Heated Chivalry

The sound of the trumpets echoed over the tournament grounds, mixed with the apprehensive murmur of the crowd gathered for the final fight. Tonight, a victor would be crowned. This fight would determine who won gold and who had to settle for silver. 

Shane was determined to walk out of the ring victorious. He only had one more obstacle standing in the way of a win at his first ever royal tournament: the man standing on the other side of the sandfilled ring.

The other knight’s helmet rested on one of the fence poles that marked the fighting ring, leaving his array of blond curls on unnerving display. Just as unnerving was the cocky smile as they greeted each other, swords raised to their faces. Shane couldn’t wait until he put his helmet on so that he wouldn’t have to see that grin. 

“Hollander,” he drawled.

Shane grit his teeth. “Rozanov.” He was not thinking about how much larger the man’s longsword was compared to his own arming sword. 

Rozanov rolled his shoulders in a stretch. “Ready to get on your back for me?” he chirped with a wink.

Hmph. Fuck this guy.

***

There had never really been any doubt what Shane Hollander would dedicate his life to. He had been training for his future career – calling – since he was seven years old.

His father worked for the king of Montreal’s treasury and his mother was the advisor to a local lord. They had tried to set their only son up for a life of noble math and royal finances. But time and again, Shane had abandoned his numbers-covered slate to take up the solid, mostly straight stick he’d found in the woods, whiffing it through the air at imagined foes.

He was lucky, he knew, not just that his parents made a decent amount of money, but also had influential enough positions to suggest to the right people that their only son should be accepted as a squire.

There had been some grumblings about him, about whether the son of two commoners, no matter their stations, could aspire to knighthood, but most of those voices had quieted down after it became increasingly clear that Shane was running laps around the other squires-in-training. 

Holding a sword and shield came easy to him, as if they were natural extensions of his arms. He was regularly beating boys two or three years older than him, something that earned him whispers from the senior knights and a chilly attitude from the other children. The adults may have accepted a talented commoner among the trainees but both those things made Shane very unpopular with his peers.

The decade and some were a mix of some of the worst and the best times. His fellow squires didn’t like him any more as time went on, with one important exception in Hayden Pike. The rest either avoided him, laughed behind his back at his inherited clothes and gear, or tried to best him at fighting. Those attempting the latter usually found themselves bruised on the ground. 

The rest of it though, was fantastic. He got to learn how to hold his shield to protect him and how to use it to bash his opponents’ faces in. He rode a horse for the first time ever, and loved it almost as much as he loved the feeling of facing off a rival competitor in the ring, sword in hand. When Shane walked into the ring, he could feel all the noise of the world wash off of him and everything made sense. 

So, despite the best efforts of his fellow squires, Shane completed his training. He and a collection of other squires were called to the court of King Theriault of Montreal. 

The capital was the largest place Shane had ever been to, and the palace the grandest building he had ever seen. He had been thankful for the opportunity to clean up before their audition with the king, complete with a change of new, fancy clothes. 

In the courtroom, in front of lords and ladies, Shane knelt before King Theriault and bowed his head deep. 

“I, Shane Hollander,” he started, heart beating in his chest as he was finally allowed to swear his oath, “do swear fealty and service to you, King Theriault of Montreal, first of your name and the highest lord of these lands. I swear fealty to your heirs and to the Kingdom of Montreal. I swear to serve you and Montreal faithfully with my sword, my shield and my life, during peace and war, famine and plenty, until the end of my life or the world’s end.”

Head still bowed, Shane had waited to feel Theriault’s sword blade on his shoulder, but instead he heard the rustling of his heavy robes as the king stood up from his throne. Shane didn’t dare look up to see what made him break protocol. His heart was still hammering away, unsure of what he was supposed to do. 

“Today is a momentous day,” King Theriault’s voice boomed across the court. “not just for you, Shane Hollander, but for all of Montreal. Today marks the day when we welcome a new kind of knight to our ranks. Born a peasant’s son, you are to become greater than the sums of your parts. You have trained for this moment, but now comes the real test. Now you will uphold your knightly virtues and serve the kingdom with your life.”

Theriault stopped right in front of Shane. With his neck still bent, all Shane could see his well-polished shoes with the silver buckles, and the fur-trimmed hem of his cloak. But finally, finally, he heard the distinct sound of a sword leaving its scabbard and he felt the flat blade of the ceremonial sword rest on his shoulder. 

“Rise then, as Sir Shane Hollander of Montreal, a Knight of the Realm.”

Shane stood up then, and finally looked into the eyes of King Theriault. His gaze was steely and it felt like his eyes were seeing straight through Shane, into the core of him. Shane looked back at him, spine straight, before bowing his head again. 

Shane was far from stupid. He knew that his journey was out of the ordinary – very much so. It was not a journey that the king could afford to make commonplace, lest he wanted the nobles to start grumbling even louder that ordinary boys such as him took their son’s places. Shane was to be an exception, and with that came scrutiny. His mother had insinuated as much last they spoke. Shane was to be extraordinary. The perfect picture of a Montreal knight. He couldn’t afford anything less than that, which brought him to the breathing exercises he was currently performing.

His nerves were alight with anxiety. The tournament that was about to start was his first. He had fought others before, of course, during his years of training, but this time it wasn’t just Montreal’s knights and knights-to-be who would be involved. 

They had travelled to a border town and welcomed visitors from the neighbouring kingdom of Boston. King LeClaire had brought a gaggle of knights and Shane was expected to hold his own against any of them, veteran and rookie alike.

The older knights had given him some tips regarding the more veteran knights, but the whispers about the newest Bostonian were running rampant. No one had met him, but there were some stand-out details. Like the fact that he was young – nineteen like Shane – but more so that he was not actually born in Boston. According to the rumours, he had been born in the Kingdom of Moscow. Moscow was a large kingdom to the northeast of both Montreal and Boston, and they were known for their rather isolationist policies. 

Shane had never met anyone from Moscow and he had never expected to either, least of all one in the service of Boston’s king. Shane had never heard of a foreigner being knighted. If he was honest, he didn’t even think it was allowed according to the law in Montreal. Maybe Boston was different? He couldn’t imagine why someone would want a liability like that in his service. Or maybe he could. 

Because another rumour that was bouncing around was that the Moscow-born knight was an absolute menace with his sword. A two-hander even. A two-hander longsword gave you range, but it also left you wide open as you swung around. You had to be not just fast, but strong too – a sword like that weighing almost double the weight of the short-sword knights like Shane wielded. A shield was a far more sensible choice. 

Shane had been trained with a sword and board since his first day, and the same was true for pretty much all of the Montreal knights. It was a tradition that king Theriault all but enforced and Shane had to admit that they made a handsome sight with the kingdom’s blue and red crest on their shields.

No matter how much truth there was to the rumours, Shane had to stand his ground against this knight. He focused on that thought as he took several deep breaths. Some of the talk was certainly exaggerated, as rumours usually were. A thought about the rumours that certainly made their way around about him, the peasant knight of Montreal, kicked around his head for a moment before he banished it. He couldn’t control things like that. He could only control his body, his actions. 

Shane checked the straps of his chest plate, making sure it was sitting snug over his gambeson. He had already adjusted them twice, but his hands needed something to do as he waited for the trumpets to sound, signaling the arrival of the Bostonian party. 

His armor, as always, was impeccably polished, its straps oiled and every old dent had been carefully hammered out. The idea of stepping out of his tent looking like anything other than the perfect knight was unthinkable. He was representing something much larger than himself, something he had been groomed to be from a young age.

