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Liquid heat drips from the heavens slathering his bare skin and eyelids in red-gold. He can feel it browning his skin, seeping into his bones, and cleansing his silent, inner spaces of fear-born shadows.
Eyes closed, naked to the waist, Kronos lies full-length upon a wide granite slab at the water's edge. The warmth of the sun offers a pleasing contrast to the coolness of rock against his back and shoulders.
Such simple delights. The sweet summer breeze, the drone of bees, and the quiet lap of water against rocks on the shoreline; sounds and scents of the newly arrived season.
The sensations of freedom.
It has been months since he was last tied and splayed and sliced open to forecast a favorable hunt or successful raid. Since Methos found and freed him. Months in which he has been free to enjoy the heated embrace of the sun and the play of naked space against his skin. Even so, without the vibration of his brother's quickening, he might sometimes mistake it all for a waking dream.
Off to his left, Methos wades into the shallows with his net and wrestles with another fish. A large one, if the splashes and Methos' curses are any indication. He hears a muffled thump -- as his brother whacks the fish against a rock, breaking its spine -- and then a dripping, fish-scented cloud moves to obscure the sun.
He smiles but doesn't open his eyes. "You're blocking the sun."
The shadow grows more dense against his eyelids and droplets of water patter upon his cheeks and nose. Methos' exhalations caress his lips.
"And you," his brother says, "could help me catch supper."
Kronos stretches languidly, enjoying the lethargy of heat-soaked limbs. For a moment, it is as if he can feel Methos' eyes map his body, noting his still too-prominent ribs, the slackness of muscle not yet regained.
"Why?" he asks, eyes still closed, unaccountably pleased by the scrutiny. "You seem to be doing just fine on your own."
"Even a frog could be bothered to catch its own flies."
Methos has moved even closer now and the sun is fully eclipsed. His brother's skin is cool and damp where their bodies touch and Kronos shivers.
"I am nothing like a frog," he retorts, striving for indignation, but is far too relaxed to sound convincing.
"No, not a frog," Methos agrees, and this time their lips meet softly. It is a simple and pleasant matter to allow his brother's tongue to slip in for a brief taste. "Perhaps a fat, bloated slug, instead," Methos continues after a moment. "Or a leech."
The last comment is followed by a sharp nip to his bottom lip and Kronos pulls back from the kiss, eyes wide with feigned outrage.
"A slug? A leech!"
"Oh yes," Methos says with a faint smile. "Although a slug would shrivel to nothing in the noon sun, would it not?"
Kronos knows that tone of voice, he knows that accompanying look. But before he can gather his own sluggish limbs to react, Methos has rolled to the side, has dragged Kronos to the edge of the slab, and suddenly the world is upside down.
"Methos, put me down!"
He is jostled hard over his brother's shoulder. "As you wish, brother," Methos says.
And then he is airborne, hurtling towards the dark green surface of the pond to land with a loose-limbed and ungainly splash. The water is shockingly cold.
When Kronos finally surfaces, shivering, spitting out water and slimy plants, he finds Methos a few strokes away stalking him with the net.
"Hm," Methos says, brandishing the net and examining Kronos' dripping, weed-tangled form critically. "A bit scrawny, but probably enough for one meal."
"Methos."
His brother can barely contain his laughter. "Kronos."
Two more strokes and Methos is in his arms. A single fierce, distracting kiss and then he has his brother in a head lock and has pushed him, choking and sputtering, under water.
"Slug, indeed," Kronos says, aggrieved. He is smug for all of a moment before Methos sweeps his feet out from under him and then they are both thrashing in the now muddy water, each striving for the upper hand.
After ten minutes of determined struggle, Kronos emerges victorious when he breaks the laces on Methos' trousers one after the other and takes his brother's cock into his mouth. The saltiness of Methos' passion is a delicious contrast to the cool freshwater that has filled his mouth on all but the final stroke.
Afterwards, he drags a weak-kneed Methos back to shore and trips him down onto the blanket that they laid beneath the trees earlier in the day.
"You've sucked me dry," Methos says, still panting somewhat from their exertion. "I had no idea that you could hold your breath for so long."
"I am a man of many talents." Kronos lowers himself to the blanket and grimaces at the clammy feel of his tight, wet breeches. "Ugh."
"Something wrong, brother?" Methos rolls to his side and regards him wearing a lazy grin. His hair is sticking up in spikes and a damp yellowed leaf is stuck to one cheek. He looks delicious.
"Other than near suffocation, weeds in my hair, and wet leather pants? Why no, Methos, nothing wrong at all."
"Can I do anything to help?" Methos moves closer, brushes his lips over Kronos' shoulder then looks up through his lashes. His suggestive expression chases away the lingering chill and Kronos' clothing feels even tighter in certain places.
"I don't know," he says with indifference, as Methos eases him onto his back and begins to unlace his trousers. "Can you?"
Methos makes no answer, only tugs the sticky clothing down his limbs until Kronos is completely bare.
"The sun is still high," his brother comments, squinting up at the sky then kneeling between his spread legs. "There is plenty of time for our clothing to dry."
"And what shall we do in the meantime?" Kronos asks, exhaling on a sigh when his brother bends his knee then runs his teeth along the arch of Kronos' right foot. "Surely we've caught enough fish for the day?"
"Hm." Methos leans in and licks a path up underside of Kronos' erect cock and smiles. "Not quite yet."
The late afternoon sun slants golden through the trees and they are both well sated when they finally don their clothing again.
Kronos makes a face. "They're still damp, Methos," he complains as he pulls on his trousers. "And now they've shrunk."
Methos rises from the blanket then embraces him from behind pressing his lean nakedness along Kronos' spine and nuzzling his throat.
"I like the look," Methos says. "But I'll make it up to you nonetheless." His brother exhales slowly across the shell of Kronos' ear, raising goose-flesh over his bare shoulders.
Were they both mortal, their skin and bodies would be thoroughly marked from their enthusiastic lovemaking. Instead, Kronos enjoys the quiet internal hum as his quickening heals the numerous bites, scratches, and strains. And further inflames the passion that his brother's sensual tone of voice always evokes.
"Oh, you certainly will," he agrees after a moment, twining his fingers with Methos' and tracing his brother's lifeline with the wet point of his tongue. "Again and again."
From his brother's chuckle and then sudden gasp, Methos seems delighted at the prospect.