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It was meant to be a simple trip.
They were off to some town or another, Erik didn't care to learn the name of it. That was Istvan's job. He handled the business, the people, the talking—and there was a fucking lot of talking—and Erik handled...
Well, everything else. He'd stand behind Istvan, big and scary, so he could focus fully on whatever it was that he needed to. He'd put himself in between Istvan and someone who was getting a little above their station in a heartbeat, cutting them down to size if need be. He kept Istvan safe while Istvan kept them both safe.
It was a good compromise. Easy.
But, when it was just the pair of them, there was far more room for error.
Erik hadn't quite grown used to his new armour; the stark white accented by red and silver compared to the muddy browns and blacks he donned before, but Istvan liked it, and it kept him warm and kept his head on his shoulders. It wasn't so bad, he supposed.
Unfortunately, the bandits that trailed them all the way from the last town seemed to agree.
He'd complained to Istvan that they both looked far too wealthy in their clothes, that they really ought to dress down if they were to be travelling so far alone, and it certainly wasn't because the woollen brigandine scratched at his chin whenever he looked down and pissed him off to no end.
Istvan paid his suggestions no mind, not until it was far too late.
Erik's horse was the first to die, the low sun reflecting off a flying arrowhead before it lodged itself into the beast's neck. Istvan's went as Erik scrambled out from beneath his falling horse, just in time to dodge a rusty axe flying towards his face.
The close quarters left no room for Erik to draw his sword, especially not when the man was pulling back once again, preparing to strike him. He decided to lunge forward instead, a move the man wasn't expecting, and grab the front of his cloak. The movement unsteadied him enough that with one smooth sweep of his legs, Erik could throw him to the ground.
His axe clattered off a little down the road, landing just by Istvan's feet as he rammed his sword through his own attacker's stomach. The sight of him slowly walking the man backwards, trapped on his blade, had Erik's blood rushing suddenly southward.
A thought for another time, not when there was a man on the ground in front of him, begging and pleading for his life.
Erik didn't listen. He landed himself on top of the man, wasting no time in beginning to pound away at his face with his gauntleted hands. The man fought at first, clawing at whatever part of Erik he could reach to try to get control of the fight, but with one well-timed hit to the jaw, the man choked. He coughed up a chunk of his tongue and a splatter of blood, spraying it over Erik's brigandine while he inhaled the rest.
He gasped for air, eyes bulging, and Erik stared back at him. He died slowly, like he deserved. Trapped on his back, blood draining down his throat and into his lungs.
Erik got up on unsteady legs, adrenaline flooding from his body as he stumbled his way over to Istvan. He gave him a good look up and down, as Istvan did to him, before both of their attentions were drawn away by a cracking sound from the treeline.
The archer who fell their horses was watching, frozen in place with wide, horrified eyes. Erik didn't see Istvan pick up the axe, too focused on the sole stranger that was left, but the poor bastard had clearly noticed. He turned on his heel, breaking off into a sprint as the axe landed in Erik's outstretched, waiting hand.
"Go on," Istvan goaded as Erik turned to meet his gaze. "Show off. I know you want to."
Erik's lips twitched. He really wanted to, and he did. Skillfully, too. The weapon sailed through the air, landing in the back of the man's neck with a meaty crunch. He stumbled and spluttered out a cry of pain before he fell face-first into the undergrowth and stilled.
Istvan's lips curled in an easy smile, and Erik tried not to puff out his chest with pride.
The bandits didn't have much on them: a torch, shitty weapons, a pittance of groschen that Erik pocketed *just in case*, and a crude cloak that left much to be desired. But, it was better than nothing, and going on foot would take twice the length of time going by horse would, at the very least. They'd need all the help they could get.
Erik offered the layer to Istvan, holding it out despite the immediate look of distaste he gave it.
"It's getting dark. It'll get cold soon," Erik explained, his other hand holding the torch low and out of the way.
"You're the one in white," Istvan argued weakly, almost as if he knew Erik wasn't going to budge on the matter. "You don't exactly blend in with our surroundings."
