Fingerprints
It's easy to fall into the past when your hands are occupied and your mind is free. There's something about the repetition of tasks learned too well and too often that lends itself to the meanderings back down the well-traveled pathways. Duncan knows the pitfalls only too well, but he goes there just the same, at times like this, when even something as simple as cleaning his sword brings the past back as vividly as if the length of glossy metal were a magic mirror instead.
The blade of a katana only seems impervious, but the touch of a human hand can etch fingerprints into the metal. It's a chemical reaction he hadn't quite believed until he'd seen it for himself. Whorled etchings of the man who'd left them there as he hauled the curved blade out of his own body. The fingerprints are long gone now, but like the fingerprints on his skin, if he closes his eyes he can still see them. Brian's fingerprints, on his skin first, and then -- much later -- on the blade of his katana.
It took a long time for them all to fade.
Warmth settles along his back, arms drape around him, moist lips press against his neck and send a sharp little shiver down his spine. The ghosts fade away with the touch of his lover's fingers on his skin. Duncan catches up his long hands and threads their fingers together, linking them.
"What are you sighing about?" Methos asks him between nuzzles of his neck.
Duncan hadn't realized he had sighed, but he shakes his head as if it's nothing. It's not, but the words are locked up inside him, in the place the guilt still lives, and letting them out seems too hard. Talking about it won't change anything anyway. Once upon a time he'd loved a man who was beautiful, gifted, and irretrievably broken. Once upon another time he'd had to kill him. End of story. Not much of a fairytale.
He lays the sword aside, gives up thinking for a while, turns and pulls Methos into his arms. Lets him press him back against the kitchen counter. Methos' mouth is darting in to taste his jaw, his cheek, his lips, while Duncan fills his hands with the tight curves of Methos' ass and tugs him a little closer. He gets a nip to his jaw for his trouble.
Methos is teasing him. Typical. Duncan's following Methos' mouth with his own, but no matter what he does he can't catch it for more than second. And the longer he can't have it, the more he wants it. Also typical. Arousal shifts in a heartbeat from nought to one hundred.
Taking Methos' head between his hands and holding him still solves one problem. Walking him backwards the few steps between the stool and the sofa solves at least part of the other. And now he's still kissing him just like he wanted to all along, deep and wet and hungry, as he tumbles Methos back onto the sofa and keeps him there with a slow, rolling press of his hips.
Methos makes a hot, raw little noise and goes pliant all of a sudden, arching his neck back under the force of Duncan's kisses. And, god, that's good. There's just something about having Methos beneath him, hard body bending to his will, delicious and eager and--
Snapping out of pliancy in the blink of an eye to try to roll them over. Sneaky bastard. Duncan laughs against Methos' mouth and holds him down, pinning him at wrists and hips, relishing the superiority of greater strength, just a bit. Methos laughs and struggles a little, enough to rub his hard cock up against Duncan's. And that's even better.
Methos' legs spread willingly enough, though, when Duncan presses his knees between them. He wraps his legs around Duncan's waist, breath coming in quick, humid puffs against his face. He lets Methos' hands go and strips him. It's awkward, on the sofa, but it's not like they've never done it before, so he manages with only one poke of a sharp elbow into his ribs. And that was probably an accident.
But it's not as important as having Methos naked and hard underneath him. He'd suffer a lot more to have it. Sweat is beading in the hollow of Methos' throat and he licks at it, a handy distraction while he opens his jeans and frees his cock.
At last.
He can't help the groan he makes when the tip of his cock brushes along Methos'. Methos is smiling at him, but there's enough heat in his eyes for Duncan to know that it's not really amusement. A little spit, a little shift of his hips and Duncan's wiping the smile entirely from Methos' mouth and making it drop open wordlessly instead as he enters him.
Methos is pushing out, bearing down to let him in -- Duncan can feel it -- but it's still an effort to work his way, all the way, inside. And then he's there and Christ it's always so bloody good that if he thinks about it too much it'll be over far too soon. He can't think, but he can move if he doesn't think, doesn't dwell on anything but the need to have this right now.
Shifting just enough, he lifts Methos' legs and drapes them over his shoulders, and he's all the way in. Heat burns all the way up his spine from balls to brain. A bite to the tender part of Methos' thigh makes him shudder beautifully, all the way down his body. Methos is tight around him, breathing fast and moaning softly. But he hasn't lost control -- yet.
So Duncan moves at last, slowly at first, relishing the way Methos' eyes widen; they're black with lust and he can't look away now. He can't keep the slow tempo either, though he tries for long minutes, concentrating utterly on the look on Methos' face. Methos' lips are red and parted and swollen where Methos is biting them.
Suddenly he's thrusting, utterly mindless, hard and rough and fast, the way he knows Methos can't resist and he's right because Methos' fingers dig into his back, his hips lift to meet every thrust, and a stream of wonderfully pornographic language pours out of his mouth. He's almost there.
If he leans in closer he'll be able to reach that gorgeous, filthy mouth. So he does, lifting Methos' head with one hand curled around the back of his neck, and. fuck, Methos is kissing him like there's no tomorrow and groaning deep in his throat, clutching at him, and spasming around his cock until Duncan knows he's losing it. And it's even better this way, sweeter than anything, with the sharp, pure response he's been waiting for.
It tips him over, makes his vision blur and his hips slam hard against Methos' ass. He's coming (God...and coming and coming) and they're still joined at the mouth. Methos' heels are pressed into his back, as sharp as if they wore spurs, but it's all perfect anyway. There's blood in the kiss but it doesn't matter a damn compared to the fire in his blood from the exquisite, indescribable pleasure of coming deep inside Methos. And making him lose it this way.
Every part of him goes utterly limp, except the part that's still buried in his lover.
That part doesn't seem to know it's all over, but that's all right, Duncan could stay like this for a while yet with Methos still shuddering around him, after-shocked and sweating, with his chest heaving under where Duncan's head is resting on it. He's going to have to move sometime, have to think again soon, but not yet. Not just yet.
Methos shifts first, making a little dissatisfied noise and unhooking his legs one at a time from Duncan's shoulders, stretching them up like a dancer, or a figure from the Kama Sutra, then resting them down, wriggling his feet so they brush against Duncan's calves. His fingers sneak down to Duncan's ass, stroking it randomly. They're still not talking, but the things on Duncan's mind aren't anything he wants to talk about.
<>Duncan's cock slips out at last and he settles, spent, into the cradle of Methos' body.
"Are
you going
to tell me?" Methos whispers against his neck.
Duncan thinks about it, but the words are no closer to the surface now than they were before. It's buried deep for a reason and he'd just as soon leave it there, buried.
Buried alongside the first man he'd loved like this.
"No."
Methos nods. If anyone does, he knows the power of the past and the necessity -- sometimes -- of letting the dead lie. The evening darkness fills the loft, rising around them while Duncan strokes his own fingerprints over the well-loved planes of Methos' skin.
the end