Chapter Text
Sipping from his glass, Narinder lazily blinks at the dying remainders of the bonfire before him, his tail swishing lazily. Between the spring festival and Lamb’s return from a week-long crusade, the entire cult has been in a state of merriment since daybreak. He has not exactly been averse to merrymaking of his own. With the promise of the evening’s bonfire lingering on the imminent horizon, Lamb dropped a bottle into his hands. A gift from Forneus, they’d offered with a wink before dashing off to help in the kitchens.
That was around midday. The sun has long set since then, and said gift from Forneus— a crisp alcoholic apple cider, which Narinder found himself to enjoy very much— was emptied hours ago, along with several more glasses of communal brew. Some distant part of him regrets drinking the whole bottle in one night— he should have slowed down and savored it. It may be a while yet before he sees any more of her cider, and it was damn good.
Another part of him cares not; fine gifts are made to be enjoyed, not coveted for a ‘right moment’ that may never come. To drink and to be merry means not a drop of her fine brew was wasted. Lamb dropped down onto the log next to him at some point as the sun was setting, anyway— they allowed him the last swig from their own bottle of Forneus’s cider in exchange for Narinder’s ear to vent about… something. It became background noise to his drunken ears a long while ago.
A third part of himself yet nudges for his attention and reminds him that the fuzzy lump to his right is still talking, and it seems to be in his direction. He blinks hard, tilting his head to gaze upon them.
"—what I get f'r being gone so long," Lamb is saying, giving a little huff of amusement. Their eyes, cast into a warm, honeyed brown in the firelight, flicker to him. "But I've been yappin' long enough. What about you? What d'you think?"
Narinder does not answer— he certainly hasn’t a single clue what the Lamb has said in the last… however long. He blinks at them, slow and lazy, and slumps to butt the side of his head into their shoulder. Lamb gives him a small laugh, and it warms him all over. A purr begins to rumble to life from low within his chest; a small voice in his mind tells him he should perhaps rein in the casual affections, but he cannot parse out why. Narinder swallows down the last of the drinkhouse brew in his glass to drown out the silly little voice.
He purrs into their shoulder until he finally begins to doze off; between the chill of the first spring night and the warmth of the fire, he could sleep here the entire night. It's comfortable. Lamb is comfortable, all soft edges and earthy lanolin, and— they startle him awake with a small snort of amusement.
"No opinions?" they tease, "were you even listening?"
Narinder gives a small, muffled no into their arm, drawing out another laugh from them. Lamb frees their arm from his face but drops it over his shoulders just as quickly, draping him in their fleece. Narinder buries his face into their soft wool, breathing in their scent. Laced into their wool, Narinder picks up the lingering copper of heretic blood, the sweetness of ambrosia, and there, beneath the smell of lanolin, an intoxicating scent unique to Lamb and Lamb alone.
"That's okay. S'not that important, anyway." They lift their own glass of drink, swallowing down the last dredges of blood-dark ambrosia. How many glasses have they had now? How many has Narinder had, for that matter? A bottle each, refill after refill of the wine on tap… "Everyone else is gone. We should prob'ly get to bed."
Oh? Blinking slowly, his eyes trail past the pitiful remains of the fire. Indeed, they two appear to be the lone creatures left sitting outside. How late…? Narinder flits his gaze to the stars and moon. Were he a little bit more sober, he could tell the time by the position of the moon alone. Right now, he feels rather lucky that the act of looking up does not throw him off balance.
Giving Narinder's shoulder a squeeze, Lamb pulls away. Narinder's purr fizzles out with the loss of contact, and they stumble up on unsteady feet. Without them to lean on, Narinder slumps and buries his face in his knees. His ears track the sounds of Lamb staggering, laughing to themself, and snuffing the remains of the fire out. One ear flicks and twists, taking in the shht shht shht of their hooves kicking in the dirt, the fire hissing as it gets snuffed, the light tinkling of the bell around their throat. His bell, the gift of a long-fallen god that they still wear proudly where all can see, still willingly marked like an owned thing—
His fur reeks of smoke when he turns his head and drags air in through his nose, and on the edge of the inhale, he catches a hint of his own breath. It smells sort of like it tastes: old sugar gone sour on the back of his tongue, with mulled red wine lingering in the fray. If he turns his head to the right, just a little bit, he catches the other scent attached to him: copper and ambrosia and Lamb.
