5. 5.
5.
F olke jerked awake to the noise of prattling, likely because of it. Sheep were by no means silent. His Garments liked to linger below his bedroom window, bleating until he came out with them, but having people in his house after years of solitude was. . .jarring.
Grating, even, when he heard Thomas’ squeaky laughter.
As he slid his legs over the bed’s edge to stand, Folke was reminded of his injured foot. He hissed through his teeth, trailing his fingers over the bandaging. Stiffened, suggesting his foot had been bleeding, but no longer damp.
He puffed out a breath, needing to summon the willpower to rise. Opening the door, Thomas was louder still, his excruciatingly cheerful voice a false crescendo bouncing along tiles, accompanied by sloshing. Finlay, too, appeared to be in the lavatory, stern voice a low mumble as he sang along.
“He’s awake!” Uttered the moment Folke felt his way into the lavatory.
A grunt. “And here I thought you were just wind swept.”
“Get out,” grumbled Folke. “I need to relieve myself.”
Someone clicked their tongue.
Finlay, the hayseed of his American accent clinging to his morning-roughened voice, “I’m in the middle of shaving, and he just got in. Just go.”
In all likelihood, they were accustomed to sharing the lavatory with other men. Folke, however, was not. It was a luxury the cottage even had one, something his mother had insisted they invest in. The outhouse remained in the backyard, but it had been so long since he used it, Folke wasn’t sure he could find it again.
“We’re used to it,” Thomas said when Folke didn’t move.
“But I’m not.”
“You’re blind!”
“How’s that— you’re not!”
“Hold it then!”
“Where’s Darach?” Folke demanded. If anyone could sort those two out, it’d be him .
“Nowhere near here,” said Finlay. “We won’t look if you’re worried about your privacy.”
Folke was sure he ought to be glad he didn’t have his crook with him. He would have caved to temptation and beat them with it. Not that he was a violent man, but something about those two begged for a swift wallop to the head.
Clutching at the hem of his pyjamas, he rounded the door frame, the toilet just to his left. Rather than use it, Folke ensured the lid was lowered and perched atop it. He’d wait them out. They couldn’t stay forever.
Thomas hummed idly as he bathed, and Finlay was meticulous when it came to shaving. The persistent scrape of a razor blade across stubble sounded slow and painful.
Folke’s fingers found their way up to his face, stroking through several month’s worth of growth.
“Want me to get that for you?” Finlay’s question followed a rinse and rapid taps of metal against ceramic.
“I thought you said you wouldn’t look,” Folke snapped.
A, “Hm,” was all he got before a firm grip pushed his hand away and captured his chin.
“Hold still, then.”
“I didn’t say—” Folke’s throat clicked with a swallow. The vane of cool metal pressed against his right cheek. His heart stuttered, breath coming in sharp bursts.
“Is that a no?” An exhale ghosted over his face. Hot, of cinnamon and camphor.
Folke’s brows furrowed with indignation. “Did you use my dentifrice tin?”
“I might’ve borrowed it.”
Animals!
“I didn’t.” Thomas sounded proud of himself. “I have my own.”
“Yes or no to the shave, Shepherd.”
“What difference does it make?” Folke snapped.
“Seeing your pretty face will make all the difference.”
Thomas made a sound of disgust, which was a hell of a lot more than Folke managed. The blade had since left his cheek, but Finlay’s statement turned him witless.
The best Folke could come up with was, “Fine.”
An open hand patted his cheek twice. A towel draped over his chest and shoulders, its cotton fabric softened by damp. Knuckles rushing past Folke’s jawline preceded the furious rustle of a brush working up foam, soon layered onto his face. So tenderly for a man who had just threatened him with a blade. When the chilly bite of the razor settled back over his cheek, he couldn’t help but flinch.
“Sit still.”
Folke did his best. The need to relieve himself became a distant memory. Every scrape, every gentle touch along his face brought forth an unfamiliar longing. What for, he didn’t know .
From time to time, Eleanor shaved his beard for him. Insisted on it, even though he could do it himself. Her warm hands would gently tilt his head into different angles. Hold the back of his skull.
This was nothing like that.
Finlay’s hand was assured, razor-strokes steady. Fingers pressing to his forehead and temple scalding. The man’s face so close, the carbolic aroma of soap wafted into his nostrils and settled there.