"And you're wearing gold." He didn't wait for him to give in, reaching out and wrapping the cloak around Istvan's shoulders before tying it together beneath his chin, smoothing the rough fabric down over his chest. "There. Now, you won't freeze."
"And I smell like shit."
"Should keep the wolves away, at least," he teased, scrunching his nose up as he looked at the sky. "We should move before the sun goes completely."
Istvan agreed in action, taking the lead as he wiped his bloody sword off on the cloak before pushing it back into its sheath.
They didn't make it much further, only down the road a little until far in the distance, torch lights flickered and swayed. Istvan halted in his path, and Erik stopped just shy of bumping right into him.
"You think they were together?" Erik asked, voice low as he leaned down to speak into Istvan's ear, the curled ends of his hair popping out from beneath his chaperone tickling his lips.
"I don't know. If there are more of them- Fuck, we can't risk it. We can't travel by road, not in this state," Istvan began, trailing off as he looked around. "If we cut through the woods, we'll still make it."
And they would have, if nothing else had gone wrong.
Erik was right about it getting colder once the sun set fully, but what followed the sudden drop in temperature was a surprise to them both. The bite in the air grew stronger and stronger until, finally, Erik saw the first snowflake of the year drift past the flame of his torch, withering away into the air.
If it had stayed a light flurry, Erik was sure that they wouldn't have gotten lost at all. The woods could only be so big.
Couldn't they?
"Kurva!" Istvan cursed, kicking a nearby rock and sending it flying into a tree trunk. The hit shook the tree, and as if the world was set on ruining their day even more, snow fell from the dead leaves and branches and landed over the both of them. Erik shuddered at the feeling of getting even more drenched, and Istvan pinched the bridge of his nose while inhaling deeply, doing his best to stay calm. "I can't see a thing in this snow. I don't even know where we are!"
Erik didn't speak. Istvan was just figuring out their next steps; he knew that much. His suggestions wouldn't be any good like Istvan's were, so he kept quiet. Erik's patience was well rewarded when, a moment or two later, he nodded to himself with a huff, his breath turning to steam the instant it left him.
"We'll have to stop for the night," he decided. "We passed a house, or- or a shack, or something not too long ago." With a sluggish wave, Istvan set off back the way they came, Erik hot on his heels. "Let's just hope the owner isn't home."
If they were, Erik knew there would be an easy solution. Something he could take care of, so long as Istvan didn't insist on charming their way inside instead. With the mood he was in, it didn't seem like he'd be interested in any extra company tonight. That was a small solace.
---
Somehow, through the snowfall that was only growing thicker by the second, Istvan managed to lead them back to the cabin, and, as they got closer, it quickly became clear that they wouldn't need to sharpen their tongues or dull their blades any further.
It was abandoned, completely. They were met with an overgrown garden, a broken front door, and a fence that was further into the ground than above it.
But it had walls and a roof. That would do them nicely for one night. Erik's aching fingertips and frozen nose would have been grateful for anything at that point, though.
The inside wasn't much better than the outside. It was quiet and empty, and evidently had been for quite some time. After a quick sweep of the house to ensure they were alone, they returned to the front room where Erik began to kick idly at the hearth, tossing his burned-out torch into the ashes that lay there.
"We don't have time for this," Istvan sighed, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "We don't have time to stop."
"We'll freeze to death if we go back out there now. In this state, no less." Erik gestured between them, their snow-soaked layers proving his point better than his words ever could. "We'll go in the morning. When the sun's up, and we can actually get our bearings."
"Fuck, Erik. We don't even know where we are!"
Istvan wasn't entirely soothed when Erik approached, removing his gauntlets and cupping his damp face between his warm hands, but his face did soften.
"We'll figure it out," Erik replied gently, smoothing his thumbs over Istvan's ruddy cheekbones. "We'll manage, we always do."
He couldn't disagree, really. It was true. They always managed with what they had, sometimes better and with fewer complaints, but nonetheless.
