Asides

    "Would you mind if I touched you?"

    Nils gently padded his fingertips along the outside of his older partner's hefty thigh, slipping his hand below the thick leather apron that the massive fellow wore.

    Without an ounce of humor, Ori snorted back at the young courier, "You touch before hearing my answer. What if I said no?"

    "I…"

    Nils was taken aback. He retracted his hand, embarrassed. He rubbed his cheeks. The earthy scent of clay lingered on his fingertips. He pulled his mouth into a faint smile, which almost dissolved when his hand slipped back down.

    "Might I touch you?" he asked again.

    The old man stroked his chin and sighed. Nils squinted. He was sure there was a blush on those cheeks, but on skin nearly pitch, it was difficult to tell.

    "You might," said Ori. "Just be careful where you do, or I might have to bite you."

    Ori flashed his pointed teeth. Nils felt an unwarranted tightening in his trousers.

    "Well," said the young man, " climbing onto the thigh he had molested, "We wouldn't want that." His in-seam dragged across the bulky muscle. "No, never."

    Ori grinned.

    "You refused to join the service, but you have a taste for danger."

    Broad hands with impressive grip wrapped around Nils's waist, squeezing. Nils gasped, and drew his body closer to Ori's, groping for the back of his neck.

    "And you told me you had forgotten what it was to be with someone." He laughed softly. "But you haven't hurt me."

    Ori looked askance. "Do you suppose I lack control?"

    Nils hummed and stroked the potter's long, white hair.

    "No, but I think I could control you."

    Ori's voice dropped low, very low.

    "Do you know, I could snap your ribs with a single pinch?"

    Nils's hands stopped in motion. His breath hitched. Suddenly, he was very aware of the weight compressing his sides.

    "I could do that," the craftsman huffed quietly, "but do you suppose I ever would?"

    Nils pulled his hands down so that he could pretend as though he were relaxed, ignorant of the force that now showed its danger with stark clarity. With a sigh, he began to breathe again.

    "It was a stupid joke."

    Ori did not seem to be convinced. With a simple motion he gripped the small man beneath the arms and lifted him from his leg. He stood with all the grace of a mountain rising out of the ocean, and plodded across the creaking boards of the porch. With far less aplomb, he sat back down in a heap.

    Nils hesitated to follow. The floorboards made a far less pitiful sound beneath his feet.

    "I didn't mean that," he muttered, gritting his teeth.

    He raised a hand to rest it on Ori's shoulder, then stopped.

    "Can I touch you?"

    The old man did not answer. He stared, or at least seemed to stare, at the rack of damaged pottery by the wall. Jugs with broken handles, bowls in several pieces, and a vase with a crack like lightning down its side were just a small part of the assortment. When Nils had asked after them before, he was only told, 'For later.'

    "How do you think those got that way?" Ori asked.

    "You broke them?"

    Ori glanced over his shoulder, then looked away. Nils suddenly wished he had bitten back the words. The potter pointed vaguely to the rack.

    "An animal knocked that from the table in the yard. The one beside it took ill to the winter thaw."

    "And that one, the parts on the bottom?"

    Ori paused. "It fell from my pack. But it was not my own hands that did it."

    He heaved a deep sigh, and looked down at his palms.

    "How could I ever break that which I can make?"

    This was no longer a question of misspoken words. Nils returned the sigh. He sat down beside him, leaning forward on his ankles. His tail swept leisurely behind him.

    "It was a joke," he assured again.

    "But you are not the first to say it."

    "And I won't say it again."

    He grinned up at Ori, and wondered if the old man could see it.

    "I trust you. You haven't broken me yet."

    The potter grumbled beneath his breath. "I would not."

    "And I know you won't." Nils sidled closer. "If you really wanted to snap my bones, I'd be as dead as that deer on the rack, wouldn't I?"

    The potter tilted his head. Slowly, his lips parted to show a toothy smile.

    "Yes. And I suppose you would taste even better. Your flesh is well-marbled."

    Nils grimaced. "How would you know?"

    "I can always tell a good cut by feel." He reached out, and wrapped a broad hand around Nils's back. "Mind if I inspect the meat?"

    The young man chuckled, "Hey, I didn't say you could touch."

    "You're right. May I?"

    Nils clambered on to the potter's muscular leg, and pressed a hand to his chest. He leaned in close, breathing mud and clay and forest from the coarse strands of silver hair. He drew himself up, until their noses touched.

    "Yes, you may."