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True to his word, Inigo dances for Minerva and Gerome. A few weeks after the harvest festival they follow him to the shore of a lake edged by a concealing copse of pine trees, and after assuring them the dance is still unpolished, he moves to an unheard music—fluid, graceful, but avoiding their collective gaze. His movements are a little clumsy at first—he keeps his arms close to his body, his steps small—but he builds confidence as he goes, gaining momentum.
The moon is high by the time he's done, ending with a flourish; colour is high in his cheeks and he's keeping his gaze fixed on the ground, but there is sincere pleasure in his expression. Gerome tries not to focus on the sound of his breathing or the sheen of sweat on his forehead, both of which seem particularly indecent out here at this time of night. He wonders, not for the first time, if Inigo is entirely—and ironically—oblivious to the effect this has.
"Well, I hope Minerva enjoyed that," he says, his voice husky in a way that twists Gerome's gut into hot, uncomfortable knots.
"We did," he says. "She did."
Inigo meets his eye and smiles at him, kinder than usual, and they make their way back to camp together, Minerva flying overhead. When he at last returns to his tent it takes Gerome even longer than usual to fall asleep, tossing and turning, keeping his hands resolutely above his blankets.
What Gerome had intended to be a one-time occurence becomes a routine; Minerva will start nipping at his fingers if they go too long without a session, so they traipse down to the lakeside several times a week. It seems incredible that no one has discovered them yet—or, possibly worse, that they have and don't want to interrupt. Interrupt what, exactly, is of course the question, and one of many things Gerome prefers not to dwell on. Still, they've both become comfortable enough to leave their breastplates and greaves behind, though Gerome continues to bring his axe, leaving it propped against a tree, more of a formality than anything. It seems a little pathetic if the thinks about it, so he doesn't.
Inigo, on the other hand, gets bolder by the day, his routine more polished, with new additions that Gerome is paying attention to enough to notice. In fact, he's started making eye contact as he dances—eyelids lowered, lips parted. Gerome doesn't think his mother taught him that, nor does he think this is a dance Inigo is perfecting for the public eye; the thought alone makes his chest tighten with equal parts anxiety and arousal. Perhaps it's just Inigo being his usual self, he thinks; perhaps he's misinterpreting his intent? The prospect is a disappointing one, though, another thing he doesn't wish to dwell on it either way.
It becomes unavoidable one night, late in September when the leaves have begun to change, when Inigo looks him straight in the eye, breath catching as he runs his palms from his chest to his thighs, and Gerome stands up ramrod-straight, turning to leave.
"It's getting cold," he says, wishing more than ever that his mask covered his entire face. "We should return."
Before Inigo can reply he's walking back to camp, arms stiff at his sides.
Over the next few days Gerome sees him around camp, trying to catch his attention with a wave or a grin, but he ignores him every time, swiftly turning on his heel whenever he so much as catches a whiff of his flowery cologne, a scent he's embarrassed to recognize as uniquely Inigo's. He also does his best to ignore the others giving him sidelong looks as they pass him by—he's been avoiding all group training sessions, too, and eating alone in his tent with a tin plate balanced on his knees.
After eating alone for the fourth night in a row, he leads Minerva to the trash heap to dispose of the bones from their meal and discovers Inigo waiting for him, face pinched from the smell but looking resolute.
"You've been avoiding me, haven't you?" he says.
"No," Gerome says, scraping the remains of his dinner onto the pile without looking at him. There's a nearby river at which he usually washes his plate clean, and he begins to march toward it before Inigo grabs his arm.
"Don't run away from me! Could I talk to you... alone?" He raises his eyebrows in Minerva's direction.
"I'm sure whatever you have to tell me can be said in front of her as well." In other words: Minerva is a buffer. Don't take that away from me. He can feel sweat trickling between his shoulderblades.
"Well, it's just..." Inigo looks away, flushing. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing obscenely. "I've finished a dance I was working on. If you're free tonight, I'd like to... dance for you. Just you."
