A scream echoed in his ears - was it his own? The fear, the flames - 
Stefano sat bolt upright, panting. This tiny room was not his own comfortable bedroom - had he been caught? Was he -? 
Reality took a few seconds to sink in, but not as long as it used to. 
This was his room, now. The one he'd grown up with was no more - nothing but ash. His home was now this penitent's cell at the shrine in Surrenar; his family, the priesthood that served it. 
The fear was just a nightmare. Again. The same one that had been plaguing him these past weeks. 
Stefano di Tarven pushed back the covers, swinging his legs out of the small yet comfortable cot. The tiger fumbled in the near-darkness, found the tiny lantern, and lifted the cover. Cool blue light radiated from the enchanted stone within - dim, a pale shadow even to the light of the full moon, but enough to see his surroundings by should he decide to take to the halls. 
For now, it was comforting to know that he had that option. 
He stood, moving over a few steps to the window, leaning on the sill. A light snow was falling, flakes gleaming in the moonlight like crystal shards. The sky was still dark, but by the angle of the moon, the sun would be starting to rise in not too long. 
He was, he realised, eighteen years old today. Weeks had past since the horrible day that had changed his life; days since Ser Nicolai had gone to the capital. 
Ser Nicolai. It was so easy to think of the big Padro that way, by his given name. That one evening in his quarters, Stefano had thought they felt a sort of connection. An attraction. But then the older male had pushed him away, and thereafter they had only met briefly, rarely, in areas with other people present. 
The man hadn't really been avoiding him, he knew. Ser Nicolai di Casson was - had been - this shrine's sole Hand of the Just; any matter that might impact the safety of the faithful was brought to his attention. He was a busy man. Yet somehow, even in those brief moments of contact, he'd felt more alive - more real - than his replacement. 
Ser Adrin di Farranos was not quite as big as Ser Nicolai, but was close - a little over six feet, well-muscled from his time wielding weapons and wearing heavy armour. Stefano had never had the opportunity to be very close to him, and didn't really want to. There was just something off about Ser di Farranos. Oh, to be sure, he was pious, and those who knew of him praised him. But he knew it. He was a proud man, and made a great show of his piety. 
Somehow, Ser Nicolai's whispered prayers - intended for no mortal ears - seemed many times more sincere than the clear, stilted pronouncements that came from Ser di Farranos's muzzle. But there was more to Stefano's unease than that. There had been a fire in Ser Nicolai's blue eyes, a brilliant spark of life that made his face light with joy as he beheld the Holy Father's works, and sorrow as he saw the failings of mortals, especially his own. 
Not that Stefano thought his failings were so great as that. Nicolai, he was sure, was everything the hard-eyed Ser di Farranos should hope to be. 
Yet Nicolai was gone now, likely for years if not longer. Stefano wouldn't see the man again while he still had his youth. The big white tiger would never again hold him close, sheltering him from the cold and the dangers of the world. They'd not break bread together, nor sit together before the fire, savouring each other's warmth and sheer presence, hearts quickening... 
He gave his head a shake, tossing himself back onto the bed. His imagination would get him in trouble, one of these days. He'd thought Ser Nicolai had enjoyed those moments, had yearned to give himself to the larger male, to share a few moments of pleasure before they parted ways - as he'd known, even that first night, that they must do. But the knight had stopped his hand. "I cannot do this," he'd said. 
It would be unfair to even think that the bigger Padro had healed his body only to break his heart. Yet that first night had been the worst - that sudden separation still stinging, he'd drifted into a restless slumber, his mind replaying the deaths of his parents, the burning of his home, the march through the cold snow. He'd waited, prayed, for Nicolai to come and save him, as he had in the waking world - yet the Hand of the Just in his polished plate never appeared, and when the sword drove through his gut, there was nobody to save him, to bring that divine light that had made him whole... 
He shuddered. He'd woken up screaming, that first night, and two priests had taken half an hour to calm him down, to assure him that he was safe. He'd never stayed through that much of the dream since, nor woken so violently - but with Nicolai gone, now those dreams had become stronger again. 
There'd be no restful sleep while such thoughts filled his head, he knew. He sighed, trying to put his thoughts in order, to turn them to good things. Unable to make progress, he was actually grateful when a tap on the door disturbed his fractured meditation. 
He shrugged into one of the robes he'd been provided, the fine cloth almost flowing over his striped pelt. Holding it shut for the moment, he put his thumb on the latch and drew the door open a little. 
The young acolyte in the hall jumped. "I'm sorry, Stefano," he murmured. "I didn't wake you, I hope? I thought I heard you tossing, and wanted to be sure you were all right..." 
Stefano shook his head. "No, no, I woke up on my own. Thank you, though." He grimaced. "I didn't wake you, did I?" 
Jacobi shook his head. "No, no. I was only coming back to my room to fetch my charts. I've been studying the stars, you see." 
Had he really only been awake long enough for Jacobi to fetch those few scroll cases now under his arm? It felt like his thoughts had been twisting about for at least a few minutes... 
"Would you like some company?" he blurted, and then felt compelled to explain, "I don't think I could sleep again tonight, anyway." 
