13. 13.
13.
T entatively, Folke knelt in the grass, hands dipping into water now hot. Darach’s focus on him burned like a sun less coy than the one aloft. The tremors weren’t as ferocious as they were before, or with Finlay. As if crossing over from unknown desire to fulfilment—however nominally—had mollified some part of him.
Yet had stoked a flame into a firestorm.
Bells and lazy bleats drifted with a firming breeze, coaxing with it the sound of hammering. At odds with the fire that would surely burst from his chest to consume him and everything around him.
Folke didn’t know how he was meant to carry on as if he didn’t long to launch himself at Darach. Take whatever else the man would give him.
Darach moved in and out of the cottage, the door squeaking and banging each time, bringing freshly boiled water. While Folke ground fabric against the washing board, wrung it out using his hands. Passed the articles to Darach to hang. Like this was something they had done many times before. It felt. . .
Easy.
For once, the call of surrender didn’t overshadow Folke’s every thought.
“Alright?”
He twitched his head into Darach’s direction. Still by the clothesline, he thought.
“Yes. Why?”
“Ye were just sitting there.”
So he had. “I was thinking.”
“That’s what that smoke was.” Finlay’s heavy gait stomped toward him. With a groan, he flung himself into the grass directly beside Folke, bringing with him the smell of sweat and. . .
“Why aren’t you using the wringer?” asked Thomas.
Cracking wood and a squawk suggested he had tried to sit on the bench.
The bench where Folke had his very first kiss. Second, if he counted the one Alys had accidentally planted on the corner of his mouth instead of his cheek .
“I’d rather not get my fingers caught,” said Folke, dryly.
“ God . Close your eyes!”
“Or you could make an effort to remember,” Folke shot back, holding out another washed shirt for Darach to take. His movements receded while Finlay grunted in amusement.
“Better not close them,” he said in a murmur so low, Folke wouldn’t have heard him if he weren’t right by his ear. “I want to look into those baby blues when I fuck you.”
Folke’s hand slipped over the soap-slick washboard. He dove shoulder deep into the tub. Finlay’s barking laughter dragged over him like slopewash.
Angrily, Folke pushed out of the tub, shaking off water and someone’s hands in the process.
“Steady on.” Thomas, now beside him. “You need to put the washing against it. Seen my mummy do it all the time.”
Finlay’s mocking, Thomas’ insistence he was stupid—even Darach reprimanding them slung irritation high into Folke’s chest. He stalked away, back door wailing shut behind him. Flung his sodden shirt in the direction of the sink and made for the bedroom.
Where he sat on the edge of the bed, burning with humiliation and confusion.
Folke reached between his legs and bit down the urge to make a sound.
Desire, too.
“That’s a great start.”
This time, Folke did make a sound. A cry of outrage and shock. Then, accusingly, “Since when are you this quiet?”
“Since always,” Finlay drawled. “I make noise so you know I’m around.”
“Oh.”
“I’m stealthy when I want to be.”
Folke’s hair stood on end, springs twanging as the mattress dipped behind him, sweat and smoke encroaching.
Mildly, “Did I upset you?”
“Not in the slightest,” Folke said, heatedly. “I enjoy being ridiculed. Got a taste for it back in school. I just storm out for the effect.”
Finlay hummed with interest. Moved again, the mattress sending Folke swaying. “You’ve been to school?”
“Obviously. Before I was—” Folke tutted with impatience. “Didn’t Darach tell you?”
An incredulous chuff. “He seems to treasure anything he learns about you. Hoards it like. . .it belongs to him.”
Folke’s fingers sought buttons that weren’t there, only the old cotton of his undershirt. The information wasn’t meant to warm, he figured, but it did. When nothing else was said, he reached behind him to find out what Finlay was up to. His fingers connected with tough, worn fabric.
Denim.
And Finlay’s legs. Extended, he discovered, once he nudged his touch further up the fabric.
“Mm. Keep going.”
“Are you lying in my bed?” Folke asked, scandalised, jerking his hand away as if scalded.
“It’s not exactly comfortable.” A spring popped to prove the point.
Not that Folke needed any proof. He huffed, mouth straining. “I hate it.”
“Would you hate it less if you joined me?”
