Rainsquall

21. 21.

21.

F olke mulled. He could ask for more, he thought, but the question of how a man could give another such unique scars would open the door to answers he was not ready for.

His world had only just changed so significantly. Any more and he might lose himself.

These changes terrified him.

Not in a way that ignited an impulse to flee. Rather, how easily his resistance had rusted over, now crumbling under the men’s fingertips. And how willingly he had given into what he’d denied himself for an eternity, for the very same reason now hanging over him.

Loneliness like he’d never known before.

A guillotine, waiting to swing down on his neck. While his ironclad tower, once standing proud and impenetrable, had cracked open. The frostbound storm mellowed.

“So, you hurt him,” Folke whispered, breathing in until his chest expanded wide. Held it.

“I did.”

Exhaled.

“Was it on purpose?”

Darach lay well-nigh motionless. Yet against Folke’s bicep, he felt that powerful heart beating. Disfluent, as if afraid.

“I was angry at the time. It happened while I. . .” A stifled sigh. “Anything I say to explain will only be an excuse. I’d be lying if I said it wasnae on purpose.”

Folke too became incredibly still, scarcely breathing now.

“Dunne is one of few people capable of. . .managing me. He did then, he does now. I owe him, Folke, but make na mistake,” Darach’s hand clasped his chin, gently prompting Folke to turn his head again. A tentative kiss to his lips, and another, when he didn’t shake him off. “I’m no sharing ye because of that. If it were up to me, I’d keep ye to myself.”

“That’s not true.” Folke refused to be swayed by warmth and lips. “You just said you’re sharing me because you owe him.”

Darach’s refuting hum was soft. “There’s na way I can explain without telling ye more. An’ I will, but ye have to be certain.”

“No,” Folk immediately said. “Don’t. Not. . .yet.”

Another kiss he was more receptive to.

“Whenever ye’re ready, mo leannan.”

“I have one last question,” Folke murmured. Afraid to ask but needing to. “Will you hurt me when I make you angry?”

He jerked in fright. Darach had fluidly shifted to lie atop him. With such speed and so little effort it barely moved the mattress. Heavy and goliathan, muscled arms folded under Folke’s head. Encasing him in warmth and reassurance. His hands splayed against that massive chest, palms catching steady thrums. The rumble of Darach’s voice.

“ Never . I’m na longer that man. Even if I was, I’d never harm ye.”

“Oh,” Folke quavered. “Good. Because I’ve—I’ve been known to do that. Frustrate people, that is.”

“Ye frustrate me, alright.” A statement followed by a downward grind of hips.

Folke’s mouth opened with horror at the hardness sliding against his own, slumbering member. Regardless, he made a valiant effort to widen the gap between his legs for Darach to settle more comfortably.

Only to wince at the sharp pain spiralling up his backside.

“Oh, aye. Ye’ll be feeling that for a while.” Darach’s hot breath combed his face before another lingering kiss pressed to his lips.

Folke twitched his head to the side, embarrassed. Wondering if Darach knew just how distinct the tarrying sensation of his seed was. Although relished in the way Darach nosed his jaw. Kissed it. Folke grasped his face in both hands, ran his fingers over the beard. Took pleasure in the whisper of dense hair against his skin, and how soft it felt. Craned up for another kiss. Unhurried, open-mouthed. Drawing in scent and taste, needing to sear both into his memory.

With a great sigh that spoke of greater reluctance, Darach hoisted off him, taking the sheets along. Folke shivered, instinctively drawing his legs up to cover himself, much to the man’s amusement. His chuckle teasing and feather-light.

“I best leave before Thomas decides to barge in here looking for me.”

“Oh.” As Folke moved to sit up, a hand rounded his shoulder, just by the crook of his neck, and eased him down. “I need to tend to the sheep.”

“Rest. I’ll take care o’ them.” The warm touch vanished. Rustling fabric told him Darach dressed. “One thing, before ye sleep.”

Folke froze mid-grimace in his effort to sit up again. “What is it?”

An impressive weight dipped the mattress’ side. The sheets lifted back over his legs.

“Thomas,” Darach began, encouraging Folke back down with a hand flat against his chest. “It’d be better if he doesnae ken about us. His comprehension runs short, an’ his need to follow rules is regrettably chronic.”

