the smirk in his voice was likely to be drowned out by the physician’s desperate introspection. And when enough time had passed to suggest the halfling was considering just how uncomfortable his pants were he said, “Erm#–” A little wiggle of indeterminate intention followed, “my fingers are all stiff from cold.”

—–

“If what I’m doing isn’t enough, stick them in your armpits,” Celino said on automatic. Then, remembering this was Vanguard, he raised a hand to block him and said, “Your armpits, not mine. And stop wriggling like a worm on a hook.” That was good, keep the disgusting images coming.

—–

Vanguard managed an exasperated look, though it was little more than a thin sheet dragged over naked conceit. Fine, the look said, I don’t need your help anyway. Twisting that he could reach without elbowing Celino in the chin, Vanguard made a feeble attempt at the buttons of his trousers with apparently cold-numbed (and chocolate smudged) fingertips. A little moue of effort split his lips, and a sigh trickled out. Vanguard was careful not to look up and ruin the whole act; he’d done that before and the consequences had been disappointing to say the least.

Disappointing and expensive#–but that was a long story, and he’d never been one to dwell on failures. Particularly when they were his own.

“Just tryin’ to get comfortable,” the halfling pointed out obdurately.

—–

Celino sighed. He slid his free arm under Vanguard’s shoulders, then, drawing his face out of the way, flipped Vanguard abruptly. There. Now you don’t have to nuzzle his throat or worry about where his hands are. “More space to work in. Are you happy?” Now he’s spooning with you, his inner voice said gleefully. Yep, his body said.

Damn.

“Shuck whatever you’re going to shuck and get to sleep,” Celino said, trying to work a little roughness into his voice. “I have work in the morning.”

—–

Vanguard was not necessarily unaccustomed to being man-handled. Matter of fact his childhood, having included two older sisters had provided him numerous opportunities for the younger halfling to become acquainted with being shoved, flipped, pushed, thumped and sat-upon. Granted, Celino was not likely going to either pull his hair or try and dig his thumbs under his spine, but the generality of being moved like a piece of errant furniture was the same. He was however, not truly expecting to be flipped as efficiently by a physician. Somewhere in Vanguard’s mental ‘big book of rules’ (which was right beside Vanguard’s mental ‘big book of rules for Vanguard’, which was a substantially edited version of the former) it said nice proper professional types didn’t turn you over like a piece of grilling salmon.

There was a small croaky sound of surprise from the red head, followed by a smaller crisper sigh. Well, no reason to suspect this was indicative of an impending failure. Wriggling out of his trousers was most definitely a job which required two hands and the whole of his focus anyway. Though it could not have been said he did much to minimize contact, Vanguard was ready to plead a case of narrow-bed syndrome if Celino made a fuss.

And it seemed as if he might. He was in one powerfully fussy mood.

“Leave your balls in the office today?” Vanguard’s arm arched over head briefly as the trousers went sailing window-ward. They hit the sill with a whump that suggested they were of a heavier fabric than one might have suspected, and slithered to the floor defeated.

—–

Balls + office + Celino’s “blue, blue” mantra = Celino entirely absorbed in a sudden vivid image of Aldridge bent over his desk, panting, and too busy to protest Vanguard’s strange notions of where clothing should go. The squirming and bucking as Vanguard struggled out of his trousers were no help at all. Blue, he thought, then Balls, then, Blue balls, exactly. Why am I putting up with this? “Master Bax,” he said coolly, “if you don’t settle down and go to sleep, I’m going to start asking myself some most topical questions about why I’m allowing you to stay in my room.”

—–

“Grahph–#” mumbled Vanguard, in a decidedly exasperated tone. This was starting to sound terribly serious. Serious, as in not at all fun or interesting; troublesome, since ‘fun and interesting’ were arguably the halfling’s two primary life goals. Vanguard gave the wall an ugly look that was ruined briefly by a smirk made invisible by the darkness.

Bax. Ooooh right.

Celino likely had enough of a feel for the halfling’s character by now not to be too disconcerted by the snide little chuckle emanating from his half of the bed. False names and mattresses that were far too hard aside, Vanguard considered doing as suggested for two point six seconds before realizing that was hardly the purpose of his visit. All things considered, two point six seconds of obedience wasn’t bad.

