17. 17.
17.
G rab the crook and get up.
A simple enough task, yet Folke couldn’t get himself to move. He expected Finlay’s impatience to kick in, almost hoped it would. But it never did, both men content to let him become one with the earth.
He wished he could.
Spare himself from needing to get into the car. He heard Finlay’s distinct chuckle, muffled through closed doors, and Darach’s rumbling voice. They were having a good laugh at his expense. At how easily he’d been reduced to a quivering pile.
Again.
Folke let the back of his head thud against metal. Hissed at the pain shooting through his skull. Ground the base of his palm between his eyebrows. Sucked in a deep breath.
Calm down.
It’s not a big deal. People get hard all the time.
Grab the crook. Get up.
They’re waiting.
The hollow rasp of hazel wood scraping across grass was loud over the stream’s distant gurgle. Once Folke rose, he realised his backside had gotten damp. Cold and uncomfortable against his skin, in particular once he slid into the car.
“Finally,” Finlay grumbled alongside the engine, revving. “Thought maybe I’d have to resuscitate you.”
Without thinking, Folke quipped, “If you did, you would’ve been far too late.”
It appeared to amuse both men, although he was too preoccupied trying to find out where Darach was.
Discreetly, he moved the crook under the pretence of trying to get comfortable, and set it at a slant. Its curve hit the window with a clack. Had Darach been sitting next to him, the other end would have hit his leg or boot .
No one sat beside him, this time.
Folke grit his teeth, fighting the desire to storm out of the car even as they jerked into motion.
All, or nothing.
He’d either accept their offer to get everything, including the eventual heartache. Or reject, and get nothing at all.
Why did the nothing bother him so much?
And why did the everything bother him an equal amount?
Folke chewed on those questions for the duration of the ride. Ignoring the other two, who spoke low among themselves. In Gaelic. Again.
“Sweet Shepherd.”
A gentle touch to his shoulder pulled Folke out of the haze he’d been wandering. He must have drifted off, the lull of the car surprisingly comforting.
“We’re in town already?”
With one of the doors open, the distinct noise of people floated into the car.
“What’s that face for?” Darach asked, amused. “If ye leave the crook here, ye could take my arm?”
“ No .”
Folke faltered, even though Darach’s, “Alright,” held traces of humour. He hadn’t meant to be quite so abrupt.
“I just—I might need it.”
To sweep people’s feet out from under them, should they get too close.
Although he wasn’t sure what time it was, not many others were out and about. It had to be early, still. Folke snapped the car door shut and kept his exhausted, “Here we go,” to himself, mostly. Finlay’s faint snort suggested he’d been heard.
“Come on then, fussbudget,” Finlay said with a touch to Folke’s forearm.
“I am not.” He’d grumbled that and knew it didn’t help his case.
None too quietly, Finlay uttered, “You ever consider getting fucked would help your mood?”
Folke inhaled his shock and choked on nothing but a droplet of spittle. Couldn’t hear what Darach said over the hacking, though hoped Finlay was being reprimanded.
Cheerful tintinnabulating told Folke they were right by the post office. He swung his crook out despite nearby footfalls echoing against limestone buildings. Didn’t hit anyone.
Darach and Finlay were downwind of him. He couldn’t smell them, but heard their weighted steps following. Down the pavement to the square, only a short distance away. The echoes rolled further here. Folke turned his head sharply in the direction of pattering paws and the faint scratch of nails. Eager panting.
A dog.
Its sounds vanished behind the war memorial that stood in the square’s centre, reemerging moments later. It was headed in the opposite direction, toward the grocers. Folke tried not to let his disappointment get to him .
Maybe he could pretend he needed something from the grocers.
“Alright?”
Folke followed Darach’s voice, crook connecting with the single step leading into the bookshop. He didn’t need the large hand guiding him inside, but didn’t mind when Darach’s fingers slid past the inside of his palm and for a brief, tantalising glance, held him by the fingertips.
All he had to do was say yes.
Say yes, and he could get every touch, twofold.
Get hurt twice as much, too.
Bowen’s Books barely passed for a foothold, so narrow and cramped, men like Darach and Finlay would find moving around troublesome. Folke himself had difficulty, the corners of stacked books hitting his shins just so that it hurt the most.