He focused on his breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth. He was a knight of Montreal, and a good one at that. He would do his best during this tournament, and his best would take him far. 

And with that, the trumpets sounded outside.

Pushing the tent flap aside, Shane kept his spine straight. He knew that with his 5’10” he was below the average of his fellow knights, and he refused to make himself look shorter than he already felt in their company. He had inherited an old armor, his parents not being able to afford a new one. Thankfully his height benefited him in that instance as not many of his fellow knights could have fit in the armor that had been bequeathed to him. 

He had no doubts that he would have been the lowest priority if he had been a more common size. Sure, the armor was made more than twenty years ago and had some outdated detailing and decoration, but it fit him well enough and got the job done. 

His sword was new, thankfully. It had been a present from the only other boy he had been friendly with during his training, Hayden Pike. Well, as of three months ago, Sir Hayden Pike.

Hayden himself came out of his own tent and grinned at Shane. It was Hayden’s first tournament too, but his friend didn’t seem to display any of the nerves that were buzzing within Shane. 

The trumpets were still blaring and would continue to do so as king LeClaire and his knights rode onto the tourney grounds. The sound of them made something along Shane’s spine itch and he schooled himself to not show any of his discomfort on his face. Hayden’s hand, not wearing his heavy gauntlets yet, patted him on his back.

“Let's go see what these assholes are all about, yeah?”

Shane just nodded and the two of them moved with the crowd, everyone wanting to get a good look at the newcomers. 

Competitions and tournaments like these were held on the regular. It had started as a peace treaty long ago and had developed into a fierce competition. It allowed the kings to have their knights beat the shit out of each other without having to involve the slaughter and burned crops and death that came with an actual war. Borders didn’t shift, but at least bragging rights and a rather hefty sum of gold was to be won.

People moved out of Shane’s and Hayden’s way, their armors signalling their importance and letting them through to the front of the crowd. They saw the banners first, the black and yellow snapping in the wind. With them came a long row of horses and carriages, all draped in the same colours. None of the knights were suited up in their armors for the ride. Instead, they rode in gambesons, or linen or leather jerkins, several of them wearing long cloaks draped over their backs and their horses’ rumps. 

He tried to take stock of them as they rode by, looking for anything that might get him the slightest edge in the upcoming tournament. A few of them looked back down at Shane and Hayden, but none of them lingered on them long, their horses moving on and continuing down the road.

Then Shane saw him. He hadn’t thought he would be able to make out the man the rumour mill had been going on about by sight alone, but as soon as he saw him, there could be no doubt. His hair was the colour of August wheat, falling in curls, and his jaw looked like those of the many statues in the king’s hall. 

He was dressed in a dark leather jerkin, but its cut was different from the others he had seen. It had a deeper neckline, showing off an intricately embroidered shirt underneath, red and black thread standing out against the stark white shirt. 

Under the shirt Shane could just barely make out the glimmer of what must be a golden necklace. He wore no cloak.  The infamous longsword was strapped to the side of his horse. All those details faded into the background though, as the other knight locked eyes with him.

It was a ridiculous notion that time slowed down, but Shane had no other explanation. Everything around him moved much slower as they looked at each other. All the noise that usually bothered Shane like an itch he couldn’t reach fell all but silence. The other man didn’t follow the pattern of the other Bostonians. Instead, he held Shane’s gaze with those hazel eyes long enough and with such intensity that Shane could feel his cheeks flush with heat and Shane was the one who finally broke the moment between them, looking down on the dirt and the horses’ hooves.  

***

The sounds were overwhelming. Trumpeters were blasting and there were several drummers that didn’t sound like they were playing their instruments quite in the same rhythm. The crowd were hooting and cheering despite the fact that no fight was currently ongoing and nervous horses were whinnying. Shane was back in his tent, already having been victorious in his first three fights. 

His body ached, but the pain helped him stay grounded with all the chaos around him. He had a split lip, his hair was drenched in sweat, and his armor had several new scratches and a large dent where his last opponent had gotten a brutal hit that would have knocked Shane out if he hadn’t seen it coming at the last second. Instead of fighting the hit he had allowed himself to move with the blow, using the force to spin around and trip the other knight, knocking him to his back where he soon had the tip of Shane’s sword at his throat.

He couldn’t even remember the name of his last opponent, Hammer–something, but he had been one of the ones who had tried to intimidate the much shorter Shane during the welcome ceremony where all the Montreal knights had lined up to shake hands with the Bostonian knights, their visitors having donned their armors and weapons now, sans gauntlets and helmets. 

They had all shook hands – a sign of supposed sportsmanship before the pummelling. Several of the Boston knights had moved through the hand shaking like going through familiar motions, and some, like his third opponent, had squeezed his hand unnecessarily hard, most likely to try and be intimidating. 

One man had looked him in the eyes and given him a loop sided grin, and among all the new people that was the one face that apparently had burned itself into Shane’s retina because he kept seeing those eyes and that smile even when he closed his eyes.

Sir Rozanov, he had been introduced as, spine straight and looking at the Montreal king as if he dared him to have an opinion about this very obviously Moscovian man wearing the armor and colours of Boston. And what an armor it was. It shone in the midday sun, the light catching on the intricate filigree work decorating the chest plate, skirt and pauldrons. Ivy and thorns wrapped around the shoulders and in the middle of his chest the snarling bear of Boston was depicted. 

It was a statement to be sure, and Shane couldn’t help but notice that Rozanov didn’t look away from the king when he bowed before him. Neither, it looked like, did king Theriault. The king had narrowed his eyes, but said nothing as the next Bostonian knight, Sir Marlow, was introduced and the ceremony continued. When it was Shane’s turn to bow before king LeClaire he made sure to bow deep, neck dipping into the bow.

The seed of the tournament had been revealed after the opening ceremony and Shane was to go up against a Sir Connors in the first round. Unbidden, his eyes sought out Rozanov’s name and found it on the other side of the bracket. They wouldn’t fight each other unless the both of them won all their previous fights and made it to the final match up. 

The chances of that had felt slim, but here Shane was, the winner of his side of the bracket. Rozanov’s next fight would determine who Shane was going to meet, but he didn’t have the highest of hopes that he could avoid the Moscovian in the ring. Rozanov was set to go up against Sir Comau, and while the veteran Montreal knight was good, his glory days might just be behind him. He would give his all in this upcoming fight, but Shane didn’t think it would be enough to stop Rozanov who had been tearing through the bracket. 

The final fight wouldn’t be until tomorrow so Shane had plenty of time to agonize over his fate, no matter if he’d go up against Rozanov or Comau. 

The flap of his tent was pushed aside then and Hayden stepped inside. He had already taken his armor off, having been knocked out of the running in the second round. His face didn’t betray any disappointment in his fate though, but instead he was beaming at Shane.

“There he is, Montreal’s pride! Ready to kick some Bostonian ass tomorrow?” 

Hayden moved over and started to help Shane with the straps of his armor, unbidden. It was really beneath him to do page work like this, but Shane didn’t have his own page because that was yet another expense he couldn’t afford. 

He usually got by on his own or from the, sometimes begrudged, charity of his fellow knights as they lent him aid when their squires had finished their real tasks. And sometimes he had Hayden, who despite the many times Shane had protested, didn’t seem to mind helping him out. “Or well, might be some Moscovian ass. That guy has been tearing through us.”

It didn’t exactly fill Shane with confidence, and Hayden must have realized what he had been saying, because he followed it up with: “But you can get him. You’re faster.”

“He’s taller,” Shane shot back, “and heavier. Better armor.”

“Fuck that. So was Hammersmith, and you knocked him on his ass just fine.”

