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It was barely a moment—half a breath, nothing more—and yet, bells later, at home and settled at his desk, doing his utmost to absorb himself in the technical plans for a new construction in the Lavender Beds, Beatin’s mind…sticks. Like an insect in sap, drawn inexorably back despite his best efforts to disengage himself.
His apprentice, he thinks, firmly, and yet the argument lacks strength. Sylvien is hardly a child in truth, younger than he, yes, but certainly old enough to—to be doing this on purpose.
That, too, is undeniable. Beatin is not blind to the boy’s looks, though his glasses may allow him to claim obliviousness. Perhaps that had been a mistake, perhaps it only encouraged persistence, a challenge to overcome like any of the others Beatin has placed before him. Through dogged determination he had exceeded Beatin’s every expectation, this woodsman from the depths of the Shroud who had never touched a saw in his life. Applied, then, to an area where he seemed to have significantly more experience…
An assumption, but not an unfounded one. He arrives late some mornings with hair more tousled than usual, a purple mark or two barely visible above the edge of his collar, setting to work as usual but pausing every so often with a stretch that betokens some particular soreness. Ordinarily it would be uncharacteristic of Beatin to take such notice of his apprentice’s personal life—he cannot even excuse himself with a claim that Sylvien flaunts such details, for he does not. Upon the Timbermaster’s approach, he shrugs into his collar slightly in a futile attempt to conceal the evidence, but Beatin, his gaze safely hidden, finds his eyes wandering to the bruise and wondering what lips might have left it.
He has long since discounted the possibility of a dedicated lover. Not that he has asked—he balks at the thought of voicing such a prying question—but though Sylvien rarely speaks of himself, certain hints paint a picture, regardless. His flirting, for one, casual and seemingly effortless, almost habitual. His dedication and availability for rush projects at odd hours, a willingness Beatin has done his utmost not to abuse. His occasional absences, which invariably correlate with a bounty of materials retrieved from the depths of the forest and could hardly be assumed to be an excuse for some time away with a paramour.
And his…thirst, for every kind word and earnest compliment Beatin might bestow upon him, as though such remarks are rare treasures to be snatched up and hoarded. Should he, contrary to all the signs, have a lover after all, but one that leaves him so wanting—Beatin, though his knows he does not lack his own shortcomings as a partner, would find himself with a few choice words regarding such negligence.
He would not—could not—make such comments simply to observe their effects, but Sylvien grants him ample opportunities to offer sincere and uncalculated praise, and Beatin often fails to recall the consequences of his words until they are already out of his mouth. Compliments make him glow, but critique does not dispirit him, either. He presents his work without a hint of the fear that, despite Beatin’s best efforts to exude a more understanding persona, often engenders reluctance in other fresh recruits. Such a receptive student invites a more hands-on approach—not literally, of course, except—
The moment, today—Sylvien stood at his bench, and Beatin, observing, had stepped forward with a suggestion, at the exact moment that Sylvien had moved back to ask a question, and in their collision—front to back, Sylvien flush to his chest, hair brushing his lips—Beatin had reflexively grasped his hip to steady him. Only half a breath drawn with his nose against his temple, the barest whiff of pine and…lavender?—and yet his hand seems to recall the shape of his waist as it does his most-used tools, and though he had released him straight away—
He can barely convince himself that he had, now, for his memory seems determined to embellish. To make him believe that his grip had tightened, that Sylvien had arched into him, that Beatin had wrapped his other arm around his chest and ducked his head against the lovely curve of his neck and—
“Hells,” he mutters as the stiffness growing between his legs becomes impossible to ignore, and he sets aside his notes and stands, determined that a cold shower should remedy the problem.
And yet somehow, in the process of shedding his clothes, setting his glasses aside, and starting the water, he loses his resolve. It has been…some time, he must admit, since he found himself in a state of such insistent arousal, more accustomed of late to simply attending to the occasional need with a sense of desultory obligation, without a thought of much beyond the pressure of his own hand. The last time he satisfied such desires with another man was long enough ago that the memory is difficult to place with certainty. Within the last…five turns, surely, for there had been one, at least, since he and Gairhard last fell together, that encounter distinctly marked in his recollection—
But his body is uninterested in such ancient reminiscences, and now he has already allowed the water to warm, further ruining his original intent. His hand finds his half-hard cock as he steps under the stream, and he resigns himself to satisfying the physical need, if naught else.
He need not think of Sylvien, but his mind betrays him, observations he had never intended to catalogue coalescing before him into the shape of the smaller Elezen, held as he had held him before, but with a conspicuous lack of his usual work clothes, his bare arse pressed flush to Beatin’s—
A fresh wave of arousal courses through him, and he grips himself hard, suddenly reluctant to let the moment pass too quickly, wary of the guilt that will intrude upon fantasy when he does.
But he is surprised how quickly a new image leaps to mind, as though it has been waiting for a moment to rise fully formed from the depths of his thoughts, as clear as a flash of inspiration for a new project.
Sylvien laid out before him, legs spread, though whether upon his bed or his workbench is not entirely clear, though something pulses through Beatin to think of the latter. The skin of his inner thigh dimples under Beatin’s fingers, creamy and malleable as fresh pine as Beatin opens him wider, while Sylvien gazes up at him with dark eyes—intent and watchful, and ever so eager to please…
The shard of guilt that pricks him at the thought does little to slow the flow of blood to his cock, nor to dim the scene that develops behind his half-closed eyes. Sylvien is slick and ready and waiting for him—though Beatin could wonder what sounds he might make in the process of preparing him, he is too impatient to imagine it now, thoughts skipping over themselves in his haste to press closer to him, to bend him into a different shape and carve into him—
He gasps at the surge of arousal he feels to imagine Sylvien’s body closing around him instead of his hand, stroking himself with increasing fervor as he gives himself up to the fantasy, aching for the tight heat of him, for the moans Beatin feels certain he could draw from his lips as he folds him nearly in half to pound into his core. Arching up to meet him, and taking him so well, each thrust like knocking a timber into its ready-made socket—
He comes before he realizes how close he is, spilling over his hand with a stifled grunt, clarity coming all too soon as he watches the water sweep the evidence away. His heart pounds and he slumps against the wall, letting the water beat against his back as his blood cools, guilt prickling anew at the edge of his thoughts.
There will be no sign of this on the morrow, no blemish to conceal, his own wandering eyes sealed behind his lenses. Sylvien will be none the wiser—a thought which, strangely, gives Beatin pause. As though it is a pity for him to be denied the knowledge of his success, after a fashion—he scoffs at the thought as he busies himself with washing up.
Better kept to oneself, this sort of thing, surely—no matter what visions of glimmering green eyes and a quietly delighted smile bloom in his traitorous thoughts. His apprentice—he cringes again, scrubbing his hair a bit more vigorously—will certainly offer ample opportunity to commend a more appropriate achievement before long, not that Beatin is looking forward to it overmuch.