A Candle for Cæsar

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This story contains explicit scenes of sex between consenting adult men. If you are under age or don’t care for this, LEAVE NOW. As usual, characters from Highlander: the Series belong to Davis-Panzer et alia; I only play with them from time to time without any compensation. No harm; no foul; no profit. Anyone or anything new, however, is mine (left-overs again). Beta-read by Bev and Holly.Thank you, merci beaucoup, tapadh leat, gracias, danke, grazie, spazebo, arigato, obrigado. Any errors are mine alone.

A CANDLE FOR CÆSAR

a Duncan/Methos story

Paris: 13 March 1995.

“Hey, Highlander.” The oldest Immortal greeted Duncan Macleod from fifty feet down the quay.

Macleod had already looked up from the intermidible painting on the Nobile. His eyes widened in surprise. “I thought you’d left Paris,” he said in greeting.

Methos stopped at the base of the gang plank, politely but silently requesting permission to board the vessel. A small duffel bag was slung over his left shoulder and his hands were shoved deep in the pockets of his long, black coat, the collar turned up against the cold March winds.

“Come on up,” Macleod called. He replaced the lid on the paint can and dunked the brush in paint thinner. Wiping his hands on a rag he rose from his task to join his visitor. He found Methos standing at the head of the gang plank, and extended his hand as he approached. The two immortals clasped each other’s forearms in the ages-old greeting of warriors.

“Mi casa es su casa.” Macleod repeated the same welcome Methos had offered him just a week earlier. “Come on, let’s go inside.” Macleod led the way to the entrance, then stood aside so his guest could enter first.

Once inside the barge, Methos looked around. He stood on a small landing. There were two closed doors, one on his left and one in front of him, but a short stairway on his right led to an open area that included a living room, kitchen, and at the far end, a raised sleeping alcove. Round portholes lined the walls, but most of the light in the room came from clerestory windows near the bumped-up ceiling.

“This looks — comfortable,” he said. Spartan, he thought, though the Sparta he remembered didn’t have refrigerators or laptop computers. He jogged down the steps and dropped his bag against the wall at their base.

“Yeah, I like it.” Macleod’s voice came from behind him. “Can I get you something? Coffee? A beer?” Though it was not yet noon, Macleod recalled his guest’s preference for beer.

“A beer would be good.” Methos absently touched the white queen, the chessmen lined up ready for battle on their checkered field. He stood by the low table while Macleod opened the small refrigerator and removed two bottles of beer. He opened them both and offered one to Methos.

“Thanks.” Methos’s long fingers brushed the Scotsman’s hand when he grasped the bottle, the touch lingering for a brief moment before Macleod drew his hand away.

They touched their bottles together before they drank, and Methos muttered, “Cheers,” a second before the bottle touched his lips, just as he heard his host’s Gaelic toast.

“Slainte.”

Methos drank deeply of the beer, the brew too cold to really taste. Without invitation he sprawled on the couch, immediately making himself at home. Macleod leaned an elbow on the bar. “Going somewhere?” he asked. “Or are you planning to move in?”

“What? Oh, the bag. Just a couple of days in Rome.” He lifted the bottle to his mouth once more, but stopped and gestured with the bottle at Macleod. “Care to join me?”

“Rome?” Macleod considered the idea. “What’s in Rome?”

Methos paled at the depth of ignorance the question implied.

“Aside from lots of Italians and some very old buildings?”

“They’re not that old to me, Highlander. I was there when they were built.”

Macleod acceded to Methos’s point of view, raising his bottle to the old man.

“I want to light a candle for an old friend.” And seduce a new one.

“I didn’t think that was your style.”

“You Catholics didn’t invent lighting candles for the dead, you know.” His bottle was nearly empty, and he leaned his head back to drain the last drops.

“No, I suppose not. Who did?” Macleod’s question baited the old man.

“Damned if I know. Just about everybody does it. Or did it. Or something like it.”

“And you want me to go with you?”

Methos shrugged. “Not too many people I know would understand.” He had studied this man in the Chronicles for years, and heard stories about him for centuries. It was time he got to know the real Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod.

“What about the Watchers? Should you be seen with me?”

“Your watcher isn’t here, and we don’t watch our own. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”

“Huh?” It took Macleod a moment to translate. “Oh. Who watches the watchers?”

“Exactly.” No need to burden Macleod with details of the other divisions of the Watchers, Methos thought. He doesn’t have to know about the slayers, or… well he just doesn’t have to know about the others. “They don’t know to watch me.”

“Joe knows.”

“You told Joe?” It crossed his mind to throw the empty beer bottle at Macleod’s thick Scottish skull, or better still to throttle him. But he held onto the bottle, his knuckles white as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You told Joe,” he repeated, much more calmly.

“Yeah. I told Joe. I don’t like my friends to have secrets from each other.”

“Who said we were friends?” The anger was fading quickly. For some reason he couldn’t stay mad at this arrogant, opinionated, overly judgmental Scot.

“You did. You asked me to go to Rome with you.” He drained the remainder of his beer. “He’ll keep your secret. After all, you know he’s involved with an immortal — me.”

“Great. So we blackmail each other.” He had long ago decided he could trust Joe Dawson; the opportunity or necessity to tell him the truth had never arisen.

“If that’s the way you want it. I thought you two could be friends, too.”

“Maybe.” He rose from the couch in a single, fluid movement from slouch to stance. “Got another?” he asked, tossing the empty bottle into a waste basket.

“Sure. Help yourself.”

Methos bent to pull another beer from the refrigerator. Grabbing the opener from the counter, he levered the top off and sent it sailing. “Well,” he asked again. “You coming?”

“Yeah. I think I will.”

Two more beers for Methos and a hot shower for Macleod later, the two immortals finally left the barge. Methos hailed a taxi and gave instructions to the driver. ”Gare de Lyon, s’il vous plait.”

“Train? We’re taking the train to Rome?” Macleod squirmed in the cramped back seat of the taxi, his knees against the back of the driver’s seat.

“Yeah.” Even here Methos could sprawl, somehow finding space to lean back and stretch his legs. “It’s so much more civilized than airplanes. Besides,” he continued. “I think it’s time we got better acquainted.”

“I thought you knew all about me.”

“The Chronicles only record what you’ve done, Macleod, not what you thought or felt. If we’re going to be friends...” He paused a moment while Macleod tried to find a comfortable position. “I want to know the real you.”

“And do I get to know the real Methos?”

“Let’s stick with Adam in public, shall we?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Methos shrugged silently. A ghost of a smile, almost a smirk, crossed his face. “Be careful what you ask for, Highlander,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “Someday I just may let you know.”

They made it through the mid-day traffic easily once Methos promised the driver an outrageous tip. They walked quickly through the depot, from a distance looking like two of a kind — both of them with dark hair, though one wore his long, the other short; long, black coats; and nearly identical bags. It was impossible to see that they both carried swords. As they approached the ticket windows, Methos ignored the lines and went directly to the will call booth.

“Pierson et Macleod,” he said. ”Deux a Roma.” The clerk looked through her file, pulled out an envelope and handed it to Methos. He checked the tickets, thanked the clerk and started toward the platforms. “Come on, Macleod, we’ll miss the train.”

Macleod stood still. “You already bought my ticket?” “Yeah, well, you’ve got to reserve these compartments ahead of time, or you have to sleep sitting up.”

It took the Highlander only three long strides to catch up with the other immortal. “Pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you?” Again, Methos only shrugged and smiled.

