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The first-quarter moon was shining above Kardingmere as Saint stacked gold coins in their palm. After the stresses of the past few days, they would have much preferred to be relaxing in a proper bed. Instead, they were standing in an alley with Edmund, thinking aloud as they calculated an owed repayment.
“Ten gold per day for the escort, a total of three days… What percentage of the fee did your employer contribute...?”
They looked up from their count. Edmund was half illuminated by the glowing window to his left and half in shadow, but there was light enough for them to read how befuddled he was. He even swayed slightly on his feet as he wrapped his head around their question. Clearly, he was more drunk than they had realised when they pulled him out of the tavern to have this talk, but there was no more time than tonight, and they were determined to balance the books before they parted ways.
When he finally answered, he only met their question with one of his own. “What are you doing?" He shook his head and waved off the money with a troubled look. “No. Don't be all 'Saint' about this.”
They raised their eyebrows and volume as they repeated his words back to him. “‘All Saint’?”
He didn’t respond to their challenge. He just shook his head again, as if at a loss. “It's fine. We're good.”
Saint stared at their friend in disbelief while the coins that he would not accept cooled in the night air. "We are decidedly not good, Edmund.” As their memories of the night before rushed into the present, their heartbeat quickened and a phantom stickiness bloomed between their fingers. “You were bleeding!” In unnecessary illustration of their point, they mimed a slashing motion across his chest with their empty hand.
“And now I'm not bleeding! Alright, look.” In his rush to argue, he stumbled over his words. “Look, it’s—it's just life, Saint. That’s just how it happens.” He spread his hands in an expansive gesture. “It’s not… It's not all about debts and doin' the right thing.”
But there was a debt. They had received payment for the task of keeping Edmund safe, a task at which they had failed spectacularly. They couldn’t stop thinking about him slumped against the wagon, pale and pained, still gripping that damned sword while his blood resisted their efforts to hold it in his body. It was only thanks to Grindelza’s healing magic that he was alright now. They made a fist around the coins to hide the shaking of their hand. This was not at all going the way that they had hoped it would.
And tomorrow, Edmund was journeying on without them, following dangerous roads through a world that chewed people up and vanished them whole. The past was beyond them, they couldn’t do anything about the future, and now he wouldn’t even let them right their wrong.
“Sometimes you just… fuck shit up.” He angled his body away from them and ran his fingers through his curly hair, exasperated by the current limits of his communication. Saint had never seen him so agitated. Not angry, but desperate to make himself understood. “And that's fine! Everyone fucks up sometimes, and that's alright—”
“I don’t!”
He turned to face them directly, surprised by their interruption. He looked into their face, squinting against the shadows obscuring half of their features. They could not explain the inexpert denial that had burst out of them, and they hated the frustration that stung their eyes and threatened to escape as tears. “I… I don’t.”
His surprise became disbelief and he waited for them to explain. What they wanted to do was insist that Saint Teleptamba didn’t 'fuck up', but his words had confounded them. They wanted to lie with their usual confidence. They wanted to convince him that they were skilled, and excellent, and that they had nothing to regret. Why couldn't they bring themself to do it?
Pathetic, said Talent Knowing, his voice echoing across more than a decade. Can’t even defend yourself to a drunken rube.
So, maybe they didn't want to lie. But how could they explain it to someone like Edmund? They were not owed the grace that was granted to others, and they could not afford to make mistakes. Even if they lived in perfect virtue for the rest of their life, their accounts would still be in the red at the end. They didn't think that they could make him understand that, so they didn't try. They shoved the money in their coin purse and took a step back, blinking away the sting.
He watched them retreat, and in the half-light his face betrayed an emotion so near to pity that they felt anger filling their belly, boiling hot and salted.
"Uh huh.” He spoke more quietly now, but his words dripped with irony. “Sure, Saint. You don’t fuck up, and you've never been conflicted about anything.”
The Scarlet Ibis came rushing back to them—his kindness, their cruelty, the unpropitious kiss. Their heart was racing now, and they felt colour rising on their cheeks and scarred ears. He’s throwing your failure in your face, Talent advised. Hurt him back, and hit hard enough to finish it. They took a breath in readiness of saying something awful, but it was Edmund’s turn to interrupt.
“Sometimes—" He closed the distance between them with the careless confidence of the soused. They snapped their mouth shut and braced for a strike or shove. It would have been a simple relief to return like for like and flee with good reason, but he offered them no violence. He just came so near to them that the fabric of their shirts brushed, so near that his radiating body heat warmed their skin.
