32. 32.
32.
E leanor’s refined stride faded into the wind, sweeping away cloying perfume. The front door creaked shut, and Folke placed an open palm against its tired surface.
He stood there, ruminating.
His aunt hadn’t ever spoken to him about her love life before. Granted, she hadn’t said much today, on account Folke didn’t long for any details. Begged her not to share them, in fact, the moment she signalled she might.
Folke pushed away from the door. Determined, now, to locate his lovers. One of whom would have overheard, who might have divulged Folke’s inadequacies as an empathetic man to Darach.
Would they still want him?
The grind of gravel instilled trepidation deep into his stomach, each of his steps less certain than the previous. It had little to do with his missing crook. Idle chatter and the sound of blades snipping through wool faded his resistance enough to approach the barn doors, wide open.
“Alright?” Darach. So casual between swift snips of sharpened blades.
Folke braced himself. “How much did you overhear?”
“Why, you keeping secrets?” Finlay lightly scoffed when Folke did not respond. “We made enough noise to guarantee I wouldn’t.”
Oh. Good, he wanted to say, only to utter, “I tried.”
“Tried what, Precious?”
Hay crunched, and an arm wrapped around his waist. Reeled him against labour-warmed skin. Folke nosed Finlay’s neck. He smelled of sweat and sheep.
Of home and fond memories.
Finlay smelled like he belonged. Here, and to Folke.
“Anything I tried to get rid of,” Folke sampled notes of salt with his tongue across a bobbing throat, “my aunt had something to tell me about.” He did his utmost to keep hopefulness from worming its way into his voice. “She’s too attached to the clutter.” Still in the spare room, no tidier than before. “You have no other option. ”
Finlay’s heated exhale soaked Folke’s temple, and strong hands grasping him by the waist did nothing for his focus.
Finlay prompted, “No other option but to. . .?”
“Sleep in my bed.”
Darach’s amused, “Is that so?” fell between snipping.
“It’s not like we need to hide any longer,” said Folke.
“Hmph, can’t argue with that.”
Fingertips nudged Folke’s face up by the chin, and a smoky mouth closed over his. He welcomed the trespass of a tongue, met it with eagerness, his own hands greedy in their glide over a muscled abdomen.
Cloven hooves struggled, darting away. The heat of Darach’s body pressing into Folke’s back elicited a moan, swallowed by Finlay. He melted against the two. Reached behind him to hold Darach by the hip. Clasped his other hand around Finlay’s neck, clammy skin sticking to his palm. Two sets of touches roamed his body. Slipped under his jumper and shirt to explore hidden skin. Folke tilted his head back, a gulp for air jostling into a shocked rasp.
“Like that?” Finlay’s fingers eased their pinch on his right nipple.
Folke wasn't sure if he did. Too preoccupied by Darach’s lips and bristling hairs, trailing down the left side of his neck. Sucking at the base. More preoccupied, still, by the hand kneading his cock over the slacks. Leaving him to struggle between grinding forward and thrusting his backside against Darach. Itching for a bare hand on him. Aching for someone inside him.
“Ew.”
Folke startled at Thomas’ voice, the scrape of his coltish feet over gravel now blatantly obvious.
“What happened to hearing better?” Folke hissed, whisper-quiet. He remained within the men’s touches, despite Finlay clicking his tongue with impatience.
“Fuck off, Thomas.”
“He’s supposed to help me with gardening,” Thomas insisted, slurping. Around more of those anise-flavoured sweets, most likely.
Folke refrained from curling his lip in distaste. Leant back to rest against the eminent body behind him. He tried not to melt fully into Darach’s hands stroking down his rib cage. Couldn’t help but to, when he fluttered kisses along his cheek, down to his jaw. Finlay followed suit, on the right side of his face.
“ Ew .”
Darach growled, the sound vibrating into Folke’s back. “Ye better go an’ help him.”
Get rid of him, in other words.
When did that become Folke’s duty?
Thomas was their charge, but they were Folke’s lovers.
Shared responsibility. Folke did not resist the distaste curling his lip, this time.
He kissed both men. Deeply, passionately, leaving them both panting and wanting. Hoping they regretted their decision in pushing him to enable the blusterer, who led him by the arm, and who was more than capable of gardening on his own—as Folke soon realised, by the work Thomas had already accomplished.
“You did this all by yourself?” he asked, crouching low and running his fingers through tilled soil. Along a wood barrier.