The train ride from Paris to Milan was uneventful, following the same route as the famous Orient Express. But where the Orient Express continued east from Milan towards Istanbul, Methos and Macleod would change trains to head south to Rome. They talked of seemingly inconsequential things: history; the current World Cup competition; history; music; history; movies; and more history. An eavesdropper would have thought them a couple of history professors; they spoke of events long past and people long dead as though they had been there.

Methos had booked a private compartment for them, so they were able to talk openly of their pasts, but long held habits kept their voices pitched so only the other could hear. They ate an unremarkable meal in the dining car, and returned to find the twin bunks pulled out and made up for sleeping.

“We change trains at three in the morning,” Methos reminded Macleod. “I guess we better sleep while we can.” Methos volunteered to take the upper bunk, tossed his bag onto the bed, then vaulted himself into the enclosure.

“You’re stronger than I thought,” Macleod remarked.

“I’m just full of surprises, Macleod. You’ll see.” The closed curtain hid the old man’s smirk, though he could still hear Macleod’s voice.

“Now, what exactly is it you need to do in Rome?” With the curtain to Methos’s bunk closed, Macleod took advantage of the privacy to undress in the center of the compartment.

“Unnnh,” the older man grunted, trying to push off his jeans while lying down. They caught on his feet, and his knee hit the ceiling before his foot was close enough to his hands. “It’s the Ides of March, Macleod. Figure it out.” He turned on his side and pulled his feet free.

“Julius Caesar?” Macleod carefully folded his trousers, inseam to inseam, preserving the knife-edge creases.

“Gold star, Highlander.”

“So you really did know him.”

“You could say that.” He skinned the long-sleeved shirt over his head and replaced it with a thin, white undershirt. “He owned me once.”

“Oh.”

Methos poked his head between the two halves of the curtain. “You got a problem with that?” Macleod had stripped down to his briefs, and was about to pull a pair of sweatpants over his leanly muscled legs. Methos watched the muscles move under the olive-hued skin, a silent sigh in his soul as the baggy pants concealed the well-filled briefs.

“No, of course not.” Over his head Macleod pulled a white tee-shirt, a twin to the one Methos wore. “I just can’t picture you as a slave.”

“Oh, believe me, I was a slave. Many times, in fact.”

Macleod shook his head. “I guess I’ve been lucky.”

“It wasn’t always a bad deal, Mac,” Methos explained. “Most owners were careful with their investments. So they fed us, at least.” His face darkened. “But others,” he paused, then nodded. “Yeah, Highlander. You’re lucky.”

“But you were owned. ” Methos could see the emotions in his eyes.

“That never changed who I was. It took some of my choices away, that’s all.” The silence between them grew. “But, yes, there were some owners who — who took advantage of the situation,” he said, his voice lower. “But I survived.”

Macleod nodded, then put a hand to his shoulder, squeezed once and withdrew. He ducked his head under the bunk and stretched out as much as he could on the lower bunk.

“I always do,” Methos said to himself as he reached a hand around to the switch and turned out the lights, leaving them with only the flickering glow from the road-side street lights.

They arrived in Rome early enough to do some basic sightseeing on their way to the hotel. Though they had both been in Rome many times before, it had been years since either of them had visited the Eternal City.

“Not much changes, does it, Macleod?” Methos asked as they finally headed away from the center of the city towards the east.

“No, I guess not,” Macleod affirmed. “The tourists just wear different clothes. There’s more traffic.” He looked around as the taxi made its way slowly through the renowned traffic. “Where are we going?”

“I know a hotel on the Vialle Parioli.” He leaned forward and tapped the cab driver on the shoulder and made a suggestion about a shortcut. His Italian was impeccable, fluent and modern, his accent only hinting at a northern origin. “Hotel delle Muse,” he continued in English to Macleod. He knew Macleod spoke Italian, but he kept their conversations in English, partly for his own convenience, partly to keep their comments less understandable by any passerby.

The door opened into a large room, a pair of upholstered chairs to one side, and a lone, king-size bed flanked by small tables on the other. “I asked for a suite,” Methos explained, the lie coming easily to him.

“They must have thought you meant en suite. At least we have our own bathroom.” Macleod gestured at the other open door, white tile and chrome fixtures visible.

“Thank goodness for small favors.” His eyes took in the details of the room, the amenities that come with a three-star hotel. A carafe and set of glasses stood next to a built in icemaker, and a basket of fruit: oranges, red apples, and a group of almost ripe bananas sat on the dresser.

“It’s all right, Meth — Adam. Haven’t you ever shared a bed with a friend before?”

“Of course I have.” Only, he thought, not when I wanted the friend so much it hurts. “Not lately, though.”

The room had its own small, iron balcony three floors above the cobbled piazza. Macleod immediately opened the glass-paned doors and stepped onto the narrow platform. In a moment, Methos stepped out and leaned on the railing, looking out into the town. “See, Mac, this is so much nicer than those modern high-rises downtown.

Macleod looked up and down the narrow street. There was a fountain in the square below them, and five cobbled streets led away like spokes of a wheel. “Yeah. This is nice.” The Scotsman looked at Methos and smiled.

Oh, that smile. Methos had only known Macleod in person for little more than a week, but already he had grown addicted to that smile. There were photographs of him in the Chronicles, but they all had been taken at a distance, sometimes on the run, by the various Watchers assigned to him since the invention of the camera. Neither the photos nor the earlier sketches had prepared him for the actual appearance of Duncan Macleod. No photograph could do justice to the deep brown eyes, the incandescent smile, the pure power of the man. It was more than his features, more than his physique. Maybe it was his quickening, maybe it was his soul. Whatever it was, to see the man in person filled him with desire and longing. Simple sexual desire at one extreme; platonic longing to be the man’s friend at the other.

The hotel’s dining room was small enough to be intimate, but large enough to be public. The menu was varied, listing dishes from all regions of Italy, each dish with a recommended wine. Macleod played it safe with veal picata; Methos was more adventurous with calamari di Bologne. Ignoring the menu’s suggestions, they chose a bottle of Orvieto to share.

“You know, Adam,” Macleod poured himself another glass of wine. “You look like some of those statues we saw today.” He reached across the table to refill Methos’s glass as well.

The alabaster skin showed the barest hint of a blush. “I don’t think any of those were me.”

“There are some of you, though?”

“Once upon a time, here and there. But I don’t think they exist anymore.”

They lingered over coffee and dessert until they were the last two in the dining room. The mâitre d’ and waiters stood impatiently at the kitchen door. “I guess we’d better go.” Macleod drained the last of his coffee, and made a face. “Nothing worse than cold coffee,” he muttered.

“Except no coffee.” Methos pushed his half-empty cup towards the middle of the table, then stood. “Let’s go.”

Macleod pulled a handful of lire notes from his pocket and dropped them next to the salt. “Tip,” he explained to Methos’s questioning look. “I know you signed for the dinner, but the waiter deserves something — especially after we stayed here so late.

“If you say so.” Methos never tipped unless he asked for something special, and graduate student Adam Pierson couldn’t afford to.

The door opened onto the same one-bed room they had left, but the bed had been turned down and a foil-wrapped mint left on each pillow. Macleod strode purposefully into the room, shucking off his jacket as he reached the wardrobe. Methos closed and bolted the door, then threw his coat over the back of a chair. The silence between them was oppressive, and the old man didn’t feel like being the first one to break it.

