The Idiot Knight and Squire

TWOSHOT

Disclaimer: I do NOT, I repeat, do NOT own the amazing books of Hilari Bell's keeping of which I am immensely jealous of.

Warnings: OOCness, slash, alcohol use, profanity, etc.

Note: I apologize for the rushed, crappy writing. The naming of the town and people are like, unoriginal. I hope none of you dear readers die from this. OTL

Pairing: Michael/Fisk (Psh, dur. Who else is the idiot Knight and Squire? XD)

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Fisk wasn't naïve.

Far from it actually. He considered himself a cynical, sarcastic individual, after all.

He also knew many things.

Like how to make the perfect con go smoothly, how to card-sharp (mathematically and dirty-playing wise, of course.), how Trouble (or True, his adventure-seeking employer fondly named.) loves to be scratched just right there behind the left ear, or how much money they had in their purse right now, oh, and things about Michael.

Like for instance, he knew his idiotic employer was still in love with Rosamund.

Who was said employer's third-fourth cousin in the family tree.

Who's a girl.

An extremely beautiful girl.

Though, she was a rather ditsy, beautiful girl.

Oh, and she was married to another man who is not Michael.

Yet, the male in mention was still in love with the married, lovely ninny.

So yes, Michael was an idiot. That's in love.

But so was Fisk.

Who was in love with his 'Noble Sir,' or, commonly known the most to the general public, Michael.

Yes. Fisk was an idiot, because he knew, and no matter how much it hurt, he knew Michael wasn't in love with him, or with any other males, for that matter.

Which was why it came to the former conman's extreme surprise-no, shock, when Michael practically jumped and began kissing him.

Wait…what?

Let's begin at the…well…beginning.

It was late in the afternoon, Fisk remembered, and he was sweating from the dry sun's rays as he walked to the bar where Michael worked as a bouncer, Trouble following him with a joyful vigor.

After spending some time with Master Makejoye's troupe, Michael and Fisk finally set off on their own, wanting to spend some time away from acting for a while before possibly returning back to the traveling life.

Now, the two were in the town a little ways off the coast called Shelren, a town whose furniture and everyday machinery and utensils were made of seashells, strangely enough. But it was a good enough place, and the majority of the people hadn't condemned Michael for his being of unredeemed, so they had stayed there for a good six months, working to make money, and just enjoying the everyday life of the town.

Seeing the place where his elder friend worked, Fisk sped up, intent on greeting Michael, when all of a sudden, the door of the bar slammed open with a tremendous 'BANG' and the man in mention stepped out, blinking at the rush of sunlight.

Fisk was a little confused at the door-slamming, wondering if the other had somehow pissed off some men, so he yelled out a, "Michael!", to get the taller person's attention.

Hearing his name, Michael glanced up, and he grinned a face-splitting grin as he sprinted towards Fisk, happiness shining in his dark eyes like a beacon.

The squire felt himself falter, breathing stopping at the look in Michael's eyes, at the pure, beautiful joy, and he looked behind him, thinking that his friend was looking at someone else, but seeing only Trouble wag his tail and loll out a pink tongue as he sat on his hunches.

"Er, Michael…?" Fisk began to say, arms raising up a bit, "Who're you looking at-"

He never got to finish his sentence as unredeemed knight plowed into him with an exalted laugh.

Fisk sputtered, suddenly finding himself on the dusty ground and an armful of his trouble-seeking friend. "Under the two moons-what the bloody hell, Mike?"

"I love you!" 'Mike' replied, rather cheerfully. He than proceeded to lean down and mold his lips clumsily with the former conman's own, moving passionately, yet sweetly as he deepened the kiss.

Fisk's eyes popped wide open in shock at the loud confession, quite aware of the public's reactions (the men were grimacing at the display, whilst the general female population giggled and stared intently at the sight. What strange people they were.), and felt his heart practically stop as he felt the elder's chapped lips moved energetically over his own.

What?

"Ngh-Mike- Michael!" Fisk yelped out, managing to disconnect the lip lock as he pushed the latter's chest back forcefully, face red and flustered. "Wha- what?"

