Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author Note: The fic title comes from the song 'Make A Move' by Icon For Hire, which I listened to a lot when writing this story.
I'D HAVE WRITTEN THEM OUT
"Tell me a story."
Nasir's words were drowsy and playful as he curled up beside Agron. He was unheard by any save the German as their friends sang and laughed close by. Agron smiled at the request, wine from Roman barrels making everything more amusing and agreeable.
"What would you hear? Tales of the arena perhaps? Fights upon the sand and the ashes now remaining."
Nasir kissed his thigh and scraped teeth on flesh, earning sharp intake of breath from Agron.
"Tell me something new." Nasir's tone remained playfully commanding and his expression tipped alluringly, as though eager to consume and savour Agron like a draft of the sweetest wine.
Agron could not resist such a vision so leaned down to kiss the man half-spilled into his lap, sampling the drugging taste of Nasir's mouth until a catcall from Saxa caused him to pull back and reply in kind. Nasir smiled expectantly up at him, every inch the master awaiting entertainment.
Agron laughed. "You would have me work this night."
"In many ways."
The look that accompanied Nasir's words caused heat to flare up anew in Agron and his hand tugged at Nasir's hair. He was eager to play this game again, as they so often did, sparring and satisfying with words and hands and mouths. But Nasir had asked something of him first and truly there was little Agron would deny his lover. So he looked up at the stars and harmless stories from childhood poured from his lips.
He talked of Wodanaz, shapeshifter and healer who'd learned sorcery, gained Frijjo's fury, and had drank in wisdom as heartily as Gauls bring in trouble. How one night his unending quest for knowledge had led him to create the runes by great sacrifice; a spear in his side whilst hanging from the tree Yggdrasil for nine days and nights. Such knowledge being worthy of pain. Stories as familiar to Agron as sword in hand now was. Stories learned at his father's side, in lands east of the Rhine. How long it had been since he had last told them.
Nasir was sleeping by story's end, so Agron lay down beside him, wine and his kin's laughter carrying him to slumber. He dreamt of the Wilde Jagd, the Wild Hunt, Odin at its head. The spectres and horses and antlered creatures made the ground tremble with their shouts and hunting horns. Odin's cry was loudest of all, like a storm breaking. Agron looked in vain for Duro, for familiar face under helmet and cloak. He would always be looking for that.
Nasir was learning German. His efforts made Saxa laugh but she continued to tutor him as they sparred and took guard shifts together. It warmed Agron to see the two of them bonding in friendship. A different heat began in him when he heard Nasir speak German.
During times alone, Agron spoke the language of his homeland against Nasir's skin, stories and sentences for no other's ears. Nasir breathlessly repeated them back to him. The combination of touch, words, and hot breath was heady and consuming. Agron decided he would always have new words to teach Nasir and that he would savour every one.
Some stories Agron kept silent. Aloud, they would break open memories damned up deep inside him – a young Duro pestering him with questions, always wanting to hear more, demanding repeated tales of Welanduz's blacksmithing and murders, and Puraz and his hammer. They'd thrown reminders of such stories at each other when sparring in the ludus.
"Puraz would spit on you, brother, for such pitiful attempt."
"Unlike him, I have no need for fucking hammer to bring you down."
Duro would never sit at the fire beside him, never tease him about Nasir, never hear those stories again. That tale would go forever unwritten.
Often it was Nasir's voice that rose and fell in the darkness. It was a welcome rumble under Agron's ear as he lay with head pillowed on his lover's chest. He liked to hear Nasir's heartbeat. Nasir's voice would sometimes switch from common tongue to the halting language of a homeland he barely remembered. Some stories, he said, could only be told that way.
During those times, Agron could sometimes convince himself that he was not dreaming. That it truly was Nasir's hands in his hair, Nasir's warm willing arms around him, that such a man had chosen him. It felt too much like a trick of the gods, like the norns twisting patterns as they weaved the fates and laughed like ravens at him. It would not be for the first time.
Then the sharpness of Nasir's nails against his scalp brought him back. Nasir never said a word. His body said everything, in teeth marks and scratches, possessive tongue and understanding eyes, and in constant presence and shared heartbeat.
Agron made his own marks, closed his eyes, and hoped with every breath that this story would last.