Chapter Twenty-Two #2
It was not too late to return to the river, Juniper reflected, and let it sweep him leagues away from civilization, never to return.
“You…you need me to be naked?”
“FOR THE SAKE OF LAUNDRY,” Juniper yelled at him. “Shut up, Mo.”
The silence was endless.
And then broken with Mo’s chuckle, the first Juniper had heard in days now. Maybe weeks. Or even a hundred years.
He hadn’t realized how much he had missed the sound until Mo’s shoulders were shaking with laughter.
“Oh, Junebug,” Mo said. He sounded a little feverish, but much less angry. “I’d love to be naked for you. But you’ll have to help undress me, I’m afraid.”
Oh, and now he was enjoying this, was he? If Mo’s ankle weren’t injured, Juniper would be well within his rights to kick the other man in the shins.
“Watch it,” Juniper groused, but he moved slowly and carefully as he peeled Mo’s wet shirt from his body.
Underneath were corded arms and a beautiful expanse of brown skin and a broad chest and a line of hair that ran down his stomach toward—
Toward a place Juniper was going to have to undress next.
He gulped.
Perhaps instead he could set himself on fire.
When he voiced this particular idea to Mo, Mo’s grin just widened.
“You should also hang your clothes to dry,” Mo said. “Here, let me help you with your shirt.”
His hands were defter than Juniper’s—how many people had he undressed that he was so good at this?—and then Juniper’s shirt was gone, leaving him bare chested.
He was so bloody pale in comparison to Mo, freckles spotting his chest, that he felt himself blush. That was why he was blushing. Of course.
“Next, your pants,” Mo said.
“Now who’s bossy?” Juniper grumbled. “I’m supposed to be helping you right now.”
“Oh,” Mo said in a tone of sleepy satisfaction. “Oh, you are.”
“Morn Elmthorn!” Juniper protested, tugging at the knot holding his trousers up. “You are…you cannot be serious.”
“Terribly serious,” Mo said.
Juniper leaned in and placed the back of his hand against Mo’s forehead. His skin was both hot and clammy. “You are running a fever,” he said, worry encroaching on embarrassment. “That’s why you’re acting like this.”
Mo was the perfect gentleman at all other times. Holding doors for the elderly, never looking anywhere but respectfully, helping weary people carry their packages. But when he was either a bit feverish, or had smoked a particular type of mood-enhancing herb, there was…another side to him.
One that was a bit hungry, and a bit…well, how could Juniper describe it? Objectifying. Of Juniper in particular.
“Take off your pants,” Mo said, sounding more bleary than before, but with an expression of delight on his face. He even giggled a little.
“You are acting as if you have smoked a fat roll of Farmer Abernathy’s special leaves,” Juniper reproved him. “Look away, you rapscallion.”
He turned around as he shoved his pants down and hung them over a bush.
“A fine view either way you turn,” Mo slurred. “Now take off my pants, Juniper. Do it slowly, so I can look at you while you do it.”
His voice dropped to a low rumble that chased a shiver down Juniper’s spine, one that had nothing to do with the cold. That was less a request, and more of a command, albeit a feverish one.
“I thought you were angry with me,” Juniper said.
It wasn’t fair to be having this conversation now.
Mo’s gaze caught his, piercing and revealing and Juniper could not look away. “Come here, Juniper,” he said softly.
And Juniper did.
He crouched, undressed, beside Mo and gently tugged at the knot holding Mo’s trousers up. When the knot didn’t give, Mo’s hands closed over his, and they undid the knot together.
Juniper eased them down his friend’s legs, revealing muscular thighs and calves, and then slowly pulled the material away from his swollen ankle as Mo shifted to allow him to peel the clothes off.
“Your shorts,” Juniper said, gesturing to the thin fabric.
“You weren’t wearing any,” Mo said.
“You know that I chafe if I don’t have pure linen,” Juniper mumbled.
Mo’s smile was hazy, feverish, but so affectionate it made Juniper want to cry. Or reconsider his first two options (letting the river carry him away or flinging himself into the fire).
“I’ll get you linen pants when we get home, you fussy fellow,” Mo said. “Help me get these off?”
Juniper did. His throat felt as if it was swollen shut, and he averted his eyes—looked instead to the trees, the moss, the sky, the fire, anywhere but…Mo.
He had always known his roommate was particularly well-endowed by the gods, but he had never—they had never—
Juniper couldn’t breathe.
“Tomorrow we’ll talk,” Mo promised, his words slurring, whether with sleep or pain or his rising fever. “I promise, Junebug. I promise I’m ready to listen.”
Juniper’s chest squeezed dangerously. But was Mo really ready to hear the part he was angriest about—Juniper’s deal with the prince, the ultimate betrayal of Mo’s faith? Was anyone ever ready for that?
“Let me get you soup,” Juniper said, hurrying away from Mo so he did not have to look at—at that, though he was painfully aware of Mo’s hungry gaze on his back. Or maybe even on his ass.
The soup was bubbling in the pot now, and it smelled beautifully of spices and onion and garlic. Thank Divona and all the old gods that Juniper had packed a little rope of braided garlic. Where would they be without the garlic?
He would have to make eye contact with Mo’s—
Juniper shook his head at himself, burning himself three times as he tried to scoop soup into his tin cup. When he turned, Mo had rolled slightly, that sculpted ass toward Juniper, his ankle propped on a nearby stone.
“You have to sit up and have some soup?” Juniper said it like a question, not an order.
He was going to have to learn Mo’s trick, that one where he dropped his voice an octave and it felt like his words rolled out from the very center of his chest, covered in honey and spice, leaving Juniper no choice but to obey.
“In the morning,” Mo mumbled.
The wind blew through their camp, a cold gust, shaking their wet clothes and blankets. Mo shivered, his eyes drooping shut as if he did not have the strength to hold them open.
“Now,” Juniper said. “Now, Mo.”
His voice was not quite a rumble, not like Mo’s was, but it did make Mo turn back over and let Juniper pour a bit of broth into his mouth.
They stayed like that for hours, Juniper crouched beside him until his knees ached, scooping broth painstakingly, one small spoonful at a time.
A few hours later, when the bedroll and blanket at least were dry, Juniper set that up beside the fire.
“Crawl in,” he told Mo, helping his friend when the other man couldn’t manage to get to his feet. “There’s…there’s only one bedroll.”
That was so much worse than only one bed, which so many people acted like was the most romantic thing on the face of the continent.
Instead, having only one shared bedroll was just sweaty and uncomfortable, and you were always being jostled all night, and you were so close to the other person you spent the whole night with your skin on their skin until you forget where you end and he begins, and you might even wake, tangled beneath the blanket he gave you, with his arms wrapped around you and your ear pressed against his chest, and all you can hear is his heartbeat, thump-thump, thump-thump and if anyone asked, you would tell them all the stars in the sky are shining just for him.