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He didn't think anything of it at first. Morris' patron had been eliminated from the lists... again. And while it meant that the lad would bring home less coin to his family than if he'd won, his friendship with Quinn Trevelyan usually meant that he went home with enough gold in his pockets to help his family get by. Not that Quinn thought of him as a charity case, oh no. Quinn Trevelyan did not do charity, but he was rather shit at cards and even worse at bowing down from a challenge so Morris cleaned up nicely. And with his patron done for the year, Morris' schedule was free to go about and do as he pleased until the tournament was over. Quinn was very much still kept busy, but the skills he lacked as a squire were made up for by his skills at dodging both work and his family.
The two had been drinking - on Quinn's coin of course - and had finally retired from the canteen tent in order to find the nearest isolated tree. Perhaps it was the ale, or perhaps it was just the complete irreverence with which the two boys often spoke to one another, but for whatever reason it was Morris who first brought it up, speaking suddenly and quite out of the blue.
"Did you know that the Qunari cut off the tips of their cocks?"
"Bullshit. You're thinking of their horns. There's one of them with the bards from Antiva. He's got gilded horns and says he's Talva-something-or-other."
Morris shook his head, insisting that Quinn had it wrong. Glancing over, Quinn could see that he looked very serious, brow furrowed as he gazed down at himself. Quinn rolled his eyes and turned back to make sure he didn't accidentally piss on his own boots.
"The horn thing is punishment," Morris went on after a time. "This isn't. At least I don't think it is."
"Sounds ghastly."
"Makes them look bigger though. I mean, bigger than they already look, all things considered."
"How do you know? Have you ever seen one?"
"Have you?"
Quinn frowned, choosing to stare intently at a flower that had chosen his particular patch of grass to bloom. It was a buttercup, he thought, bright and yellow and delicate. Anything to distract from the sudden image of the bard with the glittering horns and the large hands he'd met earlier.
"You're full of shit, Morris," Quinn said after a time, his voice a little huskier than he would have liked. But if his friend noticed anything, he didn't say a word, only chuckling to himself as Quinn hastily tucked himself away and insisted on more drinks to distract from the uncomfortable warmth he felt pooling in his belly.
He told himself it wasn't anything. That the breeze had blown against him at just the right time, and anyway he wasn't really into talking to the bard anymore ever since they'd all made light of his request to join their troupe. He'd do anything to get out of having to be a stupid squire in stupidly uncomfortable clothes. But they'd said no, and Quinn had sulked about it for days until Morris found him stewing in his own self-pity and sat down next to him among his things.
"You look like you've just been dumped."
Quinn folded his arms across his chest and glared. "That was last year and I told you never to bring it up."
To his credit, Morris didn't smile or laugh or try to needle him any further, but looked at him with serious eyes and nodded his understanding. The two of them sat in silence, and Quinn found himself surprised at how comfortable it felt. Morris wasn't looking at him. His face was turned, watching the different people pass them by, but with only a passing interest as if his mind was elsewhere. Perhaps thinking about him, Quinn thought, and he realized he was suddenly very glad for his friend's company. There was something comforting and calming in just having him seated next to him, and maybe he didn't really feel so sorry for himself after all.
Then Morris turned, and smiled quietly at him, and Quinn thought his eyes were very large and bright and handsome. It was a fleeting thought, but one that made his stomach flip in a way it hadn't since he'd seen Marcelline du Brisbois smile at him from across the punch bowl at his great aunt's garden party two springs prior. But Horatio Morris was far better company than Marcelline du Brisbois - her nose had been too pinched and her mouth too small. Morris' nose had a handsome bridge and a smile that rivaled his own for charm. Perhaps that was why they made such an excellent pair. Not that they were a pair, he told himself, not like *that* because that would be strange. But the longer he looked at Morris, the warmer he felt and he didn't realize he was staring until Morris' smile turned into a frown of concern.
"Are you all right, Trevelyan? You look ill."
Quinn blushed, turning red all the way to his ears. He nodded frantically, trying to make an excuse about how the midday sun was just a little too hot and that he needed to find himself some water. He didn't bother to wait for a response, before hastily getting to his feet and running off to find a place to get himself under control. He hoped his friend didn't notice the awkward shuffle of his gait, but then again, Quinn told himself, Morris was likely too polite to say even if he did.
If Morris thought that Quinn Trevelyan was being odd, he did not bring it up for the remainder of the tournament and Quinn eased back into being the center of attention among all the squires. His brother won the jousting competition once again, and they parted ways with Morris helpfully suggesting that perhaps next year would finally be Emile's undoing.
Quinn knew better than to hope for such a thing, but he smiled at his friend all the same. Next year would be better, he told himself, if only because Ostwick would be hosting which meant Quinn wouldn't have to sleep in cots inside tents and could retire to his own room on his family's estate. Even if it meant Emile worked him harder because the family's pride was on the line more than any other year, he'd at least have somewhere he could have a proper bath.
And his brother certainly did his best to break his back, no matter how much Quinn complained. But it was when he was in the middle of trying to buff out a barely visible blemish that Emile insisted must be dealt with, that Morris made his first appearance and he was grinning with more excitement than usual.
"I've done it," he announced, puffing out his chest and looking far more smug than he usually had any right to be. "Just like you."
Quinn looked up at him, an eyebrow raised in confusion. "You'll have to be more specific. I've done a lot of things."
Morris looked rather annoyed at being asked to explain himself, and seemed to take a rather unnecessary length of time before finally confessing, "You know... sex. With a woman."
Had he still been the Quinn Trevelyan he was at seventeen, he likely would have congratulated his friend and the two of them would have scampered off for drinks and boasted to each other at length on the artistic merits of heaving bosoms and wet cunts. But Quinn was different now, with an even larger chip on his shoulder at twenty-one. Women were deceptive - Marcelline had been deceptive - and no amount of time or distance would ever soften the knowledge of just how very far down in the hierarchy of prospects and value he was. It was different for Morris, and in many ways Quinn thought his friend had all the advantages. He squired because he enjoyed it, had a good patron, and they both knew it was only a matter of time before Ser Calanth released him from his service with his own heraldry and a place among the rest of the competing knights.
