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“You’re fidgeting.”
“I’m not fidgeting. I’m—er, readjusting.”
“Uh-huh.” Conan was grinning. “Well, if it’s that, maybe I can help. I’ve got two hands, Ti. They’re very big. Very capable. And they’ll be very, very gentle when they slip down and cup the tightest ass on Tinnel IV—ow.” He rubbed his wrists where Tiaan had smacked him, but it was playacting; Conan adored a heavy hand almost as much as he craved the reverse. He loved any sort of touching, really—when it came from Tiaan.
But as the Autumn Masquerade was taking place at Val Denn, with both of Tiaan’s parents very much in attendance, they had to restrain themselves. At least in the public halls, where anyone could spot the son and heir of House Jerjerrod getting manhandled by that Seswennan lad who always spooked the swans; it would be reported back to Tiaan’s father, and he’d have to sit through another agonizing lecture on exactly what Seswennan lads were after.
As if Tiaan wasn’t after precisely the same thing.
Ah, well. As long as his father never found out what he and Conan got up to in Tiaan’s bed, and Tiaan’s bathtub, and sometimes in the garden, in the far-off corner where the satyr statue provided just enough shade at high noon to shield Tiaan’s face when he was flat on his back, Jiaan Jerjerrod would have nothing to complain about.
“You don’t need to fidget, y’know,” Conan drawled. “Your costume is right on point.”
Elbowing Tiaan in the side, he gestured towards the other partygoers thronging the manor. Posted up along the western corridor near the great hall, the nucleus of the action and the lodestar towards which each visitor was drawn, Conan and Tiaan had a very good view on the rest of the attendees. Conan was right, as he often was; each guest was in costume, and nearly every costume—from the mythological to the historical to the fanciful and fantastical—seemed tailormade to flaunt the God-given gifts of the wearer. As much as the guests were demonstrating their eye for fashion and the cleverness of their designs, they were showing off their physiques, too.
“But it’s not my costume,” Tiaan whined. And it was true; when he’d nipped down to the shop to pick up the costume he’d ordered—a recreation of the investiture clothing worn by a quasi-historical prince from one of his favorite Tinnelian myths, the doublet and saber and leggings researched and requested with historical accuracy in mind—the fact that the cinched-waist look tended to flatter him was entirely coincidental—that costume had been nowhere to be found. He’d been handed a wrapped packet of a different sort. The order, it had turned out, had been bungled up.
At least the outfit fit. In the ensuing mix-up his measurements must have gotten swapped with whatever minx ordered this little number. And at the eleventh hour, it had been too late to fix it.
“It’s cute, though,” said Conan. “That’s gotta count for something.”
Face heating, Tiaan squirmed. And then he did what he’d been doing on loop, over and over, all evening: He sidled close to Conan, and sought out his reassurance. “You’re not just saying that, truly? I don’t want to look foolish.”
“Tiaan,” Conan said, very seriously, “I have spent the last hour trying to burn the image of you in that costume into my brain.” At Tiaan’s renewed flush, he leaned nearer, his lips ghosting Tiaan’s ear and drawing out a shiver. “You look gorgeous,” he murmured. “I’m the luckiest guy in the whole damn galaxy.”
He could have boiled an egg on his cheeks. “Thanks awfully,” he muttered. He settled his hand on Conan’s chest, petting at him for a brief, daring moment, before retracting the touch. “You’re no slouch in that department yourself, you know. You’re a... a stunner,” he said, all breathless delight. “Although I don’t think the wrestling singlet counts as a costume. You wear that at school, Conan.”
Conan shrugged, a broad roll of his shoulders that left Tiaan’s heart beating faster than before. The movement had the added benefit of stretching the singlet taut, the fabric straining over a generous belly and curved across a pair of pectorals as mouthwateringly thick as they were hairy. All in all, the singlet offered a sight so appealing Tiaan could almost forgive how badly the orange color clashed with Conan's hair.
“On Tinnel," Conan said, with a lazy flex of his pectorals, "it’s a costume.”
Draining the last of his drink, he nodded towards the great hall, where laughter and light and the clink of glassware echoed cheerily. “I’m gonna grab a refill. Want something?” Tiaan shook his head. Conan glanced down the hall at which they were posted up—left, right, left again—and, spying the way the guests had slowed to a trickle streaming past, none of them paying two young men any mind at all, he smiled wide, and leaned forward to kiss Tiaan once, wetly, on the corner of his mouth.
Tiaan spluttered, but Conan only laughed, and sauntered off before Tiaan had the wherewithal to retaliate in kind.
He dithered for a moment, feeling rather unshielded without Conan’s bulk pressed along his side. But temptation won out. With a guilty speed he scuttled across the hall to the mirror hanging there, a full-body, gilded behemoth, centuries old, and perfectly sized for Tiaan to scrutinize every inch of his reflection.
Though he’d seen himself in his costume when he’d dressed, he’d only stolen a quick glance. Hours later, the sight managed to shock him. That was his face: the pointed nose, the blondish curls, the squarish jaw, the puppyfat in his cheeks which, at seventeen, he had not yet shed, and which Conan loved to pinch pink. That was his body: good shoulders, trim waist, the svelte physique so prominent in his bloodline replicated perfectly in Tiaan’s living geometry. The skeleton of the structure was familiar. But the paneling....
Well. He’d never worn shorts that short, had he?