"Right now," Erik continued, "you need to get out of these clothes before you catch your death."
Despite his sour mood, Istvan's lips quirked. "And you?" he asked, alluding to something Erik didn't quite catch.
He pointed to the fireplace, rearranged by his boot. "I'll get some wood," he said, words dying on his tongue as Istvan began to shed himself of his saturated clothes, peeling the layers from his cold skin. “G- Get a fire going so we can see again, and we can figure the rest out after.”
Erik had to drag himself away from the sight. He'd promised Istvan a fire, and he wasn't about to let him get fully undressed without one. He'd need the warmth, and Erik needed something to do, so he wouldn't go back in there, fall to his knees at Istvan's feet, and beg him to take him despite their perilous situation.
Further in the house, one of the rooms they checked but didn't look too deeply into seemed to be something of a writing room. There was a beautifully carved wooden desk, a nice couple of chairs...
...and shelves upon shelves of books, and unused and unbound parchment. It was a mess, but there was something oddly magical about it.
Dust filled Erik's nose as he dragged one of the chairs to the centre of the room, raising it above his head before slamming it down with all the strength he could muster. It splintered and split, the legs and back cracking off into smaller pieces. It wasn't like the writer who lived here was going to be using it anymore, so it hardly mattered.
Istvan didn't even question him about the noise when he returned; his armfuls of broken wood and messily written books clearly took precedence.
Or perhaps Istvan did question him. Erik was much too distracted by the sight of the man before him. His clothes were discarded by the fireplace, carefully laid out so they would dry and quickly as possible once the flames were burning, which left him in only his thin underclothes.
He hadn't wasted his spare time, either. The front door was now barricaded with a heavy wooden table, wedged beneath the handle and the broken lock.
"Burning books, Erik? Shame on you. Have you even had a look in them?" Istvan's scolding was playful as he extended a hand out, accepting an offered book to poke through while Erik got the fire going. "I thought not. What do we have here..?"
After stacking the chair chunks up as neatly as he could in the fireplace, Erik patted himself down until his fingers found his belt, and subsequently the pouch attached to it. He produced a little shard of flint and a scrap of steel, wrapped tidily in a cloth, and got to work making some tinder from the books.
Soon enough, and with enough gentle blowing to last a fucking lifetime, the sparks Erik had made finally caught the paper alight, the embers stoking with every breath. He tucked them beneath the dry, flaky wood, burning his fingertips just a touch, but it was well worth the pain to see the fire grow like it did.
Instinctively, feeling proud of himself had him turning to look for Istvan, who suddenly looked back at the book in his hand, unable to hide his smile. Erik grinned, too, at the unspoken praise, and took a few steps backwards to admire the flames as they spread.
He called Istvan over after taking an extra moment to prod at the wood, placing a chair beside the hearth for him to sit on, and without checking that he went to use it, he wandered off again. Erik knew he'd use it.
Next on the list was food, and clothes—though he didn't hold out much hope for finding either.
Surprisingly, he had more luck with the former. He found some dried meat and some wine in the little pantry, free from mould, and the wine didn't even smell sour like he had expected it to. It was all quite stale, undeniably, but it wasn't as if they had anything else.
No matter where Erik looked, however, he couldn't find any spare clothes for them to wear. He found the bedroom, and as dingy as it was, it at least still had bedding in it. There was a nice, thick fur blanket, and another threadbare woollen one, littered with moth bites throughout.
The manky blanket could pad the ground for them, and Istvan could have the warm fur one to cover himself with, along with an old pillow, stuffed with straw, to rest his head on. It wasn't great, much like everything else in the house, but it was better than letting his neck get all sore from sleeping on the ground. Istvan didn't deserve that. Erik could handle it.
Armed with all the things he had gathered, Erik returned to Istvan one final time, and the man in question snorted out a laugh when he saw him, still browsing the books as he sat by the hearth. He had a much better colour on his cheeks, now. A warm, toasty pink compared to the sickly, pallid red he'd worn when they had first arrived. He looked better. Good.
