Chapter 163 - 161: Kissing Under The Moonlight.

Chapter 163: Chapter 161: Kissing Under The Moonlight.

Rogard’s not sure how he gets the words out.

Or how he manages to say them without his voice shaking.

He’s probably a fool for saying them at all, but there’s a chance he’s right; that all the looks and gentle gestures he’s been wondering if he’s imagined, are real and mean exactly what he thinks they mean.

​" Rogard ..." The way his name leaves Drogger’s lips on a whisper sends a soft shiver down Rogard’s spine, and while not exactly an answer, sounds far more like a yes than a no.

​So Rogard, against his better judgement, leans in, and kisses him.

​And it’s fine because he’s right .

​Drogger doesn’t pull away.

​He kisses him back.

​Just barely, at first, little more than a ghost of movement against his lips; hesitant, like he’s holding himself back, waiting to see if Rogard’s playing him. But he’s not.

He wouldn’t. And after a moment, Drogger seems to understand that, because his mouth starts to move back against Rogard’s; tantalisingly slow --almost measured --but firm, and honest in a way that has the air shooting clean out of Rogard’s lungs.

​It’s not his first kiss by a long shot, but it’s the first in a long time that has heat rising up into his cheeks as well as deep in his belly, and when a hand finds his hair, carding its way through gold locks like it’s been aching to, his lips part invitingly, and he finds himself leaning into the touch.

And as much as he wonders what Drogger’s tongue might taste like; what it might feel like on his and against his lips, Drogger doesn’t delve deeper; just kisses him as they are, slow and gentle, until Rogard’s knees are weak and his body is hungry, and his heart is hammering so loudly in his chest it’s impossible he doesn’t hear it too.

​Emboldened, Rogard reaches up to cup Drogger’s cheek; tracing the edge of a jaw he’s spent so many late nights admiring from afar as he melts against his lips.

The skin under his fingertips is warm and dusted with stubble, and when his traitorous fingers dare dance lower, the pulse they skim over is racing in time with his own.

Rogard doesn’t dare open his eyes, in case he’s dreaming.

​But moments like these aren’t made to last forever.

A world away, the giant doors that lead back to the ballroom open on squeaking hinges, and the heavy thud they make as they swing shut again breaks them apart, like teenagers caught fooling around in the shadows of a courtyard.

It turns out to just be a couple of tipsy party-goers, flushed with wine and in high enough spirits that they barely even notice the two men they pass by.

But the soldier that follows them immediately recognises Drogger, and makes a beeline for them.

Rogard immediately shifts against the windowsill to put a respectable distance between them, and hopes that the shadows of the hallway obscure how ferociously he has to be blushing.

​The soldier greets them both by name, and apologises for interrupting their conversation; blissfully unaware of just what exactly he’d almost stumbled upon, and Rogard can’t help but sneak a glance at Drogger as he cordially returns the greeting.

And while his posture is impeccable and his expression neutral, he catches him with pupils blown wide, and with a flush riding high and red on his cheeks that almost betrays them both.

​It makes Rogard want to kiss him again. Harder, this time.

Filthier, too.

​He wonders what Drogger’s lips would feel like on his neck; what his hands might feel like on his bare hips, and everywhere else.

​He wonders if Drogger wants him like that, too.

​Oblivious to the indecent thoughts running rampant in Rogard’s mind, the soldier salutes, as crisply as a soldier can when he’s lost count of how many drinks he’s had, and dutifully informs Drogger that there’s a foreign captain --from the west, he thinks --asking after him.

Drogger makes a noise like he remembers the man, and Rogard catches the way his jaw tightens when the soldier speculates that it must be because he’s caught the eye of one of his daughters.

​"She’s real pretty, Captain," the soldier informs him, like it’s supposed to sway him, and Rogard supposes that for most men it would.

​"That’s enough," Drogger tells him, voice husky and no-nonsense, "Please send him my regards, and..." He shoots Rogard a sidelong look, "...Tell him that I’ll speak with him shortly."

​"Right you are, Captain."

​Drogger waits until the soldier has disappeared back into the party before he turns to Rogard, expression apologetic.

​"I should go," he states solemnly, because of course he has to. He’s a captain, after all, and networking with other kingdoms is part of the job description.

"Enjoy the rest of your night." His cheeks are still red, but he says it so easily, like he hadn’t just had his hands in his hair only minutes ago, and that bugs Rogard.

And it bugs him, that it bugs him. He knows only too well how little kisses stolen under the cover of night can mean.

​(It’s just that...this one had felt different.

​It had felt like it kinda meant something.)

​"...Are you going to dance with her?" he finds himself asking, and hates how jealous it comes out sounding.

Drogger’s a grown man. He’s allowed to dance with whoever he wants.

​"No," Drogger replies after a beat, "I’m not."

​"Oh." Honestly, Rogard hadn’t been expecting an answer.

Drogger doesn’t owe him one, after all.

"...Would you dance with me?"

​He’s teasing, obviously he is, just making a lighthearted comment to fill the space between them with sound, to downplay the enormity of what he’s just done --of what they’ve just done; of what he’s essentially just confessed to his Captain , of all people.

​It doesn’t come out that way.

It sounds hopeful.

It sounds like even more of a confession, if that were possible.

And there’s no way Drogger doesn’t hear it.