“Not like it’s hard. I used left-over barn wood for the borders, see? Oh, sorry.”
Folke ignored it in favour of appreciating that other than being a nuisance, of smelling too strongly of anise, Thomas could also be proud of himself.
“Well done,” he said, and meant it.
“It’s not going to hold more than a few potato plants. I want to have tomatoes right next to it or something.”
A frown drew Folke’s brows together as he strained to remember. It wasn’t often he went out of his way to learn about gardening. “Plants in the cabbage family are better suited nearby. They won’t compete for the root space.”
Thomas hummed, equally impressed that Folke, apparently, also knew a thing about it. “Get off your lazy arse then and help me.”
“Do you want my help, or find yourself six feet under?” An idle threat Folke meant nothing by, but it seemed to amuse Thomas a great deal. The soles of his heavy boots scuffed through grass, followed by the metallic drag of a spade.
“You’ll have to find me first.”
“You make enough noise for me to find you anywhere. And if I can’t hear you, I’ll be able to smell you.” Chase after you like a wolf driven mad by an anise-scented vole. “Or maybe I’ll leave that up to Fin.”
Thomas remained silent but for the spade spearing soil. Folke could feel the weight of his scrutiny, and found he didn’t much care for it. Thomas was unpredictable, and Folke did not know how to counter unpredictability. Fearing what the blusterer might attempt next, he held his hand out.
Old, worn wood connected with his palm. He secured his grip around it.
“Tell me where.”
“By your feet.”
Did he sound deliberating?
Folke used the spade to feel around. Mostly grass, still. He set his foot on the metal rim, and pushed into the dirt. Lifted a patch of long, whipping grass. “Where’s the pile?”
“To your right.”
Was he simply watching?
“Get off your lazy arse and help,” Folke countered.
Two strong gusts of wind pulled past his legs before he heard Thomas move. They worked in silence. It wasn’t companionable, but neither was it unpleasant. Until inevitably, Thomas reprimanded him for missing the mark, here and there. Folke resisted the need to remind him of his blindness, and instead sighed with the quintessence of exasperation.
“How old are you, really?”
Another slurp. “I don’t know what you mean. ”
Folke didn’t realise, at first, the reason for his sudden defensiveness. Thomas had already admitted to being younger than he led on, there was no reason to hide it—until it became clear that Finlay must be listening in, if not outright watching, and Thomas must believe that neither of the two men were aware of his lie.
So, Folke clicked his tongue, and crept over grubbed earth in pursuit of a scent he’d never thought he’d come to dislike. He brought himself close to Thomas, raised a hand, and found within his touch a slender shoulder. He moved in.
“Tell me.”
“What’s it to you?”
“I’d like to know.”
Thomas mumbled, purposeful in his unintelligibility. Although Folke had caught it, better than the child suspected.
Fifteen years of age.
God. Just how young had he been, then, when a recruiter all but signed his death warrant by allowing him to fight, as a soldier, as a man?
Only a child.
Folke discovered more forgiveness after that.
Didn’t even mind the way Thomas shoved past him, once the afternoon damp had declined into an evening chill, and Finlay called them in for dinner from the back porch.
“What?” Finlay asked as Folke drew near and his touch drifted off the cottage’s limestone exterior. Fingers curled around his jaw, and a thumb pressed into the corner of his mouth. “What’s got you smiling, Precious?”
Leaning in, Folke mouthed at the base of the palm. The savour of onion clung to it. Not one he had ever favoured before, but with rationing, it was as cherished as the saccharine aroma of fruit.
“I thought I was meant to cook,” he said instead of answering.
Because answering meant admitting that spending the afternoon gardening, underscored by the sound of rolling winds and gentle bleats, and Thomas’ idle humming, and answering Finlay’s dinner call, felt joyous and peaceful. A domestic familiarity Folke had longed for all this time, but had been too adamant in telling himself he didn’t need, or want.
Finlay’s pensive grunt was chased by a kiss to Folke’s mouth, then by a hand that abruptly came down on his backside. Folke startled, and Finlay laughed.
“Come on.”
Soil stuck to the underside of his left sock after Folke removed his rubber boots. Toed it off before he spilled into Darach’s arms in the kitchen. An encompassing embrace that held him close and swayed him in a caress of a dance. As Folke pressed the side of his face against a firm chest clad in an itchy wool jumper, Darach kissed him on the forehead.
