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The Mute stared at his reflection in the river and saw a scraggly beast frowning back at him.
Diarmuid had tended to his wounds for weeks. The former novice had changed his bandages with fresh, clean fabric, cooled his fevered brow with a damp cloth, spoon-fed him broth made from scavenged herbs and wild onion and garlic and fish caught from the river, changed the sheets in their bed when they became sodden with damp and sick.
But he had not bothered to trim the Mute’s beard. In the haze that was his recovery the Mute remembered Diarmuid, curled up beside him, one palm pressed to his heart and two large, brown eyes watching his chest rise and fall with every labored breath, as well as gentle fingers brushing through his beard to touch his jaw, his lips.
It was that, he thought, that had truly kept him alive—to finally know Diarmuid’s touch so intimately, and to be too selfish to let it go.
During his recuperation their touches became more intimate. When the strength returned to his arms the Mute took to wrapping them around Diarmuid as they waited for sleep, listening to one other’s heartbeat. What little space remained between them on the bed became too much—they closed it with their lips. The Mute had licked into Diarmuid’s mouth, the soft, satisfied noises he made divine, the taste of him more nourishing than any broth.
Each new day brought new experiences, new sensations, new pleasures. Once the Mute had worried that he’d never leave their bed. That Diarmuid would be forced to maintain the small cottage they now resided in, completing all the daily chores to keep them warm and well fed in addition to tending for him as well. But energy had returned to him, little by little, and he now foraged and fished and weeded their garden. He was not allowed to chop wood just yet—the movement, Diarmuid worried, would be too hard on his side. The Mute did not argue, for his lover had no qualms about him using his body to push him back into bed to rut into him after their day was over.
A new life entirely, the Mute thought, almost a dream. The river burbled in agreement. He had never dared imagine this, to live slowly, peacefully, with Diarmuid at his side, as the seasons changed. To wake from death’s door in time for spring’s arrival, to be able to walk into summer with his lover’s hand in his.
This beautiful, unimaginable existence—he needed to protect it.
Diarmuid had disguised himself by simply discarding his monk’s robes. Any who searched for them would’ve been looking for a novice in Benedictine black. Now, here, clad in a tunic and breeches, visitors would see a beautiful, disciplined young man who enjoyed talking aloud to his garden, the chickens, his silent partner. It was harder, however, for the Mute to hide his identity. His size, his strength, the cross on his back if he wasn’t careful to conceal it—all were obvious clues to his identity. But his beard was a different matter. He hadn’t been clean-shaven even before the Crusade.
Slapping at his face in the water, the Mute made his decision. Even he couldn’t recall what he looked like without his beard. Any curious, suspicious scouts from Baron de Merville’s forces wouldn’t either.
He returned with a large bundle of branches and sticks to use for firewood—even out of Diarmuid’s eyesight he did not dare disobey his pleas to treat his body gently—and five fat fish. Perhaps a stew tonight and the Mute would salt and preserve the other three for another day. The Mute placed the firewood near the front door and the bucket of fish near the garden. Diarmuid could decide what herbs and vegetables would go best with them.
His lover he found dozing on their bed, clad in only one of his tunics. Diarmuid lay snoring in the blankets, his legs bare and spread, his lower half exposed to the warm summer air. Now rid of the rigid rules of monastic asceticism, the young man has learned to indulge in a few more of life’s pleasures. Naps, for one.
And the Mute has learned to indulge in Diarmuid. He quietly removed his boots and walked to the bed where he leaned down to run his hands along Diarmuid’s legs. They were lean and lightly muscled from a life of monastic duties and covered with lovely little freckles.
He knelt like a man at worship. The Mute pressed a kiss to each and every tiny freckle he found. As his lips brushed over Diarmuid’s skin the young man made a quiet, pleased noise, a smile on his face.
Was Diarmuid thinking of him as he slept? He very much liked the idea of pleasuring his lover both here and in his dreams. The Mute pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses up Diarmuid’s legs, licked broad stripes with the flat of his tongue along his inner thighs, grinning to himself when Diarmuid’s breath hitched. A flush had spread across his cheeks and his chest and his manhood hardened with every pass of the Mute’s tongue against his skin.
“Ah!” Diarmuid gasped as the Mute gently took the tip of his cock in his mouth and sucked. He paused and waited—he didn’t want to wake his beloved from what must assuredly be a very pleasant, very intimate dream. But Diarmuid merely moaned and shifted his legs slightly. “Mm…” Honey-sweet sighs dripped from his mouth. The Mute gratefully swallowed drops of precum and moaned at the salt taste and the pretty, delicious sight in front of him.
Diarmuid’s eyes remained closed but he stirred and murmured, “Mo grá?”
Yes, the Mute thought with all the desperate affection and longing in his entire body— that was him—he was Diarmuid’s love, all his, only for him. As Diarmuid ran a sleepy, lazy hand through his hair he moaned again. He turned so that he could nuzzle into the young man’s palm like an eager puppy. Small, gentle fingers traced his brow, his nose, and then abruptly stopped at his cheek—as if in surprise—just as the Mute gave the head of Diarmuid’s shaft another kiss.