The fire quiets, though the bell rings louder with Lamb shaking dirt from their hoof before they think to grab the bauble and silence the chime. There comes the sound of them breathing; a great inhale and a longer sigh, though it sounds satisfied to Narinder’s ears. In the absence of insects on this cold night, the gentle sway of the trees and the wind through its budding branches fills the air; dead grass shivers in the breeze; his blood thrums lightly in his ears. Narinder cares not for any of it; the only thing to matter to him is the shuffle of Lamb’s feet bringing them back to his side.
“Think you c’n make it home?” they ask, pressing a hand to the back of his neck.
Narinder gives no answer. That seems to be answer enough, apparently, because in the time it takes him to blink into the darkness of his lap— which, admittedly, the blink takes a bit longer than usual— they have hauled him to his feet and steadied him. The world is darker now without the low glow of the fire, though the brightness of the full moon illuminates the land well enough. His night vision adjusts quickly, his eyes narrowing in on the amused little half-smile gracing Lamb’s flushed face.
He cannot explain why he does it. Impulse, instinct— perhaps even a mix of the two. But Narinder grasps their shoulders and leans in, dipping his head down to rub his cheek along theirs while a stilted purr rumbles to life in his chest once more.
It is a great sin among sheepkind, from what little Narinder can remember— headbutting speaks of violence in their language, not fondness. They laugh so sweetly despite it all, hands finding his waist to steady themself when the scent marking becomes more aggressive and less pointed. It devolves into Narinder recklessly smearing his face all across theirs, his scent glands only in contact with them perhaps half of the time. Lamb giggles through it all, holding steadfast to his sides. It is only when he knocks himself off balance and stumbles that they pull their face away, holding him tight. Their hand comes up to cup his cheek, holding him still.
“We should both get t’ bed,” they repeat, their other hand curling tighter into the fabric at his waist.
Narinder blinks down at them, languidly, deliberately, lit only by the moon of the equinox. For the second time in as many minutes, he cannot put a reasonable name to his actions. He is not sure if he even thinks about what he does; he simply leans down and acts.
Their mouth is warm against his, and the soft whine that escapes them at the contact sends a shock down his spine. Narinder only means to kiss them the once— at least, he thinks that may have been his intention. The quiet sound of need that leaves them coupled with their hands tightening around his waist changes the trajectory of his decision, and he kisses them again. And again, and again, until they are pressed flush against one another under the moonlight, tongues rasping against each other and swallowing down each low sound of desire they exchange.
If he thought their smell to be intoxicating, he knows not what to make of their taste. It is the staticky tingle of ambrosia that his mortal tongue can no longer comprehend; it is warmth and vitality; it is the perpetuity of life and death playing out within the same soft body that once fit in the palm of his hand; it is divinity— alight in him once again in the warmth of Lamb’s touch, spilling down his throat and filling his chest—
Lamb breaks the kiss, gasping for breath that they do not need. Narinder— Narinder cannot focus, too drunk on wine, and Lamb’s taste, and the hard press of their arousal on his thigh through various layers of fabrics. Lamb’s mouth glistens in the moonlight, wet with their combined saliva and swollen from their kissing. Narinder wants— he wants—
He wants. Their mouth and tongue, their battle-hardened hands on his fur, the earthy scent of their wool imbued in every fiber of his body. Narinder wants the lingering heat of the Red Crown’s divinity filling him from within, even if it is only a fleeting, temporary thing. Lamb’s shivering touch speaks of their own desire for a ritual that would be anything but sinful.
Their hands tremble at his sides, and they whisper that his thoughts are loud; were Narinder any less intoxicated, he might object to his mind being read, no matter how unintentional— at present, he cannot bring himself to care. He dips his head down and makes as if to kiss them, stopping just short of the mark.
“We should get to bed,” he murmurs against their lips, the sound more breath than vocalization.
Lamb’s eyes are shiny and half-lidded; their breath comes in unsteady shudders. The hands in the fabric of his robes release, though one hand finds his own in the span of a heartbeat. Lamb laces their fingers into his own, and without a word, they take a slow, deliberate step back in the direction of their home. Chasing the promise of divinity, Narinder follows suit.