Disclaimer: Characters from the television series Highlander are owned by Panzer-Davis productions. I own nothing.
Masturbation, from Duncan's point of view. PWP, R rated, but little violence and no (explicit) sex.

A Green and Yellow Melancholy
Jay Tryfanstone
June 2003

 

He walks round a corner and Methos is there. It has been years. Methos wears white, his robe falling in elegant folds around his spare frame. Duncan, simply, does not stop walking. He walks into Methos, walks them both into the heat of a sun-warmed mudbrick wall, walks into Methos' body, the heat of him, the strength of him. Picks him up and walks him to the wall, moves into his space, his body, cups Methos in his hands and takes his mouth, makes of them one body, one beast.

~*~

He walks into a restaurant in Prague and sees Methos' eyes across the golden flames of seven candles. His feet are quiet on the wooden floor. Three paces. It's nothing. In Methos' eyes he sees the reflection of fire. He does not bother to sit down: he reaches through the candlelight and takes Methos' wrist with its strong arch of tendon and sparse hairs in his fingers. He says "Methos." And recognises the claim in his voice. Methos says nothing, but all the shields are gone from his eyes.

~*~

On velvet, without words, the stuff of it no softer than his skin, cream on crimson, soft, hard, desperate, taking without mercy and giving without surcease. When, where, how, has not been an issue before: now frustrated desire makes a Caravaggio of him.
Or a satyr.

~*~

In a club, dancing, he feels the heat of someone's eyes and looks up. Chin in his hands, Methos gazes at him over the balcony rail. He is wearing black leather, cream silk: Duncan feels his own body clench. Methos' head goes back, his eyelids drop, half closed: he is grinning, the tight, conscious grin of irresistible sexual attraction. Duncan lets the music take him up the stairs, onto the balcony, holds out a hand and watches Methos stretch out towards him. He cannot wait. He pulls, encloses the older man in the heat of his body, dances them close, skin against skin, sweat sliding against sweat, moving to the music, Methos' hand on his hair, his own mouth on the arched ivory vulnerability of Methos' neck. He can feel, smell, Methos' arousal: another minute and they will come here, on this spot, together-

~*~

In a hayfield, with the dry smell of straw and the summertime blue of the sky reflected on his skin. Sweaty and cramped in the front seat of a crazily parked car, on their knees in the grime of a Parisian sewer, on the stone slabs of a medieval church floor, wickedly, laughing, forced, loving, the only constant the eyes of the man he holds.

~*~

He is not a man accustomed to restraint. He wants to stake his claim, move in, arrive in the doorway with beer and chains, brand his scent across Methos' skin, fuck him longer and deeper and harder than anyone who came before him. Bury his heart in the other man's flesh, tear open his mind and etch his own name across those those manifold whorls. Inerradicable. Indissoluble. His.

~*~

What is truth? Did they ever meet in summer, in starlight, in fog, in desire? Will they?
In the night, all possibilities are infinite.

In daylight, he believes he has begun to know the shape of the word patience and the taste of the word desire. He is, after all, learning from a master.

~*~

Fin