It wasn't that Quinn was jealous, not at all. He didn't want to be a knight. He could ride a horse but he certainly wasn't skilled enough to ever survive a jousting match. And if he'd had any merit as a warrior, his parents would have likely made him follow his brother into the templars or bribed the city guard to give him a position. He was skilled with a bow, and probably could go very far in the archery competition, but squires were forbidden from entering and Emile was not at all charitable enough to release him from his service so he could take attention away from him.
Morris didn't have to worry about any of that. And now, it seemed, he had himself a sweetheart which meant his future looked even more promising.
"Well," he said, offering up a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "I hope it wasn't terrible."
Morris considered Quinn carefully. Quinn tried to hide his frown as he turned away, choosing instead to focus on the armour in his lap. But he knew what Morris was doing. He'd put his hands on his hips just like he always did when Quinn got moody, and weigh whether he'd have more success plying him with ale or badgering him until he forgot what he was originally annoyed about.
Sure enough, he heard Morris sigh. "Come on, Trevelyan, you've got your whole life ahead of you. You can't keep moping about some girl who wasn't even important enough for you to tell me her name. I bet she wasn't even that pretty."
She wasn't, at least not that he could remember. Or maybe it was his mind choosing not to remember her as anything remotely good. But he wasn't about to say so. Instead he tried to change the subject, figuring that Morris had not sought him out like this if he hadn't wanted to tell Quinn all about his new girlfriend.
Sure enough, that was exactly what Morris had come to do, and launched into great detail all about the pretty milkmaid from his village who had come across him when he was trying to paint out in a field and promptly made him forget all about his artwork. All in all, it sounded quite nice actually, and Quinn was loathe to admit he was rather jealous.
He and Marcelline had only spent time with one another at parties, usually sneaking off to fumble among the bushes or try to hide in an empty closet or room. Morris described sunny afternoons in fields of flowers, and a woman who didn't make you have to fumble through three different petticoats beneath her skirts. It might be nice, he thought, to lay in the grass, looking up at the sky and feeling the sun on his face while slender fingers and a firm hand worked him over just because they wanted to.
That was the gesture Morris was making as he described their coupling, which Quinn tried to listen attentively to but his mind kept wandering. Morris' hands were distracting, and Quinn's mind latched onto the idea of strong hands, rough from hard labour and spattered with cheap paint. He felt dizzy again, and rubbed furiously at the breastplate he'd been given, thinking that perhaps if he scrubbed hard enough he could scrub the image of Morris' face hovering above him from his mind.
It was very difficult when his friend was right next to him, and Quinn suddenly wished that he would go away.
"Trevelyan, you're not even listening!"
Quinn's head snapped up, his thoughts scattering into dozens of pieces as Morris kicked his shin to try and bring him back to the present. He tried to look nonchalant as he pretended he hadn't been lost in his own momentary fantasy and instead had simply been bored.
"Yes, yes, she let you put it in, you wiggled about, and then one of you cried when it was over."
Morris was staring, looking utterly confused. Quinn frowned, realizing he had probably said too much but instead of laying into him, Morris shook his head. "I was asking if yours had done the thing with her finger. Not... whatever that just was."
Quinn blinked slowly, confused. "What thing with the finger?"
Morris suddenly looked uncomfortable for the first time and shifted his weight from foot to foot. "You know... when you're getting close and then she puts a finger up there and it's like... well, it's difficult to describe."
Now it was Quinn's turn to stare. "Morris, are you asking me if I've ever stuck a finger up my ass? Oh for fuck's sake-"
"So you haven't tried it?"
"Andraste's tits..."
"Just a thought. It's probably not for everyone."
Quinn folded his arms across his chest and glared up at Morris, hoping it was clear that he was not an idiot and he was not going to have some twit who had only just left his boyhood behind spin stories that made Quinn feel like some sort of repressed Chantry prude. Made up stories and boasts were the sort of thing that he did, not Morris.
Morris looked coy, and stared right back at Quinn. "You should try it. It might make you less miserable. Just a bit of advice, you might want to grab a bit of saddle oil or something."
Quinn threw his rag at Morris and promptly told him to fuck right off.
It was all he could think about at dinner. It was a strange thing, he realized, as for the first time he seemed so keenly aware of the chair he was seated on. The cushion was not particularly soft, more for decoration than anything else, and he'd always been rather flat in that area, with a bottom that was firm and almost boney more than anything else. He also couldn't stop staring at his own hands every time he moved his fork around the plate. His fingers were long, slender, and felt suddenly strange and awkward.
He looked at the rest of his family, seated in their respective places and paying him absolutely no attention at all. Emile was the center of attention and every conversation, and while Quinn was no stranger to resentment it was a different sort of frustration than he was used to.
Morris was an idiot, he decided. He had been putting him on, trying to sound like he knew something that Quinn did not. It was the sort of thing that Octavian would have suggested to him, looking deadly serious behind those reading spectacles of his and then howling with laughter when Quinn believed him and made a fool of himself.
Octavian was a prick though, while Morris was his friend. That meant he wouldn't joke about these sort of things, not in a cruel way at least. He sighed inwardly, setting down his fork and leaning back in his chair, wishing that the cushions were softer and his shirt didn't chafe.
"Are you all right?" A quiet voice cut through the haze of jumbled thoughts. His sister Philomena had leaned in close next to him, looking concerned. "You were in the sun all day, weren't you?"
Maybe that was it. It was the middle of summer and the tourney grounds were mostly open field so as to accommodate all the tents and stalls. But he didn't need his sister fussing over him. He waved her off, indicating he didn't wish to talk about it, but she would not be dissuaded. Instead she raised her voice for the others to hear.