“Getting on wi Thomas?”
“More or less.”
It did please Folke so that Darach too seemed pleased.
The dinner table was laid out, and the tablecloth had made a miraculous return. Discreetly, Folke ran his fingers across its rigorous weave, taking note of the lack of crumbs and dust it had previously boasted.
Before him, a plate brimming with food. Savoury steam brushed his nose and lips. Roast potatoes crunched under the spear of his fork. Perfectly fluffy. The carrots soft and sweet and, though Folke never much cared for offal, Finlay truly was an exceptional cook.
He cleared his plate with fervour and appreciation, and with an eagerness for what would come next.
Next, this time, did not include being taken on the table. Folke didn’t mind, preferring to repay at least some of their kindness by gathering the dishes and bringing them to the kitchen. He rolled up his sleeves. Located the dishrag where he always kept it hanging along the sink’s side.
A firm, warm touch to the back of his neck nearly sent a plate sliding out of his hand. He caught it by its scalloped edge, splashing water back onto himself, and tutted as dampness reached the centre of his chest through the shirt.
If the brush of a beard hadn’t been a clue, then the scent of a dewy forest was. How did Darach always smell like the wild? There was a hint of hay, too. And his footsteps, deceptively silent. Like the slither of a serpent, unheard.
Beithir.
Folke swallowed against hysterics that nearly surged past his oesophagus.
Musclebound arms folded around his midriff. Darach did not seem to want much more than to hold him, resting his chin on Folke’s shoulder. Even as he placed the last of the plates on the counter, squeezed water from the rag, and stood still, all Darach did was hold him fast.
This was nice.
Folke settled his wet hands on the sink’s ceramic edge and turned his head. The bridge of his nose nudged a high cheekbone. He nuzzled, and Darach did the same. Their noses pressed together, lips only a breath apart.
He thirsted for a kiss, his cock stirring with interest already, but there was something else. Something that inexplicably clinched his chest. It burrowed devastatingly deep and for one staggering, terrifying moment, he was convinced he couldn’t breathe. All the air had squeezed from his lungs, and the clinch expanded into his throat.
Lips connected with his. It did not quench his thirst, nor release him from the throttlehold that indescribable thing now had on him.
It was a chaste kiss, habitual. Much like Finlay’s had been that morning. Then Darach released him and went about the kitchen—opening a cupboard door to his left that squeaked. Closing it with a muffled thud.
“We’ll settle down wi a brew an’ biscuits, aye?”
It didn’t occur to Folke what the clinch was until he entered the front room. Until he beelined for where he knew Finlay perched on the settee. Until he sunk into strong, welcoming arms, a firm lap, and a languid kiss that tasted delectably of roast potatoes and not of smoke—that what he’d felt in the kitchen had been panic .
He realised it then for it happened again, as he opened his mouth to a tongue. As he wrapped his hand around the back of Finlay’s head and let his fingertips fret with hair free of oil. Darach had not taken notice of his panic, but Finlay put a sudden stop to the kiss.
“Everything okay?”
Seemed like Finlay could hear things better, see things better, and sense them too. How unfortunate for both of them, if true.
Folke’s throat clicked with a tight swallow. “Just not used to eating so much.”
Fingers stroked down the side of his face. Soothing concern. “Do you need some ginger beer?”
“No I—you have that?”
“Why is he getting some but I’m not?”
“I’m fine,” Folke said, ignoring Thomas, near the fire that was, once again, burning too hot. “Let him have it, if it’s going.”
“Yeah Fin, let me have it!”
Quite firmly, Finlay said, “No.”
To which Folke shook his head, lightly. His touch along soft hair became less fretful, and more pacifying.
“Let him have some,” he whispered for only Finlay to hear.
Because Thomas was only a child, one who had endured so much. Who was likely far away from his home, his family, and had to witness the two men he’d come to recognise as father figures cosset someone other than him. And because the days Folke’s mother had most indulged him were the days he remembered best.
And because, perhaps on a deeper level, Folke wished his mother had indulged him just a little more often.
“Enabler,” countered Finlay.
Seeming to have overheard that much, socked feet thumped across flagstone and out of the room. The slosh of what had to be tea meeting hallway flooring shortly followed.
“Steady on, Thomas!” Darach bellowed.
Folke hid his smile against Finlay’s mouth.