He felt Diarmuid stiffen, every muscle in his body going taut, and ah, he was close—the Mute moved to give his hard, leaking cock another lick.
Diarmuid screamed. With a cry of absolute fright he yelled, “Stop! Get away from me! Mo grá! Don’t touch me!”
The Mute reared back, confused and alarmed. Eyes wide, he put up his hands as a show of surrender and apology—he would have never touched Diarmuid if he had known the young man wasn’t in the mood for it—but then his lover gave another strangled yell and kicked him square in the stomach.
It was a well-placed kick. The Mute, already thrown off balance by Diarmuid’s panicked reaction to his ministrations, was not expecting a retaliatory attack. He’d been charged by opponents in full suits of armor, grabbed them and grappled them and thrown them into the mud and muck. He’d caught strikes with his fist, bowled men over, sent the both of them hurtling to the ground with a roar.
Diarmuid’s small, bare foot connecting with his midsection was, potentially, the greatest shock of his life so far next to waking up alive and well and with the young man resting at his side some weeks ago. He was completely unprepared for it.
The Mute tumbled off the bed. It was a ridiculously clumsy, ungraceful fall. Flailing, he hit the floor ass first and then collapsed onto his back. He stared at the ceiling of their cottage, utterly perplexed as to how exactly a few leisurely licks and wet kisses had led to him being unceremoniously kicked off the bed.
“Mo grá?” It was a confused, uncertain question. Diarmuid’s voice, as always, cleared his head. The Mute groaned as he pushed himself up. He brushed the dirt and dust off his pants and went to his lover. He still did not understand exactly what had just occurred, but he knew that Diarmuid wanted him now and he was utterly powerless to refuse. The young man was curled up on the bed, the blanket now wrapped around his lower half, his face burning with blush and in his hands.
The Mute knelt in front of him, knees sinking into the straw-stuffed mattress, gently pulled Diarmuid’s hands away from his face, and pressed their foreheads together. A gasp of relief left the young man’s lips. His lashes fluttered against the Mute’s cheeks as he blinked away lingering sleep and panic and stared into his eyes. Recognition blossomed on his face. “Oh, mo grá! I thought—you didn’t feel—oh, no, I kicked you!”
Two small, shaking hands flew to the Mute’s stomach, fingers dancing across his skin as Diarmuid inspected him for injury. “I kicked you, I kicked you—are you all right? Your wound—have I—forgive me—“
The place where de Merville’s instrument of torture pierced his side had long since healed thanks to Diarmuid’s gentle, attentive care. His lover seemed to think that if the Mute moved to quickly or worked too hard that violent gash would split open once more. Diarmuid had yet to understand that he had healed him completely—mended his body with his hands, mended his soul with love.
Before he could take Diarmuid’s hands in his and press them to his heart the young man cried, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know it was you! Your beard—You look so different.“
He felt his face heat with a blush. And no doubt Diarmuid could see the scope of his embarrassment now that he was freshly clean-shaven. For years the only care that he’d taken in his appearance was to stay fit and strong in order to serve the monks and now to serve Diarmuid. To protect him, and love him. His scars told a tale of his violence and rage, the cross on his back the story of his foolishness. But his size, his strength—Diarmuid took comfort in the safety and warmth of his arms, received pleasure from his body, gasped and moaned so prettily when the Mute pressed him down onto the bed with his bulk.
That his lover had never seen him without a beard and might prefer him with one had not occurred to him before now. At the time, staring at his reflection in the river, the Mute had thought his plan quite clever. Now, facing Diarmuid’s surprise and confusion he felt bare in a different way. He self-consciously rubbed his chin, his jaw.
So, there was the explanation. Diarmuid hadn’t recognized him without his beard—had thought him a completely different person, in fact. His smooth, clean-shaven face was so unfamiliar and strange it’d sent his lover into a panic, because the only explanation was that some brigand had broken into their home to ravish him.
Which—at that thought a burst of possessiveness washed over him like a wave. But the emotion was quickly replaced by shame and, oddly, shyness. The Mute covered his chin with a hand, cheeks still burning red. If Diarmuid didn’t like the way he looked it would not take a great amount of time to grow the beard back but in the meantime—
“My dear,” Diarmuid said, sternly, “I can hear your thoughts. I was groggy from sleep and unused to not—not feeling your beard brush against me.” As his face turned pink the Mute huffed a laugh. Now they were a pair of blushing, besotted fools. “I was frightened because in the moment I thought that it wasn’t you.”
A growl escaped the Mute’s throat. If any man dared to enter their home, to leer at Diarmuid, asleep and half-dressed in their bed, to touch him—he’d tear their eyes out. He’d rip off every one of their fingers and their prick. Diarmuid’s small, soft hands on either side of his face stirred him from his thoughts of imaginary ravishment and fanciful revenge.