“Right#–so, let’s ask some topical questions then.” Vanguard wrangled with the covers for a moment before managing to free himself, giving Celino’s shoulder shove enough to roll him onto his back. The excess of his overlong shirt puddled around his thighs as he straddled the physician’s hips and placed bracing hands to either side of his rib cage.

“Whhhhy,” he drawled musically, “d’ye think I’m here?”

—–

I know! I know! said a portion of Celino’s anatomy, loudly and pointedly enough that Vanguard could scarcely have missed the answer. Looking up at Van straddling him predatorily, Celino had a flash back to the first time they met. Except that now, instead of threatening to stick Celino, Vanguard was demanding that Celino–

Enough of that thought.

Vanguard’s wicked little laugh had been disconcertingly sexy. And that was enough of that thought, too.

Celino grinned up at him. “You like having sex with people you hate?” he said. “You couldn’t find anyone else? You enjoyed our first meeting so much that you want to go through it in reverse–first the snuggling in bed eating goodies and reading dirty books, then the climbing atop and threatening me, then the…” He trailed a hand down Vanguard’s side, the silk gathering in little folds and riffling between his fingertips. “Remind a tired old geezer what happened before that, would you?”

He hit you, his memory supplied obligingly. If we’re being picky.

I don’t think he’s wearing anything under the shirt, his libido said. Forget the history and find out for certain. For science.

And ohhh, Celino could see nothing but the curve of Van’s cheek and the point of his shoulder in the light from the inn’s courtyard, but he could feel him. not nearly enough of him, just tantalizing brushes and curves and–Press upward, his body suggested, and he kept his hips firmly on the mattress. Aldridge was waiting for him in the morning. He could get through this, and maybe even insult Vanguard enough to count it as a victory.

—–

Portions of Celino were certainly getting the message. Other portions were talking, when clearly the answer being sought was not verbal.

Flaming fucking hells, what was wrong with him? While Celino was making clever comments about the order in which events had previously transpired, Vanguard having grown tired of listening, started a little investigative work with his mouth. There was a stupid shirt in the way (its status as stupid related directly to its location; between his mouth and Celino’s skin), but being moved abruptly had pulled the neckline enough to bare a narrow slice of chest.

A questioning tone interrupted a focused examination of a clavical curve by the halfling’s lips. “Huh?” Celino’s grin was a blade underwater in the dark. Something about happening#before? “Ah#–s’not dwell on the past, yeah?” The ticklist trickle of silk followed Celino’s hand, and Vanguard twisted into the brief touch, groaning irritatedly when the contact was broken.

“What?” Annoyance sharpened the edges of his habitual drawl. The filmy light that filtered in through the tiny square of a window outlined the corkscrew contours of his unbound hair, and sapped the eye-watering red from each strand rendering it a colourless inky jungle. “Mother’s love man! You fixing to join the priesthood or what?” The pert point of his nose shifted as he wrinkled it. “Scared you’ll get pregnant?”

—–

Celino had lost count of the number of times someone’s mouth had been on him that day–and on chaste, public parts of him, no less–and it was starting to drive him mad. Shivers ran across his sensitized skin, making him painfully aware of the brush of Vanguard’s lips and the pressure of his hips and thighs. He ached where he was trapped against Vanguard’s body.

“Ah–s’not dwell on the past, yeah?”

Celino laughed. Mockery on autopilot. “Those who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it,” he said, trailing his hand down, around the point of Vanguard’s hip, lower still until he cupped a cheek in his palm. His fingers brushed ticklishly along the cleft. Vanguard’s arse was round and warm and stay here a while, his libido pleaded. Give me a minute, he said to it, then drew his hand back and delivered a stinging slap.

—–

Vanguard would have pointed out that bitching about being the subject of interest from numerous parties was a positive, not a negative. Particularly if they were either of the attractive or wealthy variety. The best were both, but finding those ones was a bit like chasing rainbows looking for ends. Vanguard for his part was willing to settle for attractive and broke sexually; the unattractive and wealthy could always be conned.