“Look, Adam,” Macleod said, clasping the older man’s shoulder. “It’s no big deal — god you’re tense.” He kneaded the deltoid muscle where it crossed over the shoulder, and moved to stand behind him. He moved his hands to massage both shoulders and the back of his neck. The strong fingers dug into the tense muscles. “You’ll never get to sleep like this,” he went on. “Take off your shirt and lie down.”

I can do this, Methos thought. He knew where the tension came from — for hours he’d been steeling himself against the rising tide of desire he felt with every moment he spent with Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod.

The attraction had been there from their first meeting and was the underlying reason he had invited the Highlander on this trip. He was curious to see if the interest was returned and to what degree. He knew from Macleod’s chronicle that he’d occasionally been intimate with other men, on a battlefield, in a monastery. Macleod’s ease at touching him was a good sign, and he quickly pulled his shirt from his pants, skinned it over his head, and kicked off his shoes. He set aside the mint and stuffed the pillow under his chest as he stretched out on top of the coverlet. Just as he settled himself he heard Macleod come out of the bathroom. He twisted his head back to see the Highlander juggle a handful of the little bottles hotels scattered across bathroom counters. He watched as Macleod set down the bottles and pulled off his boots. Methos stole a look at the miniature bottles — two of lotion and another of bath oil. This could get interesting, he thought, as a smile started to stretch across his mouth. It brightened as he watched Macleod unbutton and strip off his own shirt, the silk fluttering as it fell to the floor.

The sight of Macleod’s bare chest, the strong shoulders and firm, well-developed pectoral muscles made Methos’s groin tighten and he felt the first surges of an imminent erection. He shifted his hips slightly, just enough to give his growing cock room.

“Comfortable?” Macleod’s voice was soft and light, and Methos knew he was making an effort not to intimidate or threaten.

“Um-hmmm,” the older man answered, his face half buried in the mattress. With one eye open he saw Macleod pick up one of the lotion bottles, then put it down and pick up the other.

“This’ll do.”

“What?” Methos felt his shoulders tense again, loosing all the relaxation Macleod’s first, initial massage had gained.

“Almond body lotion.” Macleod twisted off the cap and poured the lotion into his palm. He set the bottle down, still uncapped, and dropped the cap beside it, then rubbed his hands together to warm the lotion. “Ready?”

Methos couldn’t speak. If he spoke his voice would be so full of desire and passion it would betray him. He could feel the heat of Macleod’s body near his own, and he could see in his mind’s eye the preparations for the massage. He managed to nod his head.

Macleod’s first touch was like electricity. He could almost hear the Highlander’s quickening humming through his mind, his body. Usually their awareness of one another dissolved into nothingness when they were this close, but he could feel the power pulsing through the younger man. His quickening was incredible, far stronger than an immortal merely four hundred years old should have, and Methos briefly wondered how many heads this man had taken in his relatively brief lifetime.

The massage was strong and expert. Macleod leaned his knees against the edge of the bed, working from Methos’s left side. He used the strength gained from centuries of wielding a sword to work out the tension in the deltoid and trapezius muscles. Once the shoulder muscles had finally relaxed, he moved to latissimi along each side of the spine and under the arms. He worked his fingers in circles, forcing out the tension.

Without warning the soothing hands left the ancient back. It was all Methos could do to keep from crying out in need. His cock was throbbing now, caught between his body and the bed, and while Macleod poured more lotion into the palm of his hand Methos shifted his hips once more, the movement both easing his discomfort and adding to the stimulation.

After warming the lotion Macleod applied it in sweeping strokes up and down the muscled back, now rubbing with his palms, adding pressure against the vertebrae with the heel of his hands. “Move over.”

Methos felt a knee against his hip, and obligingly shifted towards the center of the bed. He carefully lifted his hips from the bed to move, finally giving his cock the room it needed to extend its length along his belly. Bless whoever invented boxers, he thought, as the loose-fitting shorts accommodated his tumescence. As soon as he was prostrate again the Highlander straddled his hips, knees up against his flanks, almost sitting on his bum. Methos closed his eyes against the images that filled his mind, fantasies of the two of them….

“No.” He meant only to think the word, to tell himself not to allow the fantasies to continue. But he knew he had said it aloud, at least loud enough for Macleod to hear.

“Did I hurt you?” Immediately the Highlanders’ hands were still, his touch a comfort on his shoulders.

“No,” Methos quickly assured him. “Not at all. It…” What was he going to say? That the massage was turning him on? That his mind was full of erotic fantasies involving the two of them? “It really feels good, Duncan.” He hadn’t used the Scot’s given name before, but the present level of intimacy, let alone the level he wanted to attain, demanded it.

He could almost feel the warmth of Macleod’s smile on his back. “I think you’re relaxed enough to sleep now.” He swung his leg over and stood at the side of the bed, looming over Methos.

Breathing deeply to maintain a semblance of composure, Methos nodded. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Much better.” Yeah, his back felt better, but his cock, his balls.… He could feel his arousal all the way to his toes, pins-and-needles that throbbed in time to his heartbeat. He had to get into the bathroom;he had to somehow cross the room without the observant Highlander seeing his hard-on. He clutched the pillow to his chest and swung his legs around to extend off the edge of the bed. Sitting up, the pillow ended up in his lap, blocking any view of his tented trousers, and the darkened spot above the already weeping head.

Macleod took his time replacing the cap on the nearly empty bottle of lotion, then carefully arranged the three small bottles at the base of the table lamp. Neat to a fault, Methos thought. He tried visualizing walking through snow banks to the bathroom, and when that didn’t affect him, he brought up every memory he could think of that would deflate his turgid manhood. Finally the memory of his forty-second wife’s sister, pock-marked and perpetually pregnant, did the trick. At least until I can get to the bathroom. He judged the distance to the door, and Macleod’s visual angle, and figured he could just risk it.

“You need the bathroom first? Go ahead.” Macleod had only glanced in his direction, but must have seen Methos’s measuring gaze.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He stood with the pillow still in his hands, dropping it back onto the bed only once he was totally turned away from the Scotsman and his searching brown eyes. He made it safely to the tiled bathroom and closed the door behind him. Just as the door closed, he thought he heard a deep-throated chuckle from behind. No, he told himself. He didn’t see anything. He hadn’t counted on the Highlander’s imagination.

Macleod watched Methos disappear into the bathroom. He shook his head and smiled to himself. Well, I got him interested, at least. He had seen the bulge in Methos’s pants as he crossed the room. And that’s just from a back rub. He changed into sweats and began his usual relaxation exercise set. He knew what his body looked like, and he knew how most women and some men responded to it. Methos had been sending signals ever since arriving at the barge the previous morning, and Macleod wondered how far he would go without encouragement. He enjoyed playing clueless; it made the end game so much more fun.

Quickly Methos turned the shower taps on, and decided hot was infinitely preferable to cold, regardless of the myth surrounding cold showers. Ice cold water might have the wanted effect on an erection, but it did nothing to satisfy the need, the desire. Jerking off in the shower wasn’t one of his favorite pastimes, but over the years he had become quite familiar with the procedure.

He let the hot water hit him in the chest first, the hot water cooled to merely warm by the time it ran over and around his still erect cock. Turning away from the water, he peeled the paper wrapper from the miniature bar of soap, and quickly lathered himself. With the hot water running down his back, reminding him of Macleod’s recent touch, he wrapped his hand around his engorged cock and pumped steadily. He supported himself with his other hand against the hard tiles, and leaned his head and chest forward. In this position he could watch himself come, though this time he fantasized it was Macleod erupting in his hand, Macleod’s hand bringing him release. The fantasy approached hallucination, and his orgasm was intense. It felt like he came forever, the spasms continuing long after he had milked his cock dry. He nearly bit his tongue in two to keep from calling out Macleod’s name, the taste of blood yet another arousal.