Right. Hammersmith had been his name. Shane really should remember things like that. Titles and names were important. He would have to study more before the next tournament. Unless he was murdered in the ring by Rozanov tomorrow.

Hayden held up the pauldron with the dent in it, inspecting it critically. It would have to be taken to the smith during the night so that it would be back in working order tomorrow. Thankfully that was paid for by the kings as part of the tournament. 

Hayden put the pauldron aside and helped Shane take the next one off and then lifted the breastplate over his head and arms, revealing a sweaty gambeson. Shane could feel how sweat covered every inch of his body and then some. He really needed a bath.

“We should watch the next fight,” Hayden said after several minutes of silence. Before Shane had a chance to protest, he continued. “It would be good to see what sort of fighter he is. He watched your last match up against Hammersmith.”

“He watched me?”

Shane was hoping the remaining flush from the fight was enough to cover the blush that rushed to his cheek at the idea of being observed by those hazel eyes. It shouldn’t bother him so much. Plenty of people were watching him – that was half the point of a spectacle like this tournament – and it wasn’t a bad idea to observe someone you might go up against. Still, the idea of Rozanov’s eyes on him made something in Shane start heating up. Shit, he really must be nervous about meeting the guy in the ring.

“Yeah, sure did,” Hayden continued. “Half expected him to start some shit, but he just kept looking at the two of you. Didn’t even flinch when Hammersmith went down. He just smiled, so I don’t know what sort of bullshit is going on in Boston because I sure as hell wouldn’t grin like that if one of us lost our fight.”

Shane could imagine a few of their fellow knights smiling if he had been the one to lose that fight, but he didn’t voice that out loud. Hayden was just being a good friend. Loyal. Still, he didn’t want to think too long about Rozanov’s grin.

“Well, let's check him out then,” Shane said, trying to get the thoughts of that smile out of his mind. Maybe seeing the guy fight would clear his head and get Shane ready to face him tomorrow. That was, of course, if Rozanov actually won his fight today, but somehow Shane doubted any other outcome.

***

Shane was transfixed. When he had heard that Rozanov was from Moscow and used a two-hander he had imagined a big, hulking man who favoured brute force over actual skill. It was very clear to Shane now that he needed to examine his prejudices because he couldn’t have been more wrong. 

Rozanov was moving in the ring as if he wasn’t wearing a fifty-pound armor, dancing around Sir Comeau. Shane couldn’t see Comeau’s face due to the helmet, but he could see his frustration and anger in the way he moved. Comeau’s shield had taken several hits, and it was obvious how his left arm was growing tired. Rozanov’s sword was much heavier than Comeau’s, but he showed no sign of slowing down, pummelling Comeau and pushing him back against the rope fence that made up the fighting ring’s perimeter.

Shane had never seen anyone fight like that before. In Montreal, knights were taught to fight in a certain way, all of them being trained by the same principle of sword and shield. It meant that they were really fucking good at what they did, but they didn’t have diversity. And they had no idea what to do when a Boston knight with seemingly no self-preservation launched himself at them with a two-hander.

The crowd went absolutely wild when Rozanov’s sword smashed into Comeau’s shield again, splitting it down across the Montreal crest. Shane swallowed down as Rozanov spun again in a move that wasn’t dissimilar to what Shane had used against Hammersmith. 

Comeau floundered, trying to bring up his sword in a parry, the useless shield still clinging to his left arm. There was nothing he could do to stop Rozanov though, and his sword slammed into Comeau’s chest in a way that Shane just knew would bruise his ribs. Comeau crumpled to the ground and Rozanov leaned over him, placing a foot on the now severely dented breastplate.

The referee called the fight then, announcing Rozanov as the winner and declaring that he would be the second combatant in tomorrow’s championship fight against Sir Shane Hollander of Montreal. Rozanov took his helmet off then, and Shane felt something catch in his throat at the sight of the sweat slick curls sticking to the man’s forehead and temples, at the sight of his flushed face and cocky grin. Nerves. It had to be. Why else would something stir deep in his gut?

Rozanov spotted him in the crowd then, and a not insignificant part of Shane wanted to duck and hide, but he stood his ground and met his eyes. That stupid grin got just a little wider on Rozanov’s face and he tilted his chin up. Shane wasn’t sure if it was in a greeting or in a challenge, but a spark of electricity ran down his spine. He raised his own chin minutely. Tomorrow it would be the two of them in the ring. And Shane would do all he could to beat that smug grin off Rozanov’s face.

***

Dinner had been almost as overwhelming as the tournament. Loud music was played by royal musicians and more people than Shane could count had patted his back and shoulders, congratulating him and wishing him well tomorrow. Shane felt like his skin was crawling, like it didn’t belong to himself anymore. 

The two kings had held a short toast for their two champions, wishing them luck and a fair fight tomorrow, and the roar from the crowd that followed had made Shane feel like he was underwater, but he smiled and bowed before the two royalties. Rozanov, he noticed, just smiled.

He had eaten what he could from the fabulous feast and when an opportunity to leave his table and head outside presented itself, he took it. It wasn’t quiet outside, but it was a world’s difference from inside the pavilion. He took three deep breaths and leaned back against a large oak tree, closing his eyes as he tried to shield himself away from his surroundings. 

He could do this. He could probably leave the feast now, blaming his fight tomorrow if anyone protested. Then tomorrow he would fight and he would either win or lose. And then he could go home again and not be surrounded by hundreds of people and noises and smells and tastes. Just one more day.

Yet another scent permeated his senses, and he scrunched up his nose at the smell of tobacco. He was about to leave the quiet corner he had managed to keep to himself for all of two minutes when he saw who it was, standing  a scant ten meters away, smoking. 

Rozanov raised what looked like a thin stick to his mouth. The far end glowed red. Shane had to make a conscious effort to not look at the way his lips formed around it. It didn’t look like any pipe he had ever seen but it was too dark to really see. Rozanov sucked in a deep breath of smoke before letting it out. The whiffs of smoke sailed up toward the night sky.

Rozanov was shaded in the darkness of the night, but there was no doubt that he was watching Shane closely. Shane felt a lump in his throat. He hadn’t done anything except breathing and closing his eyes, but he felt like Rozanov could see through him. He swallowed down, instantly hating how obvious the action must be. Maybe the darkness shielded Shane. Maybe.

None of the knights had worn armor to the feast and Rozanov was back to wearing the linen shirt with the red and black embroidery. Shane couldn’t make out the details from where he was standing. He refused to feel lesser-than in his plain linen shirt, refused to feel lesser-than in any aspect when it came to Rozanov. He was about to push off the tree and leave without a word when Rozanov spoke up.

“Nervous, Hollander?”

Shane bristled at that, for several reasons. He was nervous, but he refused to admit that. He refused to admit that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Rozanov ever since he first saw his stupid face with his stupid hair and dumb eyes. He had every intention of beating him in the fight tomorrow. And here Rozanov went on calling him Hollander, completely forgoing the Sir that was rightfully his to claim. Shane didn’t call Hayden by his title, but they were friends. He and Rozanov were anything but.  

“No,” he lied, glad of the small mercy that his voice didn’t break with the small word. “I’m going to kick your ass tomorrow.”

He wasn’t as confident as he sounded, but he wasn’t chanceless. Rozanov was larger than him, but Hammersmith was larger than both of them and Shane had won against him. He wasn’t the tallest or the heaviest of the Montreal knights, but damn it if he wasn’t one of the best of them, if not the best. He could do it. He could beat Rozanov.