“Sometimes, you just have to do a thing and hope it comes out alright,” he urged, his words weighted with meaning.
He was so close that they could smell the vetiver scent that clung to his beard, and see the lighter colour that bordered his pupil, a ring of gold amidst the deeper amber of his irises. They felt a flutter at their solar plexus as they realised what was happening. Drink could be to blame for the flush in his cheeks, but there was no mistaking the way that his gaze drifted from their eyes to their lips. Their heart skipped a beat, and time slowed to the speed of thought.
Saint spoke the language of physical attraction with such fluency that it was rare for them to be surprised in these matters. That Edmund was longing to kiss them despite how they were mid-argument, and that they had failed to keep him safe, and that they had hurt him with their selfishness before? That was unexpected. And when he leaned in with intention—his chin tilted up, his mouth soft and inviting—they were further surprised to find that they wanted to kiss him, too.
He’s drunk. I shouldn’t do this.
Another part of them counselled: He has wanted this for longer than just tonight.
Still another part, and perhaps the wisest: He doesn’t understand what he risks in getting close to you, but you do. You have to protect him from yourself.
Saint brought their face so close to Edmund's that it would be easier to follow through than it would be to resist temptation. He shut his eyes in anticipation, and still they hesitated. His breath was warm against their skin, and scented with fennel and the red wine he had been drinking. There was still anger simmering inside of them, and future fear was closing in, but Edmund's longing for them was a spark to the kindling of their own desire. They knew that this heat could fill them up and hold back their shadows, if they let it. They wanted so badly to let it.
It’s just a kiss.
It wasn't a particularly good kiss, not at first. Saint hadn't tilted their face far enough, so their noses bumped. When they corrected, he moved back in with too much vigour, and they had to counter that momentum to prevent the two of them from toppling over. When their lips finally connected at the right angle and pressure, he was enthusiastic, but messy with inebriation, and they felt clumsy in turn. They both wanted it, so why wasn't this working?
Because I’m holding myself back.
So they unhooked the leash on their appetency and broke the kiss. Using his unsteadiness to their advantage, they directed him with a skillful shove and followed close, holding the back of his head to keep it from knocking against the wall when they pushed him up against it. His drawn-out oh of surprise when they pinned him with their hips was encouraging; when they made bracelets of their hands and held his wrists to the wall, his facial expression was a revelation of desire. Satisfied that he was not displeased by this turn of events, they tucked their thigh between his legs and dipped their head to return their mouth to his. Then it was very good.
It was a pleasure to stop thinking and act on instinct, and they let his deliciously unsubtle reactions guide them. They brushed their lips over his in a featherlight tease, sucked on his lower lip to make him moan, and gently pressed their teeth to where they had sucked. When they finally deepened the contact of their mouths, they kissed him slowly and deliberately, savouring him like a favourite taste. He submitted beautifully, resisting neither their restraining grip nor the maddening pace that they set.
When they pulled back enough to look at him, they could feel his pulse racing at the insides of his wrists and the promising press of his erection against their upper thigh. His lips were wet and reddened and his face was flushed. Saint suspected that they looked much the same.
They were a little breathless when they asked, “Was that what you wanted?”
“Uh huh,” he confirmed, sounding breathless himself, and a little dazed. He flexed his fingers and resisted their grip with a fraction of his strength. “Want to touch you, now.”
They couldn’t deny him that. They released his wrists and settled their hands on his shoulders, and he put his freedom to good use, though he didn’t reach for the places that they expected. He curved his left arm around them and pressed their upper bodies together, his palm hot and insistent between their shoulder-blades. With his right hand, he cupped the side of their face and rubbed his thumb beside their mouth, over the spot that dimpled when they smiled.
They could feel his heartbeat pounding against their sternum, and the way that the lean length of their body fit against the solid-and-soft, summer's-day heat of him made them want to do more than kiss.
There was that funny little flutter again, like the beating of moth wings. Perhaps they did have a conscience and it was trying to make itself known.
Don’t do this. He’s not for you.
That wiser part of them was right. Edmund was good and kind. He had designated them friends, and he had forgiven them once already. He deserved better than Saint—better than anyone they had ever been—and they shouldn’t let this go any further. But having him fall apart for them was such a thrill, and they were quickly losing the will to resist chasing it further.