He washed the blood out of his mouth and the thick semen from his hand and body. He ducked his head under the stream and quickly shampooed, washing out the sex-scented sweat that had already dampened his hair.

The terry cloth robes that hung on the bathroom door were sized, he found, for the more diminutive Italian man. The robe wrapped around his lean body adequately, but the hem fell farther above his knee than he thought comfortable. Oh well, he thought, maybe it’ll give Mac some ideas.

It didn’t give Macleod any ideas; the Scotsman was deep in the zone as he moved through a Qui-Dong pattern Methos didn’t recognize. The brown eyes were nearly closed, rolled back so only whites showed beneath the dark lashes. The slow, deliberate moves challenged the laws of physics as Macleod used his strength to maintain his balance on one foot while he moved his other leg and both arms through the pattern.

Methos took the opportunity to quickly pull on a clean pair of boxers and to shrug into a plain white tee-shirt. He hung up the damp robe and stood watching the finish of the kata, finding intense enjoyment at watching the other man move.

Finally Macleod completed the kata, but stood still, frozen in his last posture, only the rise and fall of his chest telling of his efforts. His breathing slowed, and he brought his hands up over his head, stretching from fingertip to toe, then relaxed and opened his eyes.

The gray eyes met the brown, and a smile crossed the Highlander’s face. “I thought you were watching me.”

“Do you mind?”

“No,” Mac shook his head, the long, loose hair falling across his face. He reached a hand up to brush it aside. “Why should I mind?”

“No reason.” Methos pulled the bedding down where he had lain before. “I’m for bed,” he announced, sliding his long legs between the sheets. He pulled the coverlet up over his shoulders and sank his head into the pillow. “G’night, Macleod.”

Methos slept through the night well enough, though his dreams were filled with images of the Highlander. He saw scenes of them together, working as friends, sparring, loving. When he had vivid dreams like these they were sometimes prophetic; he hoped this was one of those times.

The sun was barely up when he awoke to Macleod’s low voice. “I’m going for a run,” he whispered. “Back in twenty minutes.”

“Mm-hmmm,” was all Methos could manage, his face turned into the pillow. Alone in the big bed, he stretched his legs across the other half, the sheets still slightly warm from their recent occupant. He grabbed the pillow and held it to his face, the smell of Macleod still strong on the pillowslip.

He should have known better than to tempt himself, for Macleod’s mere scent filled him with desire. Alone in the room, he moaned aloud as his body once again responded to his fantasies. He grabbed at the nearly empty lotion bottle on the table, and found that Macleod had tightened the cap with near superhuman strength. It took both hands to twist the cap from the bottle, and by the time he had half a handful of the almond-scented lotion in his palm he was panting with need. His cock was even more engorged than it had been the night before, and he kicked off the sheets and pushed his boxers to his knees, then toed them off.

Freed from the confines of his shorts, Methos’s erect cock bobbed towards his belly, its entire length darkened, pearly fluid already leaking. The pre-cum gathered at the head of his cock until a single drop fell over the edge of his foreskin and slowly meandered down towards the forest of black hair at the base. He was so sensitive, so aroused, he felt the drop every inch of the way, and fantasized that it was the tip of Duncan’s tongue, hot and slick, that traced that line of fire.

He spread the lotion over the pulsing shaft, careful to keep his hand away from the ultra sensitive head. He knew if he touched himself there he would come immediately, and he wanted this — needed this — to last at least a little while longer. He turned on his side and pulled one leg up to his chest. He reached behind and with one lotion-coated finger lubricated the tight, puckered opening. Keeping the other hand on his cock, he deliberately teased the tightness until he could gently push the tip of his finger in.

He cried out with the penetration, his voice loud in the empty room, and he buried his face in the pillow that still smelled like Macleod. He stroked his cock with a slow, steady rhythm, and his hips began to move back and forth, back to take more of his questing digit; forth to push deeper into the hand he imagined to be the Scot’s. He twisted his finger, now in his arse to the first knuckle, and felt the tight ring clench around it. He wrapped his hand loosely around his cock, and the movement of his hips slid his rigid member in and out of the ring of his fingers, the friction building as the lotion was absorbed.

Slowly he thrust his index finger deeper, then pulled out, finger fucking himself, and at the same time his cock back and forth, fucking his hand. His middle finger then joined in, and he scissored his fingers, stretching the rings of muscle, preparing himself for the third finger. The lubrication was gone, and the ring finger went in dry, but he didn’t mind the brief moment of pain that was so close to ecstasy. He tightened his grip on his cock, and working both hands in unison, fucked himself until he came, pouring the hot, creamy fluid across his hand and leg, soaking the bedding. He came hard and long, holding his breath, every muscle in his body clenching and spasming at once, and his eyes rolled up as he blacked out.

Methos came to with a start, panting and gasping for breath. He eased his fingers out of his arse, feeling the damage the dry fuck had done inside him, knowing he would heal in moments. His other hand was a mess, covered with cum, and he pulled off his undershirt to clean the stickiness from his hands and legs. He wiped up as much from the bedding as he could, then threw the coverlet over to hide the evidence. Hotel maids were used to this, he reasoned as he made his way to the bathroom to shower.

Just as he pulled the bathroom door closed he felt and heard Macleod return. Gods, that was close, he thought. He quickly showered, and as he stepped from the tub he realized that he’d left his robe over a chair in the bedroom. There was only one other robe, and he knew Macleod would want to shower after his run. He wrapped a towel around his hips and sauntered back into the bedroom.

“Oh, there you are, Mac.” He grabbed the robe and swung it over his shoulders, then stuffed each arm in a sleeve. “Have a good run?”

Macleod looked like a god. His long hair hung loose in damp tendrils around his face, and the muscles of his shoulders and arms were pumped from his exercise, bulging around the muscle shirt he wore. He was flushed and sweating, his chest still heaving with deep, panting breaths. He was going through a cool down, stretching and twisting the hot muscles so they wouldn’t cramp. He’d already kicked off his shoes, working even his feet and toes in his routine.

“Yeah,” he answered. “It’s warmer here than in Paris, though. I should have gone earlier.”

Methos shrugged. “You gonna shower?”

“You better hope I do,” Mac joked. “Did you leave me any hot water?”

“Some.”

Macleod pulled the shirt up over his back and head and threw it at his bag, then pushed down the sweatpants and stepped out of them. He wore only an athletic supporter under his running gear, and Methos couldn’t help but stare at the firm butt, the sides dimpling as he strode to the bathroom door. Mac turned as he closed the door and his eyes locked with Methos’s gaze. He smiled broadly and said, “Won’t be long.”

He knows, Methos thought, and he wasn’t sure for a moment whether this was a good sign or not. Was he ready for this? Fantasies are one thing; reality another. Be careful what you ask for, he’d told the Highlander. Now he had to repeat the aphorism to himself.

You just might get what you ask for.

Well, jerking off isn’t anything to criticize, he told himself. He shook his head at his own erection, standing proud, and realized he was in the same predicament. He adjusted the shower head to spray higher, then planted his feet and leaned back on the tiled wall. The water hit his chest, the spray gentle enough to tease and tickle, then caress as it rolled down his abdomen, the stream splitting in two around his rampant manhood, only to conjoin as it ran over his balls and fell to the bottom of the tub.