“Aww, that is cute,” Rozanov just replied, his words wrapped in an accent Shane assumed was Moscovian. He took a step closer to Shane, out of the shadows. “Having dream is good, yes?”

The torch light flickered over his face, creating dramatic shadows over his nose and cheekbones, and fuck, Shane hated that face. Hated that Rozanov wasn’t the least affected by Shane’s comment while Shane himself felt like a hive of bees lived in his chest.  

Rozanov’s eyes were on him and Shane was glad that the warm glow of the torch must hide some of his flush. He hated this, but still he didn’t leave. He remained, watching Rozanov’s eyes sweep down toward his lips. Unbidden, Shane’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips and feeling the sting of his cut. Rozanov’s eyes on him felt like they had actual, physical weight to them.

“Do not worry, Hollander. Losing to me is not so bad. Everyone does.”

“I am not like everyone.”

“No, you are not.” Rozanov’s voice sounded matter-of-factly. Shane narrowed his eyes, waiting for the next barb. “You are Sir Shane Hollander, how you say, peasant knight?” Shane was about to actually get in this guy’s face, rage starting to boil in him, but then Rozanov continued. 

“Only man to do so. Too good to keep in fields. Maybe Montreal’s best knight.” Now Shane was definitively blushing, but then Rozanov went and ruined it. “Not good enough to beat me though. But second place is good, yes?”

“Whatever,” Shane said, trying to sound a lot more nonchalant than he was feeling. He didn’t know that his story had made it outside Montreal’s borders and he wasn’t sure what he thought about that. And then Rozanov had called him Montreal’s best knight, which was, he supposed, true. At least today. He was the one that had made it furthest in the tournament, and now the only thing between him and victory stood before him, looking absolutely stunning in the torch light.

Shane took a step back at that thought, as if he could physically distance himself from the words his mind had conjured up. Maybe he had had similar thoughts in the past, but they had always been about men at a distance – a handsome guy at the market place, a traveller staying at the same inn, but this was different. This was someone that, if things were going the way both Montreal and Boston were hoping, would be seeing a lot of each other. Someone he would be very close to, physically. At least then he’d have the protection of his helmet to hide the blush that stubbornly flushed his face as soon as Rozanov as much as looked at him. Suddenly, Shane needed to be somewhere else

“I’m going to bed.” The feast was still going on, but he had an excellent excuse of having a big fight tomorrow. Rozanov really should be sleeping too, but if he wanted to stay up and, and smoke in the shadows, that was none of Shane’s business.

Rozanov hummed and blew out a white cloud of smoke and Shane did an admirable job of not transfixing on his lips. “Good night, Hollander.”

Shane didn’t say anything else. He turned on his heel, hurrying away. He should probably tell Hayden or someone else that he was going to bed, but he couldn’t face going back to the party. He needed to be alone.

He was almost sure that Rozanov kept watching him, but he was not about to turn around to confirm and embarrass himself. Instead, he walked, way too fast to look casual, toward his tent, keeping his eyes down. The night air was crisp, but Shane could feel the heat from his cheeks traveling down to the rest of his body.

Safely inside his tent, he covered his face with both hands and let out a low groan. Whatever was happening just...wasn’t allowed to happen. He needed to focus on the fight tomorrow. This was his career, his calling. It was everything he had worked for since he was a kid, and this was his first chance to prove that knighting him wasn’t a mistake. 

He rubbed his eyes, as if the action would scrub the image of Rozanov from his mind. Those eyes, that smile, those fucking lips. Shane wanted them on him, and that was most definitely not an allowed thought.

He swallowed down at the sound of some people passing outside, laughing drunkenly. Sleep. He just needed to sleep. Cursing under his breath, Shane shrugged off his jerkin and shirt, feeling heat radiating from his skin. His pants followed and he tucked himself into his cot under the blanket. He was going to sleep and not think about those lips or the way Rozanov’s biceps had moved under his shirt. Nope.

If Shane took himself into his hand while biting his knuckles to stay quiet, well, that was his own issue that would just have to be added to a long list of problems.

***

The two kings had opened the second day of the tournament with entertainment in the forms of jugglers, fire artists and jesters. An archery competition had followed and a winner had been crowned after lunch had been eaten while more acts performed. 

It was afternoon now and the crowd was buzzing with excitement about the clear main event of the tournament. Shane had woken up that morning, determined to leave yesterday in the past. He had had breakfast with Hayden and had managed to go at least an hour and a half without thinking about Rozanov. 

His armor had been returned to him with yesterday’s dents skilfully hammered out of it. Whoever had taken care of his armor had even spent a considerable amount of time shining it up because it looked better than it maybe ever had. He felt good as he strapped himself in, Hayden helping him despite Shane’s repeated protests.

“Come on, man. You’re Montreal’s shining hope now. You gotta beat Boston. Beat Rozanov. I can’t stand that smug smile of his.”

Shane had mumbled an agreement that, yes, Rozanov’s smile was terrible. The whole man was terrible.

Except, of course he wasn’t.

The two of them greeted each other as they entered the fighting ring, using their swords to salute in front of their faces, no helmets on yet. Shane focused hard on not thinking about the fact that Rozanov’s sword was several inches longer than his own, or that the other man too was taller. Hayden’s comment from yesterday echoed in his head. He was faster. He could do this.

“Rozanov,” he said, half a greeting and half a challenge. He really should be using the man’s honorific, but Rozanov had been the one to start the slight, and with the crowd roaring around them, no one could hear what they were saying to each other anyway.

“Hollander,” Rozanov replied. Shane’s whole body was buzzing with the need to kick his ass. Maybe then Rozanov would bother to properly title him. But of course, then Rozanov followed up with, “Ready to get on your back for me?”

Shane was going to kick his ass. Maybe even murder him, if he could make it look like an accident in front of an audience of hundreds. Maybe that would start a war between their nation, but maybe the King of Boston was equally annoyed at Rozanov, and it wasn’t like he was actually Bostonian. Perhaps Shane could get away with it. 

Helmet on, Shane hoisted his shield up on his arm and took his starting stance. His muscles knew what they were doing. Shane kept his breathing even, all nervousness and irritation washing off him. 

This was what he did best. He was the best.

Opposite of him, Rozanov had put his own helmet on, finally hiding away his pretty face and perfect curls. Shane needed to stop thinking about the way he looked, and focus on the upcoming fight. Rozanov raised his two-hander, and Shane didn’t want to feel impressed by how easily he handled the massive weapon. 

The horn sounded, signalling the start of the fight and all of Shane’s world narrowed down to the roped off circle. His sword and shield were an extension of his body and with them, he hurled himself at Rozanov. He had watched his fight against Comeau and knew that there was no space for hesitation. Comeau had tried to play defensively, but that had just gotten him cornered. Shane refused to cower in a corner like him.

Hayden was right. Shane was fast. The sand of the pit was solid under his sabatons and he used the grip under the steel to launch himself forward. His shield was tucked tight against his body, angled slightly upward. Shane kept his eyes locked on Rozanov through the eyevent on his helmet. 

The other knight hadn’t moved yet, standing with his legs spread in the sand and his ridiculous sword raised up, ready to meet Shane’s oncoming assault. Shane raised his sword and telegraphed for an arched swing before he flicked his wrist last second. The fake-out usually worked on most other knights, but Rozanov managed to move the heavy two-hander all too effortlessly to block Shane’s thrust. 

He pushed back, trying to mess with Shane’s balance, but Shane had already moved on, using the top edge of his shield to bash at Rozanov. It was a move that usually knocked his opponents on their asses, but Shane must have signalled the move somehow because Rozanov quickly stepped to the side, avoiding the hit. 

