Title:  Moon in Hand
Author:  Louise
Email:  louiseaquaesulis@supanet.com
Rating:  Um...not sure.  R-15 -- NC-17
Fandom:  A Knight's Tale
Pairing:  Wat/Roland
Archive:  Britslash (If you want it!),
AKnightsTale_SLASHERS@yahoogroups.com,
http://www.jimmydeesbeachproductions.com/Sebastyin/; if anyone else is
interested, please ask. ;-)
Summary:  Wat has trouble sleeping - h/c of sorts.
Warnings:  None, really - abuse referred to in passing, strong language.  A
bit angsty.  Fairly graphic descriptions.  Hope none of this warning will
leave you feeling that your intelligences have been insulted! :-}

Disclaimers:  All I own is the grubby mind which channelled the events here
described. <g> Brian Helgeland and the film company own the characters, etc,
and Mark Addy and Alan Tudyk own the depictions of said characters:  I
don't.  Alas. I'm just playing with them for a while. <g> No intention
exists on my part to claim anything else - probably not even originality,
given the plot. <g> Not for profit, etc.

 

Moon in Hand

 

by Louise




"You know I may as well wish for the moon in hand..." ~~ "I Can't Own
Her" -- Andy Partridge (from the album Apple Venus by XTC).

Sometimes, when he closes his eyes at night, just before he falls asleep he
sees again how it was the day they first met...

*************

The snot-nosed brat of a dockside whore, fending for himself on the streets
and at seven years old already a tough little brawler, Wat had been pitched
from one debateable relative to another for as long as he could remember.
Until now, when he had fetched up in the stews of Southwark.  Pitched
between a butcher's that sold cat meat disguised as rabbit and a mercer's
shop selling everything a man's heart might desire, the Tabard Inn was the
closest thing to a safe haven Wat had ever known.  His uncle Harry was a
loud, rough-hewn man, but for Wat he represented warmth -- security --
*home*.

Exactly *what* had happened to him in the years since his birth wasn't clear
to them -- but the moment his aunt and uncle had laid eyes on the
tatterdemalion little figure staring up at them from the doorway, thumb in
mouth, all bright red hair, green-filtrumed nose and huge, wary eyes they
knew that here was a damaged little boy who'd seen too much and been loved
too little.

And so Harry and Constant had taken Wat in, scrubbed him clean, dressed him,
fed him, and loved him unconditionally until at last the scars and welts on
his body had begun to fade and the guarded look in his eyes had slowly been
replaced by something approaching trust and affection.  The Tabard Inn had
given Wat the stability he needed and which was beginning to soothe his
ragged soul.

Until...

*************

He shifts restlessly on the pile of furs and straw that serves them for beds
in their tent.  Roland, stretched out behind him, grumbles under his breath.

"For the love of God an' all 'Is little cherubs, Wat...  I'm tryin' to
bloody sleep, 'ere.  You know, sleep?  That thing you do when it's dark an'
you close your eyes an' little farty noises come out of your nose and you
burble on about tansy cakes with peppermint cream?"

"I know, I know...!" Wat grumbles back indignantly.  And closes his eyes
again, desperate to rest his aching body and quieten his racing mind.

But it's no use...

Wat is remembering the first time he ever saw Will...and as usual that means
it's going to be hard for him to get to sleep tonight...

*************

Running away.  Yet again, he was running away.

His small fists had bloodied the nose of a merchant's spoiled brat for
making fun of his wayward crest of flaming crimson hair just once too often
and now the child's parents had sent servants into Southwark seeking
retribution.  And it wouldn't be long before they got it -- not when golden
coins were being offered for any helpful information they might receive.

