Work Text:
It had been a long day, but a good one. They’d gone out on the vaha at first light and spent the early hours bobbing gently on the calm ocean, both leaning their arms over the side and letting their hands bump together in the warm water. On their way out that morning they’d swung through the kitchen to pilfer handfuls of fruit that Conju had left for their breakfast. Occasionally Fitzroy would reach over with the hand not in the water to grab a slice of papaya or a segment of orange and feed it to Cliopher, softly laughing when the juices ran and he had to wipe them up, offering his finger to be licked clean. Cliopher felt full: of fruit, of sunshine, of contentment. It was a perfect morning in a run of perfect mornings.
Later, back in Gorjo City, they’d been met by Dora, who was waiting to present them with her latest project. She was learning to sew and – admittedly still under careful guidance – had made them a flag, yellow like the sun with two white shells, cupped together so they resembled a heart. Cliopher was sure he saw Fitzroy blinking back tears, but it was disguised with exuberant gasps and exclamations, and his fanoa immediately shinned up the vaha’s mast to tie the flag in pride of place. Dora had looked so delighted and the flag had looked so perfect that Cliopher couldn’t help but tuck himself into Fitzroy’s side, to try and anchor himself as he felt like bursting.
They’d spent the afternoon clearing the house on the other side of the courtyard, making sure it was ready for whoever might appear. A room that had clearly been a workroom of sorts was being converted into an extra bedroom, which meant sturdy desks and cabinets were being moved to the downstairs workshop where Ludvic had set up camp and where Masseo’s forge would go. Cliopher, worried Fitzroy would injure himself, had expressed some doubt when his fanoa had gone to shift a solid-looking bookshelf on his own. To this, Fitzroy had produced his most expressive pout and had flexed his bicep, demanding Cliopher feel it – ‘no, properly, Kip, can’t you feel how big it is?’ – ‘yes, beloved, it’s very hard’ – to prove he could manage.
He could not manage. That evening found Fitzroy sitting very gingerly, wincing as he lifted his mug from the table. Cliopher stroked his thigh comfortingly while he cut up his food and fed it to Fitzroy in small bites, carrying on a conversation with Rhodin about a gecko he’d bonded with on the wall outside. After a while Conju disappeared and returned with a small bottle of oil, which he placed in front of Cliopher with a gentle instruction to take care of Him properly.
Upstairs, he helped Fitzroy take off his top, gently pushing it up his torso, stroking his sides and up his ribs, working around his sore shoulder muscles, easing his arms back down and following their fall with his fingers. He prompted him onto the bed and took off his own outer layers to stop them getting in the way before straddling Fitzroy as carefully as he could, making sure not to put his weight on him.
Pouring a small amount of Conju’s oil onto his hands, he warmed it between his palms and gently smoothed them across Fitzroy’s back, soothing first, relaxing his tenseness. Slowly he started to winnow out the sore spots and the knots and worked on them one by one, listening to Fitzroy’s groans to gauge his progress. He moved up the spine, eased his neck and then dug into the meat of his shoulders, massaging every inch of his fanoa. He took it slowly, patiently, enjoying the closeness and the opportunity to comfort Fitzroy, and carried on until he was soft and liquid and the groans had mellowed to hums.
‘Is that better, beloved?’
Fitzroy moaned and stretched luxuriously, feline in his contentment, and then twisted, grabbed and rolled them, strong legs manoeuvring Cliopher until he was on his back. Gazing up at Fitzroy, Cliopher smiled, proud.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
‘Truly, beloved, you have magic hands.’ Fitzroy took one of Cliopher’s hands, still lightly slick with oil and massaged it, digging into the flesh of his palm and working up and down the length of his fingers one by one.
‘And magic arms.’ He moved up past Cliopher’s wrist and wrapped his hands around each forearm, stroking along them and pushing higher, leaning forward until he was straddling Cliopher on all fours, hands cupped around his shoulders.