He bit his lip, and then released it quickly, the self-soothing gesture impermissibly lewd in this outfit. It was baffling that he could be so technically clothed and still feel so terribly nude. Though the shorts did cover him, in a sense. And they were paired, mercifully, with skintight leggings, so that Tiaan’s pale, skinny thighs were not truly bared to the eyes of the world. And the top, too, was long-sleeved. That was all very well.
But on closer observation, the clothing was exposed as being a more aspirational covering than truly functional. The neck of his top was cut deep, affording a view of a broad stripe of his chest at its very hairiest. The shorts were so snug in the front and the rear that every discreet swell of his southside anatomy was on display, from his diminutive rump to the soft bulge of his package. At the wrong angle—or perhaps the right one—it was possible to make out the precise shape of his bollocks. Tiaan knew the angle, because Conan had been careful to stand there the entire night.
Tiaan looked, in short, very much like a tart. The addition of the cat ear headband and the tail clipped to the back of the belt did not fool him for a moment. This was an outfit for seducing men; that it could pass for a costume was ancillary.
Perhaps he could jazz it up, he thought desperately, turning to get a better angle on his backside. A little collar with a bell, maybe. Something to lend verisimilitude to the whole cat business.
With a shake of his head—and a careful repositioning of his fluffy cat ears—Tiaan turned on his tail and scuttled back towards his spot along the wall. He still felt ridiculous, but he comforted himself with the fact that Conan really did like the costume. He nibbled his lip; perhaps next year, he and Conan could match. A repeat of the cat costume for Tiaan, and something paired for Conan. Another cat—or, no, a dog, with a big, thick collar emblazoned with the Jerjerrod insignia—
A smack to his arse, harsh enough to send him jumping, knocked the fantasy right out of his head. He yelped, scandalized. Behind him, a figure sidled up, just as tall as Tiaan and, for a sliver of a second, mistakeable in his brazenness for Conan.
But the laugh was as airy as the breeze, and the voice was wrong: it was his own.
“Pretty kitty,” Riaan cooed. There was a yank on his tail, tugging him back until he bumped up against slim thighs, and hot breath could ruffle the hair on the nape of his neck. “You tricked me, you naughty boy. Feigning that you’d lost the thing, forcing me to create an entirely new look at the very last minute—well I’ve found you, pussycat—”
“Uncle,” Tiaan croaked. “Uncle, it’s—it’s me—”
“Tiaan!” Riaan cried, shocked. The hand that had been plucking at his tail shot up to grab his bicep, joined on the other side by its double and spinning him round until, in a blur, he was face to face with his uncle. It took a moment for the image to settle. Riaan was in some manner of toga, a coronet of ivy leaves delicately placed atop his ashy-blond curls—a perfect match for his twin, Tiaan’s father; and, Tiaan knew, with a sinking sort of feeling, a perfect match for Tiaan’s own.
Tiaan stared at him.
Riaan stared back. “You aren’t the pretty kitty I expected, poppet.”
Was that... glitter, dappling the fine bones of his uncle’s cheeks? And on his chest, too, Tiaan noticed with rising alarm; it was sprinkled across his clavicles, a trail of stardust leading down a lean, hairy pectoral and swirling round a nipple like planets orbiting a very small, very pink sun.
His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. With a gulping noise, he managed to stutter out, “N-no, I’d—I’d gathered that.”
Riaan was gawking, green eyes flitting down his front and up again so rapidly Tiaan was dizzied by proxy. “Gosh,” he muttered, “the resemblance is uncanny.”
There was blinking—a lot of blinking—and then suddenly he met Tiaan’s gaze. Squeezing Tiaan’s bicep, he offered his nephew a smile that was nothing short of dazzling, and which did little to temper Tiaan’s burgeoning hysteria. The only one who could handle that smile at such close proximity was—
Well, Tiaan was wearing his costume.
“Apologies for the mix-up, nephew-dearest,” Riaan murmured. It wasn’t quite soothing, but it was silky, and accompanied by a series of circles rubbed into the tender flesh of his bicep, slow, and even, and with enough pressure that static rose beneath the fabric, every hair standing on end. “You are the image of your father from behind, you know—the highest compliment, I assure you—and, ah.” He paused, looking around in a conspiratorial fashion. And then, “Remind me, darling boy, we ought to consider a triplicate next year. A true trifecta.”
There was a lump in his throat Tiaan could not quite swallow down. “You mean—”
“Naturally,” Riaan grinned. “Triplets, that’s the ticket. It’ll be the talk of the season—and what a way to ring in your eighteenth! We’ll just need to convince your daddy. You can leave that to me,” he added with a wink.
It was fortunate Riaan had such a tight hold on him. Were it not for his uncle’s grip, Tiaan would have crumbled right to the floor. “That would be... ah, lovely, yes,” he said, weakly. He was trembling like a colt. One stiff breeze, and he’d tumble. “Thank you, Uncle.”
Riaan was beaming at him. Releasing his hold, he leaned close, tucking a wayward curl back behind Tiaan’s ear and blithely unconcerned with the steam pouring off of his nephew. “Very pretty,” Riaan said, almost to himself. And then he pinched Tiaan’s cheek once for good measure before shimmering off back into the fray.
Swaying slightly, Tiaan stared off in the distance, wondering, vaguely, if Conan would be nearly as enthused over the costume once he learned which Jerjerrod it had been measured to fit.