Only a sliver of the miniature bar of soap remained, but it was enough to lather his hands. He took his cock with both hands, rolling the rigid column between his flattened palms. He felt the pressure in his balls build, so he wrapped the strong fingers around the engorged organ, one pumping the shaft, the other teasing the weeping head. He pumped faster and faster, harder and harder, until he came so forcefully the cum splashed off the wall of the shower and back onto his legs and feet.

He sagged against the back wall of the shower for a moment, letting the water run over his body, remembering the feel of Methos’s skin as he rubbed the ancient back, the bright smile on his face when he agreed to come to Rome with him. We can play some more today, he thought as he finished his shower. And tonight.… That thought stayed with him, keeping a smile just behind his eyes for the rest of the morning.

The tourist sites of Rome were always crowded, even in the middle of the week in March. Methos and Macleod climbed halfway up the ruined steps in silence. Church bells rang all over the city. It was exactly noon; Methos had been insistent about the time. Without warning, he stopped and looked around. He walked along the step ten feet or so, then crouched down to touch the ancient limestone.

“Here,” he said quietly, his palm flat on the stone. He extended his other hand to Macleod without looking up.

Fishing in his coat pockets, Macleod produced a small candle in a plain glass holder and a butane lighter. “Here,” he said, placing them in Methos’s hand. He stood near him, standing guard, watching the old man’s back.

The old immortal flicked the lighter and applied the flame to the candle’s wick. He cupped his hand around the flame to protect it from the wind, and once it was established, he set the glass on the step. He spoke in a whisper, pronouncing the Latin as it was spoken two millennia earlier. “Pacem,” was the only word he spoke loudly enough for Macleod to hear. He stayed in his crouch for another minute, then straightened.

They felt the other immortal at the same time, each of them scanning a segment of the crowd. Macleod saw the newcomer first, and put a hand to Methos’s arm. “Go,” he said quietly. “I can handle him.”

“You sure?” Methos looked at the approaching stranger.

“Yeah. Disappear.”

“There’s an old temple over…” The ancient temple of the Vestal Virgins was nearby; it was still holy ground and safety.

“I’ll find you,” Macleod interrupted, his voice firm, hardened for the coming challenge.

Methos hurried away, hoping the stranger would be so focused on Macleod that he wouldn’t notice the feeling of a retreating immortal. He didn’t dare run, for fear of drawing attention, and he kept Macleod directly between himself and the other, his best bet at getting away unnoticed. He felt the siren song of holy ground as he approached the ancient temple, and didn’t relax until he was well within the invisible wall of protection.

He couldn’t see Macleod from the temple; and he was too far away to feel either of the other immortals. There was nothing to do but wait, his faith in Macleod’s skill with a sword bolstering him.

Methos did, however, hear the battle. The sounds of steel clashing on steel came from a deserted alley behind the massive ruins, and it was all Methos could do to stay in the safety of holy ground. It didn’t take long, and he took that to mean Macleod had been victorious. He saw the edges of the Quickening, the lightning bright even in the mid-day sun. The Quickening over, he waited patiently for Macleod to come for him.

No one came. The afternoon approached evening, and still Methos waited in the ruins of the old temple, alone. “Oh, hell,” he muttered to himself. “If that bastard was going to come for me, he’d have been here by now.” He jogged away from the temple towards the alley. The last time Methos had been in that alley he had been wearing a slave’s tunica and leather sandals rather than jeans and a loose fitting shirt with hiking boots. His long overcoat flapped behind him as he ran.

The Quickening had burst apart the limestone blocks, and the alley was littered with debris. He could feel an immortal’s presence as he searched among the fallen stones. He stood still for a moment, stilled his breathing, and concentrated on the dizzying rush that filled his mind. It was Macleod, he was sure, but he drew his sword as he continued searching.

He found the other first, the headless body half covered with stones the size of steamer trunks. He ignored the corpse and tried to home in on Macleod’s quickening, but it was his sense of hearing that led him to the Highlander where he lay with his legs pinned beneath a block of stone.

“Methos,” Mac called, his voice weak, but enough to draw the older immortal to his side.

“You’re alive.” Methos stated the obvious, ignoring Macleod’s predicament for the moment.

Macleod chuckled, then grimaced from the motion. “Get these rocks off me.” His right arm and hand, and presumably his sword as well, were buried beneath more rubble, smaller stones and rocks.

Methos attacked the smaller stones first, lifting and heaving them away from the trapped man. In only moments Mac’s arm was free, and he could sit partially up to help push on the large stone that still pinned his legs. “Nope,” Methos told him. “You can’t move that yourself.”

“I didn’t think I could.” He leaned back on his elbows. “I thought I could pull my legs out from under.”

Methos looked at Macleod’s legs where the stone rested on them and saw how much blood had soaked the jeans and pooled under the stone. “No, you’re not going to pull them out; we’ll have to move it.”

“You got a crane?”

Methos wandered around the end of the alley looking behind and under the other fallen stones. “No,” he answered Macleod’s question. “But I have this.” He hefted a six-foot length of heavy iron pipe.

The Scot craned his neck back to look. “What?”

“Give me where to stand and I will move the earth.”

“Great. You can quote Archimedes,” he muttered under his breath. “Now get this rock off me.” His voice was louder now, and he nearly shouted at Methos.

Never thought he’d ask me to get his rocks off. Methos nearly laughed out loud at his thought, though a slight blush colored his cheeks.

Using one of the smaller rocks as a fulcrum, Methos levered the stone from its seat on the Highlander’s legs, grunting, “I’ll have you know I knew Archimedes.” As soon as the stone was lifted, Macleod pulled his legs free, even though the bones and flesh were crushed to a bloody pulp. A mortal would never walk again, Methos thought when he saw the damage to the knees and shins, even if they saved the legs at all. But he knew Macleod had already started to heal.

“God, that hurts,” Macleod cursed as Methos pulled first one foot and then the other to make sure the bones and joints healed properly and in a few moments the legs were sound enough for him to struggle to his feet.

“Easy, now,” Methos admonished him. “Take it easy. It’ll take a while to get your strength back.”

“Yeah,” Macleod grunted, trying to take a step unsupported. His knee buckled and he would have fallen if Methos hadn’t caught him under the arms. “Let’s just get back to the hotel.”

Methos shoved his shoulder under Macleod’s left arm and snaked his right arm around his waist. He took most of Mac’s weight on himself and they made their way back to the boulevard where Methos hailed a taxi. “Act drunk,” he whispered to Macleod as the cab came to a stop in front of them. “Il mio amico ubriaco,” he told the driver. “Hotel delle Muse. Presto, per favore!”

He watched the damaged legs heal before his eyes, and saw Mac’s strength return, and with it, the sexual arousal that follows a quickening. Macleod had leaned his head back over the top of the seat, his legs stretched out as much as was possible in the back seat of the taxi. He made no attempt to hide the erection that bulged his jeans, and by the time they pulled up to the hotel his breath was deep and fast, his eyes dilated to total black.

Methos threw several thousand lire at the cab driver, knowing it was too much, but there was no time to wait for change. He half-lifted, half-dragged Macleod through the lobby to the small elevator and then quickly to their room. Once inside, the door bolted, he stripped him of his coat, then pulled the sweater over his head while Mac fumbled at his belt and pants, finally pushing the blood soaked jeans to the floor.

“Shower,” Methos ordered, steering the half-naked man to the bathroom.