Its atmosphere, however, had an unforgettable depth and richness to it, long since inked into his memory. The faint, sweet notes of vanilla and almond as soothing to him as the crackling of a dying fire. He grazed spines and covers with sentimental touches, keeping his crook close to avoid hitting anything precious. Sought those books with embossed lettering to trace them with his forefinger. There weren’t nearly enough, but the ones he could read carved out his chest with yearning.
Finlay swearing accompanied the cadence of sliding books that met with wood flooring.
Folke’s mouth strained. “I thought I was the blind one.”
“Fuck, Precious. Was that a joke?”
He deliberated his response. Pondered the consequences. Blurted, “That depends. Are you going to call me a minx again if I say yes?”
His heart lurched.
Yes to the jape. Not. . . that .
An unexpected bark of laughter jerked Folke back to the bookshop. He’d thought the two would be concerned about being overheard. If they were, no hints were given. Folke sniffed, aware it sounded haughty.
“I haven’t been here in so long,” he said upon the nearing aroma of musk and wilderness. The abundance of books, occupying the space from wall to wall, muted his voice.
“How long?” asked Darach.
Folke thought back. Sucked in a breath. “Oh, bollocks .”
“Folke?”
A tender, melodious voice that tightened his grip on hazel wood. Pulled his spine rigid with tension. With Darach on his left and Finlay to his right, both blocking his path, there was nowhere for him to run.
“I thought I recognised your voice!”
“Alys,” Folke muttered, jerking his head in the opposite direction of her. “Your shop is disorganised.”
Move, Finlay. Or Darach.
Please .
“Is that what you were doing the last time you were here, organising our shop?” Alys asked, although there was no malice as far as he could tell.
“Oh, go on then,” Finlay said, startling Folke with the abrupt change in his accent. He’d gone from mildly American to full-fledged Cockney. “Tell us what he did.”
Folke would have laughed if he weren’t so uncomfortable.
Sounded like Alys faltered. “Who are you?”
“They are—” Folke cut himself off.
What, exactly?
Lovers?
Embarrassment instantly erupted across his face, making him sweat. No, that was definitely inaccurate.
“I’m renting out the cottage,” he managed. As if Alys didn’t already know, anyway. Word spread faster than wool caught on common gorse in a storm. “Now leave me the hell alone until I’m ready to buy something.”
Suffocating, the silence that now occupied the bookshop.
Broken, when heels clacked away.
Finlay cleared his throat. “There goes my chance of learning more about you.”
“You can just ask.” Folke reached to run his fingers over the nearest book.
“What happened the last time you were here?”
Folke hesitated. “I. . .” Threw a tantrum. “Rearranged the shop.” Kicked at shelves, hurtled books around. “With certain vigour.” At Mister Bowen.
“Why’s that?” Darach asked.
His mother had just passed.
He’d walked all the way to Crossing Wells to seek solace in the bookshop.
Quiet and cramped and smelling of vanilla.
Bringing with it the realisation he would never again get to listen to her read to him.
Or read books at all.
“It’s disorganised,” Folke said, flatly, thumbing the pages. “Let’s just go.”
As he tried to move away, someone’s arm caught him by the waist. Smoky-rose wove in with the shop’s scent.
“Hold on,” Finlay murmured by his ear, washing gooseflesh over Folke’s skin. “What about her?” That arm kept him in place as lips toyed with the shell of his ear. “Do we have competition?”
One heavy step, and Darach’s abdomen pressed into Folke’s back, binding Finlay’s arm around him. Folke shivered, lips parting with the brush of Finlay’s nose against his.
“No,” Folke heard himself say. “ You don’t seem put off by my blindness.”
Someone drew in a sharp breath. He wasn’t entirely sure who yet. Hands clasped his face, squeezing. Shook him slightly, pulling Folke out of the trance he’d yet again fallen into. Finlay grunted, close-mouthed, like he struggled to say whatever was on his mind.
In the end, Finlay said nothing. Released his face. Stepped away as Darach’s hands settled on the side of Folke’s neck, thumbs stroking his jawline.
“I’ll be right back,” said Darach, his beard tickling Folke’s neck just below the hairline. After a faint pressure to the back of his head, well away from the injury, his reassuring body moved away.
Cool wind brushed past his ankles, the shop’s bell tinkling mildly.
