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The glow of the town climbs up over the horizon like a sunrise at midnight. Dan whips the reins that loop around Mischief’s neck, and she picks up the pace for one last leg. As he rides, the chill of night air combs through Dan’s curls, which now have begun to reach below his ears. The lute on his back seems to grow ever-heavier as Dan grows more and more exhausted, and the weight is nearing unbearable. As the bright light of the town grows closer, the clack-clack of Mischief’s hooves begin to lose themselves in sound—music, chatter, sounds of life screaming from the town.
As Dan and Mischief approach the town limits, it becomes clear tonight’s celebration is much more than normal evening festivities. There are banners hung between homes, children running around past the stroke of nightfall, the clamour of drunken antics. Much more merriment than just an evening at the tavern. Groups of people decorate the main road, blocking any hope of Dan riding through, so he ties Mischief up to a fence post at the town’s entrance and heads off to procure sleeping arrangements for her and, preferably, himself as well.
Dan pushes his way through a group of young women, muttering an apology half-heartedly as he scans the buildings that line either side of the road. Dancing townsfolk jostle him as he walks, disturbing his balance as if he were back at sea.
The butcher, the baker, the blacksmith—Dan scans impatiently for a tavern, a barn. Just as he deigns to return to Mischief and spend the night under a tree, a dancing blonde woman, perhaps a few years his elder, grabs his arm and spins him. The smile she gives him is familiar—it’s telling, it’s invitation. For a moment, Dan considers it. The bed would, undoubtedly, be warm. She holds his gaze, curtsies a bit. His eyes drop to her bosom, unwillingly, and he can’t stomach it. Warm bed or not, he’s not interested. Dan gives her a curt nod, a tight-lipped grimace that could be mistaken for a smile, and pushes his way through the crowd once more.
The brew the tavern sells, it must be something wicked, Dan notes. Everywhere he can see, people are draped over each other, all but fully engaging in each other’s company right out on the street. Wicked, indeed. Now Dan wants to find the tavern for more reasons than one.
He’s nearing the end of the main street now, and if this town were the type for alleyway taverns, he’s not sure he’d want to go adventuring into one of those. Light sleep under a tree it is, then. It’s not like the travelling bard hasn’t had his fair share of those nights already. But as he turns around to head back to Mischief, his eyes get stuck on blue.
No further than three feet away stands the most handsome man Dan’s seen in a fortmonth. His hair is swept off his forehead as if it’s been forgotten about, in a way that’s effortlessly gorgeous. Those eyes, blue as water, bore into his own, accompanied by a small smile. It’s kind, not predatory, but Dan can’t miss the spark of heat in his baby blues. His eyes flick down, deliberately sweeping slowly over the man’s long form as a greeting, but it’s not like Dan could have helped himself from looking anyway.
He’s dressed in a billowy white shirt, frilly just short of feminine, something that almost suggests pirate. But the man’s too well put-together, too handsome for piracy. At his hip sits a sword, sheathed in a studded leather scabbard—again, suggesting piracy, but clearly not meaning it.
When Dan’s eyes return to the blues, the smile has grown, and this time there is something a touch predatory there. Acceptably so.
Dan has no hesitation in walking up and inserting himself into the group the man’s chatting with, placing himself right across from the object of his desires.
“Hello, gentlemen,” Dan greets, eyes flicking briefly to the four or so others around before settling back on the man with the sword. “Enjoying the celebration?” Celebration of what, devil only knows.
“Aye, splendid night,” the man to Dan’s left slurs as the rest hum in agreement, and Dan smiles, gives the drunkard a nod.
“Did you enjoy my playing, then?” Dan gestures to the neck of the lute hanging over his shoulder.
To his right, a man missing at least one tooth gives a cheer, points at Dan’s lute as if it’s a rare sight. “Mighty fine playing, young bard.” Dan smiles in false gratitude. “To which college do you belong?”
Dan chuckles a bit. “A mighty fine one, rest assured.” In truth, he wouldn’t dare. Bards were too tricky, too untrustworthy to keep as company. He would know.
Dan’s attention returns to the handsome not-pirate, whose brow has furrowed the slightest bit in confusion. He does not speak the question on his mind, and Dan internally thanks him for that.
“Say, surely this town has a tavern.” The man missing teeth raises his tankard in agreement. “Where might one find it? I’m in need of a bed.”
The pirate straightens his posture, face alight. “You happen to be in luck,” he says, the flirty glint in his eyes now replaced with one of pride. “I own our tavern, and I would be happy to rent you a room.”
“Cheers, thank you.” Could I share yours, perchance?
The man gives Dan another confident smile and steps away from the group, nodding his head in an indication for Dan to follow.
“Tavern is just around the corner,” the man says once Dan joins him to navigate through the crowd of townsfolk. “Phil, by the way.”
