25. 25.
25.
“ Y ou’re defending him.”
A statement, flatter than the tiles Folke stood on.
“No,” Folke murmured, caught in the lure of promise when lips glanced his. A tease. Enticing him to forget the point he’d been about to make. “I’m the one who should get to call him names. You, on the other hand, are supposed to be. . .”
Finlay fulfilled the promise of a kiss with a sharp inhale through his nose, and a collision of their mouths. Hands snatched Folke by the hips, yanked him close. A growl swallowed his breathy moan. The sound pathetic enough to jostle him out of the spell Finlay had just cast on him. He lightly shoved at the wide chest his hands had found their place on.
“I’m glad we didn’t bathe together.” Folke bit his lower lips to quell the smile breaking free. “You stink.”
“Hmph.”
“We may need to scrub you with lye. Air you out on the washing line.”
“Cute.”
Folke’s laugh ricocheted the walls. He slapped a hand across his mouth.
“Oh, it’s too late for that.” Finlay’s mirth spilled from deep in his chest. “Your secret is out. You’re capable of laughing.”
The tap squeaked, but the incursion of water provided no cover for Folke’s embarrassment.
“I have no secrets,” he muttered.
Itching to add, unlike you two.
He sniffed. Focused on working the towel over his skin and hair while the tap squeaked again and water sloshed, Finlay stepping in. His drawn-out groan told of his fatigue.
Then, a snort. “You look like a rabbit when you do that.”
Folke twitched his head toward Finlay in confusion. “I—What?”
“You tend to look up, did you know that?”
“Obviously not. ”
“And when you swirl around in your head, you freeze. Like a rabbit, listening.”
“That’s. . .”
Was that supposed to be a compliment?
“Yeah, like that, exactly.”
An insult, most likely.
Folke wrapped the towel back around his hips before feeling along the sink’s edge for his comb. He sent it clattering into the sink. Finlay had gotten most of the knots out of his hair, but he’d since been. . .
Heat rose up the length of his neck. The things Darach and Finlay had done with him the previous night, on the dining table , wafted around his senses more clearly than the present. The only thing clearer, at that moment, was the question of what Finlay had in store for him today.
Filling him with unfamiliar eagerness.
“Rabbit.”
“Oh, God,” Folke snapped. “That better not become another nickname.”
“Why not? You startle like one.” Finlay snorted. “You prefer ‘Precious’?”
“I prefer my name.”
Giving up on combing his hair, likely still unkempt, he rubbed his hands across his face. His palms were not as calloused as Darach’s.
Where have you gone?
What will you do about Thomas?
“Want me to get that?”
Folke hated that he’d jumped.
Finlay had to be referring to the stubble. He could shave himself just fine. Opening his mouth, however, he realised he didn’t want to do it himself.
“Yes.”
If you wouldn’t mind.
Manners, he kept forgetting his. Intentionally, Folke thought, to combat Finlay’s unbred antics.
“Join me in the bath, I’ll do it in here.”
“No.” Folke perched the lidded toilet, grimacing at the friction the towel created across his tender thighs. “I’d rather not stew in your filth.”
“I almost forgot, you’re a complete grouch in the morning.”
“What will happen to Thomas if he does know?”
Silence, one that felt startled. Finlay audibly exhaled.
“I imagine Darach will convince him not to say anything.”
And how would he do that?
“It’ll be that easy? Why even bother trying to hide, if that’s true?”
A click of the tongue. “You’re too fucking clever for your own good.” A spray of water pelted Folke’s arm that he ignored. “Do you truly want to know, Rabbit, or are you making small talk?”
“Don’t call me that. I’m no good with idle conversation.” Folke immediately realised he was unprepared for whatever truth might be divulged.
“Darach is likely going to terrify Thomas into obedience. ”
Folke’s breath wedged itself somewhere between his sternum and throat.
Definitely wasn’t ready.
“And. . .if that doesn’t work?”
“Then God help the bastard, because Darach’s gotten attached to you.”
A cruel tangle of information, dire and delightful.
“He’s going to threaten Thomas because. . .we’re lovers.”