Instead Shane went wide, almost stumbling. He quickly corrected his weight distribution and turned around, just in time to block Rozanov’s slash with his sword. Fuck, the man was strong.

Shane pushed back, not one to give up without giving it all he had. Shane was far from weak. Sure, he was young, but he had trained for this since he was a child. Years of rigorous training had prepared him for this and there was just one last, annoying, infuriating obstacle in his way. 

He dug his heels into the sand, spinning around. He used the momentum of the turn to slash at Rozanov and this time his sword connected with the armour just above the waist. He could hear a grunt coming from Rozanov’s armour and Shane felt a surge of pride. 

There was no time to celebrate though, as the hit and the momentum that had brought it up kept Shane moving forward. He managed to block Rozanov’s incoming hit with his shield, and he could feel the power of the hit reverberate through his left arm. A numbness spread through the limb, and he knew he had to be careful with how many direct hits he took with the shield. He had seen what Rozanov had been able to do with Comau’s shield. 

The two of them went at each other, one of them gaining ground before being pushed back by the other. The clang of steel against steel sounded through the air, each of Shane’s hits coming with a wave of satisfaction while the hits he received from Rozanov brought up shame and a determination to do better. 

Shane was breathing hard. His body was aching and he was drenched in sweat, but all bodily sensations felt like they were a mile away because this is what it was about. 

He enjoyed fighting and was good at it. It had been a long time since someone had challenged him as much as Rozanov was currently doing. Shane knew that his body wouldn’t be able to keep up this brutal pace for much longer, but all he wanted was to stay in this moment. Nothing mattered outside this ring. 

Something needed to happen though. This fight ending in a draw because of physical exhaustion would be a disappointment to the audience, kings, and fighters alike. 

Shane was trying to find the next opening in Rozanov’s defences when the other knight moved forward with a speed that shouldn’t be possible at this stage in the fight. Rozanov’s sword came down in a brutal swing against his chest and Shane pulled the same move that had won him the fight against Hammersmith. 

He leaned into the blow, letting it carry him into a spin. His steel-clad sabaton found purchase in the sand and he ducked, trying to slice his sword at the back of Rozanov’s knee, but instead of hitting armor his sword sparked against the longsword Rozanov had placed between them.

Sand flung from the tip of Rozanov’s sword as he changed his grip and thrust it back to where Shane was. Shane saw it happen, but he was already in the midst of a movement and with his heavy armor, he just wasn’t fast enough. Damn.

Shane felt the air leave his lungs when the sword impacted against his shoulder and chest, the two-hander coming down hard. His vision went white for a second and he knew that his ribs wouldn’t be happy after this fight. He fell back against the sand, dropping his own sword. He wasn’t giving up yet though. If he could just stand up, then he could—

He felt the weight of the longsword under his chin, the tip poking into the hinge between the gorget and the helmet. With a flick of Rozanov’s wrist, Shane’s helmet was removed from his head. The afternoon sun was bright in his eyes as he looked up at Rozanov, hoping he could set the man on fire by willpower alone.  

The tip of the longsword was resting on Shane’s windpipe, which should instill some amount of panic in him, but all he could feel was anger and a large dose of shame.

Still with the sword against Shane’s throat, Rozanov took his own helmet off and dropped it into the sand. His face was flushed and the golden curls were tighter than they had been before, sweat dripping down his forehead and temples. Shane could see that he was breathing just as hard as himself, and that was a small comfort at least.

He could vaguely hear the sound of the trumpet calling the fight off and he wanted to yell at it that he wasn’t done yet, but of course there was no use. He had lost, and the winner stood above him with that insufferable smile of his, and all Shane wanted was to bury himself in the sand of the fighting pit and never be seen by anyone ever again.

Of course, the world wasn’t that kind. Instead he was helped to his feet by someone he didn’t even register and was made to shake Rozanov’s hand. He held the handshake longer than was necessary and Shane hated the energy it sent up every nerve in his body.

“Was good look on you. On your back,” Rozanov said, quiet enough that only Shane heard him. Then he let go of his hand and raised both his arms in a victorious pose, taking in the jubilant cheer from the crowd. Shane just stared at him for several long seconds before he bent down to pick up his discarded helmet and sword. Then he left.

***

The feast yesterday had been loud, but it was nothing compared to what was happening on the closing night of the tournament. Entertainment acts still whirled between the tables and on the large stage, but even louder than them were the roars of celebrations from the visiting Boston knights. 

Shane had wanted to spend the night in his tent, or even better, on the road back to Montreal, but custom and his king’s request had him sitting at the high table. His jaw was tense and every five minutes he had to remind himself not to look like it was absolutely killing him to sit here.

Hayden, seated two tables down from him, met his eyes every now and then, giving him a sympathetic look, or raising his tankard in a personal salute. His friend had had some select things to say about Rozanov, calling him a brute and insinuating that he shouldn’t be a knight at all, the way he behaved. 

Shane had just made some noises of agreement, but in all honestly, he couldn’t get on board with Hayden’s spiel. Rozanov had beat him, and not because he had cheated or been dishonest. He had been better than Shane, and that, honestly, was a worse truth.

It left Shane stewing in his own misery and failure, just waiting for the moment he could pack up and go home. Back in Montreal, he would train harder than he had before. Like so many people had pointed out to him tonight, this would probably not be the last time he and Sir Rozanov would meet in the ring. Shane would not lose the next time.

Hours dragged by like the worst sort of torture, and the worst part of it was the award ceremony. He, Rozanov and the winner of third place – Hammersmith apparently – were called up to the stage where heralds read out their names and the placement. A bronze wreath was placed upon Hammersmith’s head and when it came time for Shane to receive his silver wreath, he was thankful that kneeling down hid his face and expression. What was the point of silver, when everyone knew that there was only one placement that truly mattered.

Shane knew that he must be glowering at Rozanov when it was the man’s time to kneel down and receive his prize, but he couldn’t stop himself. Not that he expected that many people were actually looking at him when Rozanov was kneeling beside him, a stupid golden wreath in his stupid golden curls. His smile radiating like he swallowed the sun itself. Fucker.

After the prize ceremony, Shane finally slipped away from the party. He felt the tiniest amount of bad for leaving early two nights in a row, but hopefully everyone was too drunk to notice.

He meant to head straight back to his tent, but a large cluster of knights were walking up in front of that encampment, so instead he turned the other way. He had had enough of crowds today and he didn’t know if he could actually remain polite if someone else commented on the fight he had lost.

Wandering away from the party pavilion and the sound of people, Shane could feel his shoulders relax with every step away from the noise. The buzz that had nestled its way into his spine and teeth started to rescind itself. 

Shane had only meant to take a detour around the camp, but found himself straying further and further away, allowing the sound of the forest to wash over him instead. A small stream was running between the trees and he could hear some birds, despite the late hour. The wind rustled through the leaves and felt like it was washing the day off of him.

Shane didn’t know how long he wandered through the trees, and he knew that being alone in the forest without even a dagger was a foolish thing, but the quiet was so soothing he couldn’t care about the possible danger. Eventually though, after the moon had moved across the night sky, he started back toward the camp. He needed at least some amount of sleep tonight before marching home tomorrow.

He must have spent at least an hour or two in the woods because once he got closer to the camp, a silence hung over it like a comforting blanket. A few voices were heard in a couple of the tents, but the large pavilion had shut down for the night, even the servants having left it.

“Hollander.”

Shane knew who had called his name, of course he did. What he didn’t know was what Rozanov could possibly want with him. Shane spun around on his heel, facing Rozanov who once again was standing in the shadows and smoking. What was his problem? Didn’t he have someone else he could bother? 

