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It’s a beautiful night not to die.
“Seven hells,” Beric gasps out. He’s sweating.
Every muscle in his neck aches as he fights to hold still while Thoros tends to his wounds. The sky is rapidly darkening above them, but even the stars slowly appearing in the sky do nothing to distract him. Beric wishes he would black out, sleep through some of the pain.
Thoros laughs softly, seemingly unconcerned by Beric’s agony.
“Which one is this?” He asks. Thoros’ hands are gentle against Beric’s side, despite the pain they bring.
“What?” Beric asks, barely listening.
“Which of the seven hells is this?”
Beric looks up at that, startled, and finds Thoros gazing at him steadily. Beric could swear the bastard is holding back more laughter.
“Are you almost done?” Beric manages.
“No,” Thoros says. His small smile is bright in the gloom.
He continues smearing Myrish fire against the freshly sewn wounds on Beric’s ribs from where a knight gave him more than he asked for with a morningstar. It burns more than the spikes did. Beric grits his teeth and tries to breathe.
Thoros has him sprawled on the roots of a massive tree at the edge of their camp and half-stripped out of his armor, dinged plate and rent mail and sodden woolen under armor pulled off him haphazardly, exposing his chest and side. Beric knows he’s lost a fair amount of blood, but it’s hard to be scared with Thoros’s hands on him. Thoros will fix him.
The quiet sounds of the night and the camp surround them. One of the men, Anguy most likely, starts to sing off-key and is shouted down by the others as they plead with him to stop.
Beric tries to keep his breathing steady, but he knows Thoros can hear him choking back his groans.
At last, Thoros wraps a clean length of wool around his ribs, no doubt whatever remains of his under armor. His hands tickle as they worm under the clothes Beric is still wearing, brushing against his bare skin. Thoros pulls Beric into his arms briefly to wrap the bandage around him, and it’s strangely intimate. Beric fights the urge to fist his hands in Thoros’s robes and drag him even closer. Thoros secures the bandage and ties it in swift, small knots.
Then his hands are at Beric’s hips, unbuckling his belt. Beric’s mind stops abruptly, his throat dry. He grabs Thoros’s arm.
Thoros arches an eyebrow at him. He drags a hand down Beric’s thigh, where it is wet with blood, a knife wound dripping slowly onto the tree roots beneath him. It hurts, and Thoros knows it hurts, watches it hurt. Beric’s blood looks black in the early evening night where it coats Thoros’s hands and arms. For a wild moment Beric thinks Thoros will lick his hands and say a spell, set them both on fire.
“I didn’t realize you’d grown tired of having two legs, and would prefer to continue on with just the one,” Thoros says drily. But Thoros’s stare is level, all traces of laughter gone from his mouth.
They stare at each other for a handful of slow heartbeats. Finally Beric swallows. He nods at Thoros and lets his arm go.
Thoros proffers his wineskin from his robes and holds it to Beric’s mouth so he can drink. Beric is so grateful it contains rum instead of weak and pleasant summerwine he can’t hold back his groan. Thoros laughs at him.
“Not sure why a farmer needs blackstrap rum, but I’m not complaining,” Thoros says.
“Aye,” Beric says.
The rum is good, strong enough to make his head spin. Beric hums appreciatively and then lays back. Thoros undoes his belt, unlaces his breeches, lifts his hips so he can drag his breeches down. Despite it all, Beric flushes.
The first lick of the Myrish fire, deep in the wound, makes him jump.
“You’re a wicked man,” Beric chokes out through the pain, voice strangled.
“I’m a red priest,” Thoros says, like that’s the crux of it.
“What is it made of?” Beric asks. Pleading, he thinks. Sin.
“Oh, it’s a secret concoction,” Thoros says. “Full of ancient, deadly magic.”
“You don’t know,” Beric counters, rum finally dulling some of the pain. He’s rewarded with a shocked huff of laughter.
“Haven’t a clue.”
Thoros strokes the skin of his hip briefly, and Beric feels it flush through him, warm as the rum. He stares unblinkingly up at the night sky as Thoros works, and swallows the scream building in his throat.