"I love you," Michael answered, grinning goofily. "I love you…"

Saying that, he leaned, arms going around his squire's waist as he kissed again, smiling all the while.

To say that Fisk was happy was an understatement. His heart could have burst from all the shocked happiness it was getting.

As much as he was feeling happy that Michael finally reciprocated his feelings, he was scared that it was actually all a dream, and that when he woke up, everything would be as it is, normal, with Michael not loving him but for another, that he would face another day with internal heart pain, knowing that the older man didn't love him like he wanted, oblivious.

But the tongue that gently licked his lips assured that this was real, and it wasn't a dream, that Fisk can be happy, after waiting for so long, wondering when the unrequited love would finally end, and Fisk was just so happy that it hurts.

His thoughts were interrupted as he opened his mouth, inviting Michael in, and the kiss felt so good—and then his joy died like flowers dying in the cold.

He could taste it, and Fisk cursed himself and his quick leap at fake happiness, when he should've paid more close attention to Michael's movement, his speech, his expression.

But he was just too cursed naïve to even notice that his best-friend-who-was-in-love-with-Rosamund-and-not-with-him was drunk.

The alcohol was thick on Michael's tongue, and Fisk recoiled wildly, shoving the knight back in the dirt as he himself shakily stood up, shocked and hurt out of his wits.

Michael blinked, alcohol clearly messing with his mind as he slurred out a, "Where'd you gooo…?"

"M-Michael…" Fisk stammered out, angry and embarrassed, and then he heard the laughter.

"Oh, we did it, boys!" One of the men, Talon Weaver, a fellow worker of Michael's, whooped. "Now those two denying lovebirds can get together!"

The other men behind him equally laughed, hanging onto each other as the humor of the situation got to them.

"Michael and Fisk, sitting in a tree~! K-I-S-S-" the males began to sing, elbowing and grinning at Fisk's dumbfounded look. "—I-N-G!"

Seeing the men laughing, seeing them gloat mockingly at his obvious failure, Fisk felt anger rise up swifter than the happiness from before, and his fists involuntarily clenched.

"Shut the hell up!" Fisk all but roared, glaring venomously at the suddenly quiet men. He gestured angrily at the confused, drunk Michael, the latter blinking blearily up at them. "What did you do?" Fisk demanded, stalking towards the now silent group. "Tell me!"

With a hiss, the squire lunged forward, grabbing Talon by the shirt collar and jerked the taller man close, staring darkly in the other's frightened blue eyes. "Tell me," Fisk snarled, "Tell me what you did to Michael, you incompetent dumbass!"

"We- we-" Talon stuttered, growing pale. "We had a-assumed that you two l-love each other, I mean, the way you two act a-and all, so me and the boys just decided to help out with you two, a-and so we gave Michael drinks, and kept giving him some m-more, and when he didn't notice, we spiked his w-water with the alcohol he h-had refused!"

Fisk's grip tightened further, before he let go, stepping back and glaring coldly. "You assumed wrong."

He spun on his heel and stalked over to the still-sitting Michael, hoisting the taller man up and wrapping a firm hand around the latter's waist.

"Don't you love me, too?" Michael asked, innocently, looking at Fisk.

Fisk felt his throat close up. " 'Course I do," the smaller said, softly. "But I'm not Rosamund."

Whistling to the terrified Trouble to follow them back to their inn, Fisk gave one last glare at the petrified men.

"I swear," Fisk said lowly, giving a look to each face. "If any of you ever try that again, I swear…"

He let his threat hang for them to wonder as he walked away, dragging Michael along with Trouble following dejectedly behind.

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Fisk set Michael down in his bed, the latter snuggling into the sheets with a contented sigh.

"I love you," Michael said, smiling from under the blankets, and Fisk wanted to break down at that soft, blank smile.

He shook his head, already exiting their room.

"Not in the way I want, Michael," Fisk whispered hoarsely, closing the door. "You don't love me like the way I love you."

Michael watched the door close, his eyes mirroring the movement as he replied to the closed door.

"I love you…Fisk."

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Our dear Mike's part is next!

TBC…