"Oh." Gerome becomes sickeningly aware of how hot his cheeks are. He glances at Minerva, who seems to be gazing off at the distant mountains; he gets the impression she's deliberately not paying attention. She's too smart for her own good. "If you'd like. I... wouldn't be averse to that. Is that alright, Minerva?"
She settles her wings and huffs.
"Well?"
"Ah... she said she'll be disappointed, but if you must..." Gerome trails off, resisting the urge to fidget.
"Did she now?" Inigo places his hands on his hips and grins, a smile which softens around the edges as silence hangs between them. "Good. Anyway, I'll... see you later."
He ducks away, hiding his face, but Gerome can see the tips of his ears are red as he retreats.
Once he's certain everyone is in bed, Gerome makes his way down to the lake—alone this time—with only a dim lantern lighting the path ahead. The night air is brisk, but even without his armour he's warm enough by the time he reaches the clearing where Inigo waits, having worn a path into the rocky sand from pacing.
Inigo clears his throat. "I was almost thinking you wouldn't show up."
"You know I'm a man of my word." He fights the childish urge to throw the lantern away and run back to camp as fast as he can, an urge almost as powerful as the one telling him to tear Inigo's shirt off with his bare hands.
Inigo seems bolstered, though, and laughs. "But of course." He closes the distance between them and murmurs, "take your mask off."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Come now, don't make me repeat myself," Inigo says, and leans in even closer, reaching for Gerome's face.
"I can do it myself!" He reaches behind his head and unties his mask, letting it fall to the ground beside him.
"Now, promise me you won't laugh." Inigo's voice is barely above a whisper, face close enough that Gerome can feel his breath on his cheek.
"Laughter is the furthest thing from my mind right now, I assure you." Gerome's mouth has suddenly gone dry; his voice rasps in his throat.
"Good," he says against his ear.
His legs look a little wobbly as he starts moving, body still close enough to Gerome's that he brushes against him as he swivels his hips; Gerome drops his lantern, the flame guttering as it hits the ground. Inigo laughs softly.
"What are you doing?" Gerome tries to keep his voice even.
"I'm dancing for you, what does it look like?"
There's a lot of things it looks like, but none of these seem appropriate to voice. Instead he just watches, agog, as Inigo performs: sinuous as an eel, at times close enough for Gerome to smell his cologne—close enough he must have noticed how hard he already is—then far enough away for the heat to leach away as cold air seeps in.
As he moves in he runs his hands over his body, turning, his ass an inch from Gerome's groin, watching him over his shoulder, eyes lowered; it seems like the kind of thing that would be ridiculous in any other circumstance, but right now, with what feels like all the blood in his body gathering in his cock, it most definitely isn't.
He dances until they're face-to-face, a finger-width apart, and puts his arms around Gerome's neck. Finally he wets his lips the tip of his tongue and Gerome, unable to stand any more, grabs him around the waist and shoulders and kisses him, so hard their noses bump and their teeth clack together. Inigo makes a pleased, needy noise into his mouth as Gerome pulls his body tight against him. He sneaks a hand up Inigo's shirt, feeling his stomach muscles twitch under his hands, and the feel of the cold air on Inigo's skin seems to jolt him out of the moment.
"Wait," he gasps, "wait, what if someone sees?"
"I think we've taken enough precautions against that, don't you?" Gerome says. This seems enough to convince him; Inigo keeps his arms fast around his neck as Gerome walks him backwards, hands firm on his hips.
Gerome shoves him up against the nearest tree and it shakes with the force of it, showering the ground with pine needles. Inigo gasps as Gerome shoves a knee between his legs and grinds against him, firm, in long rough circles, as he would if he were inside him. Gerome groans into his neck imagining this; just thinking about fucking him—Inigo's shaking legs around his waist, fingers clawing down his back—is nearly enough to make him come on the spot.
He takes his earlobe between his teeth—earring and all—and bites; Inigo moans against his shoulder, a sound that travels like an electric charge straight to his cock, a twinge that's almost painful.
Inigo runs a hand up his back, grabs a handful of his hair and tugs, just this side of painful, sending a shiver down his spine; his other hand is wrapped around his bicep for leverage as he rocks against his thigh, panting hot and open-mouthed into the fabric of his shirt. Gerome's mouth travels to his jaw, kissing below his ear as he brings a hand up to undo Inigo's shirt, hands fumbling with nerves and lust.
