Rainsquall

24. 24.

24.

S oft pops and cracks of the hearth's fire filled a silence that perched somewhere between tense and pleasant.

Mild.

Peppermint vapours wafted across the length of Folke’s face. His hands, no longer shaking, wrapped around the glazed mug, forefinger rubbing at the nick. Once in a while, it would catch his skin. An empty threat, too blunt to slit in full.

Darach had a tendency to slurp his tea. Not loudly, only a whisper, but it was there every time he took a sip. Finlay sighed, softly, after each gulp. They both preferred regular tea. Darach with sugar, two spoons. Finlay, a dash of milk, no sugar.

Rustling drew Folke away from observing both men on either side of him. Something tickled the back of his hand. He ran his marginally abused fingertip across pliant notches. A paper bag, the scent of ginger strong.

“Dip your hand in,” Finlay suggested.

Paper and crumbs dusted Folke’s knuckles, his fingers collecting a biscuit. Round, scalloped. Although he freed it of its susurrous prison, he didn’t eat it.

“I should be the one providing you with these things,” Folke murmured, guiltily. He definitely couldn’t accept their rent money.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Finlay’s tea-warmed lips closed around his jaw. A hungry nip followed the kiss, stirring interest in Folke, already. He buried his nose into the mug, still clasping the biscuit between his fingers. He couldn’t very well be the one to take the first bite, let alone be the only one to have a biscuit.

Darach shifted on his left. Fingers brushing over his nape elicited a shiver—multiple shivers, when he continued to caress.

“We’re keen to indulge ye, sweet Folke.”

Why?

Folke needed to ask, even though they had already told him.

His looks .

Still entirely meaningless to Folke, but it seemed important to them.

And caring deeply.

Darach had seen something that didn’t exist. What would happen once he found out?

A tap to his temple. “If you’re going to disappear inside your head, at least narrate what’s going on in there.”

Folke tilted into Finlay’s prod—and nearly succeeded in spilling his tea, a veil-thin cascade sloshing over his fingers.

“Steady.” Finlay’s low chuckle contrasted Folke’s embarrassed huff.

Feeling around for the low table, he set his mug and biscuit down. He startled, swiftly captured by an embrace. Pulled back to rest against Darach’s chest. His legs, now on the settee, pushed apart to accommodate Finlay, robbing Folke of his breath upon their lips locking.

Folke settled one hand on the side of Finlay’s face, the other he raised behind him, clasping Darach's neck. He didn’t know if this was their attempt to make things work, but this he liked. Especially when Finlay pulled away, and Darach nudged him to twist his head, so that he too could catch Folke in a languid kiss.

“We’ll try half days,” Finlay said, a touch breathless.

Darach hummed against Folke’s mouth. Breaking away to murmur, “An’ evenings we’ll share.”

What else was there to say but, “Alright.”

“And. . .” Finlay stole another kiss. “We’re not going to come inside you any longer, are we, Darach ?”

The fire must have jumped the hearth and onto Folke, his face ignited. The long pause worsened his fever-like embarrassment.

“Aye,” Darach said, eventually.

“Makes. . .sense,” Folke managed.

Could do without the mess.

Why then, did it feel as though he was being deprived of something?

“What about nights?” Folke lowered his hands to pluck at pilling on his jumper. The thought of sleeping, cosy and secure, between two men was surprisingly appealing. The bed was big enough to accommodate them comfortably, after all.

Finlay settled back down, easing Folke’s legs across his lap. A palm ran over his shins, soothingly. “As much as I’d like to, I– we can’t. Thomas might come looking if we’re not where we’re supposed to be.”

“Right.” More toying with the jumper.

He wasn’t disappointed.

How could he be, when he didn’t know what he might be missing out on?

Darach tutted against the back of his head, his arms still around Folke. Tightening. A kiss pressed to the shell of his ear, inducing a slight tremor.

“We’ll see if we can find ways around Thomas,” said Darach. “For now, drink yer tea, an’ have a biscuit or five.”

The biscuit was delicious enough for Folke to enjoy two. Refusing a third, on account he didn’t want to be greedy, Thomas’ words echoing in the back of his mind. He was content to stay as he was, legs held by Finlay while cradled against Darach’s chest.