"You've been busy."
"So have you." Erik nodded at the new book in Istvan's hands. "Any good?"
After dropping the items onto the ground, taking extra care when setting down the wine and cups, Erik began to shed his layers while Istvan spoke.
"It's... pretentious, to be entirely honest. The man writes as if he's the only one alive to know hardships," he sighed, glancing at the book and then at the fire. "Though I do suppose everyone feels their own struggles are the worst of all. No one can understand what you, yourself, have been through, and that's what makes it so easy to diminish the experience of others."
Erik didn't like to think about his struggles. If he was struggling, he was failing. Istvan had tried long and hard to stamp that instinct out of him, but to no avail. He needed to do better than his best for Istvan. He owed him that much for everything he'd given him.
And Istvan's struggles? The concept in itself was ridiculous. Erik wouldn't even entertain the notion. Istvan couldn't struggle with anything; he took every slight, every trouble in his stride and came out the other side with a satisfied grin on his face.
"Sounds pretentious," he agreed simply.
While Erik busied himself arranging their bedding, Istvan continued to leaf through the book, sighing on occasion, before a loud shredding noise echoed out. The book, suddenly in two halves, landed in the fire with a thud and a crackle. Erik looked up at him, and Istvan only shrugged in response.
Finally, he realised he had a moment to take in the sight of Istvan in just his underclothes. If they hadn't just been on the brink of freezing, he'd take advantage of the position. On his knees, in front of Istvan, with only his braies between them.
It was a good thought.
Instead, he patted the empty space of blanket between the chair Istvan resided on and himself, and, with an amused stare, he joined him on the ground in front of the fire. He draped the fur blanket over Istvan's legs and, much to his surprise, he let out a displeased hum in response.
He didn't let Erik's thoughts and worries spiral for long, opting to grab the edge of the blanket before tucking in closer to Erik's side and covering both of their legs with it this time. Neither of them spoke about the action, and Erik did his best to ignore how his heart began to beat a little faster at the close quarters.
He grabbed the bowl of food and set it between them silently. Istvan ate first, selecting a piece of the dried meat and inspecting it before placing it into his mouth. His face screwed up in a way that Erik had never seen before, and once the piece of meat was swallowed down, he coughed, clutching at his chest in pain.
"Kurva, Erik! That's fucking salty," he complained, looking around for something, anything, to rid himself of the taste. "Where did you even find this?"
"In the cupboard. It was only a bit dusty," Erik protested, plucking a piece of meat from the bowl. "It's not that bad."
The second it hit his tongue, he knew he was fucked. He pushed himself through a single chew, pausing afterwards and slowly turning to meet Istvan's eyes. He wheezed out a laugh at the look on Erik's face, and Erik forced himself to chew through the agony. He swallowed the meat down and paused for a moment after to focus as hard as he could on not letting the offensive food make a reappearance.
A shudder tore through his body, and when Erik opened his mouth to speak, he had to fight against a violent gag that tried to escape. "Fuck. That's awful."
"I told you it was. Thankfully, we ate before leaving town, hm?" Istvan's eyes followed Erik's hands as they set the bowl to the side and collected the other items he found. He bobbed his head in a nod as he poured out two cups of wine, and Istvan tentatively accepted one. "So, our absent host is neither a skilled writer nor a cook. You don't think this wine is home-brewed, do you?"
"Hope not," Erik grumbled, leaning down and taking a sniff. It smelled vaguely fruity, but he didn't want to count his blessings just yet. "Otherwise, we'll be having boiled snow."
"After you, then."
With a short moment of hesitation, Erik took a small sip. He considered the dry taste, dragging his tongue between his lips before downing the rest of his cup in one go. It was fine. Just fine.
"I'll assume that means it's edible," Istvan mused, taking a drink from his own cup, his upper lip curling when he tasted it, and his brows raising in slight discomfort. "Barely."
Christ, Istvan made him feel watched. His eyes seemed to be constantly roaming over him, observing his every move. The funniest part was: Erik didn't mind it. Had it been anyone else, they would have been getting a similar treatment to the bandit earlier. Death by a thousand cuts, so to speak.