"Mother, I think Quinn's had too much sun."
With an exasperated groan, Quinn put his head in his hands as he heard his mother begin to chastize Emile until his brother bit back, calling him lazy and laying about in the sun all day instead of looking after himself. Philomena called him unkind, Emile looked flustered, and Quinn himself was being ushered off to bed with tea and water and foul-smelling tonics. But at least he was no longer thinking about anything to do with Horatio Morris.
E mile was harsher than usual the following day even by his already low standards. His parents didn't want him working too hard or left out in the sun all day, so instead Emile parked him inside his equipment tent and told him that his boots and gloves needed darning. Quinn glowered, objecting that he wasn't an old woman and wasn't about to stitch up items he knew Emile didn't even wear, but Emile reminded him that if he was going to faint like a little girl then he was going to be treated like one.
The gloves stank and the boots even moreso. It was all Quinn could do to sit by the entrance with the tent flap tied back as much as he could, trying to breathe in fresh air as the smell of old sweat, leather, and damp wood and steel tried to smother him. A family page came by with water for him every now and then which Quinn admitted he was grateful for. It meant his parents had an eye on Emile and how he was treating him.
Quinn had no idea how to sew, and was able to get as far as threading the needle before looking hopelessly lost. Plenty of people did it so it didn't seem like it should be something completely outside of his capabilities, but the leather was tough and after an hour of fussing about he had broken the thread half a dozen times and bent the needle completely out of shape.
This was ridiculous, he decided. Emile wasn't even competing today, which meant he'd be off either drinking with his fellow knights or prowling for busty women. It didn't matter what Quinn did or where he did it. And he certainly wasn't going to spend it stitching up some smelly old boots.
He gathered up his things and set out across the grounds towards the smithy. The blacksmith who turned up every year was a large man with an even larger beard and the thickest Starkhaven accent Quinn had ever heard. But more importantly, his wife was a seamstress who always set up shop with him, and had always been on hand to help the younger squires with torn gambesons and tabards, and any number of patching that was in need of a woman's touch. As long as he put on his most endearing smile, there was no way she could turn down his request for help.
It was when he was in the midst of pleading his case to try and negotiate his way out of having to pay for the service that Morris appeared. He was leading Ser Calanth's horse - a large chestnut-colored mare - around the smithy to the ferrier for shoeing. It was a fine-looking horse, but Quinn had always said it was not fit for this sort of competition. Morris always said he was just trying to sound smart, but the Trevelyans had made their money through generations of horse breeding and Quinn knew a thing or two about good stock. This horse was not one of them.
Then again, Ser Calanth was getting up there in age. It was only a matter of time before he retired and Morris took over in the lists. Then he might get himself a proper tournament horse. At least Quinn hoped so. Morris deserved good things.
Morris saw him and waved. Instinctively, Quinn raised his hand to wave back, but paused when he felt that strange warmth bloom in his stomach again. It did feel like he had been in the sun too long yesterday, but it also felt like the time Marcelline's dark eyes had locked with his and nothing else existed around them. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to push the idea from his mind. Why was he even thinking of Marcelline? He should he thinking of... no. No, certainly not.
"I've been looking for you all morning!" Morris' voice cut through the air, pulling Quinn back into the immediate present. He had made his way back around, a horse saddle slung over his shoulder and a pot of oil and cloth in his hand. "Did you get lost on your way to and from that fancy estate of yours?"
"They put me in time out," Quinn explained, trying very hard not to look at the saddle oil. "Too much sun yesterday."
"We can find somewhere with shade then," Morris said, "if you don't have somewhere else to be, that is." He gestured with his shoulder, emphasizing the saddle he carried. "Ser Calanth wants this treated before his joust this afternoon."
"I'll keep you company, but that's it," Quinn said. He fell into step beside Morris but made no offer to take any of the items off his hands. "I don't do any of my own work, why would you expect me to do someone else's?"
Morris laughed. "Yet somehow, we're still friends."
They passed by the Trevelyan section of tents on their way through camp just so Quinn could make sure no one had come around looking for him. Both Octavian and his father were present, but appeared to be busy with several merchants and traders, likely discussing the sale of horses. Octavian noticed him and frowned, but said nothing. Quinn promptly ignored him right back.
Nearby several servants were setting up a table with meats, cheeses, and what looked like fresh fruit. This was likely to cement whatever business dealings his father was in the process of negotiating, but for Quinn it meant a better lunch for him and Morris than the canteen would offer. He nudged Morris and told him to keep walking, but dipped back and casually strolled around the table, snatching things from among the platters and bundling them in his tabard when the servants' backs were turned. He sampled a bit of everything, and grabbed a bottle of wine before hurrying off with his ill-gotten goods.
He caught up to Morris near the edge of the tents, where a line of trees formed the perimeter of the tournament grounds. When he saw the bottle in Quinn's hand, Morris looked at him questionably. He'd be in trouble if he were caught drinking before his patron was expected to compete.
"Who said I got this for you?" Quinn huffed, but he was a tad disappointed all the same.
Morris sighed, shaking his head at Quinn and gestured for him to follow him into the trees. It was cool in the shade, and Quinn was glad for it, but instead of stopping on the edge, Morris kept walking until the sounds of the tournament grounds fell away behind them.
"It might be nice to get away from the rest of them, just for a bit," he said. Quinn certainly wasn't about to argue with that, though he did think it was strange that Morris of all people was the one to bring it up. Morris *enjoyed* the Grand Tourney, and he enjoyed his work.
As they walked, Quinn reached into the makeshift sling he'd made and pulled out a piece of cheese to nibble on. If they kept walking in this direction, they'd come across a little stream that flowed down from the mountains. And if they followed that stream, there was an open meadow where deer liked to graze before the trees closed back in thick and wild. He told Morris it would be unwise to go much further than that.
