“I know how to salt a threshold, Dziadek.” The young man, Josef, laughed. Tomasz crept onto the rubble for a better view, throwing his arms out to balance as the pile shifted. Outside, Josef tipped the jar of salt and poured a line across the walk. “See?”
“Now the warding.”
Josef rolled his eyes, but he crossed himself, as did Oj Pavel, and together they spat twice on the walk.
Tomasz startled and lost his balance. He fell backwards, twisting as he did and landing heavily on the floor. His jaw smacked the wood, teeth crashing together with a burst of pain. A numb fuzziness filled his lower legs, and he lay there too stunned to rise.
“Tomasz?” Garek’s voice filled the air. Snow and ice crunched beneath his boots. “Tomasz, are you in there?”
“Here.” He coughed, cleared his throat, and tried again. “I’m here.”
“Tomasz?” Garek called again, no closer than before. “If you are there, invite me in.”
“Please,” he wheezed, unable to pull air into his lungs. Panic shot into his limbs, an odd fuzziness he could not navigate. “I’m here. Come here. In. Come in.”
Garek muttered a curse, and a moment later, his large form vaulted over the frozen rubble. He whirled and dropped before Tomasz, hauling him up and into his arms.
Tomasz melted against his chest, seeping into Garek’s strength as the man worked them away from the doorway, never stopping until his back hit a beam in the middle of the tavern.
“What happened?” He tore the scarf from his mouth and swept the cowl back, searching Tomasz’s with wide eyes. Silver whorled and spun in a flurry, frightening and hypnotizing at once. “Are you alright?”
“Oj Pavel came by,” Tomasz said, tongue thick and voice hoarse, as though he had not spoken in days. Months. “With his grandson, they–they salted the front walk. Why would they salt the walk but not come in?”
Garek ran his hand down Tomasz’s spine, gaze lifting to the door. He worked his jaw, and this close, Tomasz caught the twitch of muscle in his bearded cheek. Without speaking, Garek rose, carrying Tomasz like a bride to the fire. As far from the door as they could get while remaining in the tavern hall.
He set him gently in a chair and knelt before him. “Soup?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Starved.” Garek’s hand rested heavily on Tomasz’s thigh. “You?”
He shook his head. “I am not hungry.”
“When was the last time you were hungry, Tomasz?”
Words formed and faded on his tongue. An answer drifting just out of reach in the dredges of his mind.
“A foolish question from a foolish man.” Garek shrugged out of his coat and stretched it out before the fire. Silently, he rose and stole the blanket from the back of the chair, laying it atop his coat before again kneeling in front of Tomasz. “Lay with me?”
He nodded, unsure of what Garek intended. But the longing to be held, to be cradled in strong arms with a thick body shielding him from the world and the wrongness of the day—the salt at his door, the lack of hunger, the questions now spiraling in his mind—had him melting from the chair.
Garek caught him, guiding Tomasz onto his side and lying behind him. Head propped in a hand, he draped an arm across Tomasz’s front and fitted them together like two nesting dolls.
Tomasz sank into the warmth, closing his eyes. Strain eased from his muscles, the odd tingling in his limbs vanishing wherever their bodies touched.
“Stay with me, Tomasz,” Garek whispered in his ear. Teeth snagged the lobe, and Tomasz’s eyes flew open. Liquid heat dribbled down the side of his neck. “Do not leave me just yet.”
“I am not going anywhere.”
“So you say.” Garek scraped teeth along his ear again. He traveled his lips down Tomasz’s throat. Callused fingers followed, skimming over tendon and bone and tugging the collar of his shirt away. “I fear one night I will ride upon your tavern and you will not be here.”
“I have no skills beyond pouring gorza and making soup,” Tomasz argued. “Where would I go?”
Garek did not answer. He pressed his lips to Tomasz’s throat and sucked lightly. A shiver built in his shoulders. He wriggled into Garek, biting his lip at the hard press of the man’s cock against his backside. His broad palm continued its journey down Tomasz’s front, thick fingers drawing lazy circles over his belly, rounding his hip. They dusted the front of his trousers and swept up his chest again, all while Garek kissed and nibbled, lulling him into thick, heady desire.
Gods, to have a man like him two nights in a row, attentive to his body and needs, was a dream. Whatever Tomasz had done to deserve this, he hoped to repeat, even if by accident. But to wish for a third night was too guilty a pleasure to indulge, so he remained in the moment, focused on the sweet sensations drawn out by Garek’s caress.
“I could touch you all night and never grow weary of the feel of your skin.” He untucked Tomasz’s shirt from his trousers. Callused palms scraped his belly, sweeping up until his hand lay over Tomasz’s heart.