A question stilling Folke’s movements. “I. . .”
Can’t discern sincerity.
Never shared a bed with anyone.
Don’t know what to do.
“Or is Darach the only one who gets to enjoy you?”
Folke’s mouth opened. Pointless, when he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Or ask, or even do. He closed it again, brows knitting together at Finlay’s grunted mirth.
“Saw you and Darach have a good fondle. Looked like fun. I would’ve joined if it weren’t for—”
“Thomas,” Folke supplied. Then, “Wait. I have questions.”
How much have you seen?
You would have joined ?
Had Darach known Finlay was watching?
“I may or may not have answers,” said Finlay. “Come here.”
Not a growl or a command, but an honest request, spiced with a need resonating within Folke. Unthinking, his knees connected with the blankets. Bungling over outstretched legs, hands itching to explore.
Finlay cawed.
A noise of agony. He shoved at Folke’s left knee. “Off!”
Folke shuffled back as legs slid away from either side of him. Boots abutted with the wood flooring. Another noise, low and drawn out. Pained.
“What—” Folke realised, then. Needle had done it to him plenty of times in her eagerness to sleep in his lap. “Oh.”
Heat flared up his neck, spreading like brushfire into his face. He’d just touched Finlay’s. . .With his knee. Smashed it, rather, but still .
No need to ask if he’d liked that.
“That one’s on me,” Finlay groused. “I might’ve pulled a Thomas.”
Folke knelt back. Settling his hands on his thighs. Moved them to the side of him. Back on his thighs. Rubbed sweaty palms dry over them.
Fabric shifted. A slight scuff of leather soles, then a press of warm skin against his temple, a slide of hard stubble, before Finlay walked out of the room.
“We’ll get Thomas to do the rest of the laundry. Make a man of him yet.”
Probably a good idea.
“Rest,” Finlay added.
As the last curls of musk and smoke evaporated, Folke forced his tingling legs out from under himself to peel off woollen socks. Then he sat there, shoulders slumped, pressing the base of his palm against his forehead .
That hadn’t gone very well.
Nothing seemed to, with Finlay.
He didn’t understand why that disappointed him so.
“Fuck it.”
A swift, heavy stride gave Folke no room to react. Strong hands grasped either side of his head, tilting him up. Thin lips sealed over his own, parted around a gasp whipped away by Finlay’s tongue. Delving deep. Robbing Folke of every last sense he possessed. He struggled to respond, to sit up, hands twisting into an undershirt. Their teeth clicked together. Finlay grunted, pulled away. Paused, while Folke sought to discover the man’s features, like he’d done with Darach.
Hands slammed down on his, stilling his creeping fingers over pronounced clavicles.
“You’re fucking terrible at kissing.”
Folke tried to free himself from that firm grip, desperate to find out how strong Finlay’s jawline was. If it was anything like his personality, bold and—
“What?” Folke croaked.
“You kiss like a virgin.”
He tore himself away. Sat back, brows furrowing. The words sinking into the depths of him.
Finlay was right about his lack of experience and so, he probably was a terrible kisser. Maybe Darach had stopped things from unfolding between them because of that.
The moments stumbled by as Folke became aware of the drowning silence. He was aware of a great many things, just then. Finlay’s hovering. That his hands had left him entirely.
Not least of all, the hurt. Worse than a nail through his foot.
Because it hurt his heart.
Folke had believed himself incapable of suffering yet more hurt, having dealt with enough of it that he’d turned himself into an iron tower. Standing tall and bastioned by a blizzard. Freezing cold, indifferent.
Invulnerable.
“Shit. I upset you again.”
Folke twitched his head sideways, anger swelling and churning until it crashed into cold determination.
His fingers connected with a hard stomach. Trailed lower.
“Maybe not?” Finlay sounded curious, hopeful, while Folke’s digits slid over a metal button, down to the crotch.
He patted around, memorising the location. Raised his hand.
Swiftly brought it down.
The resulting pained grunt shouldn’t have given Folke any satisfaction. He was not a violent man. Had never thought himself particularly cruel, either.
Yet he took satisfaction in the way Finlay shuffled back. Out of the room.
“Get out of my home,” Folke snarled after him.