Morris nodded, and readjusted the saddle he was carrying with a grunt. They walked in silence for a time, Quinn munching away on his ill-gotten food before Morris cleared his throat and glanced at him sideways.
"So... did you try it?"
Quinn felt like he had been slapped in the face by the question and choked so badly on his food he made to bend over and cough it back up. Morris was laughing as he tried to recover himself, and thumped him hard on the back.
"You did, didn't you?"
Quinn cleared his throat and uncorked the wine bottle with his teeth - a trick he'd recently learned to show off at his favourite tavern - before taking a swig of wine to wash everything down. "It was entirely wretched."
For a moment, Morris looked disappointed, and even a little awkward, falling silent for several paces. Quinn almost felt bad. He hadn't intended to offend him or make him feel weird. He was just being honest. But then Morris seemed to square his shoulders and try again.
"Are you sure you did it right?"
That made Quinn pause and not in a good way. He thought of himself as clever, but he had gotten frustrated and found it all to be very tight and uncomfortable and not at all arousing. Other thoughts had gotten him to the finish line, and his hands in other places. But he wasn't about to tell Morris that. He shouldn't tell Morris that. So instead he pursed his lips and grumbled to himself, knowing all the while that his reaction likely made it obvious how poorly his fumbling around in the dark had gone.
Morris didn't tease him though. He went quiet, seemingly lost in thought as they left the underbrush and came out into the open meadow. It was wide open an empty, a sea of yellow and green grasses interspercred with so many different wildflowers beneath the open air. He'd passed this way on hunting trips with his father plenty of times, but today there didn't appear to be so much as a fox lingering about. But that meant there would be nothing to draw any bears or wild hogs down from the mountains. Aside from a few birds, it would just be the two of them.
Morris circled about briefly, before he seemed to find a patch of grass that pleased him and set down his things before dropping down beside them. Quinn moved a little more slowly, carrying the food and now-open bottle of wine. Morris removed his tabard, laying it down on the grass between them, allowing Quinn to set the food out before sinking down into the grass himself.
"I don't understand why you would use saddle oil. Up there, I mean."
Morris paused with a small tea sandwich in his hand. He glanced at the saddle and the pot of oil he brought with him and seemed confused until he realized Quinn had finally gotten brave enough to continue their earlier conversation.
"Well," he said slowly, "you can't just put it in dry. Trevelyan, you didn't try to put it in dry, did you?"
Quinn thumped him in the shoulder in an gestute that clearly said he was offended Morris would think he was that stupid. "I take oil from the kitchens sometimes. I'm not going to have a wank with something that smells like leather and horse."
"Right, we can't forget Lord Trevelyan is a noble... dipping both his bread and his prick in the same oil."
"Just remember that the next time someone serves you a breadstick."
Morris' eyes widened and he made a gagging noise as Quinn grinned wickedly and laid down, resting his hands behind his head with a satisfied hum. Morris pelted him with several grapes in return, but Quinn just brushed them away and chuckled to himself.
He heard Morris shuffle about above him, his chainmail rustling as he moved about. Quinn cracked one eye open to see him picking through the meats and cheeses before settling back on his haunches and seeming to contemplate something. Quinn closed his eyes again.
"Maybe it's different when someone else does it to you instead of doing it to yourself." Morris' mouth sounded full when he spoke.
Quinn sighed, a hint of annoyance not that they were still having this conversation but that Morris had withheld some rather important information from him. "You better not be telling me you hadn't actually done it before."
"Well..."
Quinn's eyes snapped open and he glared up at his friend. "So you don't know what you're doing either!"
Morris crossed his arms, looking far more indignant than Quinn thought he had any right to be. His cheeks were red, from embarrassment or being flustered it was unclear. "I know more than you do about it!"
"Bullshit! Prove it!"
The words were out of Quinn's mouth before the rest of him caught up. He instantly regretted it, wishing he could take it back. Morris was staring at him, with a look of utter confusion and bafflement, and Quinn sat up, coiled and ready to run. He was competitive, boastful, they both were, and he didn't mean to say such a stupid, foolish, and entirely unacceptable thing.
But Morris was chewing on his lower lip, and while he suddenly wouldn't look at Quinn directly, he was almost certain he heard a very distinct, "Is that what you want?"
Maker have mercy on him, he'd put his foot in it now.
Quinn shook his head, offering what he hoped counted as a hasty apology. He didn't mean to make Morris so uncomfortable, and he didn't want it to be weird, and maybe they should just go back...
"It's only weird if you make it weird," Morris interrupted, and there was a rather determined sound to his tone. "I can show you what the milkmaid did. So you know how to do it right."
Quinn's mouth suddenly felt very dry as everything seemed to come into far too sharp a focus. The sun felt very hot on his face, his chainmail very heavy, and Morris' face very clear and angular and handsome.
"I'll smell like saddle oil," he said, but it was a weak protest even by his own standards.
"You don't want to go in dry, Trevelyan."
No, thought Quinn, he really didn't.
It didn't have to be awkward, he told himself, as he slowly began to remove his boots. It wasn't anything Morris hadn't seen before. They'd stood side by side at the privy, and when the tourney was far from home Quinn had no choice but to bathe with the rest of the squires. They had even gone around measuring themselves against each other when they were teenagers. This was no different because it didn't have to be different.
And yet somehow, to Quinn it was. He felt shy for the first time in a very long time, like he was trussed up at one of his aunt's parties, in a collar that was too tight and a jacket that was too hot. It made him dizzy, and for a moment he thought he might faint.
But then Morris' face was hovering very close to his, urging him to lie down, and pressing a hand against his chest to coax him into obeying. It was a gentle touch, almost restrained when Quinn knew perfectly well that Morris could be rougher and more forward. He had seen it plenty of times. Not that Quinn wanted to be manhandled, not now. But something about Morris' careful restraint made the inside of his chest ache in a way that surprised him.