“Methos, I need…”

“Mac, I know what you need.” Methos turned on the shower full force. “Don’t worry. Now, do you want to take off your shorts or shall I?” He hooked his thumbs in the waist elastic of Mac’s snug-fitting briefs and pulled down, bringing a gasp from Macleod.

“I can do it myself,” he said, and carefully pulled the elastic out and over the prominent bulge, and sighed as his cock was finally released from the confining clothing.

As he stepped into the shower, Methos saw the other tell-tale signs of the recent battle: a red welt across his upper abdomen and streaks of dried blood told of a slashing blow that didn’t miss, and there was a sign of a healed-over stab wound in his left thigh. It was his knees and legs, though, that were the worst, the dark hair matted with the drying blood, the new skin shiny and pink.

While Macleod washed, Methos stripped himself, and wrapped one of the terry cloth robes around his body, tying the belt securely. He picked up the now worthless clothing, stuffing the jeans and shirt into the trash. The boots were bloody, but the leather uppers were intact; they could be salvaged. He worked at wiping away as much of the blood as he could; the shoe shiner could finish the job. After a brief phone call to the concierge he set the boots outside the door. They would be cleaned and shined by morning. The miniature bottles of lotion and oil on the bedside table caught his eye, and he dug through his luggage to find a sizable tube of a more appropriate lubricant.

Gods, he didn’t want it to be like this, he thought. The almost insatiable need after a quickening left little room for any romance. Methos had dreamt of long, slow foreplay, of incredible sex, of sleepy afterplay. Forced by the quickening, he knew it would be hard and long and meaningless. Hard and long, I could do, he thought. But.…

He placed the lube on the table, then filled the carafe and two glasses with water from the tap and put them at the side of the bed just as he heard the shower stop. He pulled the coverlet to the foot of the bed exposing the smooth, clean sheets.

“Methos!” Macleod called him from the bathroom. There was an urgency in his voice that was not unexpected, and Methos hurried into the other room.

Macleod still stood in the tub, his back to the shower head, leaning forward on both extended arms. His legs were spread as far apart as possible in the narrow tub, his cock thrust up from the dark hair at his groin. When Methos pulled aside the shower curtain, he made no attempt to cover himself, no attempt to hide his arousal. He turned his face toward the older immortal, his need just as apparent in his eyes. “Help me, Methos,” he begged. “Please.”

“It’s okay, Duncan.” Methos kept his voice hushed. “I’ll take care of everything.” He hung the other terry cloth robe over the broad shoulders, then took his hands and guided the larger man to stand on the mat. He dried the lower part of his legs with another towel, then gently blotted the water from the still heaving chest.

He wasn’t expecting Macleod to grasp his shoulders with steel fingers and kiss him full on the mouth, but it wasn’t a total surprise, either. He didn’t react at first, but when the Scot’s tongue pushed past his lips to rape his mouth, he returned the kiss and stepped closer to the wet, dripping immortal. Macleod pushed his hips against Methos’s body, crushing the massive erection between them. “God, Methos,” he gasped against the welcoming mouth. “You’ve got to help me.”

Methos stroked his fingers through the wet hair, straightening the tangled strands, petting the Highlander’s head like a cat’s. “’S okay. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.” He slid his hand to Mac’s back and directed him out of the bathroom, towards the bed.

Before they reached the bed, Macleod had shrugged off his robe and pulled its twin from Methos. Mac pulled the naked immortal into his embrace, and kissed him again, every bit as hard and demanding as before. Methos hooked a foot behind Mac’s heel, and they tumbled onto the bed, the embrace intact, the kiss uninterrupted.

No gentle foreplay this time, Methos thought as Macleod pushed his head to his groin. He pulled away from Mac’s hands, and forced the muscled thighs apart with his knees. Macleod drew his knees up, keeping his feet flat on the bed, far enough apart for Methos to kneel between them. He looked up along the length of Macleod’s body, the huge, swollen cock jutting up from the tangle of black curls, the muscle-ridged abdomen, the lightly furred chest heaving with deep, ragged breaths. His shoulders and head were propped up on the pillows, but his eyes were closed, his face screwed in tension. He gripped the bedding in his fists, the muscles in his forearms bulging, his knuckles white with the effort.

“Now!” The word was forced from his clenched jaw, but an order just the same.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Methos bent to Macleod’s erection, beginning by running the flat of his tongue slowly from the base to the head, following the distended vein. He made his tongue into a warm, moist finger and flicked it quickly and softly back and forth across the vein until he reached the base again. Macleod moaned aloud, his mouth open, and Methos took the sound to be approval. He repeated the combination of moves until Macleod rolled his head back and forth, only his death-like grip on the sheet holding his body still on the bed.

Still leaning forward over Macleod’s groin, Methos lifted the heavy testicles in their silken sac into the palm of his hand. Holding their weight he laved them with his tongue, his lips caressed and kissed. He squeezed gently, and Mac’s cock jumped once. He rolled the balls lightly in his fingers, then had to hold the bucking hips still. He kissed them once more, almost reverently, then shifted position.

From the upward curve of Macleod’s erection, Methos knew he would have to take it from above. He swung his legs around towards Mac’s head, then levered himself up. He placed an arm on either flank, his long fingers gripping the satiny flesh at the hips.

Maybe it was part of what made them immortal, but he had always heard that immortal men were hung long and thick. The somewhat extensive experience he personally had with other male immortals confirmed the rumors, and he knew his own equipment was more than expected from his lean, rangy frame. Macleod was a tall, solidly built man, and one would expect a cock longer and thicker than average. But this…

The weeping cock that confronted Methos was quite possibly the largest erection he had ever seen, and certainly the largest he had ever attempted to fellate. First he licked the pearly pre-cum from the dark slit, teasing it with his tongue until it opened to him and he inserted just the tip into the dark recess. He sealed his lips around the velvety head and pulled his tongue back, sucking more pre-cum into his mouth.

Macleod tasted just as Methos had imagined, salty, as all men, but earthy, like Scotch whisky tastes of peat. There was an unexpected sweetness, too, like a dry wine that suddenly, after you swallow, tastes like pears for just an instant. Keeping his lips sealed, Methos breathed deeply through his nose, stretched his neck to straighten his throat, and inch by inch, slowly sucked all of the Highlander’s manhood into his mouth and throat.

It was only many years of diligent practice that kept Methos from gagging on the huge cock. He remembered to breathe through his nose as more and more of the throbbing organ moved into him. He swallowed, massaging the sensitive head in his throat, and he felt the hips beneath him buck and squirm.

Fingers strengthened by five thousand years of wielding a sword dug into Macleod’s flesh, holding him still so Methos could take even more. One more deep breath, one more swallow, and his nose encountered the wiry hair that surrounded the base.

For a moment he held Macleod motionless, only his tongue and throat muscles moving on the tremendous pillar. Then he slowly backed his head away, his lips holding their seal. He could feel the soft skin move over the rigid muscles, and he continued his sucking retreat until his lips caught on the protruding ridge that marked the crown. Inside his mouth, he swirled his tongue over and around the rounded head, then reversed again, sucking the entire length once again. He felt the abdominal muscles quiver, and he knew Mac was close. When his lips again caught on that sensitive ridge he felt the spasms begin, and his mouth was filled with the thick, creamy essence he hungered for. Greedily he swallowed, and each contraction of his throat brought forth another stream until finally the spasms ceased.

He slid his lips over the ridge to finish with a lingering kiss on the tip of Mac’s still engorged cock. Methos knew one orgasm would not be enough; he knew they were both in for a long night.