But, Istvan? When Istvan watched him refill his cup and replace the tiny bit he had drunk himself, it didn't feel like he was waiting to see him spill, to mock him when his hands trembled a little too much and made a mess.
He was just watching, and Erik wasn't sure that he'd ever felt so vulnerable.
"It's been quite some time since we were last alone like this, my dear boy."
With a hum and a nod of acknowledgement, Erik mindlessly reached into the bowl and took another piece of meat, popping it into his mouth and instantly regretting the move. It was foul.
"If the circumstances were more favourable," Istvan began, speaking slowly and carefully. "What would you have us doing right now?"
"Favourable?" Erik asked through a mouthful of food.
Istvan must have been so focused on getting his answer. He didn't comment on Erik's poor manners. He didn't even make a face like he usually did when Erik spoke mid-chew. He held eye contact as he swallowed, only breaking it to glance down at his lips, waiting for him to speak.
He had to take a moment to collect himself before talking; the realisation that he was being so heavily scrutinised became too much too fast, and if he hadn't calmed himself with another drink, then who knows what would have come over him.
The wine washed away the horrendous taste of the meat, too. That was an extra blessing.
"I'd get you a bath." The response clearly wasn't what Istvan had expected, not if the cocked brow he shot Erik's way was anything to go off of. Honestly, Erik didn't know where it came from, either. There were a thousand debaucherous things he could do to Istvan—things he wanted to do to Istvan—but at that moment... "I think you deserve one. To warm you up properly."
"Your fire-making skills are nothing to turn your nose up at, my dear boy. It's keeping me warm enough, though a bath certainly wouldn't go amiss," he began, lips curling into a wry smile. "You'd join me, I take it?"
Erik's breath stuttered out, and yet the thought excited him so much that he couldn't even bring himself to be embarrassed for reacting like a blushing virgin. "If I was allowed, aye."
"Scandalous," Istvan teased. "And then? Or does your fantasy solely consist of giving me a wash?"
Erik exhaled a short laugh and shook his head firmly. "No. But, if I start talking about this, I don't think I'll be able to hold myself back." He was struggling already, and the wine certainly wasn't helping. Istvan usually grew more tactile with Erik as wine watered down his blood, fingers dancing over his shoulders, his neck. His arms coiled around his waist until they were flush together—only after making sure they were alone, of course.
Was Istvan struggling just as much as he was? Maybe he was just better at hiding it.
"And we've got a lot of walking to do tomorrow," Erik finally finished, sighing with both disappointment and relief as Istvan simply agreed.
"We do, so long as the weather improves in time," he said, raising his cup and downing the last of his wine before passing it over to Erik so he could set it out of the way. "We should really get some sleep."
It didn't take long to arrange the pillow for Istvan, but Erik certainly took his time watching him lie down and get comfortable. It felt right. Even when their plans went awry, even when it all went to utter shit, Erik could still make it bearable for Istvan. With warmth from the fireplace and Erik plastering himself to his back, the blanket pulled up mostly over Istvan, he'd get a decent night's sleep.
It would be a damn shame to miss an opportunity to run his hands all over Istvan's body, though, to trace the line where his braies dug into his soft hips, where his stomach hung just over them. He'd trace it with his lips if he weren't so comfy, but sacrifices must be made.
With his warmed fingertips dipping beneath Istvan's shirt, Erik's mind finally ran free. He had to be the luckiest man on God's green earth to be in this position, at this moment in time.
Istvan was perfect. Truly. Soft curves of his body accentuated by hard, sharp edges wherever they fit. His hair curled at the nape of his neck and at the very ends where it hadn't been flattened by his chaperone. He smelled like mint, and leather—and horses—and everything else sweet that Erik could think of. Even in his underclothes, he looked like a man deserving of his status. Deserving of everything.
Istvan was perfect, and Erik was...
Erik was good enough for Istvan.
That suited him just fine.