Back in Annesburg, fighting in a place where mud and black rock and human misery were currency, the closest Erron had ever come to peace after the incident in Saint Denis came toward the end of a brutal fight. The devil must have gotten into his opponent that evening, he reckoned, if the look in his eye when he volunteered had been anything to judge by. Whatever lived or perhaps even expired inside of that man got his blood up something ferocious, made it sing above that of the clouds and the thunder and the rain and the shouting of the miners with bloodshot eyes. It was a curious thing — the things men shared between them without a word when the gloves were off and the money down.
Erron hadn’t had a whooping like that since he’d been too weak with hunger to fight back with anything even distantly resembling conscious thought. On his knees in the muck, blinking rain and stars out of his eyes, he’d realized he’d managed to take the man down with him. There they’d been, arms coiled like snakes and leaning up against one another, gasping for each lungful of breath between bruised ribs when it occurred to Erron that his blood finally ran cold and silent as the grave.
They’d wallowed a while like a pair of hogs in the mud ‘til such a time as it was determined a draw, but they’d both known the fight couldn’t last. It never did.
Arthur made his blood sing, too, but the tension that came bleeding out of him lasted. Erron heaved a long, unsteady sigh and crumpled back in his seat when Arthur finally straightened to gaze down at him. It was just as well, he reckoned, because if they’d been locked together any longer the respite coursing thick and sweet as molasses through his veins might’ve pulled him under. “It’s just like I said,” he mumbled, the scent of sex eddying up from between them drawing his attention to the state of them, slowly wilting yet no less lurid and alluring. “I got good manners where it counts.”
Erron reached up with his unsoiled hand to idly paw the soft expanse of Arthur’s belly, thick with hard-won muscle and sinew just underneath, caressed the length of his flank with the backs of his fingers. “Speakin’ of,” he flicked the tip of his tongue across his lips, searching for a reason to keep Arthur seated for a little while longer. His saddlebags were within reach, unceremoniously piled up against the leg of the chair. “You mind reachin’ into my saddlebag there fer a handkerchief?”
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Erron hadn’t had a whooping like that since he’d been too weak with hunger to fight back with anything even distantly resembling conscious thought. On his knees in the muck, blinking rain and stars out of his eyes, he’d realized he’d managed to take the man down with him. There they’d been, arms coiled like snakes and leaning up against one another, gasping for each lungful of breath between bruised ribs when it occurred to Erron that his blood finally ran cold and silent as the grave.
They’d wallowed a while like a pair of hogs in the mud ‘til such a time as it was determined a draw, but they’d both known the fight couldn’t last. It never did.
Arthur made his blood sing, too, but the tension that came bleeding out of him lasted. Erron heaved a long, unsteady sigh and crumpled back in his seat when Arthur finally straightened to gaze down at him. It was just as well, he reckoned, because if they’d been locked together any longer the respite coursing thick and sweet as molasses through his veins might’ve pulled him under. “It’s just like I said,” he mumbled, the scent of sex eddying up from between them drawing his attention to the state of them, slowly wilting yet no less lurid and alluring. “I got good manners where it counts.”
Erron reached up with his unsoiled hand to idly paw the soft expanse of Arthur’s belly, thick with hard-won muscle and sinew just underneath, caressed the length of his flank with the backs of his fingers. “Speakin’ of,” he flicked the tip of his tongue across his lips, searching for a reason to keep Arthur seated for a little while longer. His saddlebags were within reach, unceremoniously piled up against the leg of the chair. “You mind reachin’ into my saddlebag there fer a handkerchief?”