"Well..." Jacobi glanced past him, at the window, shuffling his feet. "I think the snow's coming down a bit heavily, actually. I'd best put the charts away..." 
Stefano bit his lip, trying not to let his shoulders slump. It wasn't fair to expect everyone here to cater to him. He had to be strong, like he'd told Ser Nicolai he would... 
The touch to his arm made him start; he looked up to see Jacobi's golden eyes on his, a soft smile on the other youth's muzzle. "If you wouldn't have minded watching the stars, though - perhaps you'd care to go for a walk? I know this splendid place in the woods, not far at all - you don't have chores in the morning, do you?" 
"Not tomorrow, it's a rest day," Stefano rushed to say. Technically he should have spent that day in prayer, but Derella de Sanco, the tiny Padro woman who presided over the shrine's spiritual needs, had been understanding of the difficulties he was going through. If he needed to get out of the shrine to rest properly, that should be no problem. "Just give me some moments to dress for it." 
Jacobi smiled, and eased the door shut. 
For a moment Stefano was tempted to just fling his robe onto the bed, but that would attract notice. If an emergency were happening, then, yes, he could leave such concerns for a few moments. Barring that, though, he needed to take proper care of his possessions. He hung the robe up neatly, tugged the covers on the bed back into place, and dressed in warm travelling clothes, finishing with the heavy wool cloak that he drew about himself. He stepped into the hall to find Jacobi emerging from the next room over, the other youth smiling, beckoning. 
They padded through the silent halls, the way lit by a hovering ball of dim blue magelight over Jacobi's shoulder - Stefano hadn't realised the other youth had arcane talent; he wore it so naturally. Jacobi advised the deacon in the shrine's antechamber that he was taking Stefano out for some air, to try to help clear his thoughts; since everyone here had some idea what Stefano had gone through, the older man just nodded, prayed for Stefano's well-being, and waved them on. 
Thereafter, they went in silence, save for the crunch of their boots on new-fallen snow. Jacobi led him into the pine woods south of town, setting an easy pace, and Stefano had to admit that the view was worth the trip; many of the branches were sheathed in ice, and the snow that now dusted them only seemed to make them sparkle that much more in the moonlight that trickled down, and the dancing, flickering magelight only made them that much more dazzling. 
They wound up on the shore of a frozen lake, the icy surface, though smooth as glass when it had frozen, now kept clear of snow by a soft breeze. The light gleamed and flickered in the ice, as though it were lit from within by cold fire. 
It was all very subtle, yet the unexpected beauty took his breath away. 
Jacobi slid an arm around his waist, leaning in a little closer. "You looked like you'd seen entirely too much of the same stone walls," he murmured. 
Merciful Verantine, nobody had touched him like this since... since Nicolai. He threw both arms around the other youth, squeezing close to him, muzzle buried against the shorter male's shoulder. "Thank you," he choked out. It was all he could think to say. 
"Here, now... it'll be okay," the acolyte murmured, caressing his cheek as might a brother, giving comfort to his younger sib. Sweet Light, it felt so right... if this was another waking dream, it was one he didn't want to end soon. He kept quiet, despite all the thoughts clamouring to be said. Nothing to shatter the illusion... 
His heart skipped a beat when Jacobi said, "Stefano, I... I have to admit, there's... another reason I wanted to talk to you out here. Away from everyone else, I mean." A gulp. "Might you come in here? It's a bit warmer..." 
Stefano looked up, following his gesture toward the ground-brushing boughs of an old pine, and saw that a den of sorts had been made under that canopy, the end of a bedroll just barely visible. 
It looked like a rather snug fit for two people, really... 
He looked back at the other male. "Jacobi...?" 
The acolyte swallowed. "I... find you attractive, Stefano. And you seem so lonely here, and it hurts me to see you suffering as you have, and if there's anything I can do to make you feel a little more at home..." 
He was babbling now, after that initial hesitation; Stefano silenced him with a finger on his snout. "Jacobi, would you..." He swallowed, and spit it out. "Would you make love to me? Here, where there's nobody to judge us and say we shouldn't?" 
Jacobi blinked. For a moment, those gold eyes were screwed up in confusion; then, bit by bit, wonder took its place. "I... I thought you'd be offended," he admitted. "So many people tell me, I'm not supposed to like other males, not that way..." 
"A wise person once told me something," Stefano said, shushing him again. He took a deep breath, trying to recall Nicolai's exact words and tone. "He said, 'It is not up to us to question how we were made. If it does no harm, we should follow the urges the Father gave to us, for only through them may we know His design for us.' He worried so much about doing harm to me, Jacobi. But I don't think it'd hurt either of us if we were to enjoy each other, would it?" 
"By the Light, I hope not," Jacobi whispered against his neck. 
The little lean-to was, indeed, a snug fit. But that meant that once Jacobi had rolled a screen of branches and needles over the opening, the heat of their bodies warmed it in short order. They had to be fairly gentle in their motions, but there was enough room for him to sit as Jacobi eased his cloak off and out of the way, undid his jerkin, peeled off the shirt beneath; and then for him to lie back and let the other youth draw off his boots and loosen his belt. 
