27. 27.
27.
F olke walked into the kitchen. Empty, he was certain, unable to catch the scent of wilderness. In the hallway, he thought he heard someone upstairs, skin squeaking against enamel. He took the first step up, but stopped at sniffling.
Coming from the dining room.
Which also turned out to be empty, Folke thought. Until another sniffle drew him toward the window, still open.
Quietly, “Thomas?”
A gasp, then Thomas grumbled, “What do you want?”
He had to be sitting outside.
“Are you. . .crying?” Folke asked.
“ No !”
The loud, thick snort suggested otherwise.
Folke dragged his fingertips over the windowsill, mulling the lack of dust. Not entirely sure why, he swung a leg over, out of the window. Followed suit with the other, and carefully slid out, his socked feet greeted by the crunch of old yew leaves. Limestone scraped the back of his shirt as he sat, drawing his legs up to his chest.
“I’m not crying,” Thomas said, wetly.
“I’m blind, not deaf.”
What did Darach do?
Folke didn’t like feeling responsible for whatever sorrows haunted Thomas now, but he did.
“What’s it matter to you, anyway?”
The petulant question gave him pause. “You’re not really eighteen, are you?”
“No,” Thomas sobbed. “I—I lied.”
“Why?”
“I just wanted to help in the war! Turns out I’m bloody useless ! I barely lasted a month.”
Folke rubbed between his brows with a thumb. He didn’t really want to hear this. Couldn’t recall why he’d come out here in the first place.
“They just tossed me into prison. Desertion, they called it. I only wandered the trenches. That’s not desertion, is it?” Thomas left no room for an answer. “I didn’t even know I was doing it until I got pulled out and they told me.”
Shell shock, Folke realised.
Because he could think of nothing else to say, “I’m sorry.”
“I met Fin in prison. Did you know that? Both Darry and Fin were in prison.”
Folke said nothing, the beginnings of ire stirring his insides.
“I saw Darry once. He was kept in isolation because he killed people. You don’t know either of them like I do.”
“What—”
“You have no right taking them away from me!”
Folke tilted sideways, away from Thomas shouting into his ear. His mouth twisted with a sneer. “Are you in love with them or something?”
“Ugh, God no! They’re like my dads.”
“Oh.”
Well, that was kind of sweet.
“You’re not good enough for them.”
That, far less so.
“That’s none of your business,” Folke bit out.
“We’ve been cleaning up this stupid cottage behind your back since we got here. It’s disgusting. You don’t even comb your hair!”
Shame and anger flared like a blaze out of control, burning his throat and what little pity he had for the blusterer.
“And yet, I’m covered in Fin’s come, and Darach is waiting for me upstairs.”
Folke took satisfaction in Thomas’ appalled shock. Tangible enough he could roll around in it.
“Didn’t Darach tell you to back off?” Folke added, waspish.
“He told me to be nice to you.” Glumly muttered.
“I don’t need you to be nice to me, but you can fucking -well behave around the choice they’ve made.”
Me, I’m that choice.
Folke stood, dusted the yew’s wilt off his backside, and clambered back through the window.
Sounds of a large man bathing trickled into the hallway upstairs. The lavatory’s door had to be ajar, and Folke lingered by it, nervously thumbing a nick in the door frame.
“Ye can come in, sweet Folke.”
He startled into motion, greeted by humid air and a scent so unexpected, it took him several moments to recognise the taste of metal now clinging to the roof of his mouth.
“Are you hurt?”
Camly, “Dinnae worry, it’s only a scratch.”
Folke settled down by the tub, ignoring sparse puddles soaking his knees. Warm, wet hands clasped his face, guiding him forward. He met with soft lips and the scratch of beard hair, the redolence of metal and earth and, oddly, bleach coiling his senses. He kept his hold on the side of the tub for fear of falling in, eagerly meeting the diligent stroke of Darach’s tongue inside his mouth.
Thumbs brushed his cheeks upon parting, leaving his dampened face to chill as Darach eased away and water continued to slosh.
“As long as you’re alright,” Folke murmured.
“Are yer sheep keeping well?”
Asked casually, but something between the words made Folke pause. Was he asking what he’d gotten up to with Finlay?
“They’re fine. They could really do with that shear. I don’t suppose I can meet sooner with this man you mentioned?”
“Certainly.” Darach sounded so chipper. “Nearest place with a cafe is in Brenin Bach, if I’m no mistaken.”
If Darach was hoping for confirmation, Folke was willing to disappoint him there. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Ye’re up for the trip?”
God, no.
He’d been to Brenin Bach a few times, but only to meet with those who could offer them rams for breeding, back when he and his mother struggled to find a workaround to footrot in their merino sheep. That was years ago, and Folke didn’t think the town’s population had grown any thinner.
“I am.”
He was not practised in the art of lying, but he thought he’d done an admirable—
Sonorous amusement reverberated the lavatory. “Ye’ll be fine. I’ll be there wi ye.”