Fatigue tugged at his eyelids as Folke’s head reconnected with the pillow. He tried fighting it again. Stopped, at Darach’s disbelieving grunt.

“Alright,” Folke muttered, going slack, unsure which part he agreed to. The command to rest or that this had to be kept secret from Thomas.

Both, it would seem, since Darach tucked the sheets around him tighter than a cocoon.

“I do not need to be tucked in, Darach.”

One last, sharp jab under his arm to secure the sheets. “An’ yet, here ye are, being tucked in.”

A diligent kiss to his forehead.

“Oh, my God.”

“I’ll wake ye for supper.”

The doorknob rattled slightly.

“Wait,” Folke called, softly.

“Yes, sweet Folke?”

“What colour are your eyes?”

“Like the yew tree.”

A faint click, and Folke knew he was on his own, Darach’s boot-clad feet tromping down the stairs.

Did he mean green or red, like the aril?

Green, surely.

Gold-kissed green, perhaps, like the yew’s narrow leaves in summer. Or an umbrageous, winter green.

Folke suspired with longing. Grunted, testing the restraining blankets, arms stashed tightly at his sides. Unsure of how he was meant to sleep like this. Completely nude, sore, his mind screeching to a halt whenever he tried to comprehend what he’d just done.

Detouring to the possibility of them leaving, now that they’d gotten what they wanted.

Heart, sinking.

Deep into the bottom of his stomach.

Cigarette smoke drifted past his nose. Carried along by a faint breeze ghosting up over the bed. Folke realised his window was open. He strained to hear Finlay talking on the front porch, but couldn’t make it out. At least they weren’t walking away from the cottage.

Unless they were sneaking.

Finlay was very good at sneaking. Darach too, he suspected.

Folke dislodged himself from the sheets, frantic. Convinced Darach had trapped him to give them time to escape. He swung his legs out, stood, and immediately buckled, too jelly-like.

The throb in his rear wasn’t intolerable, but far from pleasant as he wobbled around to find his clothes. He thought better than to put the stiff shirt back on. If he was going to force them to say goodbye first, then he would do so in comfort.

Dressed and snug in his merino jumper, he hampered downstairs to the front door .

“Oi!”

Folke’s heart rammed the inside of his rib cage. “Can you not ?”

“Sorry.” Thomas’ feet scuffed the hallway runner, stopping close enough for the sweet scent of aniseed to permeate the surroundings. “I just wanted to ask if I could start a garden. You know, grow some veggies. Maybe a bit of fruit. I got me some seeds already, see? Oh, bollocks. Sorry.”

“Do whatever you—” Folke straightened up from his pained slouch. Felt the frown lift from between his brows. “Vegetable gardens take a while to establish.”

Especially from seed.

“Well.” Faint scratching. “We’re staying here a while, aren’t we?”

“I suppose you are.”

Folke waged war against a smile. Fought valorously and still lost. He rubbed the length of his thumb over his mouth to hide it.

“And anyway, I hear rationing’s going to last a while. We get more provisions than most but if Fin and Darry keep sharing with you , it won’t last us long.”

“Good thinking,” Folke said, distractedly, itching to get to Finlay. “Wait— Darry ?”

Thomas smacked his lips, the aniseed particularly strong. “Well, what else am I supposed to call him?”

“By his rank?”

A silence blanketed Thomas, the shift of his feet slight. “How did you know?”

Folke frowned. “Darach mentioned it to get me to the doctor’s. You were there, weren’t you?”

“ Oh .” An exhale, oddly relieved. “Right. Yeah. Anyway, we’re not soldiers like that anymore, so it’s just Darry.”

He debated informing Thomas that he knew there was more to them than just ordinary soldiers, but his fingers curled around the door handle. Apparently, his body had decided to move without him thinking about it.

“East side of the cottage gets the most sun,” Folke said, although he had snapped the door shut before he’d finished speaking.

A long, slow exhale. Smoke tilled the breeze and suddenly, Folke became hesitant.

Exasperated, “Precious.”

His hesitation quickly turned into dawdling. Now that he was certain Finlay and Darach weren’t planning on running off straight away, he didn’t know what to do. What to say in defence of himself.

Did he even need to justify being out here, on his own porch?

