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“I do not think I understand this game,” said Optio Ivacattus, his pale brows drawing together in confusion. “I...hold out some fingers and say a number, and you do the same...but do I say the number of fingers I am holding out?”
Three of the officers began talking at once, all explaining how to play Flash the Fingers in different yet equally complicated ways, until poor Ivacattus shook his head and said, “I think I will stick with dicing.”
“No, no, they make it sound far too difficult,” Hilarion said, opening his eyes, although he was still stretched out on his back along one of the benches in the mess-hall. Alexios still did not understand why Hilarion was not hobbling around like an old man, with all the uncomfortable ways he liked to arrange himself, but he supposed Hilarion preferred to keep some things a mystery.
Fewer things, all told, than this time last year, for which Alexios was grateful.
“...and then, if the number you guess is the same as the number of fingers, you take a bean out of the pile,” Hilarion was saying. “Here, try it. Ready? Four!” He flung a hand out, heron-swift, two fingers outstretched; but Ivacattus had held up three fingers and said, a little hesitantly, "Five?"
“There,” said Hilarion, “you have a point. See, it is not as complicated as this lot makes it. They only want to take your beans.” He had sat up and slung a companionable arm around Ivacattus’s shoulder, but the sight no longer caused a bee-sting of jealousy in Alexios’ side. He was glad Hilarion had friends.
Centenarius Segolatus snorted. “Please. This one will cheat you blind soon as look at you.”
Hilarion’s eyes widened. “Me? I am so honest you could play Flash the Fingers with me in the dark.”
The ensuing laughter and mockery from the rest of the officers was loud enough to drown out Hilarion’s protests; but they seemed set to keep playing, and Alexios had been up at cock-crow, after a late night over the accounts.
So he gave Hilarion a little nod, and faint shake of the head--do not fleece poor Ivacattus--and slipped out of the mess hall, yawning. He hoped someone had brought in a pot of coals to heat the room, for the autumn chill had already begun to set in; a few days ago he had awoken to frost crystals limning the last withered leaves still clinging to the trees and turning the grass to glittering silver.
The blankets had just began to warm up when someone pushed back the door-curtain and slipped into the room, a tall cranefly shape against the faint red glow of the torches of the corridor. “Alexios?” Hilarion whispered. “Are you still awake?”
“Yes.”
A moment later, Hilarion had slipped into bed with him, and Alexios had to bite back a yelp at the cold bare legs suddenly tangled with his; he wished sometimes for a wider bed. “Did you beat poor Ivacattus soundly?”
Hilarion laughed. “No, he is not half as guileless as he seems; sometimes he reminds me of--” He broke off, then; they were both thinking of Bericus, the Emperor’s Hard Bargain, who had died on the way down from Castellum, a tribesman’s axe splitting his head. Hilarion’s voice was quieter when he went on: “When I left, poor Ivacattus has figured out the trick of it and had won rather more than beans from Marius. I expect Marius will be sorry for the loss of his spare cloak soon enough, and will be happy to gamble with beans again. I should not worry yourself about Ivacattus, O commander.”
Hilarion's legs were not so cold now, and Alexios nestled closer in the warm nest of blankets, draping an arm over Hilarion’s waist. “Then I will not, although I shall not play Flash the Fingers with you in the dark, either.”
“I am wounded,” Hilarion said, trailing one hand over Alexios’ chest, from collarbone to hip, and lower. “Positively wounded, that you would not trust me.”
Alexios had been tired when he came to bed, his eyes gritty and feet aching, but he was feeling rather better now; perhaps he could stay awake a little longer. He pressed his mouth experimentally to Hilarion’s neck and bit lightly; Hilarion gasped, his fingers tightening, which made Alexios gasp and then laugh into Hilarion’s freckled chest.
“Two,” Hilarion purred into Alexios’ ear a moment later.
“Liar,” said Alexios, and then Hilarion kissed him, all teeth and tongue and quiet laughter.
It was not worth pressing the point, Alexios decided, digging his fingers into the muscle of Hilarion’s shoulder and dragging them down his back, so that Hilarion arched against him and swore.
There were far better things to press.