“Why does it have to be a cafe?”
Darach raised out of the water. A great mountain emerging, meltwater forming into waterfalls, spiralling down his magnificent form. Stray droplets pelted Folke’s forehead and chin. The edge of a towel whisked his hair, and he removed himself as an obstruction, once again perching the lidded toilet.
“Ye like coffee?”
“I do.”
So much.
“Perfect for such dreich weather as today.”
Folke stammered, “So soon?” Darach’s disbelieving laugh did little to ease the jitter kicking up in his stomach, evoking a tremble in his hands. “I mean, the sooner the better.”
God, he would have no time to prepare himself to be around others. Folke took to fretting with his shirt’s buttons.
“Only. . .”
“Hm?” Darach made little noise. What Folke could hear suggested he made use of the medical supplies.
Just a scratch, unlikely .
Thinning thread relinquished a button that skittered across tiles, now forever lost. Folke forced his hands down into his lap. “I just. . .I don’t have money to spare, so if this man is expecting me to—”
“Dinnae fash yersel. Why no’ get changed into something nice, an I’ll meet ye outside?”
He did his best to keep the burgeoning storm of anxiety to himself. Once standing before the wardrobe, however, Folke expelled a shuddering breath. Inhaled, just as shakily. Released a sepulchral, drawn-out noise that yes, was a whine.
Fine. This was fine.
He could handle being out in public, surrounded by people.
Nothing new.
Folke opted for the only nice shirt he owned, and trousers that felt less tired than all the others. A finely woven wool, its colour an eternal mystery. Why he needed to wear something ‘nice’ equally puzzling.
The question of, “Where are you going?” accosted him as Folke reached the bottom of the stairs.
Thomas was still talking to him then, unfortunately.
Folke said, “None of your business.”
“But it is mine. Where?”
Is it?
He turned toward Finlay, near the kitchen entrance. “I’m going to meet with someone who will shear my sheep. Would you keep an eye on them while I’m gone?”
A request made reluctantly.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
Finlay stomped past him and yanked open the front door. It slammed shut, but did not block out Finlay’s snarling. If not spoken in Gaelic, Folke might’ve known what the problem was.
“You still need to help me with the garden.”
He kept his tired sigh in check. “And I will. Trust me, I’d much rather endure your company than go into town, but I don’t have a choice.”
Fragrant anise neared, as did Thomas’ warmth. Too close. Folke shifted away, but his sleeve caught on something. That something tugged, and once again he refrained from sighing.
“What?”
Petrification took hold of his body as fingers did his chin. The kiss delivered to his mouth clumsy, akin to a peck. Chased by another, slightly more daring. Lasting no longer than the turn of a windborne leaf, but long enough for his head to upend itself.
There were a few things Folke learned about Thomas while his body struggled to move. Thomas was taller than he’d thought. His lips were thin and chapped. Anise was quickly becoming a smell he couldn’t tolerate and. . .
Thomas was kissing him .
Folke launched his palms against a bony chest and shoved .
“What the fuck ?”
Coltish feet danced over the hallway runner. An elbow might have caught on old wood panelling.
Laughingly, “Blimey! You’re stronger than you look. I just wanted to see what the fuss was about!”
Outrage twisted his brows, his insides. Yet all Folke could do was stand there, stupidly asking, “ And ?”
“Still don’t get it. I’m not into blokes, mind.”
“Fuck off, Thomas,” barked Finlay, the door snapping shut.
A strong arm wove around Folke’s neck. He staggered backward against Finlay’s solid frame, face running hot with ire. Lips pressed to his temple.
“You don’t have to go.”
Folke turned in the embrace. Fisted the well-worn linen of Finlay’s shirt and dragged himself as close as he could. Pressed his face into the crook of that strong neck. Drew comfort from the touch of warm skin against his lips. Stronger notes of musk suggested that at the very least, Finlay had broken a sweat caring for the sheep.
“It’ll be fine,” Folke said. A lie, of course, but Finlay had sounded concerned and it made him want to soothe. “I won’t be long. Home within the hour.”
God, he wanted to believe that.
Finlay’s chest ascended new heights with the deep breath he took. “Just. . .don’t let things go too far until you’re back, alright?”
“Alright,” Folke agreed, although he wasn’t sure to what.
This time, when a touch settled on his chin and guided him into a kiss, it was welcomed. Folke was confident Thomas hadn’t yet fucked off, but he leant into the caress. Yielded under the prod of Finlay’s tongue, eagerly. Another kiss meant to be short-lived that melded into heated want. Remaining unbroken for several toe-curling moments until fingers plucked at his hair.
Folke eased away, flinching at the prod and crinkle of straw against his cheekbone. His lips twitched into a smile, and he pressed another kiss to Finlay, catching only the corner of his mouth.
“Bye.”
“See you later, Precious.”