Running Across Fields Pt. 7

There was not a lot for the two of them to say to each other, and Axel was grateful for the official business which needed taking care of, the way that the servants bustled around them, so they almost never had a chance to be alone.  Roxas had bags under his eyes and either came to bed after Axel and left before he woke, or was not sleeping at all.  He suspected the latter, the way the boy looked in the brief moments that they did see each other, limp and unwashed clothes hanging from his frame, rumpled and stained with ink.  He had been banned from the stables, Axel knew, and so it was he who took the horses out, careful on Moxie with his added weight and height, fearless on Durant, riding fiercely through all weathers.  It was on such a day that he came to their rooms, dripping wet and reeking of horse, to find Roxas already in the deep bath – more like a pool – which serves their room, his eyes closed and seemingly relaxed for the first time since his father fell ill.  Axel backed away, but it was too late.
"You were riding in this storm?" Roxas asked, voice deep and slow, "You'll catch your death."
Axel did not know what to say, could not phrase the words he wanted to find, and instead stepped closer, shutting the door behind him.
"It was not too bad." He said, at last, when Roxas did not seem about to throw him out.  The blond turned and let out a bark of unwilling laughter.
"You wore the veil? In the rain? Did Durant know who you were?"
So he had known, was aware of who was riding his horse.
"He seemed to enjoy it," Axel said, weakly, "I shall go and bathe elsewhere, if you –"
"It is your bath, too," the blond said, and Axel would have sworn there was a hint of longing in his voice, "You could always join me."
It was cold.  He was soaked.  The bath was hot and there was a naked, attractive man in it, who just happened to also be his husband.  Axel pulled off his sodden clothing and slid into the hot water with a hiss as it wrapped around him in a warm embrace.  There was enough room that they did not have to touch, and Axel kept his distance, wary of doing something that would upset the little lord.  But Roxas drifted nearer and let their thighs touch, just briefly.  Axel smiled at the second of contact, and leaned his head a little sideways, touching Roxas' shoulder.  The blond sighed, and some of the tension seemed to leave him.
"I did not expect to have to play the lord so early." Roxas admitted, quietly, like it cost him to say it, "I am not used to this."
"And I was not trained to be a consort," Axel said, softly, leaning a little closer.  He was slowly relaxing, letting the chill and the tension leave him, close to his husband for the first time since their days in the forest.  He pulled the soaked veil off.  They both sat still, like statues, staring at the rain gushing down the windows.

Once the lord had unfrozen, it seemed that the castle followed, like an old folk tale of true love's kiss.  Only the two of them knew that it was not love which had put them at their ease, but a slow, mutual respect, at an almost glacial pace.  There had been no great revelation, nor had there been a touching moment of heart to heart – just a darkness which had soaked up so much light it had begun to take on some of those qualities.  The Roxas that he saw now was not the same boy he had kissed in the woods, nor was he the stiff little lord who would not unbend – he was someone made of those two parts, and Axel thought that maybe he understood that a little.  Before this marriage had been seen as a better option, he had been training to be a warrior, to fight those who forced their borders; a warrior lord, strong and fierce, a force to be reckoned with.  Now he was a soft, pampered thing, a kept boy, a toy for a boy younger than he, and he would not be allowed to handle a sword or go into battle anymore, in case someone used him to get to Roxas.  But whilst the visiting Axel had loathed this fact, and seen it as weak, the Axel who got married likes that he is seen s precious.  He felt appreciated, wanted, in a way that he never did when in his father's house; though there were days when he wished once more to feel the wind in his hair, a swordsman's calluses on his hands, saddle sores and raw lips from the biting winds.  He felt like he had promise, that he would thrive in this relationship, and Roxas unfreezing simply made him think that day could come sooner than expected.  The bed they shared was no longer cold space between them, and though they did not indulge in passion, they lay close, warming each other to their soul, their core.  It was enough, for that moment, Axel thought, to know that Roxas trusted him to lie beside him, trusted him to unbend and admit that he was scared, that he knew not what to do.  That trust was worth a thousand rides, worth his freedom, worth the sound of the wind and the feel of the sun.  For this little lord, he would even wear the veil, and smile as if he enjoyed it.

