#anyways RIP to Lachlan who is within earshot of this reunion and is hating every moment of it

[tgarnsl]

Early Morning Kiss, Keith/Ewen

*rolls up five months late*

Here you go!

Ewen awoke to a clear dawn and Keith’s head heavy on his shoulder. Carefully extracting himself from his friend’s close embrace, he rose from the bed and opened the window to let in air, for the little room still carried the heavy scent of sweat and sex.

If the man Ewen Cameron had been a year ago, lying in misery in that draughty cell in Fort Augustus, could but see him now, his former self would have been startled beyond measure. He had hated Keith Windham in those dark days, so certain of the soldier’s part in his own betrayal of Lochiel. Yet it was not hatred now that burned in Ewen’s heart as he gazed down at the sleeping man, but a sentiment of the opposite nature entirely, one that he had become aware of all too late. At that first meeting on Loch Oich-side, fate had struck a rock from whence a fountainhead had sprung forth, carrying them along in its current, turning them this way and that, though neither Keith nor Ewen were aware of it. It had carried them to Edinburgh, to the shieling hut, to Fort Augustus, and to Morar. Five meetings, the prophecy had said, the first and the last by water.

And now the current had carried them here, to Paris and this little room. On hearing of the loss of Windham’s commission, his disgrace and subsequent discharge from the army, Ewen had invited him to Paris. Keith had accepted, and for a fortnight Ewen had agonised over every possible misfortune that might prevent this sixth meeting. He had not believed it when Keith had at last knocked on his door, and had only been persuaded of his friend’s presence once Keith’s arms were around him. And then Keith’s mouth had met his, and everything that Ewen had planned to say to Keith, all the pretty speeches and carefully chosen words, had vanished like smoke. In the end, there had only been two things to say — but even there, Keith had him beaten.

Tha gaol agam ort, he had murmured in clumsy Gaelic, holding Ewen’s face between shaking hands. Ewen could make no coherent reply, his heart beating frantically in his chest, and the hesitation made Keith withdraw and apologise. There had been only one thing to say to make it right.

“Come to my bed, Windham,” said Ewen, and before he could turn coward, caught Keith’s upturned face and kissed him.

Windham in sleep was a vastly different man to Windham awake. Gone was the soldier, the hard-faced man with the spine so straight and stiff it seemed to be made of iron. In his place lay the friend, the kindly lover whose boyish affections were given as freely as they were returned. Keith had laughed at some foolish thing Ewen had said as they hurriedly undressed, and his smile had been warm as he pulled Ewen down onto the bed with him. It had only been after, when shyness swept over them at last and they covered their nakedness, embarrassed by the vulnerability they had shown to each other, did some vestiges of the old Keith return, but these did not last. They could not. In the darkness they reached for each other, scarce believing that the other lay beside them, and remained closely entangled until morning.

Keith was awake now, though barely, and murmured Ewen’s name. Ewen slipped back into the bed and drew his friend once more into his arms. Keith gave a contented sigh, pressing his face into the crook of Ewen’s shoulder, a leg insinuating itself between Ewen’s.

“Good morning,” said Ewen quietly.

Keith groaned. “Do not wake me,” he said. “I was having the most marvellous dream…”

Ewen shifted himself so that he could look down at Keith’s face. “As did I,” he said. “I dreamt my friend came to me and told me of his love.”

Keith made a pleased noise and smiled. “I had that vision too,” he said, opening his eyes. In the uncertain light of dawn Ewen was caught by their remarkable colour, green one moment, brown the next, shifting in colour like the shallows of a loch. Keith reached up, his fingers tangling in Ewen’s unbound hair, his encouragement clear, and Ewen leaned down and met Keith’s lips with his own, the anxiety and weariness of their long separation slowly easing. If this was a dream, he prayed he might never awaken from it.

#the flight of the heron #anyways RIP to Lachlan who is within earshot of this reunion and is hating every moment of it #my writing