“Dan. Such a pleasure to meet you, Phil,” Dan drawls, attempting to turn on the charm in hopes of a bedmate, or at least a discounted room rate.
They squeeze past a group of loud, drunken men, and Phil gives Dan a look out of the corner of his eye. “You might endeavour to make less of an entrance next you intend to play make-believe.”
Dan blushes. His lying needed some brushing up on, then. “Was my arrival so obvious?”
Phil ushers one last person out of their way as they exit the thick of the crowd, Dan trailing closely behind the tavern owner. “Not to them,” he says, quieter now as they begin to move away from the celebration. “Although, men have never quite caught their attention as they do mine.” Another side-eyed glance.
Dan swallows. Does he mean…? Surely not. Unless he does. He turns and gives Phil an attempt at a neutral smile, and Phil smiles back with lips Dan now notices are full and pink. Investigation required .
They walk no further than twenty steps before Phil stops, gestures up at what is clearly a tavern, complete with sprawling porch and flashy signs, just metres away from where Dan had nearly given up. He had never claimed to be an intelligent travelling bard.
“The Swash and Buckle Inn, pride and joy of yours truly.” Phil announces, beaming. The glow of lanterns from the porch casts him half in shadow, half in warm yellow light. He’s even more handsome than Dan originally thought.
“I am a bard, nonetheless,” Dan blurts out the non sequitur, not trusting himself to talk about anything other than himself, lest he compliment the man on the way his eyes shine in the moonlight.
Phil seems unfazed by Dan’s change in topic. “Ah, but not the one who played tonight.” He giggles, a joyful sounding thing. Do men do that, now? Phil does, at least. It’s rather endearing.
“Much easier to make friends as a hired entertainer than a vagrant bard.”
“Be assured, you would not have needed such a guise to hold my interest.”
It’s midnight and the lantern light is low, thank heavens, or Phil should have seen the fire red blush that blooms immediately on Dan’s cheeks.
“Nor should you have needed the pirate’s blouse and sword to hold mine,” Dan teases.
“Tavern work can be dangerous!” Phil defends himself playfully, waving a hand that nearly lands on Dan’s shoulder before aborting. “It’s not a gimmick.” He pauses. “And it isn’t a blouse!”
Dan laughs. “It’s a very handsome blouse, Phil.”
Phil is smiling, even the darkness of the night can’t hide that. “I should have you hung for… for… identity theft.”
“Bit harsh, Phil.” Dan shoves Phil playfully. Then, as if he’d forgotten about it until now, Dan changes the topic of conversation once again. “I’ve a horse, as well. If you have stables.”
———
They take a back path to retrieve Mischief, neither man inclined to face the horde of drunken townsfolk if unnecessary. When they reach the gate, Dan notes to his relief that she remains tied to the post where he had left her. Not a soul in town seemed sober enough to succeed in thievery, anyway, with the exception of perhaps Phil. Dan was still attempting to gauge his level of inebriation.
“Good girl,” Dan coos, smoothing her mane while he unties her from the fence post. “Phil’s got a stall set up for you tonight, next to where I’ll be.” She makes a soft, happy grunt, as if she understands.
Dan leads Mischief on foot as he and Phil make their way back to the tavern, the footpath entirely under the cloak of night. It’s lovers lane, it appears, as young couples stumble past them, clothes in various states and tongues in an array of different places. The two men chuckle quietly with each passing couple, and Dan fights hard to resist the urge to proposition Phil for an escapade of their own.
They come to the barn before the tavern, as the stables are located at the edge of the town to take advantage of the wealth of land. The stables are empty, mostly, save for two horses that are already fast asleep in their stalls. Dan leads Mischief into the next empty one and makes sure she’s all set for the night. He plans to make haste in leaving, so Mischief won’t be here long, but he’ll sleep better knowing she’s well cared for. He places a kiss on her black neck, whispers goodnight, and heads out to join Phil again at the front of the barn.
“Ready for a room?” Phil asks.
“Onward.”
The two men make the short hike next door to the Swash and Buckle. It seems from the growing quiet outside that the celebration has begun to wind down, and cheers for that. Dan’s never been a heavy sleeper.
They enter the tavern, and a few stragglers seem to have migrated to the bar, slinging their drunken bodies over the counter and whining to the barkeep. Dan winces, for on any other night that might have been him. To his right, Phil slides behind the front desk and rummages around the mess of papers atop it.
“Right,” Phil says, grabbing a journal and flipping through its pages. “Lets see.” He makes a face. “Oh, lord.” He looks up, sympathy in his eyes, which can only mean one thing.
“Ah, should have known with the celebration and all,” Dan remarks, trying his best to hide his disappointment. A warm bed might have been nice, but if hay suits Mischief he guesses it’s good enough for him, as well.