His blood was singing as Jacobi drew the leather out of the buckle, setting it aside. His hands slid under Stefano's rump, and felt so good there, so right, that a moan of need slipped out of him. By the God's mercy, why had the youth stopped with his boots and belt? He craved the feel of the cool air on his body - maybe it'd keep in check the burning he felt, subdue it before it consumed him. 
"You are so beautiful," Jacobi whispered, one hand shifting, sliding around Stefano's hip. "So alive, in spite of everything." His fingers gave a caress over Stefano's trousers, over the rising bulge of his arousal. 
His head swam; he let it sink back to the bedroll, submitting to Jacobi's exploring touch, moaning as the youth felt through his pants, getting a good feel for him. Stefano was no stranger to pleasure - not even that of another male - but the way Jacobi took his time drew out those intense sensations so long, it was almost maddening. At long last, though, the other youth opened the clasp over his tail, undid the front of his trousers, and drew them downward, leaving only a breechcloth that did about nothing to cover his arousal from either the touch of the cool air or Jacobi's wide eyes. 
"So beautiful," the other youth repeated, undoing that last useless garment and setting it, too, aside. His fingers slid along Stefano's thigh, eased in between them, cradled his pouch so gently - he whimpered, legs shifting apart of their own volition. Those fingers slid higher, after a moment, wrapping around the black flesh of his arousal - and no more than that; he didn't squeeze, just encompassed the aching flesh in the warmth of his hand. 
Merciful Verantine, the slowness was going to drive him blissfully mad. 
His nose told him the other youth was just as ready, but all that bulky clothing kept his eyes from confirming it. He squirmed away from the touch, pulling Jacobi toward him. As the acolyte's muzzle parted in a gasp of surprise, his own met it, tilting to mesh close against it, silencing the other youth's exclamation, even as his fingers went to work loosening the smaller male's clothing. 
Jacobi, he realised when the acolyte was as naked as he, was slender as a willow switch. Stefano had done a woodcutter's work and had some heft on him as a result; but Jacobi's work moved nothing heavier than a quill and parchment. There was no bulky muscle to get in the way of his exploring fingers; under the other male's rich orange pelt, he could feel every rib. And the way Jacobi squirmed against him as his fingers delved lower, curled around that dark flesh, squeezed... 
His moans were a heavenly chorus, his scent intoxicating. Stefano needed more. He shuffled around as swiftly as the tight confines allowed, turning head to foot, getting nearer to the source of that enticing aroma. His fingers kept stroking up and down Jacobi's stiff rod, coaxing a tiny bit of moisture to slip free of it, and it was that moisture that he leaned in to collect, his raspy tongue giving the lightest caress to the pebbly skin of the other youth's flared cockhead. 
If he'd been slow on the mark, Jacobi showed no sign of hesitation now. The acolyte cupped between his guest's thighs, enfolded his balls in warmth, even as his hot breath chased over bare skin. He started licking, quick little laps that had Stefano squirming from the very first, whimpering and moaning, his tail lashing. Desperate to return the pleasure, he brushed his finger-pads along the smooth skin of Jacobi's shaft, his jaws parting, lips sliding over the youth's head, drawing it in. 
He wanted more, needed it. Even as the caress of Jacobi's rough tongue drove his pleasure higher and higher, so too it spurred on his need - his need to feel another's pleasure in turn, to feel and hear this skinny youth come alive with ecstasy against him. His fingertips brushed over Jacobi's tight sac - just there, he knew the other youth was on edge, as though the tension and shivering in his body, the moans that reached Stefano's ears, weren't sign enough. But he needed more. His fingers slid a bit farther back still, kneading behind Jacobi's balls, at the firmness he felt there, making the youth's length stir slightly in his suckling muzzle. 
Jacobi cried out against his length, the acolyte's member twitching in his mouth all on its own. He felt that broad head swell against his lips, firm and moist - and with the next lick he gave it, thick, musky seed spattered his tongue. He swallowed, felt the stuff coating his throat, sticking to it - so rarely he'd felt it before, yet so anxiously he craved it. So wonderful it felt, sliding into his belly. So alive Jacobi felt, shuddering and bucking against him. So delicious the touch of the youth's fingers and tongue, caressing his sensitive flesh in all the right places. 
His pleasure exploded through him, breath catching in his throat. It burst from his loins, that aching tension; it spread to his fingers and toes and the twitching tip of his tail. It burned through him like fire. The world didn't matter - the world didn't even exist; all he knew was the feel of the other boy against him, nursing on his shaft now, drinking down his semen with a need to match his own. 
Some time later - he couldn't say how much - his pleasure receded. He felt dizzy, giddy, his head swimming as though drunk on the finest distilled mead. He was shivering hard, not from cold, but from the aftershocks of his release, clouds of pleasure and desire still dancing through him. 
Jacobi was stretched out behind him now, the youth's breath warm on his neck, scented ever so slightly with his own seed. It was an odd feeling - but the arm thrown over him, tucking a blanket around, was anything but. For the first time in weeks - the first time since that night when Nicolai had pushed his hand away - he felt truly welcome, truly at home. 
He needed no more than that. Finally, he slept. He slept and did not dream.