“I have a name,” Folke said at length. “And it’s not—”

“Minx.”

Folke pressed his lips together, tempted to find Darach. He neared the yew instead. Reached for the wind chime, still tangled in its branches. Tubes clinked, stubbornly ensnared.

“Bugger it,” he grumbled, yanking.

Finlay grunted, his feet scuffing porch stone. “ Let me.”

When fingers brushed the back of his hand, Folke immediately shook them off.

“I can do it!”

He froze, heart fibrillating in fear at Finlay’s lack of response.

Well done.

Pushing your first lover away, already.

Folke wanted to apologise. Would likely have, if arms didn’t encircle his midriff, pulling him against a solid chest. Finlay’s chin came to rest over his shoulder, the side of his face pressing against Folke’s.

“Is that insecurity I smell?” Finlay asked, snuffling like a dog.

“ No . That stink is your cigarettes.”

Finlay buried his face into the crook of Folke’s neck, inhaling deeply. Folke tensed, expecting teeth. Where Finlay had bit him earlier on his neck still stung.

Rather, a kiss. So tender, Folke wanted to ask if Finlay felt ill at all.

He would have, definitely, but the embrace dissolved any urge to fight. Warm and engulfing. Falling asleep where he stood became entirely possible.

Should’ve stayed in bed.

Stayed away, lest the two grew weary of him.

“Stop worrying so much.”

“You can smell that, too?” Folke melted into the hold. Pressed his forehead against Finlay’s temple. In hushed daring, he added, “Can wolves really smell these things?”

An amused snort. “Whatever you’re suggesting, don’t do that in front of Thomas.”

“What do you mean?”

Finlay sighed. In that terrible, exhausted way again. Like he had suffered too much for too long. Folke longed to strap his arms down where they slid away from his stomach.

“Shit-sack’s a stickler for the rules. If he gets wind of you knowing too much, he will hurt you.”

“No, he won’t.”

“You know him that well, do you?”

He turned toward Finlay, gone back to the stoop, the sparks of a match spitting.

“I know less about him than I do you and Darach.” A reluctant admittance. Folke knew so very little about them. Seemed like he ought to know more.

Wind chime tubes tinked woefully as he abandoned his quest to untangle them. Carefully moved to sit beside Finlay, keeping a respectable distance. Unsure of how he was meant to behave. Finlay’s sweat-slick pelvis pressed against his backside as he thrust in deep and hard remained affixed in his mind. Breaths and grunts combing Folke’s face still echoing. Coaxing a whirlwind of nerves to upend his stomach.

With his socked feet, he toed at cracks within stone. “Will you tell me about you?”

Another heavy drag on a cigarette, smoke pluming up Folke’s nostrils, flaring into the back of his throat. He coughed, turning his head away.

“What do you want to know?”

Less inviting than Darach. More like a door held ajar to discover who had come knocking.

“Anything you’re willing to tell me,” Folke said, clearing his throat. “At least the fundamentals.”

Finlay scoffed. “Like what?”

Folke faltered. Becoming acquainted with others was not a skill he possessed. Never having had the inclination, in full acceptance of his mother’s belief that there was no point. All people did was leave. Why waste the time?

But surely, getting to know his lovers wasn’t a waste of time.

Even if, in the end, they left.

Idly, he thumbed at a snag in his trousers, just by the right knee. “Like, why do you smoke so much?”

“Fundamental knowledge, hm?” A pause, during which Finlay pumped out more fumes. “It relaxes me.”

It hurts my throat, he wanted to say, but Finlay added, “Why are you out here all on your own?”

Like a fist straight to his rib cage. A string of anger pulled at his chest, quickly unravelling.

“Because I believed my mother when she told me people would only hurt me.” Folke then shot back, “Why are you with Thomas and Darach if you can’t stand either of them?”

“Because it’s either that or prison.” Uttered with equal frustration. “Why the fuck isolate yourself when you look like you do?”

“That’s the same question!” Folke didn’t know why he had resorted to shouting.

“Fine,” Finlay groused. “Why do brooks get you all riled up?”

All the igniting anger hurtled out of Folke in one, sharp exhale. His chin quivered. He hid behind the back of his hand.

“Ah, fuck. I’m—”

“ You heard why ,” Folke rasped.