Shane hadn’t missed that Rozanov had had plenty of people giving him some looks throughout the evening, signaling pretty clearly that they wouldn’t mind spending some time with Rozanov. Shane, however, definitely minded.

“What?” he asked, the strain from earlier back in his voice, the peace of the forest leaving him. “What do you want, Rozanov?”

If Shane had hoped that it would be enough to deter Rozanov, he was of course mistaken. He didn’t know what about him enjoyed pushing Shane’s buttons, but something about him was a dog with a bone about it. Maybe Shane should just leave him – keep walking and go to bed. But here he was, staying and locking eyes with Rozanov.

“It is late.”

“No shit.”

Rozanov exhaled another breath of smoke and Shane could smell the nicotine, the scent piercing his nostrils sharply. Shane couldn’t imagine wanting to inhale something with such a biting odor, but then again, Rozanov had a knack for doing the opposite of whatever Shane would. Maybe that’s why he felt a pull toward him, as if they were magnets.

Another cloud of smoke and Shane pretended that he wasn’t looking at Rozanov’s lips when he did so. He was just… annoyed. That was all this was. It had nothing to do with the images of a sweaty, glistening Rozanov that had flashed before Shane’s eyes in his bunk last night. Nope, nothing to do with thoughts that didn’t belong in this moment, and barely even belonged to last night. Shane swallowed thickly.

“What do you want?” Shane repeated, the heat from earlier having left his voice. It was barely above a whisper now, and, before he was aware of his own actions, he took a step toward Rozanov, toward the shadows.

“You cannot figure that out, Hollander? Such a big brain full of smarts, and you still don’t know?” Rozanov paused, stubbing out his smoke against the bottom of his shoe. He stretched his neck and Shane could feel his face flush despite his best intentions. Why couldn’t this man just be normal and actually say what he meant instead of just grinning at Shane like a cat that got the cream.

Eyes having adjusted to the darkness hours ago, Shane can see him clearly, even in the shadows cast by the pavilion. He’s still wearing the embroidered shirt, but the ties at the neck had been undone now, showing off the gold necklace he wore as well as a sprinkle of chest hair. Shane’s eyes trailed over his collarbones, over his biceps under the thin linen, over his sharp jaw.

Shane should be running away from this, but the thought feels impossible. He can feel the warmth of Rozanov’s body radiate from him, and his own body is flushing deeply. He could feel embarrassment flow through him, doing absolutely nothing to quell the blush on his face. What was wrong with him? They were just standing there, looking at each other and Shane felt like a boiled beet.

He didn’t know how long the silence remained between them – seconds or hours. Finally Rozanov shook his head, and once again, Shane was transfixed by his curls.

“Fucking shit, Hollander. Is not complicated.”

Then he grabbed the front of Shane’s shirt and pulled him deeper into the shadows. Shane’s body just followed along, his brain sluggish to catch up on the situation, because surely, what was happening couldn’t actually be happening?

But then it is. Rozanov’s lips are surprisingly soft against Shane’s as he is kissing him. As they are kissing, because Shane is definitely a participant. He is pushing up against Rozanov, feeling hard muscle under the soft shirt. His brain feels like it’s on fire, but in a good way, sending shivers down every nerve in his body. 

His split lip had started to heal, but it still stung a bit as he moved his mouth with Rozanov’s. He can taste the smoke still lingering on Rozanov’s breath and he isn’t sure he likes that part, but there are other things he absolutely does enjoy. 

There was just a hint of stubble on Rozanov’s jaw. Shane had never felt anything like it, because of course he hadn’t, because that would mean that he was kissing another man. Which he was doing. And enjoying. A lot, he realized fast, his breeches starting to tighten over his crotch.

A small whine sounded in his ears, and he realized it came from his mouth, something that should horrify him. It doesn’t and fuck, that should horrify him even more. But still he keeps kissing Rozanov, letting his hands move over his arms and the sides of his torso. Their lips move together like they had practiced this before, and then Rozanov’s tongue slides over Shane’s bottom lip, and another sound escapes him.

Shane had never been so aware of his own body while at the same time feeling like he was floating outside of himself. He had, well, looked at some men before. Noticed them. None of his fellow knights, of course, but now here he was, pressing himself close to a knight. From Boston. From Moscow. And then Rozanov pressed into him, sliding a knee between Shane’s legs and he was certain that Rozanov could feel how hard he was. And oh, he could feel how hard Rozanov was.

The firm press against his thigh finally made Shane snap out of whatever spell he had been under. He put his hands on Rozanov’s chest and pushed (and oh lord, his pecs were so firm). He looked into those hazel eyes with their dark pupils, blown with arousal, and mustered up the strength to shake his head. 

They might be hidden in the shadows late at night, but they were still in the middle of the camp and Shane had heard voices just a few minutes ago. Anyone could walk in on them and that was a fate Shane didn’t even wish on, well, Rozanov.

“No,” and then he supplied before he could stop himself, “Not here.”

Rozanov looked like he was about to protest at Shane’s first dismissal, but he nodded at the follow up. “Okay. Where?”

The answer was obviously ‘nowhere, this is a horrible idea’. Just kissing here was stupid enough, full of risk with some pretty damn dire consequences if they were caught. Shane did not listen to the small voice in the back of his head supplying commentary about the reward being worth the risk, because fuck that. Kissing the guy that had thoroughly beaten him in the ring earlier that day was not some sort of reward, no matter what his dick thought about the matter.

They couldn’t go to Shane’s tent. He had no idea what would actually happen if he said yes to Rozanov, but judging by the fact that he had been unable to hold back on those stupid sounds from just kissing the man, he didn’t trust himself to hold back on sounds that would definitely carry through a layer of canvas. 

He could feel the heat in his cheeks from the thought. Had he ever stopped blushing since stopping in front of Rozanov? He didn’t know and didn’t want to know. If he had to look at himself in a mirror he would probably die.

”I don’t know,” was what Shane finally said, eyes darting back to the still abandoned path through camp. “We can’t…”

The ways that sentence could end were infinite.

“Come with me.”

Rozanov’s words weren’t posted as a question, and Shane just nodded. He knew that he should go back to his tent and forget everything about this evening. He didn’t. Instead he walked fifty feet behind Rozanov, as if that would shield him from any suspicious eyes and stop questions about what he was doing out of his bunk this late at night. 

He didn’t know where Rozanov was heading with his stupid long legs and his great ass, but he hoped it wasn’t back to his own tent because, while Shane hadn’t actually seen it, he couldn’t imagine that it would be any more soundproof than Shane’s own.

But he doesn’t take them toward the cluster of Boston tents. Instead he steered them toward one of the few permanent buildings on the tourney grounds –  the stables.

Shane is about to protest, because he’s not going to… do whatever they’re going to do while dozens of horses watch them, but Rozanov didn’t actually go in to the animals, but instead opened a side door, waiting for Shane to catch up. On one hand, this was still a stupid idea and he would surely regret this. On the other hand, that door closed. Maybe even locked. Shane followed.

Entering the room, Shane found himself surrounded by the smell of horses, even if none of the animals were around. Instead, the room was covered in saddles, blankets, reins, and stirrups. Rozanov had led him into the tack room and now he was closing the door behind him. Shane looked at his hand on the doorknob to avoid looking at his face. He should say something. Anything.

“Should we…talk? About this?” Not that he knew what this was. 

“No, Hollander, I do not want to talk.”

