DAY'S DEEP MIDNIGHT
Written on November 28, 2021 (♐︎︎︎)
Content Warning: The context is a little unclear and the consent somewhat dubious.
The moon was new, or else it was a waning sliver. The cloisters were dark enough to hide the crimes of its tenants, and Delita caught the sighs of the man rutting beneath him against his palm. Neither of them could afford to be caught.
He reminded himself of this with each groan, with each creak of the bed frame, at each instant where he wished to lean close to Wiegraf's ear and whisper something cutting. The Church had taken a gamble on them both, and it would be foolish to give them reason to reconsider the wager.
Delita supposed their present configuration, his hand wrapped hard against Wiegraf's swollen prick as they fumbled about in the dark, was foolish enough—that it would not be that much more weighty a risk to reveal which boy it was the Templar's newest initiate spent these hot summer nights in sin with. As he ran his thumb along the underside of his shaft, as he felt the muscles of his jaw tighten where his hand overlaid his mouth, he wondered if the man knew—wondered if he recognized his bed mate as his fellow exile in Mullonde and wondered beyond that if he could trace the thread that tied them back to Gallione.
"Saints..." A muffled half whisper hissed through Delita's fingers and stuck in the thick August air.
He picked up speed, feeling the lean body he straddled arc upwards to meet his touch. He imagined the shadows Wiegraf might reach for in the darkness—whose flesh the tips of his fingers might meet, whose features he might try to make out in the starlight. Delita measured his breath as he conjured up images of other youths and other men, flitting through years' worth of rumors as to just what secrets were kept in convent walls and in between the huddled ranks of the commoner armies. His own breath hitched as he recalled the high roofed dormitories of the Gariland and what indiscretions the nobility permitted. Whether Wiegraf perceived him as he was or whether his heated brain gave him some new shape—a fresh-faced temple novice, some stripling soldier from his past, Vormav's guileless son—Delita and he surely had yet another commonality in knowing just what the world permitted them so long as it went unseen.
A hand brushed the meat of his shoulder, and he did his best not to flinch. His fingers tensed against the pulse of a vein; his thumb circled over the top of the crown and wetted itself against the bead of moisture forming there. Somewhere in the darkness, Wiegraf moaned. Delita's flesh ran cold as the body beneath his went rigid.
He froze, still as the grotesques peering down from the grand cathedral, as he felt the warm spill of come over his fist and realized another hand had wrapped around his own. Delita felt, with sudden acuity, the faint breeze through the open window—the way his sweat-soaked garment stuck to the hard ridges of his fire-marked skin.
He swallowed but said nothing. When some feverish impulse overtook him, it was not any of the things he had fancied prior. He did not whisper any bitter revelation into Wiegraf's ear. He made no mention of either girl he had watched die so many seasons ago on the mainland.
Instead, he collapsed over him, leaning into the ragged pace of his breath and the shuddering gallop of their hearts. He moved his hand over Wiegraf's lips to cover his eyes, pushing aside the mop of damp hair that clung to his brow, and he kissed him with a savagery he hoped would convey whatever venom might have otherwise poured from his lips.
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