These were not unfamiliar smells, but they were different on Finlay, whose touch was so very different to Eleanor’s.
With Eleanor, Folke always simmered, resentment poisoning his insides. The question of, “Why didn’t you make time for us like this before ?” forever at the precipice of his lips.
Now, he didn’t even want to breathe. Terrified that if he did, this odd spark of a spell he’d come under would collapse. That Finlay would suddenly hear his thundering heart, see the heat rising up his neck and face as he lifted his chin, and leave him sitting there to look like the fool he was.
A fool for what, Folke also didn’t know.
“There,” Finlay said with a final run over his throat. The severity in his tone had eased, his touch remaining gentle as the last oddments of foam were wiped clean. There came a hum of approval and once more, Folke’s chin was caught in a commanding grip. A thumb pressed against the underside of his lower lip.
Finlay didn’t let go until he uttered a breathless, “Fuck.”
Tufts of fleece had usurped Folke’s head, his ability to think had fled. The room had gone quiet, during which he realised his grasp on the pyjama buttons was painful. His fingers throbbed by the time he eased up.
A vast swash, and a cascade of dripping across the tiles. “Oh, you do clean up nice! Still a stubborn git, though.”
Thomas walked about, likely naked. And just how exposed had Finlay been, as he’d brushed him with fingers and his breath and the heat of his body?
Folke could still feel the touch to his face. It occurred to him, belatedly, that Finlay’s fingers had found their way back to him. Only this time, they crept through his hair, running across his scalp, tugging at knots.
“When’s the last time you brushed this mop?”
Folke’s body tilted into Finlay’s, a worse betrayal than any spill he’d taken before in life. His face crashed against bare skin, hairs of a hard stomach feather-light against his nose and forehead. The man’s sharp, surprised grunt pulled Folke back, and just like that, anger strangled the upsurge of yearning. Folke’s forearm connected with Finlay’s and he wrenched his head away.
His mouth opened, ready to fire, but then he caught it.
The silence.
Complete and utter, beautiful silence.
Thomas’ humming aside.
The storm had passed.
Folke’s foot pulsed with pain when he bolted upright. He shoved Finlay out of the way, the door frame snagging under his palm as he swung himself out. Finlay’s, “What the fuck!” chased him down the hallway, where he collided with a mountain.
“ Oof ! Easy, Shepherd.”
He staggered back, hands around his arms easing away as soon as Folke found his footing.
“The storm—”
“I was. . .” A long, long pause. During which Folke discovered vehement impatience. “. . .Coming to fetch ye.”
“You meant it, then?” Folke urged. “You’ll help me find my Garments?”
“Yer. . .what?”
“My sheep!”
“Aye, Folke.” That amusement again.
Folke deliberately stepped to the right, pressed his palm flat against the railing, and sought the bedroom past Darach. He fumbled for the wardrobe. Tore any old shirt off its hanger, pulled a woollen jumper over his head and slipped into trousers and fresh socks. Darach was still there in the hallway when he scuttled past him, back to the lavatory, remembering to use it first. Only once he’d thrown his trousers past his hips and sat did Folke realise he’d neglected to find out if the room was empty.
God, he hoped it was.
He tapped his fingers along his knee with impatience, jumped back up the moment he could, and hastened to the sink. Slick tiles slid out from under his socked feet.
For one startling moment, the room disappeared from under him.
A cry knocked loose as he crashed to the floor. First his body, then his head. Bouncing against tile with a noisome thud. Water soaked into his clothes as he lay there, too bewildered to do anything but watch the stars.
Tiny scattered dots, shimmering so beautifully. The way sunrays caught dust, casting the thinnest of shadow-lines, interrupted with each swipe of his hand. Kicking up yet more dust. More swipes. Soft laughter drew his attention back to his mother. He’d not seen her happy in so long, but she seemed content just then. Legs folded under herself, book in hand. The loose curls of her short hair a glitterance of gold in the light. Their old girl Weaver at the foot of the settee, pink tongue framed by a crisp white snout, a pitch black nose.
He’d turned fourteen that day.
If he’d known it would be one of the last days he’d be able to see, Folke would have spent more time playing with sunlit dust.
And so much more time looking at his mother.