FIC: Fade to Silver [Josip, Ceallach]
Title: A Hard Day's Night Rating: PG Parings/Characters: Ceallach, Josip (very minor hints towards Josip/Ceallach) Notes: Raven wanted descriptions for an art trade and I got carried away XD Figured I'd post it up as a ficlet of sorts.
Summary: Two friends, one bed and inuendo out the wazoo.
The creak of leather, the clang of buckles as they move against one another…the footfalls are hardly heavy but while he walls with almost silence there’s something about the thud of boot clad feet and the shift of his coat preceding him that appeals to Ceallach’s sense of showmanship. The element of surprise has its purposes, both on and off the battlefield but there’s something to be said to intimidation before sight…the very sound of your imminent arrival enough to have hardened warriors snapping to attention before they even lay eyes upon your figure.
He sweeps through the halls of the barracks with purpose in his footsteps, even as the tails of his coat flap playfully behind like fingertips wiggling in a mocking little wave to those snapping off quick salutes as he moves past. The black cloth shifts, tangling with the ever-present shadows at his feet and can you tell one from the other? They taunt and tease…dare you to try even as they skip beneath their Master’s footsteps to dart eagerly ahead. It’s only the thin cords of deep violet…the embroidery so fine only the richness of the purple thread set it apart from the dark of the ebony leather that separate cloth from shadow, the designs a mark, a brand of Ceallach’s rank. Higher than you, higher than anyone here in this building now that Eideann very rarely visits, content to leave the very best Scaithe has to offer in his son’s capable hands. Hands that raise in a jaunty salute, tip an imaginary hat to the Youngling that’s scampered out of the Prince’s way with a cheeky grin and swift feet…a grin no match for the mischief dancing in violet eyes, the good natured baring of teeth that flash white, white against mocha coloured skin as Ceallach watches the Youngling get cuffed over the head by his Weapon’s Master.
The brashness of youth…they often forget that the Prince is still a child himself, not yet to see his first millennia and yet they chastise the Younglings for their disrespect. Ceallach finds it refreshing but nothing he’ll say will change the practices of years far greater than he has lived gone by. The little scamp peers back and Ceallach offers him a wink, making a face at the Master’s back and sending the Youngling into fits of barely concealed snickers. Not enough to fool the Warrior charged with his care and a calloused hand fists the back of the Youngling’s shirt and hauls him away, much to Ceallach’s amusement…his laughter warm as he continues on his way.
He has to stoop just a little to enter his friend’s room, the tips of his wild, dark hair brushing against the doorframe as he passes through. He swears Josip changes the height just in the hopes of one day judging correctly the distance between scalp and the tips of Ceallach’s spikey strands so the Prince will crash against the frame. It honestly wouldn’t surprise him – The Wood Chosen had a bizarre sense of humor.
“Wrong again, Jos.”
“Dunno what you’re talking about, Sir.” Josip’s amber eyes sparkle as he offers his Prince a quick bow.
Ceallach’s only answer is to stoop down to capture the shorter man in a headlock, ruffling his hair until the younger one managed to get a good hold on one bare bicep, throwing Ceallach over his shoulder to crash onto his simple wooden bed. Ceallach laughs breathless from where he’s landed, booted foot reaching out to kick Josip in the shin before his lets his arms drop over his eyes, the leather of his arm braces cool against his skin.
“At least you didn’t snap the bed this time.”
“Got uses for it, sir.”
“C’mere.” Ceallach tugs Josip down next to him and like a pup the Wood Chosen eagerly makes haste in snuggling close…though he takes his time and jostles about long enough for Ceallach to grow tired of the exuberance (even as he finds it amusing) and pulls his friend close, ceasing the wiggling enough to stop the bed from rocking about. “Meeting after meeting…my head is killing me.”
Josip makes an amused huff against the chest he’s draped over, nose wrinkling in irritation as one of Ceallach’s belts bite into his hip. “Stop whining. You didn’t have Master Keogh riding you all day.”
“I could use a good ride.”
Josip is glad Ceallach’s eyes are closed so he can’t see the splash of pink that predictably colours his cheeks…though the Prince-General’s lips curve a grin that has Josip blushing harder, sure his thoughts have been caught out. It’s not like that, this friendship between the pair of them and for all Ceallach’s reputation and Josip’s willingness there’s been little else but the need for physical contact…comfort after a particularly trying day. He supposes he should be thankful that his Prince is a tactile sort and affords him at least this much, torturous though it may be.
“No eager recruits just waiting to be shown a firm hand, sir?”
“Ceallach.”
“Sir?”
“You still call me sir. It’s annoying.”
“I could call you your Grand Royal Highness of the Nice Ass? Is that better?”
“You think my ass is nice?” Ceallach says after an amused pause.