Conversation, as it turned out, was easy.

Folke only asked innocent things. Like, “What did you do before you became soldiers?”

Finlay would answer with, “Builder, like my Da.”

And Darach reiterated what he already knew, “Breeding sheep. Farming.”

Folke asked them what they’d be doing, if not for the war.

Both their answers, “Same as before.”

When he asked Darach if he enjoyed the movies, the man said, “Na, I prefer reading.”

After which, Folke was lulled by that sonorous voice as Darach continued to read to him. Warm and cosy against him, with the man’s musclesome leg resting under his thighs, each page turned directly before him. Fighting the need to fall asleep, Folke reached out to run his touch across thin paper, wishing he could feel the print. Unable to help himself from straying to those fingers clasping the book.

He scarcely woke to the press of lips against his forehead, his cheek.

Hardly stirred to being moved.

Roused to soft snoring. Arms snaked around his rib cage, a leg wrapped around his, constricting. The awful pain in his hips told Folke he was still on the settee. The intense warmth, Darach’s embrace. Sleep-heavy breaths almost sounded unnatural behind him, ghosting over the top of his head.

Folke didn’t know what had awoken him.

Until a whimper pushed at the hush.

A scream shattered it in full.

Ice lanced his spine, nearly folded in half as Darach released him and left his side in one move.

“Dunne!” Darach bellowed over another shout.

Panicked, pained. Striking Folke’s heart worse than a bullet might have. Amid rustling and men grunting, feet thundered down the stairs. Bare soles slapped flagstone, drowned out by Finlay rasping something. Called out a name, not one Folke recognised. His cry of heartrending anguish, freezing Folke in place on the settee, clutching at worn cushioning.

“Fin!” Thomas shouted. “You’re in the cottage. Stop, Darry!”

That Darach swore was obvious, even if it had come in Gaelic. Someone’s feet connected with the floor. Finlay’s shallow breaths cut through the room.

“You’re in the cottage and we’re in Wales,” Thomas said, calmly. “You’re not on the battlefield anymore.”

Finlay repeated the words in an incoherent mumble.

“Yeah. Old, dirty cottage, remember? And that useless shepherd?”

“ Thomas ,” Darach hissed, near inaudibly.

The sting delivered wasn’t nearly as awful as Folke’s worry for Finlay. He itched to get up, find him and hold him as tightly as his strength would allow. Instead, he dug his fingers into the fabric until it yielded, tearing .

“Not– Not —” Finlay stammered, every inhale hiking itself in his chest.

“You’re okay. It was just a dream. We fixed the barn. You taught me how to do that. I can use what you taught me to make the vegetable garden. Remember? You said to get the shepherd to help, keep him occupied?”

“I’m right here,” Folke ground out, now angry. Angry that he couldn’t help Finlay the way he needed to. That he didn’t even know how.

That Thomas could .

“Shut up, this isn’t about you.”

“Thomas, I’m warning ye! Another word against him and ye’ll be shovelling shit for as long as we stay here.”

Between grunted sobs, Finlay suspired, harshly. Thomas spoke to him in low, reassuring murmurs. Maybe stroked his back.

While all Folke did was sit there, fretting with threads and clumped cushioning.

He cleared his throat. “Should I make some tea?”

Someone’s scoff—Thomas’, Folke was certain—held far more disdain than seemed fair. Darach’s musk reached him before the settee dipped beside him.

“That’d be lovely, thank ye, Shepherd.”

It didn’t feel right, leaving Finlay there, even if he had two capable men helping him through whatever his struggles were. Finlay had been there for Folke, during his hysterics after the boutade of lightning and pelting stone-shards. That he couldn’t return the kindness sat heavy in his chest.

He forced himself upright. Into the kitchen. Filled the kettle and set it to boil, only to remember that the water was sediment-tainted. Folke moved upstairs, collected water from the lavatory sink. Back in the kitchen, hunting for fresh mugs. And tea. Unmarked by bands, he could only go by scent.