There were days, as the sodden autumn turned to frozen winter, that Axel longed to see the sun again, longed for the boy he kissed in the forest and could have done so much more to, given the time, given the space, given the moments before the old man died and changed his son irrevocably.  Those stolen kisses, hot with the knowledge that they were forbidden, haunted his dreams, and when he turned to Roxas, the bed was empty – or worse, Roxas was asleep, an angel etched in repose, and Axel had to look away before he ruined the fragile peace they have.  The morning where Roxas woke first, leaning over to dust a soft kiss on his brow, waking him, was held close to where he imagined his heart was, burning into him, keeping the fire burning.  And what a fire it was, the feelings he held inside himself, the flames roaring high, white hot in the centre, and he fed it memories, only memories, no hopes, no thoughts, because there is no future for it.  He knew that as surely as he knew the miller's daughter was dead when they dragged her out of the frozen pond, swollen with child and five months missing, as surely as he knew it was one of the palace guard who had held her under there, as surely as he knew that the sobs he heard overlaying that of the mother belonged to Naminé.  The passion he and Roxas once shared is gone, to be replaced by an uneasy truce, as fragile as the refrozen ice on the pond, and quieter than that unborn child's cries.  There were soft, gentle touches of a hand on a collar, or to push a lock of hair behind an ear, but the heat was gone.  In the icy winter, the heat lives on only inside Axel.
The palace physician came to check him over, to see the marriage had been consummated – though he would say it had, anyhow – and Axel had questions before he had even removed his shirt.
"I am afraid that I have caught something from him." Axel said, softly.
"There are poultices – " the old man began, but Axel stopped him.
"Love can not be cured by herbs."


Roxas would not say that he did not see the looks Axel gave him when he undressed, looks he was not sure Axel knew he had, anymore, but nor would he admit that he took a little more time, then, to remove everything, and sometimes found a few errant items around the room which need moving once he was unrobed.  The feel of Axel's eyes on him, the burn of them, made him feel like the boy in the forest once more, when those hot, heavy hands danced on the laces of his breeches, and he slapped them away, laughing, before sprinting through trees, jumping over roots, and hearing the thunder of booted feet behind him, chasing, always pursuing, and always catching, to claim a kiss where no one could see them, away from all prying eyes.  Axel had treated him as if he were still innocent, still pure, and he had revelled in it, even when he had wanted so much for Axel to press him, to lean him against a tree and just take everything he wanted, leaving Roxas wrung out, ridden hard and put away wet, aching for the next time.  He had wanted so much, Axel had promised so much, but there had been no response to how he had moved around the room, there was never any response to his slow attempts at catching his husband's interest.  It had been a long time since he had felt the need to visit a whore, but he was young, and shared a bed every night with a man who merely reminded him just what he had been missing out on whilst the paperwork and land registry had been taking up all of his time.  Perhaps he would go again – but it would no longer be seemly, nor would it be forgotten, if the lord himself went to the cathouse.  Perhaps his favourite would even refuse to service him, no matter that his coin was better than that of any other.  Had he given up any chance of what he really wanted when he had become lord?  No one had told him that this was how it went, but then, they had expected to have several years before this was needed, before he had to rule in his father's stead.  And… he had not expected a man.  If his bride had been a woman, he would have given her a few token children and then never touched her again, kept her happy with trinkets and lovers he pretended not to see, whilst he had his own, but Axel was different.  Roxas wanted him, hungered for him in a way he could not explain or understand, craved that ocean of pale skin against him, to have a chance to smooth sweat-matted red locks from those clever green eyes, to kiss that wicked mouth with its sharp tongue, until Axel had no words left with which to insult him, and could only whisper his name.  He closed his eyes, pushing the paperwork aside, and reached down to unlace his breeches, to take in hand what his imagination had given rise to.  Axel above him, riding him, Axel beneath him, spreading, panting, needy and desperate in a way Roxas had never seen him, cock swollen, cheeks flushed, and the blond climaxed with a cry, spattering the fine woodwork of his desk.  He breathed heavily for a few moments before he put himself away again, wiped down the desk with a rag, and blew out the candle.  His bed – and the man in it – were calling to him.