Wat was never going to be able to hide forever; he'd upset too many other
parents and shop-keepers in his short life to expect any protection from the
locals.  Besides, with his unmistakable shock of hair, pale but grubby skin,
expressive face and clear blue eyes, young Wat was as distinctive as a
peacock amongst a cloud of starlings.  There was no honour amongst thieves
and the poor where Wat was concerned; his explosive temper and ability to
transform himself into a furious whirling dervish when provoked had not
endeared him to anyone save those just as violent as himself.

As he pounded down the crowded streets, arms and legs pumping and his heart
hammering in his skinny chest, Wat knew he couldn't go home again.  He
thought despairingly of the warmth and comfort he'd found at The Tabard and
the love his aunt and uncle had shown him.  Before when people had spoken to
him of love -- grimy men reeking of sweat and foul, rancid
breath...wild-eyed hags with fingers like polished bone...rich men and
women, bored with what their money could buy them -- it had meant
unspeakable pain and degradation, strong hands holding him down on his knees
or his back or on all fours as his mouth or his cock or his arse had been
violated.  But with Uncle Harry and Aunt Constant, love had meant warmth and
cuddles and laughter...tansy cakes with peppermint cream...jugged hare and
cabbage...egg custard dusted with saffron...*home*...

"Oi!  *You*!"

Tossing a quick glance over his shoulder, Wat spotted two bully-boys dressed
in the merchant's livery.  Turning back he instinctively increased his
speed, ignoring the tearing pain in his lungs and the agonising cramps in
his leg and thigh muscles -- only to have the breath knocked from his body a
bare heartbeat later as he collided with a mountain of muscle and steel.

Winded, the force of the impact sent Wat sprawling on his arse, barely able
to take in what had happened before a dark shape was leaning down over him
and he was watching a huge fist heading slowly towards the neck of his
jerkin as though in a dream.  Moments later Wat was dangling in mid-air,
face to face with a bearded giant smelling of horses, leather and ale, as
the sounds, smells and colours of the street careered around him.  After a
second's pause Wat recovered from his initial shock and began struggling to
get free.  Arms and legs thrashing and kicking despite the resultant
tightening of his jerkin around his neck, Wat fought and spat as too many
black memories came flooding in before his eyes like corpses washed up on
the bleaker banks of the dark Thames.

A low roll of laughter broke over Wat's head as he squirmed.  "Like a little
eel, aren't you, boy..."  The rumble was friendly, but Wat had good reason
not to trust men who held him fast in their grip and spoke to him in cordial
tones.

Almost choking as the strong hand tightened its hold on the cloth of his
jerkin, Wat tried hard to focus his gaze on the man now growling at him --
but it was no use; being so close his eyes couldn't take in the face in
front of him and he was forced to stare cross-eyed at the man's nose.  "I'll
fong you," Wat gasped with effort.  "Fong your arse -- you and the *rest* of
your army...  Fong you -- I'll *fong* you!"

"Is this piece of shite bothering you, my lord?"

The big man turned, and the merchant's men swung into Wat's line of sight.
"Bothering me?"  The Goliath snorted with derision.  "Does it *look* as
though he's bothering me?"  He shook Wat like a puppy and stars danced
before the boy's eyes.

The smaller of the merchant's men turned egregious.  "Beg pardon, my lord.
I meant no offence, my lord.  Only..."

"Only?"

The larger of the two thugs spread his hands.  "Our master wants a word with
the brat--*boy*, sire; a little disagreement between him and our master's
son...nothing more.  If we could just take him back with us, my lord...if
you'd be so kind..."

The knight looked from the men to the small, snarling boy clutched in his
fist and then back again.  "How much is he paying you?"

The small man looked blank.  "Paying us?"  He checked himself.  "My lord?"

The big man studied the boy again.  "Watkyn the merchant.  What's he paying
you?"

The two men exchanged puzzled looks.  "Er..."

"For the love of *Christ*!  How much is he paying you to hunt this child?"

"Oh, not just *us*, sire," the bigger, more stupid bully said cheerfully.
"There's a gold florin for anyone who helps us find him!"