He wanted this, he realized, in a way that Morris didn't know. Here he was, lying in a field, naked from the waist down, with a cloudless sky and birds overhead. Just like how Morris had described his first time which had sounded so much nicer than the clumsy fumbling Quinn had experienced with his own. The only thing missing was the giggling milkmaid. But Quinn didn't want a giggling milkmaid. He wanted Horatio Morris who had a nicer nose and softer cheekbones than little lady Marcelline du Brisbois, who had a more sincere smile and didn't care one fig about noble birth order.
Quinn made a strangled sound somewhere between a sob and a gurgle and clenched his fists in the grass. Above him, Morris paused, one hand on Quinn's bare thigh. His brow was knit together in concern as he looked down at Quinn who was bleary-eyed and red in the face.
"I haven't even started."
Quinn's voice was hoarse when he spoke. "I know... I know, and I..."
He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to center himself and not look like such a mess. It wasn't that he was nervous, or that he didn't want this. He knew that Morris had a full view of how much Quinn very much wanted to be touched. But not like this... this was cheap, this was deceptive, and he cared about Morris too much to use him like this. Not when Morris was just about the only person Quinn had ever known to be decent to him just because he wanted to instead of expecting something in return.
Quinn took a few deep breaths to steady himself before pulling himself into a sitting position. He hastily pulled his maille coat and tabard over himself, hissing slightly at the cold feel of the steel, but at least it distracted from how painful his own growing arousal was beginning to feel.
Morris hadn't moved, his eyes locked on Quinn's and looking both very confused and very concerned.
He was going to say it. It was all Quinn could do. He was going to say it, even if it meant his friend laughed at him or called him names, but Quinn realized it wasn't as if things could get any more awkward than they already were.
"I can't do this," he said, trying to look everywhere but at the two bright eyes staring back at him, "because I want to kiss you."
Quinn braced himself, but Morris didn't laugh. He didn't do or say anything at all, which Quinn felt was almost worse. Quinn was still keenly aware of the warm hand still resting on his thigh, but Morris didn't pull back or run or hit him. After a moment, he seemed to choose indifference which left Quinn feeling almost incredulous at how this man he'd known since they were children could simply shrug his shoulders and tell him that if that would help him then it was fine.
"Horace," Quinn snapped at him, hoping that switching to more personal names would shake something loose inside that head of his. "I want... I want you to want to kiss me too."
"Oh."
Quinn didn't know what he genuinely expected Morris to say. He knew what he had hoped for though and it wasn't this. His heart sank at such a simple word, at how Morris wasn't looking at him anymore but instead had lowered his gaze and furrowed his brow. Quinn thought maybe he should apologize, should laugh it off at just being a joke to ease the awkward tension that had now bubbled up between them. Or perhaps he should just run away and keep running all the way back to where his family had set up their pavillion tents or even possibly all the way back to the estate and lock himself away. It was Marcelline du Brisbois all over again - not cruel this time as Horatio Morris wasn't cruel - but it hurt all the same.
But as Quinn shifted, his mind made up that he would leave and never speak of this again, he felt Morris' hands settle firmly on his hips, strong fingers pressing into Quinn's softer flesh and rooting him to the spot. Morris glanced back up at Quinn, his brown eyes bright and intense and his cheeks now flushed a soft shade of pink. He was worrying at his lower lip, and his voice was barely more than a whisper when he finally spoke.
"Okay."
For a moment, Quinn was almost certain he had forgotten how to breathe. Morris' affirmation hung heavy in the air, and Quinn found he could only stare because he could scarcely believe his ears. He had expected rejection - he had only ever known rejection, but Morris was tugging him closer until they were impossibly close and Quinn felt that warmth bloom in his stomach and chest, brighter and hotter than anything he could remember.
He leaned in, slipping one arm beneath Morris' to settle a hand at his back and find something to anchor himself to the ground for fear he might simply float away in his own dizziness. It was a bold move and Quinn regretted it almost immediately as his heart thudded painfully loud in his ears, but then he felt his lips brush hesitantly against Morris' and everything else around him seemed to fall away.
Nothing else existed now except Morris, who tasted just a little bit sweet from the fruit he had been eating, who smelled of leather and horse and an expected muskiness that sent Quinn's mind reeling. He wasn't sure what he had expected. Of course boys wouldn't be soft and fragrant and perfumed like girls, but he didn't expect to want to drown in it as much as he wanted to now.
And yet Morris' hands on his hips were gentle, drawing him closer until Quinn found himself practically in his friend's lap, but the grip was firm without being forceful, an echo of the restraint Morris had shown earlier when he had placed his hand on Quinn's chest. It made Quinn absolutely insensed. He wanted those gentle hands to hold him, to touch him, but something inside him also cried out to push him further, to be rough and demand roughness in return.
The hand on Morris' back tensed as Quinn - emboldened by the sudden rush of desire spiking through him - deepened the kiss, gripping the back of Morris' chainmail shirt tightly. His free arm he threw around his shoulders, determined to tangle himself up in as much of the other boy as he could. A soft moan from Morris and a tentative shift of hips against his own was his reward for his boldness.
They broke apart after a time - dizzy, warm, and gasping for air. Morris' hands fell away from Quinn's hips as if to let him go, but Quinn didn't want to move. He wanted more, to map every little detail of Morris. He wanted to hold on to the intensity of the gaze that bore through him, of the messy locks of dark hair that fell across his forehead, of the blush that bloomed in his cheeks and seemed to continue beneath the collar of his shirt. He'd wanted to kiss Morris, and he'd gotten that. But far from satisfying a curious whim, it had reawakened something far more needy in him.
He wouldn't push it, he told himself. He would take only what was given to him, but Maker, he wanted -
The touch of fingers brushing the angle of his jaw pulled Quinn out of his own thoughts. Morris had cupped Quinn's face in his hands, calloused fingers that could only belong to a lad who had toiled for all his young years tracing the line of his cheeks. Quinn's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his breath hitching at the sudden touch and the affection behind it. When he dared open them again, there was the softest smile on Morris' face.