He felt Macleod’s hands on his shoulders as he lost contact with the velvet dome. He was pulled away and up to the head of the bed where Mac captured his mouth with a passionate kiss, plunging his tongue deep inside, thrusting in over and over, each time tasting a different part of Methos’s mouth. He was hard and aching now, though only from lust, not from the undeniable power of a quickening. He moved his body against Macleod’s, rubbing his own erection against a still bruised hip.

Immediately he felt Macleod’s hand on his cock, the strong, blunt fingers wrapping around and pumping in time with his tongue. Faster and faster he pumped and pulled, roughly squeezing until Methos erupted, spilling semen on both of them.

Without taking his mouth away, Macleod rolled over on top of Methos. He was still erect, and Methos felt the rigid organ against his own, now spent and limp. Macleod slid down, away from his mouth, pushing his knees up under Methos’s thighs. Methos groped blindly for the lube and pressed it into Macleod’s hand. “Here. Use this,” he commanded, though he knew he was no longer in control. He pulled his knees up, locking them on either side of his chest with his elbows, offering Macleod his prize.

Mac sat back on his heels and squirted lube on his cock, then more on his fingers. He tossed the tube aside, then simultaneously spread the gel on himself while he applied the second amount to Methos’s offered opening.

The first finger went straight in with no teasing, no gentleness at all. Macleod made no effort to find the prostate, sliding the finger in and out several times before stretching the opening even more with two fingers. Scissoring inside, they glanced over the sensitive gland, and without withdrawing the two fingers, Mac pushed in a third, turning his hand to open Methos even more.

It was agony; it was ecstasy. Methos clasped his hands together between his knees, and stretched his head back, his mouth open in a soundless scream. He tried to relax the muscles in his arse, tried to accustom himself to the invasion, but no sooner had he accepted the three digits but they were withdrawn completely.

Methos knew what was next, and he tried to relax even more. He felt the head of Mac’s huge cock brush against his balls, then it was pushing into him. It was a hot, throbbing, steel rod that pushed into his arse, past the rings of muscle and the prostate. He felt the entire length steadily pushed into him, then withdrawn. Over and over Methos was reamed by the massive organ in an ever increasing rhythm until the thrusts matched their heart beats and their bodies moved in a new, even more primitive dance. Methos opened his eyes and looked down along his body.

Macleod’s head hung between his shoulders, his long hair hiding his face, his shoulder muscles bulging as he supported himself on locked-out elbows and bent knees. Methos’s own cock was hard again, dancing in time with the tremendous thrusts of Macleod’s hips, and Methos could see the hard column of flesh as he pulled back to thrust again.

The sight of Macleod’s cock burying itself in his arse was more than Methos needed, and with wordless cry he came again, covering his own belly and chest with cum. He knew in his orgasm he clenched and spasmed around Mac’s cock, and with the next thrust Macleod shot stream after stream deep inside him. Mac ground his hips against Methos’s arse, as if he was trying to push even more of himself into the old man, and when the orgasm was finally over, he collapsed, his weight driving the breath from Methos’s straining lungs.

Methos opened his eyes to see a pair of brown eyes gazing at him. The wildness was gone from them, but he could still see a begging need. He felt a fingertip brush the hair off his forehead, then trace a line across his temple and along his jaw. Macleod was smiling.

“Did I hurt you?”

Methos couldn’t make words come out of his mouth, so he moved his head from side to side for “no.”

His smile broadened, and Methos basked in the warmth of it. “Good. When you passed out, I was afraid I’d killed you.”

He shook his head again, and found his voice. “No.” He tried to take a deep breath, and could only inhale halfway. “Just knocked the breath out of me.” It had been a long time since anyone had fucked him senseless.

Barely had the words left his mouth when Macleod’s lips touched his. This kiss was unlike all the others; it was soft and gentle. Methos responded, and the kiss became a score of tiny kisses all over both their faces.

“It’s better now, but…” Macleod drew back, apology in his eyes.

Methos raised an eyebrow. “But what?”

“I don’t think it’s over.”

“I wouldn’t think so.” He raised a hand to caress Mac’s cheek, and ran the pad of his thumb over the full, sensuous lips. Mac kissed his thumb.

“Methos, I…”

“Shhhhh, Duncan.” He craned his head up to reach those lips again. “I’ll be here.” He drew the Highlander’s head into the crook of his neck and held it there until the Scotsman adjusted his position to lie against him, one arm caught between them, one hand resting on his chest. “Just rest for now.”

They both slept for more than an hour, but when Macleod awoke he was aroused again, almost out of his head with need, and Methos took him again in his mouth. He had just taken the cock-head into his mouth when he felt his own legs pushed apart and Macleod’s silky hair brush the inside of this thigh. He moaned around the hard cock in his mouth as he felt hot breath on his balls, then a silky tongue lick them, lips nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin.

He tried to concentrate on giving Mac the blow job of the century, but the hot mouth moved onto his cock, the ends of Mac’s hair teasing the abandoned balls. He couldn’t think with Mac’s mouth on him, the hot tongue and soft lips meandering up the shaft.

He tried to say Duncan’s name when his cock was swallowed, but his mouth, too, was occupied. They fucked each other’s faces until they both came, then rolled apart.

Macleod recovered first, the quickening still driving him on. “I want you in me,” he said between gasps of breath.

“Give me a minute, will you?” Methos squirmed around until he could reach the bedside table. Up on one elbow, he drank half a glass of water, then turned to face Macleod. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“I need you,” Macleod whispered, his eyes begging.

Methos couldn’t say no to the brown eyes, nor could he resist the call of the deific body. He took a deep breath, and felt his body recover. Thank the gods I’m immortal, he thought. This would kill a mortal. He stretched out on his back once again, and pulled Mac’s face to his. He softly kissed the full lips, then the end of the Scot’s nose.

“Can we do it my way, this time?”

Macleod nodded.

“You’ll do what I tell you?” He stroked the bristly cheeks, the dark stubble shading Macleod’s lean features into gauntness.

Another nod. His breath was ragged, his need undeniable.

A smirk lifted one corner of Methos’s mouth. “Good.” He pulled Mac into another kiss, now more passionate, more demanding. He traced the Highlander’s lips with the tip of this tongue, then pushed into the open mouth. He could still taste himself in Macleod’s mouth, a spiciness that complemented the flavor he already recognized as Macleod. He carefully explored Mac’s mouth until he knew it as well as his own, then drew back.

“Now,” he said when he could breathe again, “I want you to suck me. Just until I’m hard. Don’t make me come. Understand?”

Another nod, and the dark head bent to its task. Macleod shifted position so he knelt beside Methos’s hip. He grazed his hands along the smooth chest, his fingertips flicking over the dark nipples, turning them into hardened nubs. He gently kissed then ran the tip of his tongue into and around the deep navel. He lifted his head to look at Methos again.

Methos pushed himself up on his elbows so he could better see what Macleod did. Mac’s face turned back toward him, the long, dark hair hanging loose, the ends of the silky strands tickling his belly. When he was sure he had caught Macleod’s eye, he closed his eyes again and sighed. “Yes,” he whispered. “Oh, yes.”

He felt Macleod’s hands on his cock first, the fingertips stroking from base to tip, over and over, and he felt himself start to harden. In a moment the fingers were replaced with light, nipping kisses, and his thighs were urged apart with light touches of strong fingers. Methos opened his eyes again, the urge to watch strong. His balls were lifted and fondled, just as Mac lifted the semi-hard cock and engulfed it. The old man cried out with the sudden heat of Macleod’s mouth.