“Mo grá,” he murmured, and the Mute practically melted. He held Diarmuid’s wrist and nuzzled into his palm. It was pleasant to have his lover’s fingers card through his beard, yes, but now he knew it was equally as pleasant to feel how soft his skin was against his cheek. Diarmuid continued, “You are so very beautiful like this. My lovely man. Ah, it’s a good thing you kept your beard at the monastery, or else I would’ve never been able to resist kissing you in front of everyone.” Then he paused, and stammered, “W-which is not to say I didn’t want to kiss you with your beard! I very much enjoy it now! I just mean that the change is striking and I think I would’ve been quite overwhelmed had—“
The Mute chuckled. He understood what Diarmuid meant. With a quick, practiced move he sent Diarmuid tumbling onto his back and crawled overtop of him, intent on overwhelming him in a different way.
The young man looked worried. “Your side—are you certain I didn’t hurt you—“ The Mute smiled and took his hand and pressed it to the scar on his stomach, now just one among many thanks to Diarmuid. Then, slowly, he drew his lover’s hand down to his swelling member.
“Oh,” Diarmuid said, eyes wide, “Yes. If you’re sure.” And he then he flopped back down onto the mattress and spread his legs. “Please, mo grá, come and touch me?”
Diarmuid always requested, never demanded, and yet the Mute followed his every word as if it were an order. He covered Diarmuid’s mouth with his and slotted their hips together, Diarmuid’s naked from the waist down, his cock hard and pink once more, and the Mute’s own trapped in his breeches, straining so painfully good against the material. He ground his clothed erection against Diarmuid’s bare one. The friction had him shivering. He rolled his hips a little more forcefully, eliciting a pleased moan from Diarmuid.
The young man’s hips moved in tandem with his, meeting his slow, hard thrusts. The Mute could feel his breeches grow wet with their collective precum. “You’ll ruin your clothes,” Diarmuid said, which was not the thought that the Mute wanted him to have at this moment. He nipped at Diarmuid’s lower lip and at his partner’s gasp slipped his tongue into his mouth.
This was something Diarmuid liked. To have the Mute on top of him, surrounding him, and inside of him. His moans turned into desperate little whimpers that the Mute devoured, each noise making his heart pound and his cock ache. To know that Diarmuid enjoyed him like this.
“Oh! Oh, mo grá! Please, I’m going to—“
He always did that as well. He tried to herald the climax of his pleasure, as if the Mute needed a warning for the thing he so desperately wanted: Diarmuid, shaking and shuddering and gasping, spilling into the sheets and against the Mute’s skin, his bliss written all over his face.
Never would he heed that warning. Instead, he spurred it on, frantically rubbing against Diarmuid’s cock, relishing at the way the young man gasped and tensed and dug his fingers into his back, how his toes curled. He hugged the Mute tight, buried his face into the crook of his neck, and came with a soft cry.
As his lover arched into his orgasm the Mute took the chance to chase his own. He rutted against Diarmuid’s hot, pulsing cock, smearing his breeches with seed. He kissed those soft, beautiful brown curls, breathing in the scent of Diarmuid’s sweat.
“I love you,” Diarmuid sighed.
The long, ragged moan was a reply to Diarmuid’s words, an answer, and a prayer. For there were only two things on this earth that the Mute believed in: God, with all his justice and knowledge and wrath and mercy, and, of course, Diarmuid, beautiful, kind, and genuine. He stared at Diarmud’s flushed face, his eyes half-closed and rolled toward the heavens, his moist, parted lips. A miracle made flesh.
As the young man caught his breath his large, brown eyes, dark like honey, met the Mute’s. With a smile Diarmuid cupped his cheek. “How silly I was—of course it’s you, mo grá.” And he kissed the Mute’s jaw.
He spilled in his breeches, shivering through his climax as Diarmuid continued to press soft, gentle kisses to his face that set his body on fire. He ground their hips together and groaned, moving his head so that their lips could meet once more. It was pleasure, to make love like this, utmost bliss to do so with Diarmuid.
Diarmuid held him steady. He soothed him through his peak, whispered words of comfort and praise into his ear, stroked the Mute’s broad back with his hands. “How lucky I am to have you with me,” he murmured. Even in a post-orgasmic haze the Mute frowned at his words. It was the other way around, surely. Every day with Diarmuid was a gift, to be treasured and savored. But his lover must’ve spotted the self-deprecation on his face because he tapped the Mute’s nose with a chastising finger. “None of that, now.”
The Mute gave him a lop-sided smile.
They were both a mess, but messes that could be cleaned later. It was an integral part of lovemaking, to simply hold one another afterwards. As the Mute crawled to the head of the bed and Diarmuid curled against his side the young man murmured, “Goodness. We’ll need a hot bath.”
At that the Mute preened, just a little. He’d collected more than enough firewood for a lovely evening. Later they could relax with hot water lapping at their skin and Diarmuid warm and flushed in his arms.
He kissed the top of Diarmuid’s head, lost in thought of the coming night and the many mornings after.