"Your eyes," he said, voice thick and heavy, "are very blue."
Quinn laughed breathlessly. All the nerves and anxiousness of the last couple of days seemed to fall away in the simple act of the silliest attempt at flirting Quinn had ever heard.
It was easy for him to give himself over after that, to simply lean in towards Morris and let him draw him as close as he wanted, to kiss him with an openness that seemed to entirely consume him. They moved with a more determined fervor, without the hesitation of nerves or uncertain hands. One of Morris' hands tangled up in Quinn's hair as Quinn slipped a hand beneath Morris' shirt, searching beneath the layer of cold interlocked rings until he found delicate cotton and warm skin. There was a sharp intake of breath as Morris tensed at the movement of Quinn's fingers, and Quinn seized the opportunity to dip his head and press languid kisses against Morris' neck.
The moan that rumbled up Morris' throat was obscene. Quinn felt arms tighten around him, cradling him close, but as he grazed his teeth against Morris' skin, the hips beneath him bucked upwards and this time it was Quinn who gasped at the sudden movement against his poor neglected cock.
Their movements became more hurried, a sudden rush of grasping and clawing hands, pulling at belts and shirts, trying to hastily relieve themselves of clothing without parting from one another. The shirts were easy enough, but Morris struggled with his boots and trousers, and Quinn certainly was no help as he squirmed in his lap with all the pent up arousal of an impatient young man.
They nearly lost their balance several times, but every time one of them seemed to waver, firm hands would pull them back close. Eventually their clothes lay scattered around them and Quinn was now confronted with the sight of Morris laid completely bare in front of him. He had seen this before - the tan lines on his arms that followed the pattern of the way his collars and sleeves were cut. He was paler than Quinn in most places which caused the flush in his cheeks and chest and the marks now blooming from Quinn's attention to stand out in a way that Quinn found fascinating and beautiful. Morris blushed for *him*, those dark bruised marks from his kisses were him.
Morris too seemed to be on his own journey, seemingly lost in deep and distant thoughts as he moved his hands up Quinn's arms, pausing to cup his elbows for a moment before continuing, tracing gentle hands towards his shoulders. It rooted Quinn to the spot as he held his breath, suddenly feeling like he should keep absolutely still, hoping that Morris liked what he saw. Because Quinn certainly liked the sight of Morris who was more muscle than Quinn's stretched out and lanky frame, who had coarse dark hair that stood out and made Quinn positively envious as he followed the trail down his chest, over his stomach, and down below his naval.
But if Quinn felt scrawny and inadequate against Morris' larger frame, the other boy didn't seem bothered. His gaze sharpened as he seemed to settle on something, and he leaned forward, drawing Quinn into an open-mouthed kiss.
Quinn barely bit back a moan as Morris' hands fell to his waist, curving over his rear and squeezing gently. Quinn was eager to follow Morris' direction, to please him, and tentatively rolled his hips. Morris mumbled the softest "yes" against his lips and Quinn found himself nearly come apart at the sudden jolt of excitement from the words alone.
They both began to move, grinding their hips against each other in a desperate bid for friction. He didn't expect himself to last long which was a thought he suddenly found terrifying. He desperately wanted to feel impressive, to be wanted and enjoyed and desired. But every time he felt himself begin to clam up, Morris met him with a distracting tongue or rough buck of his hips, and Quinn's thoughts scattered to the wind.
"How do... should we... do you want..." Quinn found himself struggling, barely able to form words. His arousal and Morris' own pressed between them coupled with the hands kneading him gently, keeping his hips moving in a consistent but maddeningly slow rhythm was distracting. He didn't know what he wanted, only that he wanted all of it.
Morris too seemed caught up inside his own thoughts, and brought his hands up to thread his fingers through Quinn's hair, drawing out a deeper and desperate moan that begged for more.
"Lay back for me," Morris rumbled in Quinn's ear.
Something about the low tone of Morris' voice, or perhaps how taken aback he was at finally hearing him express a want for something was what did it. Quinn didn't hesitate or question it. He immediately stilled his movements, releasing his grasp on Morris with just the barest hint of reluctance as he shifted himself backwards and off his friend's lap. Morris moved as he did, leaning forward and drawing himself up onto his knees. There was no hand at his chest this time, gentle and restrained to coax him into laying back and relaxing. There was only Morris' frame and the heavy weight behind it pressing into him until Quinn found himself flat on his back with Morris' weight on top of him.
And now this time, it was Morris who moved, planting his hands on either side of Quinn to brace himself as he began to rock his hips in earnest. His movements were rough and both of them struggled at first to settle on a rhythm with one another. Quinn was used to driving the pace himself, and Morris - though he had less experience comparatively - seemed used to doing the same. It was only when Morris leaned down to nuzzle Quinn's cheek and whispered a gentle request that Quinn relinquished, hooking his thighs tightly around Morris' hips and allowing the other boy's momentum to carry them together.
It was odd too, Quinn reflected, in the way it felt to rub their cocks together, not an altogether terrible sensation but it was rougher than he expected and maddening in the way that each buck of their hips drew ever increasing lewd noises Quinn knew he should be ashamed and embarrassed of and yet it wasn't enough. He felt like he was teetering on the edge, ready and willing to fall but unable to reach that last step.
Morris' breathing was loud and labored, and he could feel it puffed hot in his ear. Quinn reached up, fisting his hand in Morris' sweat-dampened hair and pulled him down to cradle his head in the crook of his neck. With his free hand he traced a line down Morris' side, feeling muscle shift beneath his fingers as Morris moved with increasing fervor.