Phil looks genuinely upset. “I apologize, Dan. Our rooms must have filled up while I was out.” He looks back at the journal, perhaps searching for a hidden room he hadn’t been aware of until now. Phil looks back up at Dan, gnawing on his lip. “Would it be… uncouth of me to offer you mine? Entirely brotherly, of course.” Of course. “I feel horrible for having promised you what I cannot offer.”
Under normal circumstances, Dan would have refused, would have assured the tavern keeper that the stables were fine, that it would be easier to protect his horse anyway. But Phil was… rather stunning. And Dan was not one to make a habit of turning down offers to share beds with stunning men, brotherly or not.
“That would be acceptable.” Dan nods, attempting to hide his giddiness. “What’s your fee?”
“I wouldn’t dare charge you to sleep in my room because of my mistake. It’s a favour.” The version of Dan’s mother that lives in his head tells him to insist, but his pockets urge him to accept. He nods.
“You’re very kind, Phil. Thank you.” Dan adjusts his lute on his back. “And I do apologize if I’ve given you the wrong impression of me, I can be a very, uh, upstanding gentleman.” In his exhaustion he cannot seem to come up with a smoother way to say, “Though I’ve given you no reason to trust me, I won’t take advantage of you unless you ask.”
Phil smiles. “Likewise.”
Phil leads Dan up the creaking wooden stairs across from the front desk, up to the hallway of rentable rooms. Phil’s room is the last door on the right, next to the tiny hallway window that looks over the town. By now, few people remain out. Dan can’t be sure from such a distance, but it’s possible that the stragglers aren’t even conscious. Such are festivals like these.
Phil unlocks his door and holds it open for Dan. “After you, bard.” Dan walks in, and Phil follows. The walls are made of the same dark wood as the floor, the same as the rest of the tavern, and the room is mostly empty save for a soft-looking white bed and a chest of drawers. The bed sits in front of a large window, and moonlight pours in like wine over the sheets.
“There’s a washroom down the hall, if you have need of it,” Phil remarks, unhooking his scabbard holster and placing the sword next to the right side of the bed. “Feel free to make yourself at home. I’m sure I’ve stashed away some victuals somewhere.”
“I’ll be alright, thank you,” Dan says, removing his lute from his back and placing it next to the other side of the bed. He strips off his trousers and shirt, thinking nothing of it, until he notices the look on Phil’s face. It’s not scandalized, but it is interested. Unmistakably so. It’s not the look of someone you’re about to platonically share a bed with. Something lights up inside Dan.
Dan flops his nearly-nude body onto the bed, not bothering to get under the covers. Phil, too, strips, throws his worn clothing on top of his chest of drawers. When he climbs into bed, though, he hikes the bedclothes up to his chin and faces the wall. Dan curses himself and wonders how he’d managed to misread the situation, when Phil had been quite clear about his intentions.
Dan flips over and faces the opposite wall. He curses himself for not having gone down for a nightcap before bed. Despite having come into town exhausted, the evening’s events have left him buzzing. So he stares at the wall, traces the wood grain with his eyes, as he waits for sleep to take him.
———
Dan wakes to the sun pouring through curtainless windows into his eyes. To his right, Phil appears undisturbed, snoring quietly. The bedclothes rise and fall with his breathing. He looks peaceful, carefree, unlike the lustful nerves he’d radiated the night before. It had been lustful, Dan is sure of it, but Phil had seemed hesitant to act upon it. Thankfully for the both of them, Dan had no such reservations any more, even in the exposure of morning light.
Phil’s hair appears to have fallen over his face in the night, long pieces tickling the tip of his nose and brushing the top of his sculpted cheekbones. Dan yearns to push it away, to get a clear look at the resting face of this gorgeous man who had invited Dan into his bed with noble intentions.
So he does.
Dan softly brushes back the lock of hair that rests against Phil’s cheek, giving Dan a much better look at him. Phil’s snoring hitches, and his breathing changes as his eyes flutter open.
Phil doesn’t seem disturbed by Dan’s presence in his bed, nor his proximity, nor the hand Dan still has resting in Phil’s hair. “Good morning,” Phil whispers, voice hoarse with sleep.
Phil’s soft mouth curls into an endearing smile as his eyes shut again. And it is then that Dan can no longer help himself but to move to taste the sun stored in Phil’s lips.
Phil’s smile widens under Dan’s lips, and he kisses back quickly and eagerly. Phil tangles a heavy, warm hand into Dan’s long curls as Dan wraps both of his around Phil’s jaw. They exchange slow, deep kisses, bodies and hearts softened by sleep. It feels comfortable, like something falling into place. Dan’s right leg finds its way between Phil’s, and Phil wraps his around it, locking Dan in place. As if he could ever make himself leave this bed.
