| Two - Suikoden III, Geddoe and someone who is not the Flame Champion
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| The little room smelled like sweat and sex, so close and warm and sticky
that the air tasted dirty on the tongue. The moonlight spilled freely through
the cracked window--the landlord was too cheap to provide blinds, or curtains,
or anything--and blended away the peeling paint on the walls and the shabby
carpet, dyeing it all the same impersonal bluish-white.
Most of the room was empty. A backpack sat by the closed door, along with an old-fashioned rucksack that spilled clothing and cheap toiletries from its untied top. The only furniture was a sway-backed mattress on the floor, and that's where they lay tangled, naked, sprawled out across the bare surface, a single threadbare blanket tossed casually over their hips. Geddoe stared at the ceiling and didn't really see it. The boy was sprawled over him, one bare and sticky thigh thrown heavy over both of his--but he was only humanly warm. This boy grew flushed and slippery with sweat when Geddoe fucked him but didn't produce that heat, that searing rolling heat that would have filled this room with steam and peeled the rest of the paint from the wall--Geddoe firmly put the rest of that thought out of his mind. Half a miracle was better than no miracle at all, or so he kept telling himself. "Tell me a story," the boy said in a lazy little voice, cracking his eyes open to watch his thumb trace along one of the scars on Geddoe's chest. "Hm?" Geddoe blinked his eye once and the cracked ceiling swam back into focus. But he didn't have to be asked again; instead he thought for a moment while curling his arm around the boy's bare shoulders. "What kind of story should I tell?" The boy's hand lifted from Geddoe's chest and drifted downwards to settle on his bared hip, fingers first, then palm. Under his hand a half-moon of scar tissue bit into Geddoe's thigh, faintly silvered where it slid out from under those fingers. "Tell me this story." And so Geddoe did. While the boy's hand returned to his chest and traced out the scars there Geddoe told him a story he only dimly remembered, a story about an archer who had gotten very lucky and a pikeman who had gotten even luckier, and a close escape that really hadn't been so close at all. The boy sighed and shifted and said "Mm" in all the right spots, pressing the edge of his thumbnail to Geddoe's breastbone and making the skin whiten before skirting around one nipple and down onto Geddoe's belly. He'd just about reached the point in the story where he was standing over the unconscious Avren when the boy's hand slid under the blanket. His fingertips stroked along the curve of Geddoe's hip a moment before his hand wrapped about Geddoe's cock, soft and still slippery from earlier, and Geddoe's words broke off sharply. "Go on," the boy prompted softly, squeezing. Geddoe's laugh was a soft disbelieving explosion of breath, but after pushing up into the boy's hand once he took a deep breath and tried. "--ah... they had better armor than we did, they always did, but they weren't any good at fighting out of formation, and the trees blocked their pikes..." The boy squeezed him again, gently, and Geddoe's cock began to stir in that tight grip. It made the already-dim memory fade further, dragging Geddoe forcibly forward into the sweaty and quiet now, and he didn't speak again until the boy prompted him with a quiet "Hm?" and another, harder squeeze. Geddoe cleared his throat and threw his free arm across his eyes. That helped, but not enough.
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