Well#–usually.

Sometimes.

Where lips encountered the pebbled texture of goose bumps, they split in a grin. Tangled curlicues of hair dragged ticklishly after him as he inched his way up the man’s throat to the underside of his jaw. Had inter-libido exchange been possible, Vanguard’s would have sided with Celino’s. Since that particular brand of magic had not yet been discovered, the halfling relayed the message with a good old fashioned grind against the hips he pinned.

All was going swimmingly, until Celino got clever again. Vanguard jerked up from where he’d been busily painting the mage’s neck with purple, suspiciously mouth-shaped marks, eyes flying open. “Oi!” Remarkably, he managed to make a fairly ridiculous syllable sound properly indignant. Sitting up again the milky half-light painted his features in a stark achromatic spectrum. “Not funny. Not funny.”

—–

The grind nearly undid Celino. He groaned loudly into Vanguard’s curls, and the tension added extra force to the slap. Then Vanguard’s warmth was gone. Celino grinned up at the indignant thief. Bit off more than we can chew again, have we? “I thought it was hilarious,” he drawled. “You rather enjoyed it, too, last time. What’s wrong?” He half-sat, avoiding any unnecessary pelvic motions (his libido complained), and drew Vanguard back down with an arm around his shoulders. The boy was hot against him, the silk shirt no barrier. “Do you like it only if you’re pinned?” On pinned, he tightened his arm, holding Vanguard to his chest, and delivered another slap.

—–

“Hilarity,” Vanguard glowered, the force of his irritation losing some of its intensity in the low light, “not the mood m’tryin’ to cultivate issit?” Celino was grinning again. More importantly, Celino was talking again. Godsdamnit, did he ever shut up?

And for the second time in so many minutes Vanguard found himself manhandled into an elegant position pressed against Celino’s chest by an arm that was apparently strong than it looked. “Ever heard of ‘go with the flow?” The halfling inquired snappishly, rolling his shoulders so that his scapula jabbed the pinning arm unpleasantly. The second slap knocked the curve out of his spine briefly, rendering him stiff with a mixture of increasing annoyance and embarrassment.

“You know what would be hilarious? If ye let go, and I didn’t have to bite off your nipple. That would be side-splittin’.” Vanguard chose that moment to drop all resistance, letting himself lie with a boneless grace atop Celino’s chest, not accidentally reinstating the pressure to more sensitive portions of the mage’s anatomy.

—–

The sudden pressure startled a gasp out of Celino. Oh. If he was going to tease the boy out of his bed, he had to do it soon, or he wouldn’t do it at all.

Is that what you’re really trying to do? his libido asked.

Yes.

Really?

Absolutely.

All along?

For the last ten seconds, and that’s good enough for you. Shut up and let me get back to work.

He shifted his arm out of the way of Van’s various points (You need to feed him), doing his ragged best to ignore the feel of the body draped over his. It had been so very long. He vaguely remembered a larger body, stronger, pressing him close, fumbles in the darkness, but nothing had come of it and it couldn’t possibly count and when was that, anyway? He breathed in, inhaling the scent of Vanguard’s hair. “Remembering why you hate me?” he purred, and administered another slap.

—–

If nothing else, being clamped to Celino’s chest like a badly fitted jacket put him in the perfect position to bite. Matter of fact, there were scant inches between the halfling’s mouth and the previously threatened nipple. Tendrils of hair swishing across Celino’s throat Vanguard leaned forward and nipped sharply. Celino’s slap was ill-advised given its timing; luck had the halfling let go before the third smack, else he might have done just as he’d promised however inadvertantly.

This was approaching ridiculous, and he was at least briefly, stupidly grateful that it was dark enough to hide the smear of powdery-pink painting his cheeks…. both fore and hind, as it were. At the slap, his hips jumped and this time a creaky little groan crept past his clenched teeth.

Fuck.

“M’ startin’ to,” he growled, rearranging himself in an attempt to shove the mage’s arm off. “Whatever the point is, I get it okay?”

[We never did finish the scene, and left Vanguard's success up in the air. At this point, it looks like Vanguard did, in fact, fail.]