Saint didn’t know what trouble giving into this temptation could bring, but they knew that Edmund was going to leave them in the morning. They couldn’t keep him safe, but they had him right now. They couldn't be good, but they could turn every bit of their attention to making him feel good, and in this, they knew that they could succeed spectacularly.
When his touch became an exploratory stroking of their full lips, they indulged themself and took his thumb into the wet heat of their mouth. The sight of it enthralled him as effectively as a spell, blowing out his pupils and parting his lips in awe. They could feel the whorls of his fingerprint against their caressing tongue, and when they sealed their lips around his second knuckle and sucked, he inhaled sharply and shivered. They hummed in satisfaction, locked their gazes together, and gave a long, hard suck.
He groaned, low and rumbling in his chest, and pulled his thumb free with a soft pop so that he could reunite their mouths.
That groan of Edmund's affected Saint like a touch between their legs. They very much wanted to hear more like it, so they braced their forearm against the rough wall and rolled their hips while they kissed him. This elicited exactly the reaction that they had hoped for, so they kept it up, moving sinuously and enjoying the heated friction. When they pressed their lips to the sensitive skin of his neck, he bared his throat and clumsily grabbed their ass, encouraging their motions.
“Fuck, Saint.”
“You must be enjoying yourself,” they teased, voice low and touched with laughter that muffled against his neck. “You sound like you’re about to finish.”
“Just might, if you keep doing—" they rubbed against him with particular focus, and his hips jerked forward, "that.” He gripped them harder, his fingers pressing into the tender spot where their ass met their thighs. “Saint, you… It’s…”
He couldn’t finish his thought for his flustered stammering, so they took mercy and stilled their movement. After one more kiss to his neck, they lifted their head and assessed his demeanor. He made quite the picture. His eyes were shut in pleasure, his lower lip was pulled between his teeth, and his flush had spread down his neck. They pulled back from him enough to look him over and noticed that a couple of the buttons of his shirt had come undone, allowing a glimpse of dark chest hair and freckled skin. They pulled their attention back to his face.
“Are you alright?”
It seemed like an effortful thing for him to open his eyes, and they were amused to see that the closeness of their face to his distracted him. They repeated themself, and he smiled in a dopey sort of way. “Very alright.” He slid his hands up their hips, then wrapped his arms tight around their waist to pull them flush against him again. “I’m good.”
“You’re drunk,” they countered gently. They raised a hand to his face and stroked the fever-warm skin of his cheek and the soft-roughness of his short beard with their fingertips.
“Nuh-uh.” He turned his head to kiss their palm, his facial hair tickling their inner wrist. “Just tipsy. M’fine.”
Saint hesitated. What had happened so far could be blamed on the heat of the moment, but their next decision was what they would have to justify. They hesitated so long that Edmund noticed, and his uncommonly pretty eyes reflected a bit of window-glow as he searched their face for clues.
“I want this,” he offered, soft and earnest. “Do you?”
If any part of them was still cautioning or counselling them, they could no longer hear any of it. They brought their lips to his ear and said, soft and earnest in their own way, “I want you in my mouth.”
The way he shuddered was deeply gratifying. Judging by the way that his cock was hard against their hip and twitched in his pants when they kissed his earlobe, all that wine hadn't dampened his capacity for pleasure, so they didn't see a point in waiting. They moved to have what they wanted, which necessitated putting space between their bodies. He tried to hold onto them, as if they might vanish into night air if they weren't molded against him. They assured him that they weren’t going far, braced their hands on his thighs, and sank to kneeling. The paving of interlocked stone was punishing, but it was worth the discomfort just to see his expression of stunned arousal at the sight of them on their knees.
He seemed to be rendered speechless as they smiled up at him and stroked him through his pants, but at the tug and release of his belt unbuckling, he snapped out of it and hastily grabbed their hands.
“Woah. Wait, wait.” He had found his voice, and his words had a breathy ripple to them that suggested nervous laughter. “Wow, uh, alright.”
He pulled them back up to standing with easy strength and held their upper arms. They could feel a slight tremble in his hands as he checked up and down the empty alley, but to Saint it seemed a sign of anticipation more than anxiety. When he looked back to them, his whole face was blushed and he even seemed shy. It was really quite endearing.
“I have a room, inside. If you want. Do you? ‘Cause I…” He swallowed hard and wet his lips. “I really want.”
They really wanted.