Saying it felted his insides.
This was far from right.
Yet Darach had become attached, and Folke did not hate that.
“What will you do?” Folke asked, not wanting to know but needing to.
“Why should we let that twerp get between us and what makes us happy?”
Folke’s air left him in a swoop. Stomach twisting, taking his heart with it.
Happy.
He made them happy?
A great plash, water dripping onto tiles before wet skin slapped down. “Darach told you this is rare for us, didn’t he?”
“But Thomas helped you last night, and I suspect many nights before that. He certainly seems to know what he’s doing with you.”
Bitter, the taste that lingered in his mouth now.
“ Thomas doesn’t let me fuck him,” Finlay said.
Folke winced.
“Not that I want to.” Hastily added.
“Right. Not good looking enough, is he?”
“Definitely not.”
So it was just about looks, for Finlay.
“And anyway,” the man continued, while Folke grappled with the sudden need to lash out, “he’s not my type. Too young, if nothing else.”
“How old are you, anyway?”
Not that it mattered.
“Thirty-nine. And you?”
“Thirty-four.”
Last he checked.
Warmth wicked off a dampened body, now standing before him. Without meaning to, Folke raised his needy touch to bare skin, finding Finlay’s sides. He leant in, mouthed at droplets more refreshing than any glass of water. Cooling the simmering vexation. His mind wandered to the bed, having Finlay in it.
He’d not been alone with Finlay, not like this.
With his mouth, he mapped what he could reach, fixating on a vein running along the pelvis.
An approving hum as firm bristles worked inside ceramic. Folke shifted back. Patiently waited while Finlay applied cool foam to his heated face. Shaved him. Precise, the old fashioned blade assured in each stroke, yet never once nicking him.
“What about you, hm?” Finlay murmured, breaking a comfortable silence.
Fabric brushed Folke’s chin, the towel lacking in any particular smell .
Must be clean.
“What about me?” He grabbed the cloth out of Finlay’s hands.
“What are your desires? Your hopes?” A momentary pause. “Fetishes?”
Folke spent a while wiping his face, grasping for an answer.
He couldn’t remember the last time he desired anything or hoped for something.
“No fetishes,” Folke muttered.
“There’s time yet to discover them.”
Finlay’s nonchalance about time prompted a faint, relieved smile.
A smile that dropped at a hand cupping his cheek. Nervousness flittered Folke’s chest, his stomach. Bodily warmth leant in. Their lips met in a kiss.
Not one of lust or even romantic desire.
It was tender, sweet. A habitual kiss. Lasting no longer than the shake of a lamb’s tail. Followed by a few strokes across his chin with a thumb.
“Let’s get dressed. I’ll make you breakfast.”
“You really don’t—”
“Shut up and get dressed.”
Folke did. He returned to his bedroom and, strangely, floundered on what to wear. There wasn’t much choice. He only had the one decent shirt, which would get ruined in the barn. His touch moved past a shirt in the back of the old wardrobe, soft and worn. Tired, like him.
Comfortable.
Paired with worn slacks, cosy socks.
He was going to tend to his sheep, not try and impress Finlay.
At the top of the stairs, his nose curled, assaulted by a smell so rancid it would surely permeate the cottage walls. Folke covered his nose with the back of his hand. Breathing through his mouth, the pungency adhered to the roof.
“Ersatz eggs, sorry,” Finlay muttered once he reached the kitchen.
Folke tried to keep his disgust to himself.
“They’ll taste fine.”
He must have failed.
“I’m—” Folke heaved.
“Oh, the dramatics. You should’ve gone into theatre, Precious.”
Whatever riposte Folke might have shot off jammed, the press of a kiss to his mouth firm and swift. Meant to be short-lived to silence him, he suspected. And it worked. In particular because it lingered. Deepened, with a twist of tongues and hot, panted breaths.
Folke’s world spun away from him, his back pushed to a wall. It knocked the air out of him, the puff captured by Finlay’s persistent mouth. Teeth nipping and tugging at his lower lip like an obsession. Hips grinding into him. Strong hands pinning his own above his head.