"You've found him, then."  The knight's voice was expressionless.  "Now give
me my florin."

Wat stopped fighting, all energy finally drained from him.  That was it,
then.  It was over.  Betrayed by a rich bastard who could afford to buy him
ten times over.  It wasn't the first time this had happened:  he doubted it
would be the last.  Resigned to the inevitable, Wat prepared to surrender to
his fate.

Meanwhile the smaller man was rifling through a heavy pouch at his belt.
"Here," he said at last, drawing out a bright coin and handing it to the
knight.  "Thank you, my lord."

Shaking Wat again, the nobleman took the coin and stared at it, turning it
over in his fingers.  "A gold florin...for one small, ragged-arsed,
snot-nosed boy..."

The smaller merchant's man coughed discreetly.  "My lord...the boy...  Our
master..."

"Hmmm?"  The knight seemed distracted, hypnotised by the sunlit piece of
metal.

"Sire...the boy...?"

A sudden whirl of movement and fury, the knight took a step towards the two
men.  "...Is *mine*," he snarled.  "He's my apprentice.  If your master
wishes to take issue with him, then he must first take issue with me."

The liveried men paled visibly.  "My lord!" the smaller one squeaked.  "We
meant no harm -- we did not know..."

The bigger one nodded.  "But sire, your apprentice -- what I mean is...we
never realised...he's been living at the Tabard Inn for several months
now..."

The knight smiled at them, eyes cold.  "Then I must thank *you*, for I too
have been seeking this boy.  He ran away from me and I've been halfway
across the city looking for him.  Here, take your reward..."  He took a
purse from his belt and threw it at the merchant's servants.  "There should
be ample there to complement whatever Watkyn may be paying you.  Tell your
master that his child should be *honoured* to have been bested by the
apprentice of the greatest tournament champion in the country.  Now go --
and let me hear no more of this, or your master shall answer to the king
himself!"

At that, the two servants exchanged anxious, calculating glances; then took
off back up the street, the waves of passers-by parting to let them through.

The knight looked round at the small crowd now gathered about him.  He shook
Wat again, threw him in the air one-handed, and then caught him by the
scruff of his jerkin.  "Do you know this boy?"

Wat closed his eyes, feeling dizzy and sick.  He was going to die, he knew
it.

"Do any of you know this boy?"  There was silence, then the knight snorted
and nodded.  "No-one knows him...but do you know who I am?"

"Aye..."  The murmur of voices swelled around them.

"Here, then...a florin for your trouble!"

The big man flashed the crowd a broad grin, then pitched the bright coin up
into the air.  The people oohed and aahed as the gold piece spun as though
in slow motion, sunlight reflecting from it as it somersaulted through
space.  When the florin finally hit the cobbles, there was a brief spasm of
wild scrabbling and then the crowd dispersed, leaving the knight and the boy
in peace.

Wat suddenly found himself tossed up in the air and then caught by a strong
hand under each armpit.  He also became aware of the knight's saddled horse,
a dray-horse hitched to a bundle-filled cart, and a tall, plump youth with
watchful eyes behind them.

"Now then, boy..." the knight mused.  "What *are* we going to do with
you..."

Head starting to swim, Wat panicked.  He'd heard that phrase before, and it
always meant pain...lots of pain...  "I'll fong your arse!" he squeaked,
with the last of his strength.

The knight merely smiled at him.  "Will you now, little one..."

"Do you *really* know the king that well, then, Sir Ector?"  The voice, from
behind him, sounded northern to Wat's ears.

The big man laughed.  "Of course not, Roland.  But *they* don't know that,
do they?  Neither does Watkyn.  And it did the trick, didn't it?"

"Aye, it did that...  So what are we going to do with carrot-top, then?
Take 'im back to the Tabard?"

"My name's *Wat*!" Wat snarled.  "Not 'carrot-top'!"