“Let’s go.”
Folke wavered, longing to leave, but he’d not picked out a book. Suppressing his desire to grumble, he followed Finlay’s voice. Curious but not opposed when their arms hooked, and stayed that way once back in the square.
“Anywhere we can sit?”
“There’s a public garden by the bridge,” said Folke.
The bell jingled again. Folke made a note to ask Darach if he could touch his boots. They sounded thick and durable. He imagined them to be well worn and comfortable. Soldier’s boots, perhaps.
“I dinnae what kind of stories ye like, but—”
“I’m not bothered,” Folke cut in. “I like being surprised.”
“Precious,” Finlay began, dramatically, “you just admitted to liking something.”
“There are plenty of things I like.” Folke slid his arm out of Finlay’s hold.
In that moment, particularly, he liked the way both Finlay and Darach stayed so close they bumped into him with every step through the square.
“Alright,” said Darach, the stream’s swash drawing near, “tell us what else ye like.”
Folke thought they might be close to the bridge now, the sounds of their footsteps no longer hollow echoes, but fanning across an open space. He slowed to a stop. Tilted his head to bask in the warmth blooming over his face and the birds atwitter, their songs lifting a mood gone sour.
“I like this.”
And he did, truly. He liked the sun and the birds and he liked how much comfort the men’s presence brought him. Standing like sentries on either side, Folke felt cloistered. Protected from a world unkind.
As they proceeded down a hade, over an old path cracked, Folke realised he was not the only one the world had been unkind to. He stopped again. Considered. Extended the crook until his knuckles pressed into the soft, pliant leather of Darach’s coat.
“Could I. . .have your arms?”
Say, please.
Folke remained silent.
Hazel wood eased from his grip. Both Darach and Finlay’s arms snaked around his. They carried on, his feet uncertain at first. He’d never permitted anyone to guide him like this before. It took too much trust.
Different.
This is different.
Darach and Finlay had only been kind to him. Had saved his life already, of that Folke was certain. Although still frightening and strange, the men clearly enjoyed closeness. Folke thought he could give them what they wanted. At least in that moment.
They, too, deserved kindness.
Slowing to another stop under the cooling wash of trees, both men gently prompted him to a bench. Wood slats yielded uncomfortably under their combined weight. Folke huffed, already tired. His thighs fell open, pressing against Finlay, to his right, and Darach, to his left.
“Did you three meet in prison?” Folke asked, barely audible over the stream. He couldn’t be sure they were the only ones in the garden.
“In a sense,” said Darach, confirming Folke’s suspicions. They hadn’t directly told him Thomas too had a dishonourable discharge, but he’d suspected.
“What did Thomas do?”
“That’s his story to tell, sweet Folke.”
Fair enough.
“How long was your sentence?” He was prying. It was unlikely to be any of his business, although Folke found himself with a sudden need to know more. “If–If you don’t mind me asking.”
“O’ course no’. I was released early. Although six months in isolation felt like years.”
Folke frowned. “That’s. . .terrible.”
He wanted to ask, why were you released early?
He longed to know, why in isolation?
More so, he needed to reach out and hold Darach’s hand. Just for a moment. Squeeze it.
Folke did. Clasped that large hand in his. Held it tight. Dipped his head in Finlay’s direction, wordlessly repeating the question.
“Three years,” said Finlay, like it meant nothing at all.
“Just because you didn’t want to treat someone?”
“Counts as murder, since he ended up dying thanks to my inaction.”
“That’s a load of bollocks! Soldiers kill all the time. How can they—” Folke cut himself off, unsure of the point in asking.
They could, they had.
It angered him so much his hands shook.
“No point fretting about it now.” Finlay’s shoulder bumped his. Not a signal for Folke to hold his hand, exactly, but he did.
Their holds became restless. Touches swept into caressing palms and knuckles. Nervousness and longing reawakened inside Folke’s very soul. Darach and Finlay laced their fingers with his, a similar longing radiating off them more blatant than the warmth of the sun through whispering trees.
Folke swallowed harshly on the yes that had threatened to break free of the prison that was his self preservation.
“S-So this book,” he urged, hoarsely.
Darach hummed, unlocking their fingers. “I believe this book has a film adaptation.”
A hum of faint interest was all Folke could grant him.