“I did. Fuck . I—”

Pebbles dug into his feet, less painful than the wound so easily delivered to his heart. Grass whipped against the wool of his socks, his steps assured in leading him away from Finlay.

“ Stop !”

Folke did not stop.

Clack .

Something pressed into the sole of his left foot. Not a stone or a wayward twig. Cold, like metal. Textured, like a sharp rock. The clatter of it, although abrupt and now gone, still resonating. The hairs on his leg stood on end. His trousers clung to his skin.

Yet it was Finlay’s panicked cry that turned his blood to ice. Folke stilled all movement, chest expanded with fear, a trapped breath. Finlay’s footfalls approached. Slowed. Circled him.

“Don’t move.” Advice somehow intelligible despite the terrible shake in Finlay’s voice.

Folke flexed his fingers on either side of him. “What am—what am I standing. . .”

No need to finish that sentence.

Painfully, he swallowed.

“I’m going to touch you. Don’t fucking move.” Fingers slid down his shin, to his foot. “It’s not a landmine, exactly.”

In one strike, Folke’s breath escaped. “Why are there landmines here, Fin?”

Finlay’s hands trembled where they clenched his foot. One sliding off his ankle. “To protect us.”

Folke shook his head. In understanding or denial, he wasn’t so sure.

“Alright.” When Finlay didn’t move, he added, “Should. . .I call for Darach?”

“No!” Hoarsely snapped. Then, more quietly but no less tense, “No. I—I have this.”

A faint clink of metal and, strangely, the dull clack of stones colliding.

“Alright,” Folke said again. Because what else was there to say?

The twanging clatter of marbles played in his mind. Smooth, glossy. Dancing around in his palm. Warming in his touch.

“I used to have marbles,” Folke murmured.

Distractedly, “Yeah?”

“I lost them.”

Finlay’s knuckles brushed the side of his foot. Folke tried not to flinch at the tickle.

Gruffly, “Are you joking?”

He thought about that. “No. I did actually lose them. They used to comfort me, but I lost them when I tripped a while ago.”

Some years now.

Find them, his mother had told him.

Despite best efforts, he never had.

“Hm. Then you turned to buttons.”

Fingers pushed his foot to the side. Away from the painful jagged edges that would have left indentation in his skin. Folke didn’t lower his foot, despite struggling to maintain his balance.

“Harder to lose those when they’re attached,” he said.

“You can put your foot down.”

Folke did. He remained standing as he was, motionless. “I used to fall all the time. There’s just. . .so much in the way.”

“Explains the scars on your knees and hands.”

One last, odd noise. A whirr of some kind. Grass rustled under Finlay’s movements, his hands soon closing around Folke’s.

“Not a landmine, exactly,” Folke echoed.

“We both would’ve been dead already, otherwise.”

“To protect us. ”

Us.

Not me, or them.

They were an ‘us’. That thought didn’t terrify him as much as Folke expected it to.

“You’re going to ask from what, next.” Not even a question.

Finlay led him back onto pebbles, digging into his already sore feet.

“Yes.”

“I will answer,” Finlay said, once they reached the steps.

“But not today,” Folke finished for him.

Today, they had become lovers. There was no need to ruin today by venturing further into the unknown.

“No,” Finlay confirmed. He guided Folke to turn, and firm hands clasped either side of his neck. “You’ll stick to your usual paths?”

Folke remembered Darach shouting at him to stay on the path. The snarls of strange wolves. The tremblor and peal of earthly thunder, flinging molten stone and fragments into his skin.

“I will stick to my paths.”

Finlay grunted, hands still atremble.

“I’m sorry,” Folke said. Knowing he was not the one who needed to apologise, yet feeling the need to all the same.

“You bother me.”

He would have thought it an insult, were it not for the crack in Finlay’s voice.

“I frustrate everyone.”

“Not like that.” Another grunt, as if Finlay struggled to say what he longed to. “I just—don’t go anywhere without me. I’ll be by your side. Even if you have to go shit in the woods, I’ll come with you. I need to come with you. Do you understand? Don’t go out on your own.”

A breathless, shocked laugh sprang free. “Saying you’re worried about me would be less crude.”

Although perhaps too direct even for the blunted axe.