Ignoring the outburst, Sir Ector placed Wat down gently on the ground.  "Do
you promise not to run away, Wat?"

Eyes suddenly huge, Wat stared up at the dark, bearded knight.  Wat was
strong and tough; but to the boy's eyes the knight was very tall and must
also be at least a hundred years old -- and it didn't do to argue with
elderly giants, who were given to being fractious and easy to offend.  "I
promise," Wat hiccupped.  "If you ain't gonna 'urt me, that is."

Ector gazed down at Wat solemnly.  "Young man -- Wat -- I promise you that I
am *not* going to hurt you.  You have my word on that, and I am a man of
honour.  Small boys eat too much and make too much noise and snore and make
smells, it's true -- but that isn't reason enough to hurt them."  He smiled
again, showing a lot of white teeth.  "Very well, Wat.  What would you like
to do?  Shall we indeed take you back to the Tabard Inn?  Shall Roland and I
take you back to your mother and father?"

Wat opened his mouth to speak -- then closed it just as quickly as tears
threatened to humiliate him.  Then knuckled his eyes as the tears came
anyway.  "Don't 'ave no mam an' dad," he whimpered, ashamed even at seven
years old of the plaintive wail in his voice.

"So 'oo were you livin' with, then?"  Roland, a tall, chubby youth with an
open face and twinkling, friendly eyes, stepped forward, offering a piece of
marchpane he'd dug out of a sack.

"Me Uncle 'Arry an' me Auntie Constant," Wat replied, taking the marchpane
and nibbling it gratefully.

Sir Ector ruffled his hair.  "And don't you want to go back to them?"

The kindness in the knight's voice, combined with his flight through
Southwark and Roland's marchpane, was Wat's undoing.  Letting out a yowl of
misery the boy sat down with a thump, drew up his legs and laid his head
down on his arms as he hugged his scrawny knees.  "I can't!  After I belted
that little tosspot 'is dad said as 'e'd flay the skin off me back if 'e
ever saw me again.  'E'll make my life a misery if I go back 'ome -- an' I
don't want 'im to 'urt me uncle an' auntie, either!  'Cos 'e will, you
know -- 'e *will*!"

Ector and Roland exchanged sombre glances over Wat's scarlet coxcomb.  "I'll
go and speak to them," Ector said quietly.  "Come to some arrangement.  He'
ll be company for Will and he'll be another pair of hands for you."

"And another mouth to feed..."

"Aye, another hungry mouth to feed.  But God love him, Roland, you heard
what he said -- I can't leave him to fend for himself on the streets."
Ector bent and scooped the red-haired boy up in his arms, then threw him
across to Roland who caught him expertly.  "Look after him, Roland.  Give
him some small beer and some bread, then settle him down in the back of the
cart with Will and wait for me; we'll be on our way as soon as I return."

As the knight mounted his horse and clopped away up the street towards the
Tavern, admirers casting deferential glances in his direction, Roland
hoisted Wat up against his shoulder and carried him towards the ramshackle
cart.  "Come on, young man," he said.  "Time for you to meet Will.  He's Sir
Ector's apprentice -- just like you're goin' to be, by the look of it.  How
do you fancy the idea of bein' an apprentice to a knight then, young Wat?"

Wat smiled, suddenly sleepy, and feeling safe and at ease with these two
men.  He wrapped his arms around Roland's broad neck and burrowed his nose
into the stout youth's sturdy shoulder.  "Nice..."

Roland chuckled.  "Nice, eh?  Well, lad, you'll 'ave to work 'ard and mind
your mouth and your manners, but you'll be all right with Sir Ector -- 'e's
a good man.  'Aven't you ever 'eard the crowds chantin' 'is name at the
stadium when there's a tournament?  No man better than Sir Ector at the
joust in the whole of England, lad -- if not the world!"

Wat, impressed now, let out a gasp.  "*Really*?" he exclaimed excitedly.
"The best jouster in the whole of the world?"