Thomas was still there by the time he’d prepared three mugs. He hesitated approaching Finlay, knowing he and Thomas were still on the sleeping bag closest to the hearth. Crackling with hot embers and spits of a fire renewed.

“Well bring it here, then!”

Folke jostled. Winced, scalding tea spilling over his fingers, already stinging from holding two mugs in one hand.

“Everything’s alright now, Thomas,” Darach said, brusquely. “Ye can go back to bed.”

“No, Fin needs me,” Thomas muttered, so low, Folke wondered if Darach had heard from where he had to be on the settee, still.

“I’m fine, kid. Go sleep. We both know you get cranky otherwise.”

Finlay’s subdued manner wrenched Folke into movement, propelled forward. Desperately hoping Thomas wouldn’t stick his leg out to trip him, he toed around for the sleeping bag. Knelt by it and held the mugs out. Relieved, when Thomas unburdened his aching hand, and Finlay’s fingers brushed his.

“Thanks, Precious.”

Longing to linger, Folke pushed upright. Delivered the last mug to Darach. There, he did linger, unsure of what to do with himself while Darach uttered his thanks .

“Best be going to sleep, Shepherd. Early morning start, if ye still care to accompany me.”

Folke swallowed against the hurt that crept up.

“Right.” He willed his feet to move. “Good. . .night.”

Anise clung to the air upstairs. Nauseating. Shut out once Folke reached his bedroom. The front door opened and squeaked shut. Coltish feet padded upstairs, disappeared into the other room.

On his back in bed, tobacco smoke haunted Folke’s room. His fingers sought the buttons of his pyjamas. Picked at one so persistently, its thread loosened. Until the call of a red kite did he pick at that same button, satisfied only once it came undone. He flicked it across the room. Glass chimed before it pinged the wood floor.

It was dawn and the stench of smoke had yet to abate.

His heart stilled as the door to his bedroom creaked open. Clicked closed again, and the mattress dipped under Darach’s intense weight.

How could a man so large move unheard?

Folke twitched his head into Darach’s direction. Lips nudged his own, the kiss nigh hesitant.

“I’m sorry, mo leannan.”

There were many things Folke longed to say, none of which were entirely fair.

Then again, maybe they would be.

Neither Darach nor Finlay had warned him Thomas couldn’t know until after .

Or how difficult hiding would be.

He could not say it was fine when nothing seemed to be. Folke swore he heard the strike of another match outside below the window, hollowing his heart further.

“Is. . .Is there anything I can do?”

To make it better. To take away that awful pain and those terrible nightmares.

Folke would never claim his situation was comparable to Finlay’s, but he knew of pain and he knew of nightmares.

Darach settled in bed beside him, atop the sheets. He did not enfold Folke in his arms.

Sounding tired, “Finlay has many demons to overcome. I suspect no’ even the best o’ intentions can equip him to fight them.” Drawn out, perceptible hesitancy. Then, “But. . .it might help if ye spend the morning wi him. He’s rather fond of yer company.”

Folke blew out through his nose, a drop of amusement touching the exhale. “I hope that’s true.”

Darach too huffed with humour. “I’ll take Thomas wi me, give ye some time. I’ll be sure to address his behaviour towards ye.”

That stopped Folke rolling fully into Darach. He settled down on his side and pressed his nose to a thick bicep, covered in—

Shetland wool. Ugh .

“What would happen,” Folke began, carefully, “if Thomas found out we’re. . .lovers?”

A musing hum. “He would inform our superiors and we’ll be replaced by another unit.”

Words befrosting Folke’s entire body.

Horror cracked his voice, “Another unit?”

There were others who shared Darach and Finlay’s particular talents, whatever those were. Would they storm his cottage, demand to stay? Intrude upon his life?

“I think he knows,” Folke blurted, sitting up. “You have to stop him.”

Darach also sat up, slowly, while Folke’s heart punched the inside of his chest.

“How d’ye reckon?”

“I smelled anise on my way up the staircase.”

“Anise?”

“Those sweets he’s endlessly been sucking on,” Folke said, impatiently, “they reek of it. Why would the hallway smell of anise if he hadn’t been there long enough to fill the space with it?” Now desperate, he reached out to bunch itchy wool in his fist. “Darach, what if he overheard the argument last night?”