Shane’s eyes drifted from Rozanov’s hand to his face, his lips. Rozanov took a step closer to him, and put his fingers under Shane’s jaw, tilting his face up. Rozanov was taller than him by a couple of inches, but the fact that Shane’s knees were made out of jelly made him feel that much taller. Rozanov kissed him again then, and Shane’s eyes fluttered closed.

He was gently pushed back and he felt himself back into a saddle, the leather firm behind him. It grounded him somewhat, anchoring the feeling of wanting to float away. Rozanov’s kiss was more urgent now, and his hands were rucking up Shane’s shirt and allowing themselves to splay out over the skin of his stomach. 

Fingers trailing over his muscles and Rozanov’s lips against his, Shane’s brain couldn’t keep up with all the sensations and he could almost pinpoint the moment his dick took over his thinking.

Shane let Rozanov shrug his shirt off, and the way he looked at him made bells ring in Shane’s ears. He couldn’t stand the look for too long, instead opting for kissing Rozanov again. His own hands grasping at the sides of Rozanov’s shirt, clinging on for dear life, Shane kissed him, licking the inside of his mouth. 

Their teeth clashed once, and Shane took care to angle his face better, still tugging at Rozanov’s shirt. That method of communication seemed to work well as Rozanov took a half step away to shrug his own shirt off. He tossed it aside, seemingly not caring about where it landed.

It was Shane’s turn to look at Rozanov now, at his chest heaving with heavy breath, the muscles moving under skin, at the golden necklace he had hinted at earlier now on full display between Rozanov’s pecs. He looked amazing and Shane could feel his mouth water. He went down on his knees.

“Hollander,” Rozanov breathed, and the sound of his name spoken like that confirmed to Shane what his body already knew. He needed to get his mouth on him.

His eager fingers struggled with the ties of Rozanov’s breeches, but he finally managed to undo the knots and push them down alongside the undergarments. Rozanov made a sound as the fabric no longer restrained his cock and Shane could feel his own twitch in his breeches. Licking his lips, he looked up at Rozanov, silently asking for permission.

“Fuck Hollander.” Rozanov’s breath was ragged and Shane let his hands roam over Rozanov’s hips, taking in the texture of a mole on his left hip and how his muscles were shivering under his touch. “Yes.”

Rozanov’s one syllable was enough for Shane to move forward and carefully lick a strip along Rozanov’s cock. The man cursed in a language Shane vaguely recognized as Moscovian and it was all the encouragement Shane needed. He wrapped his lips around the head. 

Shane had, during some late nights spent alone with his own dick in his hand, wondered what it would be like to have someone’s mouth on him, but he had never dared to even think about being down on his knees for someone. It wasn’t something he should like, but here he was. 

Encouraged by Rozanov’s words and a hand that found its way into his hair, Shane explores the cock with his lips and tongue and finds that he really fucking likes the sensation. His own cock in his breeches felt harder than it ever had before, and that was a thought he would have to revisit later. 

Rozanov’s cock was warm and heavy in his mouth. He tastes like flesh, and salt from the precum that’s leaked from the tip. Shane swirled his tongue over the head, lapping it up and swallowing down. He really should be embarrassed about this, but he can’t make himself feel any shame. He is enjoying this, and judging by the moans from Rozanov, so is he. 

Shane closed his eyes, letting himself get lost in the sensation of a cock in his mouth. He wanted to spend hours here, even if he knew that would wreck his knees. Hollowing his cheeks, he pushes himself further onto the cock. He can feel the head bump into the back of his throat and he has to pull off, gagging. 

Rozanov moved as if he was going to pull Shane back up on his feet, but he couldn’t have that happen. Not yet. Not one to be beaten, Shane took a deep breath to calm his guts before he dove right back in. 

“Fucking shit, Hollander.”

This time, Shane wrapped his hand around the base of the cock and focused his tongue on the head. He was careful to keep his teeth out of the way as he started to bob his head up and down, using his hand to set a rhythm. He didn’t know what Rozanov liked, so he just tried to mirror what he himself did when he jerked off; a firm grip around the base, a twist every now and then and a steady pace. Of course, he didn’t have a warm mouth on his cock when he jerked off. 

More curses in Moscovian spilled from Rozanov’s lips, so Shane hoped that he was doing something right. Shane moaned around the cock in his mouth as Rozanov’s grip in his hair tightened. 

With his left hand on Rozanov’s hips, Shane could feel the tremble of those powerful muscles. Images of Rozanov fucking into his mouth flashed before Shane’s mind, and he let out a whimper at the thought. He must be holding back right now, and a not-insignificant part of Shane wanted him to break, to buck his hips into Shane’s mouth. 

He could feel how a wet spot was forming in his breeches from his own straining erection. Slipping his hand from Rozanov’s hip, down those massive thighs, he cupped himself through the fabric, another moan spilling out of him. He was dizzy with lust and there was a real danger of him spilling into his underwear. 

“So fucking good like this, Hollander.” Rozanov’s breath was ragged. “Those pretty lips around my cock. Those freckles.” 

One hand still in Shane’s hair, he brought the other one to cup his cheek. Shane opened his eyes again, looking up at the expanse of Rozanov’s muscular chest, at his kiss-swollen lips, at the flush spreading across that beautiful face. Shane removed his hand from his groin, desperate to stave off his own orgasm, not wanting this to be over yet. 

Rozanov kept murmuring praise mixed with curse words in several different languages. Shane brought his hand up to Rozanov again, gliding over his thighs, his hips, his abs. Every part of him was lean muscles, and it was the hottest thing Shane ever had experienced. He wanted more. 

Slowing down the hand on Rozanov’s cock, Shane tried once again to swallow down more of him. He was more successful this second time around, knowing what to expect when the head of the cock hit the back of his throat. 

Above him, Rozanov made a strangled noise, and then Shane was abruptly pushed off of Rozanov. Making a noise that he probably would be embarrassed about later, he tried to get his mouth back on Rozanov, but his hand on Shane’s shoulder was firm. 

Rozanov’s hand covered Shane’s and together they stroked him. It was faster than Shane had been working him, and it only took a couple of strokes before Rozanov let out a deep groan. Shane could feel Rozanov’s muscles tensing and releasing under his touch as his orgasm rippled through him. 

Ribbons of cum shot out from his cock and landed on the straw covered floor. It was an entrancing sight. Rozanov’s eyes fluttered closed, his mouth ajar. Shane would never forget that sight for as long as he lived, he was sure of it. 

“Holy fuck.” 

Shane barely recognized his own voice. He was hoarse from sucking cock and out of breath from the whole experience. He felt like his whole, very carefully constructed world had shifted on its axle, and he didn’t know if he could ever go back to what it had been before he witnessed what Rozanov looked like when he came. 

Rozanov was leaning heavily against the shelving behind him, breathing still coming in staggered pants, though he seemed to slowly gain composure. Shane was still on his knees before him, still drinking in the sight before him. This was– This had to be a once in a lifetime happening, and Shane wanted to remember as much of this as possible. He also really, really wanted to come. Maybe more than he had ever wanted to. 

As if reading his mind, Rozanov grabbed the shoulders of the shirt Shane was still wearing and hauled him up to his feet. Shane’s knees were weak, but Rozanov’s grip was firm. He kissed Shane then, without any hesitation given where Shane’s mouth had just been. 

Rozanov’s tongue licked inside his mouth, his hands tugging at the hem of Shane’s shirt. It struck Shane how unevenly dressed they were. Rozanov was shirtless with his breeches and underwear pooling around his boots and Shane was still fully dressed. 