Roland "hmmm"d sheepishly.  "Well -- maybe not the whole world," he
acknowledged.  "But certainly the best in England -- which amounts to the
same thing in the end, doesn't it?"  Roland winked up at Wat and grinned,
and Wat grinned back.

As Wat nestled back against Roland, he caught sight of a grave-eyed boy
looking out at him from beneath a bundle of furs in the back of the cart.
The boy saw his look and lifted his chin.  My name's Will," he said.  "What
's yours?"

"Wat," said Wat.  "Wat for -- for -- for 'Walter', I fink."

"I'll call you Wat, like Sir Ector and Roland do.  I like it better than
'Walter'.  It suits you.  Hello, Wat."

"'Allo, Will..."

"I see you've met, then," Roland chuckled wryly.

Introductions over, Roland settled Wat in the back of the cart with a
child-sized mug of small beer and some bread and cheese, then sat on the
cart steps and took out a pile of mending.  As he ate, Wat watched him,
finding it hard to believe that Roland's brawny hands could handle a needle
and thread with such delicacy.

"Never seen a man sewing before?"  Will's voice broke his concentration.
"Roland's very good, aren't you, Roland?"

"Aye, I am that.  Me mam taught me.  Comes in very 'andy, it does -- if I'm
not sewin' up Sir Ector's wounds then I'm a dab 'and at rustlin' up a new
tunic or two."

"Made me my tunic, didn't you, Roland!"

"Very proud of that, I was," the older youth acknowledged.  "Nice bit o'
stitchin', that..."

As Wat chewed his bread and cheese, Will and Roland continued nattering
cheerfully.  Wat liked Roland already, but Will intrigued him.  The child
was around the same age as himself, but slighter, oddly fine-boned and
almost feminine-looking.  His blonde hair fell to his shoulders in wild,
sun-bleached tangles, and his brown eyes studied Wat as though scrutinising
him through to his core.  Something in that gaze unsettled Wat in a
strangely pleasant way -- something he couldn't understand, but which made
him feel warm in the pit of his stomach...

*************

"You're doin' it *again*..."

"Sorry..."  Wat squirms and sighs, punching the sack stuffed with straw that
serves him for a pillow and cuddling closer to his cushion.

"What in the name of St Erconwald is the matter with you, anyway?"

"Can't sleep."

Roland chuckles good-naturedly and Wat feels the big man's body shake with
gentle mirth.  Oddly, it comforts him.  "Thinkin' of Will off with Chaucer
an' Kate in the big bad city?"

"Yes."

Roland guffaws.  "Our mad poet I'm not so sure about -- but I think our Will
'll be quite safe with Kate lookin' after 'im..."

Wat's thinking of Will, certainly.  Will and *only* Will.  Will first, last,
and everything.  *Will*...

And again the memories slither across his closed eyelids, taunting and
tormenting and arousing him until he feels sure that his skin will catch
a-fire.

*************

It had been neither planned nor expected; but once, a long time ago, Wat and
Will had been lovers.

Well...

Perhaps "lovers" was too noble a word to describe what they'd been and
"love" too grand for the effects of the basic, animal hunger that had
possessed them; certainly there had been nothing romantic about their
furious couplings.  But afterwards, Wat was to remember it as a heaven of
sexual experimentation driven by a sultry afternoon and the frustration of
boys at the cusp between childhood and the world of adults.  A paradise
motivated by the pleasures of firm, male flesh sticky with sweat and salt
and the overwhelming need to fuck and be fucked.

It had been almost farcical in its inevitability -- a bout of horseplay in a
hayloft that began as energetic wrestling and ended in frantic kisses,
rough, exploring hands and the heedless tugging at clothes demanded by the
desire to feel a naked body against one's own bare flesh as soon as humanly
possible.  To feel another's hands on your cock and balls instead of your
own.