Is this what it had been like, Quinn wondered, when Morris had spun the tale about the sweet little maiden from his village. Laying in a meadow with nothing and no one around them save the birds and the grasses to hear them. Every grunt, every pitched moan carried away on the wind. He should hate this, he realized, out in the sun like this. He was hot and sweaty and there'd be grass stains all up his back after this. He was nobility and should be surrounded by pillows and soft chaises or sofas. This was obscene, panting and rutting beneath another boy under a hot sun in an open sky, but the baseness of it all was exactly why Quinn wanted it.
The realization caused something inside Quinn to burst. The heat pooling in his stomach spiked white hot and Quinn cried out quite suddenly, the tension in his muscles seeming to snap as he arched upwards. He gripped Morris tightly, grasping at anything he could as he felt himself empty, groaning softly when he felt the hot slickness of his own spend on his stomach.
Morris seemed encouraged by Quinn's own climax and twisted himself out of Quinn's loosening grip and shifted his weight until he was leaning heavily on one arm. With his free hand, Morris took the two of them in hand, drawing a quiet whimper from Quinn's lips as Morris' thumb passed over his now over-stimulated head. Morris' movements were sloppy, erratic, but Quinn noticed as his eyebrows knit together that he was nearly there himself. Quinn watched him with quiet awe, the way Morris' fingers flexed around his shaft, how he gripped both himself and Quinn tight and pumped his hand once... twice... three times...
Morris was quiet when he came, breathing out a shuddering groan as he bucked forward into his own palm and against Quinn's already softening cock. The first spurt landed on Quinn's chest, the second on his stomach, and then Morris was sinking, sinking, and Quinn felt his weight fall back on top of him with a sharp exhale of breath.
For several heartbeats, neither boy said anything. They just lay there, breathing softly against one another, and Quinn thought he could very easily remain like this for a lifetime. He wondered if it would be too bold to ask if they could, to put his arms around Morris and simply remain where they were. But then Morris was moving, rolling off Quinn with a soft groan in order to lay beside him in the grass and Quinn knew the moment had passed.
A silence settled over the two of them. It didn't feel tense, but it didn't feel quite so peaceful either. It felt like they were holding a collective breath, waiting apprehensively for what would come next. What would happen next, Quinn wondered. He supposed they would just collect their things and return to the tournament grounds. Morris' liege had a match in - how long had they been out here? Not long enough, Quinn decided. It would never be long enough.
"Quinn...?"
Quinn turned his head at the sound of his name. Morris was staring up at the sky, the smallest frown on his face. His cheeks were still flushed from their coupling and his hair stuck to his forehead in several places. Quinn thought he looked very handsome, and for once he didn't feel ashamed to think it.
"I've had a lot of mates over the years and I've never done something like this with any of them."
Quinn swallowed, his jaw tense as he turned away to gaze up at the sky himself. "It's okay not to think too hard about it, Morris."
"Perhaps I want to though. Perhaps I want to think about what happens next."
Quinn reached up to rub at his face. He was beginning to feel very tired, and the low tone of Morris' voice beside him was doing much to lull him to sleep. He couldn't let himself though, not out in the wilderness like this, and so he patted his own cheeks gently to try and rouse himself a little further.
"What comes next?" Quinn repeated Morris' words, more to himself than anyone else. "I hadn't thought this far."
Morris' gentle laughter was unexpected, but Quinn found it reassuring, even if this was the end of what had passed between them. Even if they were just Morris and Trevelyan the moment they went back to the tournament grounds, Quinn at least had something pleasant he could tuck away and keep all to himself.
It didn't stay tucked away. Quinn was foolish to ever think it would. It wasn't that he felt awkward around Morris, or that his friend avoided him, but every time they lingered near one another there was a tension between them like they were both waiting for something to happen. It was a nudge of the shoulder that Quinn wanted to be a more open touch of fingers, or a smile that Quinn wished would brush against his lips.
And Morris seemed to blush more for no good reason at all. A lot more.
Quinn found it all very distracting, and no amount of time alone or olive oil stolen from the kitchens seemed to be able to get it out of his system and allow him to focus on just being the friend he'd always been. Because that was what they had agreed they'd wanted... wasn't it? Once Quinn had put a couple days' distance behind him, he realized they hadn't really talked much about it at all. He didn't have an answer to Morris' question, which he realized probably seemed a bit unfair after he'd so pitifully said he'd wanted to kiss him. Instead Quinn had just given Morris his shirt to clean himself off because he could get a new clean one far more readily than Morris could, and Morris had thanked him with a silly smile.
Quinn kept thinking about that silly smile. He thought of the way Morris' mouth curved and the little dimples that formed at the corners. It was a soft expression in an otherwise solid and angular face and for some reason that made Quinn like it all the more.
But what happened at the Grand Tourney stayed at the Grand Tourney. Quinn had overheard it said by many people many times. He had no reason to believe that this was any different. Morris had that pretty milkmaid back home and Quinn couldn't compare to that.
He tried to stay busy, and Emile certainly made it rather easy. There was a lot riding on his potential victory and with every win his brother became sterner and more particular. By the time of the championship match, Emile had become so manic that Quinn was tasked with sanding, sorting, and arranging his lances in order of Emile's preference... which kept changing.
Quinn had rearranged the weapons for what seemed like nearly the tenth time when Morris turned up. Quinn smiled automatically when he saw him, but it was fleeting when he noticed that Morris looked troubled. Morris, however, waved off any questions and pretended to be more interested in what Quinn was up to.
"What would happen if you don't give him the lances in the correct order?" asked Morris, once Quinn had explained his brother's madness and pointed to the slate nearby where he'd listed his latest preference.
Quinn shrugged. "Normally, he wouldn't notice. I just always prepare whichever one I happen to grab first. But this time? He's wound up so tight that if things aren't exactly to his liking, he'll choke. He might choke anyway."
"Isn't that what you're hoping for?"
"No," Quinn explained, trying not to sound too forlorn about it. "If he loses, it will be an embarrassment to the family. And do you really think Emile would take responsibility for his own performance?"
Morris seemed to understand. "You think he'll blame you."