‘And I believe I’ve mentioned your shoulders, Kip,’ he murmured. ‘Truly magnificent. I could write epics about them. I will write epics about them.’
He ducked his head down to place a gentle kiss, first on one shoulder and then on the other. Cliopher turned his head to kiss his fanoa’s cheek. They rested there, breathing in each other’s warmth and settling into each other’s space until Fitzroy shifted and lowered himself flat along Cliopher’s body, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, legs stretched out along the length of Cliopher’s, and he sighed with deep contentment.
Cliopher stroked over Fitzroy’s back, basking in the rightness of it all, of being so comfortable with another person that there was no place where he ended and Fitzroy began. They overlapped, they shared the same space; there was no part of him that was not Fitzroy and no part of Fitzroy that was not him.
Fitzroy shifted again to kiss lower on Cliopher’s chest and then wriggled, trying to move himself up so their heads were level on the pillow. Cliopher shifted his legs so that one was between Fitzroy’s and one of Fitzroy’s slipped between his own, and cupped his hands on his bottom to help shift him up. Once they were rearranged he left his hands there, stroking just as he had on Fitzroy’s back, curving in and squeezing occasionally, enjoying the huffs of breath that each squeeze produced against his neck.
‘Are you comfortable, beloved?’ He turned his head so they could see each other, noses side by side, breathing each other’s breath. Fitzroy smiled and gave a gentle nip to Cliopher’s jaw in reply. His fingers, where they were curved into Fitzroy’s cleft, twitched, and in response Fitzroy gasped and ground into him. So he rubbed his fingers there again, pushing the thin cotton of Fitzroy’s underlayer deeper and feeling his body heat through the fabric, and at the same time he pushed his thigh up, trapping Fitzroy between hand and thigh.
It was the quiet, everyday moments like these – blending into each other in bed, caring for each other with their families, joking around, relaxing on the vaha – that made Cliopher happiest.
Cliopher withdrew his hand and Fitzroy whined, needily pushing his face in closer to Cliopher’s neck and writhing against him. ‘Kip.’
‘Hush, beloved,’ he soothed and reached for the oil, re-coating his fingers and snaking them back down Fitzroy’s back, this time easing under the fabric and stroking to where they’d been before. Now, slicker, closer, the heat was like fire and he couldn’t help but touch more. His middle finger circled and stroked and then pressed, dipping into the warmth. He followed it as Fitzroy’s hips moved, stroking out and around and dipping back in, very lightly, echoing the curve and thrust. His other hand still held Fitzroy tight, encouraging him, urging him ever closer. His thigh rose and fell with the rhythm, rocking Fitzroy in a way that he was just about to compare to an ocean wave, higher and higher, strong and sure, when Fitzroy shuddered, groaned deeply against him and bit his shoulder.
He stilled and lay there, relaxing into Cliopher, melting down even more than he had before, and Cliopher re-evaluated. Perhaps this was where he was happiest.
Eventually Fitzroy lifted his mouth off, kissed the bite mark softly and stroked it with the hand that had still been gripping Cliopher’s shoulder.
‘Magnificent,’ he sighed.
Then he leaned his head back. ‘Kip, do you not need…’ He looked down, meaningfully.
And Cliopher realised with a jolt that he didn’t. That he’d been so focused on Fitzroy that his own body had been swept along with him. His body was Fitzroy’s and had felt what he’d felt and had done what he’d done and had released when Fitzroy had released. He laughed in delight. They were the two halves and they were the whole.
Fitzroy pretended to pout and paused for a second, his fingers curling on Cliopher’s shoulder as he considered.
‘Then … could I kiss you?’
Cliopher smiled fondly at him. ‘Fitzroy, beloved, fanoa. You need never ask; whatever you want is yours already.’ And he leaned in and kissed him: gently, and softly, smiling against his lips and trying to give back all of the joy and contentment he’d felt that day. And Fitzroy hummed back and wriggled himself in as close as he could.