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“Do you ever plan on joining us, Matthias?”
He doesn’t, but Matthias will be damned if he gives Lambert the satisfaction of answering him now, filthy cheater that he is. He, Rodrige, and a handful of their classmates are starting the fire for the evening and Matthias is at the far edge of the Blue Lions’ campsite. Alone with a pile of weapons, whetstones, and polish.
He doesn’t even bother looking up from the sword in his hands, focused on sharpening the steel with a whetstone. Up, up, he drags it. Slow and steady along the blade’s edge. Between the scrapes of the whetstone, he hears soft steps crunching the dry grass behind him. He stills and angles the sword until he sees the reflection of his visitor.
“Matthias,” Lambert’s smudgy reflection says with a smile, “I think the blade is sharp enough, don’t you?”
Again he passes the whetstone over the blade, but it doesn’t get rid of the condescending prince in it.
“Your Highness,” Matthias says, evenly, “I lost our spar and this was the punishment you chose for me.” He drops the stone and plucks the rag from his lap, swiping it up the length of the blade until it gleams. Lambert leans over his shoulder, inspecting his work.
“Well, only because you refused my other request.”
Matthias stiffens and cranes his neck to look back at their classmates, but no one seems to be paying them any mind. He takes his chance to elbow Lambert in the ribs, and takes immense satisfaction in the little cry of surprise that squeaks out of his mouth.
“We’re not fucking in a tent surrounded by all of our classmates,” he hisses.
“Oh, so that means we can have a go in the middle of the woods?” Lambert smirks, rubbing his side. Matthias’s lips twitch and he does his best to hold back any expression that would encourage the idiot.
“Bastard,” he says, with a hint of fondness he doesn’t want to mean anything. Lambert hums and claps his shoulder, the touch lingering. Or maybe that’s just his imagination.
“Well, come find me if you change your mind.”
“Unlikely.”
Lambert grins, lopsided and handsome and Matthias wants to punch his goddamn face. But that’s something they both might enjoy.
Come nightfall, Matthias finally relents, hunger winning over petulance and he leaves the pile of weaponry, trudging over to the fire to sit with Lambert and the rest of them to eat their under seasoned meat and drink water diluted wine. The Galatea boy waxes whimsy about pegasi, and someone asks if he’s ever tried riding one and he nearly cries because he can’t.
“Cheer up,” says Rodrigue, patting his back, “you can ride other things, surely.”
Once the words have left his mouth, he’s realized his mistake but the damage is done, and soon after everyone is howling with laughter.
“I didn’t mean me!” Rodrigue yells to no avail.
Matthias’s sour mood from earlier lifts as he takes in the faces of his classmates. He catches sight of Lambert who is gulping from a waterskin, his throat is pale and long, shining with tracks of water dripping down it. He considers it for a moment longer, imagining the taste of it to be a little salty were he to drag his tongue over it.
Matthias swallows and contemplates changing his mind after all.
But in the end, Lambert, as with so many other things, makes the decision for them.
–
“I know you were impressed,” Lambert pants, hot and heavy breaths in his ear.
Matthias shoves him down, whipping off his shirt before following Lambert into the depths of his bedroll.
“By what?” He asks, biting Lambert’s shoulder hard enough the prince pushes him away. Matthias wipes his mouth with the back of hand. “Your spectacular cheating?”
“It isn’t cheating if I’m stronger than you are, hm?” Lambert wraps his legs around Matthias’s waist, he rolls them and they knock over the tiny lantern, leaving them in the dark.
Matthias reaches up, running his fingers up the length of Lambert’s throat. “If you want someone to stroke your ego, I suggest Rodrigue’s tent.”
Lambert lets loose a bark of laughter that surely has alerted at least some of their classmates.
“You needn’t stroke my ego,” he says, leaning down to graze his teeth over Matthias’s jaw. “My cock will do just fine.”
Bastard.
“As His Highness demands,” replies Matthias, and his hands find their way down, down, down. Journeying along a path they know too well.
–
Light peeking in through the opening of the tent bears the unfortunate news that it is time to get on with the day. Matthias manages the laborious task of propping himself up on an elbow, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep. There is no sound outside, save for the wind, and he contemplates giving up on getting ready, but he knows he will not fall back asleep now.
He sits up fully with a yawn, scratching at the new stubble on his cheek. Next to him, in the much too small bedroll, Lambert also starts to stir.
"Must you wake early every morning?" Lambert asks, voice still thick with sleep. Matthias squints at him in the dim light.
"I didn’t ask you to stay here, did I?" He stretches until his back pops. Lambert snorts, and by the goddess is it ever an unattractive sound.
"You only ever complain about my company, am I so terrible a bedmate?" Lambert rolls onto his back and peers up at Matthias through the mess of his golden hair. It's sticking out at odd angles where Matthias had tugged on it last night.
"Your Highness, you," Matthias says, reaching out to pull down the blanket covering Lambert, "are the worst lay I've ever had."
Without the thick wool in the way, Matthias can see every mark and bruise he left on Lambert's body. He flicks his gaze back to the prince's face when he starts shaking with barely held back laughter.
"Liar," he says, matter of fact.
Matthias inhales deep, catching the lingering scent of sweat and sex. He leans over Lambert, watching the prince’s face contort from languidness to pleasure as he carves a path over his warm body with his calloused hand. He reaches the start of the goddess blessed curve of Lambert's hip and stops.
Lambert looks at him, eyes bright and lips curled upwards in a smirk.
Matthias leans down, barely pressing his mouth to Lambert's cheek, then over to his ear.
"Your Highness," he whispers, letting his voice drip with the honey-sweet mead he knows Lambert likes. "Get out of my tent."
“Spoilsport,” Lambert snorts, shoving Matthias off of him. He rubs his shoulder, as he watches Lambert gather his clothes. “You take all the fun out of this.”
“Well,” Matthias drawls, “you don’t seem to mind much.”
Why would he keep crawling back otherwise?
Why does Matthias let him?
He shakes the thought away as Lambert finishes tugging his pants on.
“I could always ride other things, so says Rodrigue,” Lambert says, buttoning his shirt. He glances over, fringe falling into his face and framing a coquettish smile.
Matthias smirks.
“Unlikely.”