"Gods," Inigo chokes out, hooking his leg behind Gerome's and pressing his cock so hard against him he shudders. "Oh, oh gods—"
Much like the rest of the time, Inigo can't seem to stay quiet, but this time Gerome appreciates it. With each slow, heavy grind of his groin against Gerome's thigh he groans, breathy, almost a whimper; Gerome's mouth travels to his shoulder as his shirt slides down to his elbows. Inigo shakes it off the rest of the way; the heat coming off of his body is incredible, even in the cold. Any embarrassment he may have had is forgotten, though eye-contact seems a little beyond him at the moment.
"Hang on," Inigo mutters, and pushes him back a little, just enough to fumble at Gerome's belt, discard it, and struggle with his tunic until Gerome pulls it off himself, hairs on his arms raising as his skin swells with goosebumps.
Finally Inigo looks at him for a moment from beneath his lashes, both of them shivering slightly, before he reaches for the ties to Gerome's pants, swiftly unlacing them and taking his prick in one hand, squeezing; Gerome groans, bracing himself against the tree with one hand. The feeling isn't much different than his own hand of itself, but knowing that this is the very thing that had kept him up at night makes his stomach tighten, his cock leak pre-come. With his other hand he moves to Inigo's hipbone, rubbing into it with his thumb, before pressing the ball of his hand hard against his clothed cock. Inigo gasps sharply, arching his neck, rolling his skull hard against the bark of the tree.
"Just... touch me," Inigo breathes, and Gerome obliges. He slips his hand into Inigo's pants, palming his cock, jerking it with a loose fist, before sliding his pants down to mid-thigh, taking both of their dicks into his hand and pressing their bodies flush, rocking slowly, one hand still braced above Inigo's head. Inigo writhes against him, matching his rhythm, one hand squeezing his ass, one hand on the back of his neck as he leans up to kiss him, wet and sloppy, biting his lower lip, teeth clashing.
Gerome knows he isn't going to last long—the noises Inigo's making, the heat from his body, the feeling of his slick cock rutting against his own is all too much; he can feel warmth and pressure building in the backs of his legs, his balls tightening. Still, he'd like to make Inigo come first, to watch him come undone.
By the look of things he's on the edge too, brows drawn together, panting quick and shallow, his thrusts out of time with Gerome's strokes, so Gerome pulls back just enough to watch, only touching Inigo now and not himself. He jacks him, once, twice, before pressing his thumb just beneath the head—Inigo's head snaps back, face contorted as if expecting a blow, tips of his fingers clutching at him with painful strength, coming so hard he shouts raggedly. He arches into Gerome's touch reflexively before falling limp, damp forehead lolling onto his shoulder; Gerome's cock twinges in sympathy as Inigo shoots onto his stomach.
They stay that way for a moment, Inigo's breath slowing, Gerome still painfully hard. "For someone who was so concerned about being overheard, you're awfully loud..." he says.
"Oh, shut up," Inigo mutters, before he reaches a shaky hand out and says, "here, let me." Inigo barely even has to touch him before he's coming too, gritting his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache, finally expelling a long, shivery sigh.
He pulls away after he's caught his breath. "That was..."
Inigo swallows heavily. "Yeah."
"Is that what you had been planning this whole time?"
"Perhaps not in that exact order, but... more or less." Inigo grins. He looks down at the come drying on his abdomen and wrinkles his nose. "Ah..."
Gerome also can't help but notice the tacky, cooling mess on his own stomach. He nods in the direction of the lake, and they both wash themselves in the freezing black water, Inigo yelping at the cold. By the time they've finished and have found their shirts, they're both shivering, and hasten to return to camp.
"If you wanted," Gerome begins on the way, a little haltingly, "my tent is always warm at night..."
"I think I like it when you're forward," Inigo says.
"Because of Minerva! She curls around my tent at night, that's what I meant!"
"Of course. Minerva." Inigo smiles, and slips his arm through Gerome's.