They broke the kiss for the few seconds needed for Rozanov to pull Shane’s shirt off. The cool night air hit his skin and he gave a shiver. The shiver wasn’t fully from the exposure to the air though, because Rozanov’s hands were on him, one hand around his waist to pull him back in for a kiss, the other finding its way into his hair again. 

“So fucking good on your knees, Hollander.” He gave a small tug on Shane’s hair and Shane moaned into his mouth. “Next time, I will have you on your back for me. Again.” 

Shane knew that he should protest the idea of a next time. One time was bad enough, never mind repeating this experience. But there was a larger part of him that was picturing himself on his back for Rozanov, much more naked than he had been in the fighting ring, legs spread. His breath hitched at the image, and his cock was painfully hard. 

He should protest, should say that there wouldn’t be another time. But all he managed to whisper was, “Please.”

Rozanov maneuvered them so that Shane was backed against one of the saddle racks. He could feel the softness of the leather against the small of his back, and he reached behind himself to try and stabilize himself because Rozanov was finally, finally touching him. 

Rozanov made quick work with the lacing of his breeches, pulling the cords from the eyelets. With every pull of the cords, his fingers brushed against Shane’s erection. Shane felt like he might die if Rozanov didn’t touch his cock soon, and he rutted against him, another whine slipping out of him. 

“Impatient,” Rozanov murmured, finally pushing Shane’s breeches and undergarments down. Shane’s cock slapped against his stomach and he felt like he could cry with relief, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. 

“Fuck you, you got to come.” 

“So needy.”

There was a reality where Rozanov just walked out of the tack room and left Shane to wallow in his own misery and sexual frustration, but in this one, Rozanov wrapped a large hand around Shane’s cock and gave it a few agonizingly slow strokes. Still, Shane let out a sound close to a sob. 

“Let me show you how to do this.” 

The next Shane knew, Rozanov had hoisted him up like he weighed nothing. He placed him on the saddle and Shane just barely had enough time to think about how his bare ass was against a saddle which had last gotten cleaned who knows when before Rozanov dropped down on his knees in front of him.

Hands splayed on Shane’s thighs, pushing them apart, Rozanov licked a strip up his cock, swirling his tongue around the head. Shane threw his head back, scrambling to grab something. One hand found the pommel of the saddle and the other raked through those golden curls of Rozanov’s. His hair was softer than Shane had thought. 

Rozanov took him deeper then, and Shane sincerely hoped that no one was walking outside the stables this late at night, because he couldn’t stop himself from moaning loudly. 

He wouldn’t last long. There was no way Shane wouldn’t come embarrassingly fast. He was honestly just happy he hadn’t blown his load in his breeches while on his knees for Rozanov. He wasn’t sure he could have lived that down. 

Shane had never had anyone suck his cock before, but there was no denying that Rozanov knew what he was doing. Had he done this before? Shane would rather not think about that possibility, instead trying to remain in the moment. 

Rozanov was bobbing his mouth up and down Shane’s cock, enveloping it in wet heat. His tongue shifted between lapping at the underside and swirling around the head. It felt so fucking good. Shane would feel his vision starting to blur and it was a struggle to even keep his eyes open. 

“Fuck, Rozanov, shit, you feel so good.” 

Rozanov hummed around him, and the vibrations from that almost pushed Shane over the edge. He was so close. 

“I’m gonna… Rozanov, you better, ah fuck, shit, Rozanov, please.”

Shane made a half-hearted attempt to push Rozanov off of his cock, but Rozanov just pushed himself deeper onto Shane’s cock and made a deep rumbling sound in the back of his throat. It was more than Shane could take. His whole body shook as his orgasm was torn out of him. Rozanov kept sucking, swallowing around him, and Shane’s vision went white. 

He must have screamed because his throat felt raw when he started to come back to himself. Rozanov had let Shane’s cock slip out of his mouth, but he still licked the tip. Shane shuddered at the overstimulation. 

“Please,” he whined, squirming in the saddle. There was no way to escape, a wall behind him and Rozanov’s solid muscle in front of him. 

Thankfully, Rozanov had tortured him enough. With a final lap, Rozanov let go of his cock and patted him on his thigh. He stood up, giving Shane another eyeful of all that muscle. Fuck, he was so beautiful. 

“Fuck, Rozanov, shit, that was– Fuck. Wow. Lord.”

Legs trembling with aftershocks, Shane slid down from the saddle, into Rozanov’s arms. Rozanov leaned in and kissed him, and okay, maybe it wasn’t so gross to taste yourself in a kiss. 

“Not so bad for beginner. Next time,” Rozanov murmured against his lips, one hand on Shane’s bicep and the other snaking around to squeeze Shane’s ass. “Next time I want to fuck you.”

The image of himself on his back with his legs spread for Rozanov returned and the idea made Shane’s head spin. He shouldn’t want that. He shouldn’t want anyone to spread his legs, open him up and fuck him, least of all not someone like Rozanov. 

He could feel a stirring in his cock at the idea, but he forced the thought away. This could not be a thing to happen more than the one time. It probably shouldn’t have happened at all. He could feel anxiety clawing at him as the bliss of orgasm seemed further and further away by the second.

He could feel himself tense up, and Rozanov must have felt the same thing because he took half a step back, looking at Shane. Before he had a chance to ask any question, Shane spoke up.

“No one can know about this.”

Rozanov gave him a look that Shane couldn’t quite interpret. He was quiet for an uncomfortably long time, his jaw tensing. Shane couldn’t allow himself to regret his words though. It was important that this never got out and that it never happened again. 

“Obviously,” Rozanov’s reply finally came. 

Shane’s shoulders relaxed a bit at that statement, but he could still feel dread pooling in his guts. Rozanov stepped away from him then, pulling up his breeches and tying them. He didn’t look at Shane. Shane couldn’t help but to feel like he had squandered something, but how could that be true when this had been a, a mistake. A spur of the moment, late-night decision that both of them would probably regret come morning. 

Meeting Rozanov like this was dangerous. There was no telling what would happen to them if someone discovered what they had been doing together in here. The thought made panic start to crawl up Shane’s throat. 

He needed to get out of there. He needed to get dressed and get back to his own tent. He really wanted to take a bath, feeling his skin covered by a layer of sweat, but it was already so late. Tomorrow he would be back in a different saddle, riding home to Montreal, surrounded by his fellow knights. He would have to pretend like he didn’t have his entire world shattered in a tack room by Rozanov. 

As in a daze, Shane pulled up his own breeches and tied them. His shirt had been discarded on the dirty floor and he scrunched his nose. He should have been more careful about it. Putting it back on, he finally looked over at Rozanov. 

He was fully dressed again, though the evidence of their encounter still seemed starkly obvious. His hair was mussed, his lips swollen and his skin too was covered by a sheen of sweat. All Shane wanted was to cross the space between them and kiss him again. If this was to be the only time in Shane’s life where he’d allow himself this, then…

But he stayed put, pulling down the hem of his rumpled shirt. Rozanov gave him a curt nod, and Shane felt the crack between them widen. Which was a good thing, right? 

“Good night then, Sir Hollander.” 

For all the grumbling Shane had had about Rozanov dropping his honorific instantly, he realized that he disliked Rozanov saying it even more. He swallowed down the bile in his throat. 

“Good night.” 

Rozanov opened the door then and slipped out into the night again, leaving Shane behind. Shane dropped back against the saddle he had been seated in just a few minutes prior, and covered his face with both his hands. Too many feelings and sensations were swirling around inside of him, and he didn’t know which one to focus on. 

He needed to get back to his tent and at least try to start sorting through all of it. He needed to make a plan, and just hope that fate would be kind enough that he never had to see Rozanov again, a wish he knew was fruitless.