*Jesu* -- how Wat had needed that.  To feel Will's calloused palms stroking
and tugging at his cock and balls, rough hands gripping the cheeks of his
arse as Will, blind with need, ground his cock against Wat's own, the two of
them grunting out an obscene litany of crude words and cruder demands as
their bodies wanted more...

And there had *been* more.  And Wat had relived it over and over again down
the years, always getting impossibly hard as he remembered...

...As he remembered Will, on all fours, begging to be taken, to see how it
felt to be fucked.  Telling him that he wanted to be fucked senseless, even
though he only had a faint idea of what that might mean -- and not caring
that he didn't.  Wat remembered the look in his eyes -- the glazed, almost
possessed expression of a boy half-drunk with lust -- and knew that his own
eyes must have held the same shameless stare as he slicked his tumescent
cock with spit and then plunged without further preamble or preparation into
Will's virgin arse.  If Wat heard Will's yelp of pain it didn't register as
Wat's own lust, triggered by feeling Will's arse tight around him, took
control.  Given Will's response once the initial shock had worn off -- the
bucking, jerking hips slamming that pert round arse back against Wat's
groin, the howls of pleasure and the loud, throaty groans -- most likely it
hadn't mattered...

*************

Wat closes his eyes, feels his cock rising and hardening inside his baggy
breeches.  He remembers how stars had danced before his eyes when Sir Ector
had shaken him by the scruff of his neck, the day he first met Will.  And he
remembers how those stars had danced again as he lay exhausted in the hay,
body draped across Will's, as their sated bodies and minds drowsed away the
rest of the afternoon until they were needed again.

But it was not only the fixed stars; he recalls lying sleepless on the cart
into the early hours, watching constellations, shooting stars and planets
wheeling and whirling overhead, their wild careening matching his delirious
joy in learning that the sights and sounds and smells and sensations of sex
could be pleasurable.  Learning that someone's hands on his body could bring
him bliss.  That someone's mouth and tongue sucking and licking eagerly on
his cock and balls could feel like paradise.  That to watch and feel his
cock sinking between the plump buttocks spread under his hands could make
him forget his own name.  That a thick, engorged prick slamming rhythmically
into his own arse accompanied by grunts and the sound and feel of strong
thighs and swollen bollocks smacking against his sensitised flesh could send
his soul soaring beyond space...

...Above all:  learning that he loved William Thatcher more than life
itself.

And nothing has changed.  He's still in love with Will and always will be --
and hates Jocelyn for having from Will what he knows he will *never* have.
Wat longs to fuck Will again and have him as his lover; longs for it with a
hunger so basic and fierce that it makes him ache.  Makes him ache with a
pain so intense that he fears it might kill him.

Christ Jesu, he's hard -- so fucking hard...

He yearns to fold his coarse fingers and palm around his cock -- to let the
pictures flood his mind as he wanks, hips jerking frantically, until the
pain goes away.  But even as his hand begins the slow slide down his body
towards the hot flesh that calls to him he knows that tonight this will not
be enough.  Tonight he needs to be fucked.  Tonight he wants to feel another
's body moving with his own -- not merely to satisfy the urgent need for a
cock deep inside him, but for the warmth and the comfort and the reassurance
of feeling that someone cares.

Hunger suddenly possesses him, focussing his concentration solely in his
groin.  He flips over as though controlled by another power, nerve endings
alive and his mind alert, if single-focussed.  He reaches out his hand and
touches a shoulder clad in rough homespun.

"What is it now..."  Roland's voice is toneless but slightly irritated, as
though he has been on the verge of falling asleep.

"Roland, I...I need you," Wat says simply.  "I can't sleep."

Roland sighs heavily and Wat feels the older man's warm breath against his
skin.  "Don't tell me.  It's Will again, isn't it..."

"Yes..."

"And you need me to 'elp you get to sleep..."

"Aye, I do, Roland."

"In the usual way?"

