Page 16 of The Death Wish

Pitch reached for Silas’s trousers. ‘I don’t want to rest, I want you.’

No matter how tired, how dirty and dishevelled, and plagued by worries he was, Silas would never weary of hearing such a thing said.

‘And I you. Always.’ Silas picked up the bar of soap, one that smelled faintly of bergamot, and was quite sure his hand trembled. ‘But I am appallingly filthy.’ And, he had to say it but could not, he was too tired to undo his trousers, let alone use what lay beneath. The fatigue was leaden now. The clawing urge to wander among the graves almost unbearable.

‘Far more filthy than I’ve known you. It’s delightful.’ The glint in Pitch’s eye said they were not speaking about mud and blood. He did not protest as the prince undressed him, his flamehinting just beneath his skin, heating the air as layers were removed. ‘Warm enough?’ Pitch asked.

‘Yes, thank you.’ Silas dipped a cloth into the warmth of the water. There was a swirl of oil on the surface, and a hint of mint as he wrung the cloth. If nothing else, they’d both smell a hell of a lot better after this. ‘Now your turn. Take off your clothes, Mr Astaroth.’

Pitch obliged in the blink of an eye, shrugging off the shirt and standing to wriggle out of his ruined trousers. His cock was at a lazy half-stand.

Silas set about cleaning him up, letting the water run from the cloth and chasing the droplets as they skirted down his body, slipping into the shallow v-shape that ran from his hip to his groin. He carefully steered clear of the royal prick, despite the huffs of protest from Pitch himself.

Silas took in the lingering bruises, the pink marks of scarring, upon Pitch’s body. He did not realise he was frowning until Pitch cupped a hand to his face.

‘It is no easier to look on your injuries, Sickle. But we are healing, both of us, and all shall be well soon enough. This ridiculous quest of ours is almost done. We are nearly there. It is almost over.’

A heavy silence fell between them. Silas would have bet the scythe itself that Pitch wondered just as he did. What did delivering the simurgh to the Sanctuary mean for them?

He forced a smile. ‘It is almost over, indeed.’

He continued on, removing what remnants of the cockaigne he could with gentle swipes of the cloth, refreshing it with the warm water every few strokes. Pitch closed his eyes and was swaying into the press of Silas’s hand as he worked his way around to Pitch’s back.

‘Is there anything left of it?’ the prince said quietly. ‘The pitchfork, I mean.’

Silas ran the cloth along the length of Pitch’s spine. The daemon dropped his head, exhaling. If Silas narrowed his eyes, he could just make out a greater paleness on Pitch’s skin, where the tattoo had made its mark.

‘Very little.’ He followed the markings over one shoulder blade, then the other. ‘Just the ghost of it, I’m afraid.’

‘Afraid? Would you rather it had stayed? Was it not ugly?’

Silas shook his head. ‘It was not ugly. It delivered you from pain. Are you sure –’

‘I told you I’m not in pain, not with the simurgh gone now.’

Silas had barely stopped to think about the Cultivation; a testament to how delirious his fatigue made him. But with Tyvain, Jane and Sybilla–not to mention Scarlet, Phillipa and Isaac–watching over the creature, chances were high it was doing fine without he and Pitch. And he’d not deny, there was a part of him that held hope the blasted thing would simply fly on to where it was meant to be. And their quest would be truly done.

Silas kissed between Pitch’s shoulder blades, where his skin was mint-scented and radiantly warm. ‘Just promise me, you will tell me if that changes.’

‘You have my word.’

He dragged the cloth low, over the crease in Pitch’s arse, squeezing so the water ran down the inside of his thighs, eliciting a weighty moan from the daemon.

‘Gods, we need to get this clean up done with, or I shall simply need you to start all over again with that cloth.’ He spun about, urging Silas onto the unoccupied stool, and straddled his legs, grabbing for the other cloth that waited by the small bowl of water, dousing it, and bringing it to Silas’s chest in one, smoothly-executed manoeuvre.

The water that spilled through the curled licks of hair on Silas’s chest was not so warm as that which he’d lavished onPitch. He shuddered as the daemon worked him over. Pitch brightened as his fire pulsed hotter.

They interspersed the bathing with kisses, both their movements rather languid, both their pricks never quite reaching full attention, despite how Silas’s heart thumped. Pitch even stifled another yawn at one point, whilst his hand moved between Silas’s legs, ensuring no dirt dared linger on a deadman’s taint.

When they were done, the basin water was a putrid murky brown. They stood face to face, entirely naked, and though his eyes were vibrant with want, Pitch was plagued by another yawn. He groaned and knocked his forehead against Silas’s chest.

‘They’ve cursed me,’ he declared. ‘Me and my cock both. That’s all there is to it. The sorcerers have had the last laugh.’

‘What ever do you mean?’ Silas rested his hand over the nape of Pitch’s neck, caressing him.

‘I have you naked, two inches from me but do not have the energy to spread my legs for you. I’m too tired to fuck. This is truly the apocalypse.’

Silas burst out laughing. ‘You are a fool.’