Darach’s silence threatened to undo Folke.

“He hasnae told anyone yet,” he said at last. “On account ye have na telephone.”

Thank fuck , Folke wanted to say.

Instead, all that left him was an undignified sound of shattered nerves.

“What should I do?” he quavered.

“Leave it to me, mo leannan.” Darach pulled him close, the arm around Folke’s shoulders heavy, and kissed his forehead. “I’ll find out if he suspects anything. If he does, we’ll see to it he never gets the chance to speak up.”

Dear God, what did that even mean?

A second arm ensnared Folke, encouraging him to close the gap between them.

Folke didn’t, overcome with the stinging regret of complicating his life. So much that he now shook, unable to control it.

He flung himself out of bed, of Darach’s hold. Something prodded the underside of his foot as he walked out, the banished button sticking to the skin for several paces until it was, once again, abandoned. Folke rested against the lavatory door, closed to the whirlwind of worry he’d shaken off in the hallway.

Deep breaths.

Go and draw a bath.

Slide in. Let the scalding water burn away his worries, and the tub’s cold enamel distract from the rest. His thighs stung where Darach had held him the night before, the skin particularly tender where he ran his palms over it.

Folke lathered the soap across his chest, the scent of leather strong. Smothering the smoke trapped in his nostrils.

Darach thudded down the hallway. His voice boomed in its command that Thomas get up, whose whining groans floated in across the tiled floor.

Folke sank deeper into the water.

“But I need to piss!”

“Do it outside.”

Thomas had plenty more to say, none of it favourable toward Folke. Solidifying his suspicion that he knew.

It didn’t seem fair Thomas hated him, but not Finlay or Darach.

Folke didn’t know why that bothered him.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes, exhaustion catching up quick. There’d be no time to sleep, however. His sheep needed tending to.

Folke scrubbed himself clean, paying particular attention to areas now prone to invasion. Unplugging the drain, he indulged in toeing at the whirlpool until the last remnants of water disappeared with a loud slurp. He stood in the tub, waiting for the rivulets to stop cascading down his body, unsure where the towel had been moved to.

The doorknob rattled before it clicked open.

Folke ducked back into the empty tub.

“Get out!”

“Christ, sorry.”

Folke reeled. “Wait—I thought you were Thomas.”

Finlay huffed. “Nope.” Boot soles scuffed. “He left with Whyte—Darach.”

A short burst of wind whisked across Folke’s goose pimpled skin, then a towel draped over his back. Not an immediate solution to his shivering, but it helped. He unfurled, dragging the towel past his shoulders to wrap it around his hips.

“If you’d told me you were going to bathe, I would've joined you.”

Folke froze mid-climb, one foot on the floor, the other still in the tub.

Didn’t realise that was an option.

“Wait. I knew it was, I read about—” He snapped his mouth shut, shying away from Finlay’s intrigued croon. “I wasn’t narrating. I’m just tired. I didn’t—”

Sleep.

Neither had Finlay.

Folke straightened up, fidgeting with the towel. “Are. . .you okay?”

“Fine.” He sounded exhausted. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“You didn’t.”

Liar.

Folke jerked at the rumble of thunder, rolling across the sky in the distance.

“You’ll be alright,” Finlay said.

“What about you?” Folke asked, subdued.

More thunder. He had to wonder if it was the storm-wolves, or natural. He would have asked, because today was tomorrow and they owed him answers, but something told him Finlay would dodge any questions now—if he knew about Thomas.

“Did Darach tell you? ”

“That the little dick-stain suspects we’re fucking? He mentioned it in passing.”

Folke’s brows purled together, coming undone when a thumb pressed between them. Moved to brush across his cheekbone.

“Don’t worry. Darach will sort that fucker out.”

“He’s. . .He was good with you last night.” Folke tilted into the touch. Stepped closer. Swiftly enveloped by a touchable manifestation of cigarette smoke.

“What of it?” Finlay’s wild-fire breath combed his face.

“You shouldn’t call him names.”