There is no reproach in Roland's voice, only kindness and understanding and
the hint of a chuckle.  Wat feels tears flood his eyes as waves of affection
for his friend wash over him.  "Yes..." he replies, almost inaudibly.  He
knows that he has nothing to explain to the Yorkshireman.

"Okay, then..."  Roland stirs and huffs, getting into a better position.
"Clothes on or off?"

Wat needs contact, needs the feel of skin against skin.  "Off."

"Bugger.  I thought you'd say that.  Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"Humph.  It's a bit too bloody cold for the full monty tonight," Roland
mutters, not even half-serious.  "Can't I at least keep me kecks on?"  Wat
shakes his head, grinning, and Roland beams back.  "Oh well, please
yourself.  It's a good thing I've got such a big dick -- even if it shrinks
a bit in the cold, at least I know me belly's not gonna get in the way..."

Laughing with Roland as the big man undresses and shivering with desire as
he shucks off his own clothes, Wat lies down on his side again as soon as he
's naked, and waits for Roland to join him.  He doesn't have long to wait.

Still chuntering cheerfully, Roland nestles against Wat's back and slaps his
arse playfully.  "Right then, 'andsome stranger.  What's it to be, then?
The usual, you say?"

Wat laughs again.  "Aye, the usual."

"Want me to 'old your dick as well, or are *you* gonna do that?"

"I'll do it..."

"Thank Christ for that.  Can't get a good rhythm goin' if I 'old your
todger.  It's like pattin' me 'ead an' rubbin' me belly at the same time."
Roland huffs and wriggles with discomfort.  "By St Kenelm, this is 'ardly
comfortable -- an' I 'ope I don't get a straw up me arse, neither.  Not like
you," he adds with a jovial leer.  "You're gonna get somethin' a damn sight
bigger than a bloody straw up *your* arse tonight, you lucky bastard,
you..."

Again Wat laughs at Roland's mischievous chortles, but trying to smile makes
his face hurt now that his need is so desperate.  "Please, Roland..." he
whispers.  "*Please*..."

Roland relents and blows a loud raspberry against Wat's bare shoulder.
"Just let me get settled and standin' to attention..."  He leans over and
takes a small vial from one of the packs piled on the floor.  "This is that
oil Will uses to polish 'is sword," Roland explains -- then lets out a
wonderfully filthy gurgle of laughter.  "I'm gonna be polishin' *my* sword
with it in a minute..."  He unstops the vial, pours some oil into his hand,
then swears as he realises he hasn't enough hands to re-stopper the vial
easily.  After a few more choice words he succeeds and throws the vial into
the straw, out of the way.  "Now then..." he says huskily as he begins
slathering the oil onto his cock and between Wat's buttocks.  "Let me 'ave a
think..."

Wat can hear Roland's hand lubricating his cock and can imagine his friend's
erection engorging and hardening as he applies the oil first to his cock,
then to the dark cleft between Wat's buttocks, unaware that as his hand
moves between the two he has set up an agonisingly sweet rhythm.

"Roland, what are you finkin' about?"  Wat's voice is breathless from
feeling Roland's oiled fingers pressing into the cleft between the globes of
his arse.

"That pretty little maid of Jocelyn's," Roland replies dreamily.  "'Er tits
are too small and there's not enough meat on 'er bones for my likin', but
she'll do for now...  Oh Christ..."  Roland's breathing quickens.  "Oh God,
yes...she'll do for now, Wat...  Oh Jesus and 'Is 'Oly Mother...  Wat, are
you ready?"

Wat nods, hardly able to breathe now.  "Aye, I'm ready."

"Want me to go straight in?"

"Aye -- aye...  Just...just fuck me, Roland..."

"Anythin' you want, lad..."

Wat stops breathing altogether as he feels Roland getting ready, the trail
of hair on the older man's chest and belly brushing and tickling against his
back and bare buttocks.  He is tense, his whole body ready for this.  He
feels the head of Roland's cock pressing against the ring of muscle between
his buttocks and wills himself to relax so that the entry will be easy.