Quinn nodded. "And then he'll find himself a new squire."
"Isn't that what you've wanted for the longest time though?" asked Morris. "For him to stop bossing you around and find someone else? You hate all of this."
"I think I hate it less than the idea of having to become a templar," Quinn said, shuffling around a couple of the wooden poles. "It's either that or the city guard and I'm not too keen on that either."
"What do you want?"
Quinn raised an eyebrow at Morris. He was being rather strange, to the point where Quinn could almost forget about how unbearable it was to stand so close to him and have to pretend that they were just unassuming chums. Morris' brow was furrowed and he was looking very intently at Quinn's handiwork, but Quinn had started to recognize what that expression on his friend's face meant. Morris was hiding something.
"What's gotten into you?" Quinn asked, taking a step closer and bending slightly to try and press himself into Morris' field of view. "You've never cared about any of this before. I would have sabotaged Emile's jousting years ago if I thought I could get away with it. But I won't, and he'll win, and all the lads will buy me drinks and we'll get completely sloshed and do it all again next time."
There was a whisper of a smile that flickered across Morris' face, but it was short-lived. Instead he looked almost sad. And then he said the words that Quinn knew he'd probably hear one day, he just didn't think it would be so soon. And by the expression on Morris' face, he didn't think so either.
"Ser Calanth is going to knight me."
Quinn felt as if the ground were about to fall out from beneath him but he did his best to hide the ache that seemed to be settling in the pit of his stomach. Quinn wasn't jealous. He was never going to be jealous of Morris, not at all. But somehow it felt a bit like an ending when he knew that it should be a proper beginning for his friend instead.
As a knight, Morris stood to become wealthy or even raised into lower nobility if he was lucky. And Quinn didn't see any reason for him not to be. He'd be the pride of his village, his family would be both proud and well looked after. And more than anything, Quinn knew this was what Morris had always wanted.
"This is a good thing, Morris. And you deserve good things."
"It's not how I pictured it," Morris said, rubbing the back of his head and looking awkwardly at his boots. "I... I mean, I've still got a year or two of shadowing closely before I get to register on my own but..."
Morris sighed. And then it all came spilling out. Maybe if Emile won, Quinn could make it his doing. Maybe of he insisted upon his brother enough, he'd knight him too. Maker knew that it wasn't like a family of nobles had to follow all the proper rules. Or maybe if Emile didn't win then Morris could poach Quinn from his service. That wouldn't be so bad, Morris explained. Quinn found himself laughing in spite of himself. Each idea seemed more absurd than the last, and yet it was clear that Morris had spent a rather large amount of time thinking about this to have come up with so many different scenarios.
"Or maybe I just continue to be the world's laziest squire for the most insufferable knight," Quinn said after a time.
"Is that what you want?" asked Morris, a question that Quinn noticed he was rather insistent upon.
"It doesn't matter what I want. You're going to be Ser Morris now - which is a rather grand name, I might add. This isn't about me."
"But what if I want it to be?!" Morris practically shouted at Quinn, which caused him to take a step back in surprise. Morris didn't tend to get angry. It was always Quinn being pulled out of scuffles, usually over cards. The outburst was unexpected, and Quinn wasn't certain how to react. Did he shout back? Did he apologize? What even would he be apologizing for?
"I don't understand..."
He was an ass, Morris went on. He was a rich pompous ass who should get everything he wanted just because he wanted it. And yet he didn't, and Morris simply didn't understand why. Why didn't Quinn get upset? Why didn't Quinn care? Why didn't Quinn ever think about what he wanted?
Because it didn't matter, Quinn explained. Or at least he tried to. Morris just didn't understand. Things were a lot more simple when you were at the bottom of the social ladder. There was nowhere to go but up, while everyone already at the top had this ongoing delicate balance of trying to keep everything the way it should be. His parents had too many children. What he wanted didn't matter, because he was never going to have a lot of options.
They went back and forth like this for some time, bickering and shouting and growing increasingly flustered. Morris looked like he was about to cry, and eventually Quinn wasn't certain if any of this was actually about the Grand Tourney or if...
Realization dawned on Quinn. The way Morris kept staring at him, his cheeks flushed as he gestured wildly between them. It wasn't really about being knighted. And it wasn't entirely about what either one of them wanted from the future. It was about the question Morris had asked Quinn and he had refused to answer.
What came next... for them?
What did Quinn want?
The answer, he thought, was obvious. It was written in every smile he was unable to hide whenever Morris came striding towards him. It was written in every laugh that was shared between them over some silly joke or bit of mischief that had gone sideways. It was written in the way Quinn had gotten lost when Morris had cupped his face and gently thumbed his cheeks before kissing him. It was written in the way Quinn had done very little else but replay that afternoon over and over again in his head and yearned for so many more.
Quinn's voice was soft when he spoke. The words felt clumsy in his mouth as if he was stumbling over a large secret. And in a way, he supposed he was. Pretending that they were only friends like nothing had happened - nothing had changed - was clearly an exercise in futility for both of them. And yet, every instinct in Quinn still shouted in protest and the fear of rejection even as he tried to force out the confession he knew Morris was waiting for.
He swallowed and tried again. This time, the words seemed to form. "You. I want... it's always just been you, Horace. The how of it doesn't matter, as long as it's us."
A weight seemed to lift from Morris' shoulders as he visibly exhaled. Any other time, Quinn would have thought he was in for a lecture, but instead Morris seemed to come alive. He was grinning, a rather excited looking smile that lit up his face and made his smile lines deepen and his eyes shine brightly. It made Quinn's stomach turn over, but in a way that seemed to almost make him feel giddy and light.
Morris closed the distance between them with one swift stride and clasped Quinn's head in his hands. He looked at him, a look of intense concentration flashing in his eyes before his grin widened and he leaned in.
"You are an ass, Quinn Trevelyan, but I adore you all the same," Morris breathed, and kissed him soundly.