Macleod hummed as he slid his mouth down the shaft, using his tongue to push the foreskin away from the velvety head. Methos moaned as the suction increased, and the talented mouth moved up and down on his growing, firming manhood. With a last flourish, like licking an ice cream cone, Mac released him, then kissed the weeping tip, sucking in the emerging pre-cum.

“Mmmmm.” The vibration of Macleod’s hum surged the length of Methos’s now-rigid cock and spread throughout his body, and he shuddered with anticipation.

“Okay?” Macleod asked, his voice deep and husky, his breath coming in gasps.

The hazel eyes found the brown again and Methos nodded. He grabbed the tube of lubricant, and thrust it into Macleod’s hands. “Here. Get me ready.”

Without a word Macleod cupped his hand and filled the palm with lube. Methos smiled to see him take the time to warm the cool gel, then he gasped again as it was slathered onto his bobbing erection. He felt the tube pressed into his hand as Macleod stretched out face down on the bed. He drew his knees up, raising his hips, and spreading the round cheeks apart.

“Gods, yes.” He sat up and rolled to kneel behind the other man. He rubbed his face against the soft, smooth skin of Macleod’s arse, bringing up a red patch with his beard stubble. He knew it would make the skin even more sensitive, and he followed his abrasion with delicate touches of his tongue.

“Please,” Macleod gasped. “Methos, oh, please.”

Methos smiled. He knew what he was doing, how much Macleod needed him, and now he knew Macleod wanted him, too. Lightly he grasped each side of Macleod’s hips, and with just the tip of his tongue touching, he traced the cleft from where it began at the base of Macleod’s spine to its deepest point. He breathed in the Scotsman’s scent, strongest here in his most intimate place. He circled the tight pucker with his tongue, and Macleod pushed his hips back, opening himself even more to the coming invasion. Before he could draw his hips back Methos pushed his tongue into Macleod, holding tight as the hips bucked. He pumped his tongue in and out until he felt the tight ring relax, then he sat back on his heels.

“Now, you’re ready,” he said. He squeezed more lube onto his fingers and slicked the rosy opening, then eased his index finger in, past the outer rings, twisting the digit to find that one spot that brought a cry from the Highlander. Smiling at his own success, he massaged that special spot for a long moment more. More lube, and a second finger stretched him even more, and Methos scissored his fingers so that his ring finger could join the other two. He slid his fingers in and out, rotating them, and as Macleod cried out “Oh god!” once again, he replaced his fingers with his hard, weeping cock.

He eased in, the steady pressure with his hips pushing his cock deeper and deeper until all of his considerable length was swallowed in the Highlander’s arse. Macleod’s breathing was rapid, but controlled, moans of pleasure accompanying each exhalation.

Methos began a rhythmic pumping, each stroke teasing the sensitive prostate, filling the hot, tight channel. The primal rhythm took over his mind and his body, and he slowed his back stroke, pulling his cock out until only the thick head remained, then pounded in as fast as he could. His balls swung with the motion, and on each forward thrust they slammed into Macleod’s scrotum. Then he shortened the strokes, pulling out only enough to ram himself back into the welcoming body. He leaned forward over Macleod’s back and reached one hand around to find the huge cock, fully erect and weeping, bobbing with each thrust. He squeezed the throbbing organ, then felt Macleod’s hand over his own, and together they pumped, moving the thin skin over the rigid muscles and distended veins in time with the strong thrusts of Methos’s hips.

Methos felt the beginnings of Macleod’s orgasm as the muscles in his arse tightened just before he shot stream after stream, each muscle in his body spasming. Before it was over, Methos came, filling Macleod, galvanizing both of them as their quickenings touched and intertwined for the briefest of moments, forcing cries of pleasure from them both.

Released from the electrifying climax, they collapsed on the bed, oblivious to the pool of semen beneath them. Methos tried to catch his breath, but lying atop Macleod’s back, the two bodies still joined, he could only breathe in time with his lover. He gently kissed the sweat-slicked skin beneath his lips, and as he felt his cock soften, he eased out of the paradise he’d found in Macleod’s body.

When he could breathe on his own again, he slid off to lay next to Macleod, his body totally relaxed in post-coital euphoria. Macleod pulled his arm from between them and reached across Methos’s body and pulled him closer. He lifted his shoulder just enough to bring them into an embrace. Macleod lay his head in the hollow of Methos’s shoulder and softly kissed his chest.

Long, slim fingers traced the line of Macleod’s jaw and tilted his chin up so his mouth met Methos’s lips in a long, slow kiss, and it was in that position the two new lovers fell finally asleep.

“Vorrei la colazione in camera, per due, per favore.”

Macleod’s voice. Italian.

As Methos woke he took a quick inventory. He still had his head, obviously. His arse felt like it had been pounded by a freight train. No, he remembered, just Macleod. The memory swept over him like electricity and he shuddered in response.

“E caffè. Molto caffè.”

His chest and abdomen were covered with dried semen, and his left elbow rested in a still wet and sticky patch on the sheet. The smell of sex filled the room.

“Quando?”

Methos stretched out his stiff muscles, locking out his knees and flexing his ankles. All in one piece, he decided. Sore, but all there. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, then stood. He was naked, of course, and he saw Macleod across the room at the phone. Mac had wrapped a robe around himself and turned his back to the bed.

“Mille grazi.”

He snagged the other robe from the floor where it had been discarded the night before and pulled it over his shoulders, his arms pushing the sleeves right side out. He tied the belt just as Macleod hung up the phone and turned around.

The two men stood and looked at one another for a long, almost painful moment. Macleod’s hair was damp and Methos knew he had already showered, washing away the evidence of the night.

“You okay?” Mac asked quietly.

“I’ll live.” Methos smiled a little. “Yeah, I’m okay.” He saw a look in the Highlander’s eyes he’d never expected, a look he could only identify as shame.

“I know I was rough on you.”

“Mac, I’m all right,” Methos reiterated, striding across the room to Macleod’s side.

As he approached, Macleod turned his head away, but Methos put a hand on either side of his face and turned it back. He looked into the peat-brown eyes and held their gaze. “Duncan,” he said softly, then he gently kissed the pouting lips. He put all he dared into the kiss, but was careful not to push Macleod past the point of acceptance.

When he felt Mac’s hands on his waist, then his arms around him, he intensified the kiss, his hands still on Mac’s face, his fingertips tangled in the loose, damp locks.

When they separated they both gasped for breath. Methos’s smile was broad and bright, but Macleod’s still hinted at shyness.

“I shouldn’t have put you through that,” he began.

“What are friends for?”

“That’s just it,” Macleod retorted. “I want us to be friends.”

“Not lovers?”

Mac looked at Methos again and nodded.

“The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive.” He side stepped to stand directly in front of Macleod again. “I know your history, Highlander. I know about Cullen, and Hill. Gods, not to mention Amanda. You’ve had plenty of friends who were lovers as well.” He kept his eyes locked on Macleod’s. “We can be both, too.”

Macleod only nodded.

“Now, I’d rather it’d been a little more romantic, maybe,” Methos kept his voice light and teasing, but he hoped Mac heard the truth behind it was well.

“Not so…”

“Not so — intense?”

“Yeah.” Mac put a hand to Methos’s cheek, and leaned in to kiss him again. “That would’ve been…”

“Yeah,” Methos completed the thought. Neither of them had to find the words for what they felt; they both knew and understood.

The End