"That's it...nearly there...don't want to hurt you, lad..."

Wat's smile is broad and affectionate.  "You never do, Roland..." he
reassures his friend.

"I aim to please," Roland replies, sounding delighted.

Wat feels Roland's harsh breath on his neck as the big man's meaty fingers
guide the head of his cock into position -- and then he is gasping, fingers
clutching impulsively, as Roland pushes forward and Wat feels himself
impaled on hot, rigid flesh.  Roland moans into Wat's shoulder and the two
of them adjust their positions, getting comfortable for the pleasure to
come.

Roland clasps his hands around Wat's waist and blows another loud raspberry
against the young man's skin.  "Now remember," he says, hugging Wat close.
"It's all all right.  Do what we always do.  You pretend I'm William, and I'
ll...well, I'll do me best to be 'im for you..."

Wat pats Roland's hands to let him know that he understands, then closes his
eyes, savouring the feel of the hard flesh within him.  They begin to move
together, both of them taking what they need from the other and giving as
much in return.

As the pleasure builds, Roland's moans and soft cries of "Oh yes...!" and
"You beauty...!" sooth Wat and his troubled soul.  Roland's consoling bulk
and willingness to give comfort touches Wat and gives him ease as his
fantasies unravel before his closed eyes and he begins to answer Roland's
ever-more vigorous thrusts with whimpers and thrusts of his own, hips
grinding back against the warm plump body.  As they reach climax, Wat is
lost in his own pleasure, switching from fantasy to fantasy.  He sees
himself plunging hard and deep into Will's body as he masturbates; then,
with each of Roland's thrusts he imagines that it's Will who's fucking him,
*Will* whose cock is slowly sending his mind into free-fall -- before
Roland's sudden cry and the pleasurable convulsions that seize his own body
mean that for a while, he simply cannot think at all...

*************

"Roland," Wat begins afterwards, limbs tangled with his friend's.

"Mm-hm?"  Roland is on the verge of sleep and sounds as though he suspects
Wat isn't going to let him drift off.

"Roland -- do you fink Will will *ever* love me?  You know, forget Jocelyn
an' love *me* instead?"

Roland goes still, and is quiet for a time.  "Hmmm!" he says at length.  "It
's a thought.  I mean, 'oo knows?  After all -- what is it Will says?  That
a man *can* change 'is stars?  Maybe the same will 'appen to you, Wat."

Wat nestles down in the straw, wrapping himself more securely around the big
man.  "Mmmm...maybe..."

He lies awake, listening to Roland's breathing slowing into sleep and to the
sounds of the city preparing for bed.  He thinks about what Roland said;
that perhaps he could change his stars and make Will see that Jocelyn isn't
what he wants -- that what he *really* wants is a rough, argumentative,
quirkily handsome red-head with broad shoulders and a big heart who already
knows what it is to make love to him and what it is that most gives Will
pleasure when it making love.

But even as the gratifying thought enters his head, Wat's heart sinks.  It
will never happen.  A man might change his stars, but some things are
destined to remain forever out of reach.  He thinks of how he watched the
stars that night after making love to Will and realises that he knows the
truth of it.  Will is as cold to him now as those stars -- and just as
remote.  They will never now be more than friends, and Wat's heart will
probably never mend.  Because he knows that while he might dream about
touching the stars, a dream is all it will ever be; Will is destined to take
Jocelyn as his bride:  he will never be Wat's.  Taking the stars and weaving
them into a garland for Will's hair would be easier.

As he sighs and curls up against Roland's warm, comforting bulk, Wat tries
to ignore what he knows, but it pushes itself into his mind anyway:  he
wants Will, but he knows all too well that he may as well wish for the moon
in hand...

~f~i~n~i~s~




 

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