“God, I,” Phil mumbles against Dan’s lips. “I promised you platonic.” He throws his other hand around Dan’s back and pulls him in closer.
Dan huffs a small laugh against Phil’s lips before pulling back for air. “Good thing I made no such promise.”
There’s heat, so much heat—from their tangled bodies, the morning sun, the lust pooling in Dan’s stomach. Phil feels it too, though, the proof of which asserts itself against Dan’s scantily clad hip.
Phil’s kisses make their way down Dan’s jaw, to his neck, to his collarbone, where they devolve into small bites, just rough enough to leave marks. Dan feels like he might explode, in more ways than one.
Dan tilts his head to give Phil better access to his canvas, and by doing so his eyes land on Phil’s studded scabbard next to the bed. Something about it makes him even harder. He’s not sure whether it’s some unexplored kink, or just the memory of Phil in that pseudo-pirate outfit, but he can’t help himself from rutting against Phil’s hip like a dog while Phil bites bruises into his skin.
“Phil,” Dan gasps. “Phil.” It’s a plea.
Phil gravitates his mouth back up Dan’s neck, but he pulls back before he makes it to Dan’s lips. He pulls their foreheads together, and they pant into each other’s mouths. Phil’s blue eyes bore into Dan's, and Phil's right hand moves to the front of the waistband of Dan’s breeches. He pauses, fingers wrapped around the tied bow holding them there. A question.
“Phil.” It’s a plea, again, and it’s a yes.
Phil pulls the drawstring of Dan’s breeches open as Dan reaches for Phil’s, arms tangling as they fight to undress each other. After ten seconds of frictionless wrestling, Dan’s had enough. He shoves off Phil and removes his own breeches, and Phil does the same.
Dan wants to savour it, to take all of Phil in, but at some point the morning’s softness had been replaced by sharp urgency, and all Dan knows is that he needs it now. He needs it yesterday. Hell, something tells him he needs it always.
Dan crawls back on top of Phil and crashes his lips onto his. Before Dan’s had a chance to settle back into the rhythm of the kiss, Phil’s hands are around them both, not pumping, just holding, squeezing. A sound he didn’t know he could make passes from Dan’s mouth into Phil’s.
Dan wraps his hand around Phil’s and starts to move. His fingers slot between Phil’s on their cocks, and while Phil’s hands are smaller, they’re both able to fit their hands around each other with ease. Dan pumps Phil’s hands slowly, propping himself up on one elbow and panting into Phil’s mouth, all hope of kissing out the window. Phil’s eyes are screwed shut as they move together, the feeling of hands and a cock touching his own teasing little whimpers out of his mouth with each stroke. A bead of sweat drops from Dan’s forehead onto Phil’s, and they both moan.
Phil’s cock is bigger than Dan’s, by several inches, and as they pump Dan has to thrust to keep himself in their fists. The friction against Phil’s cock and their intertwined hands is so good, so good, and Dan can’t stop himself from fucking into their fists harder and harder.
They’re panting, and they’re sweating, and Phil squeezes around their cocks, and Dan comes onto their hands, Phil’s stomach, Phil’s cock.
Phil’s whimpering now, just a stream of noises into Dan’s mouth as Dan drops his forehead onto Phil’s. Dan’s cum eases the slide, makes the whole thing slicker, wetter, hotter. Dan pulls out of their fists, but the wet sound it makes as Phil gets himself off with Dan’s cum and Dan’s hand makes him feel like he’s close to the edge again.
Phil bites his lip as he comes, and despite all the noise he’s been making, he goes totally silent. And then Dan has Phil’s cum on his hand as well, and it’s so messy, and Dan is going to get off to this memory forever.
Phil dips his finger into the pool that’s formed on his stomach and brings it up to his own mouth, licking, eyes trained on Dan’s. Forever, he swears it.
Dan lets his body crash down onto Phil’s, mess be damned. He nestles his face into the crook of Phil’s neck, and his lips find their way to Phil. He’s more just moving his mouth than pressing kisses against Phil’s skin, but he’s relishing the coolness of Phil’s sweat against his face, and he isn’t sure Phil is even lucid enough to register what’s going on, anyway.
“So the bard thing did turn you on,” Dan mumbles half-heartedly into Phil’s neck.
He feels it when Phil laughs, feels the huff of his stomach and the sound rumbling up through his throat. “You didn’t need it, but it was a nice touch.” Phil brings the hand that wasn’t just touching their dicks up to card through Dan’s curls. “So? Did I earn a serenade?”
Dan musters the energy to press a real kiss into Phil’s neck. “I’m more of a storyteller. But I guess I could make an exception.” He smiles. “For a price.”
Phil’s already flipping them over and kissing Dan into the bed before he’s finished talking.