Folke’s elbow knocked into something. A cupboard, the sound of hollow wood. At the radiating pain, he grunted.
Finlay released his lower lip, short bursts of air brushing his nose from a winded chuckle. “Fuck. You sucked me right in. ”
“And so, I suffer punishment.” Folke lightly tested the restraining hold on his wrists, bumping his elbow into the cupboard to prove his point.
“ Mm . I can punish you, if you like.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
A snort, amused, then Finlay relinquished his wrists.
“Get the fuck to the table.” His snappish words were subdued by the humour dancing over them. “I’m trying to treat you like a human being, not just something to fuck.”
“Most considerate of you,” Folke lilted.
Smoke hung thick in the dining room. He really ought to close the window. As his fingers grazed the back of a chair on the way, Folke’s mind slammed back to the previous night. To cold wood against his back and a burning grip on his thighs. To Darach inside him, rougher and larger than he ever anticipated the man to be. And to Finlay, the taste of him. The way he’d driven into his mouth. His knees were still sore.
Folke started, realising that not only was he hard, but his hand had lowered on its own accord to find out.
He dropped into the chair, wincing at the dull throb shooting up his backside. Shocked to discover that he did not mind such pain.
Happy. He made both men happy.
Such a terrifying notion, when he’d never even entertained the thought of being someone’s happiness before.
Nervously, Folke swallowed. Twitched, when footfalls reached the dining room. Stoneware knocked into wood, soon sliding across the table. It didn’t smell as horrid as before, but still unpleasant.
“If you know anything about chickens, I’m happy to keep some for us.” The proffer slipped free without Folke’s say-so.
Mutely, he cursed himself. Reached for the mug sliding toward him. Busied himself inhaling the blissful scent of coffee.
“Not a bad idea,” said Finlay, mouth full.
Folke’s heart gave a great thud. “We’ll need to protect them from the storm-wolves.”
And took a spill.
Amused, “Storm-wolves, hm?”
“You’ll tell me about them, now?”
“Darach isn’t back yet.”
There was nothing to say to that. Folke ate the scrambled eggs and buttered slices of bread in a silence he broke only when Finlay asked him questions.
Like, “What do you do for fun?”
To which Folke answered, “Walk my sheep.” And, “Never been,” after Finlay asked him about the movies.
“I’ll take you,” said Finlay, once they’d cleared the dishes and readied to go outside.
It took Folke a moment to understand in what way he meant. To the movies.
Disappointing .
“A bit pointless.” He flipped the collars of his chore jacket up against misting rain.
Thunder rolled in the distance, and once again Folke wondered where Darach had gone to. What was keeping him. What he was doing to Thomas.
Behind him, “You’re not deaf, are you? I can describe any important visual details.”
Sounded like Finlay really wanted him to come to the movies. Maybe it wasn’t just about looks, after all.
Glaze caught the end of his crook, squeaked and cracked underfoot. Reminding Folke again that he was owed answers. He nudged open the barn doors, greeted by impatient bleats.
“Sorry,” Folke said to the two sheep. “I guess I’m late.”
His whole routine, discarded.
He left his crook by the entrance and located the pitchfork and wheelbarrow nearby. Thankful that Darach, at least, was considerate and returned things where he found them.
Folke opened the pen and reached low, smiling as cloven feet padded packed earth and fuzzy lips slapped his fingers. He murmured a good morning to each of the two before ushering them out the barn.
“They’re not going to step on anything they shouldn’t?” He was well aware Finlay lingered by the barn doors, despite an absence in the overpowering redolence of tobacco.
“I’ll keep an eye on them.”
“Not in the way a wolf would, I hope.” Folke could scarcely believe his own daring.
“You seem determined to think of me as one, hm?”
“You bit me like one.” He shuffled backward into the pen, wheelbarrow in hand. Soon, the rake of metal teeth cut through the barn, trowelling soiled hay.
“Alright, you got me.”
Hot breath swarmed the back of Folke's neck. His hair stood on end and skin prickled. He hunched his shoulders and ducked away. He’d almost forgotten how soundlessly Finlay could tread.
Like a wolf.
Folke did not pause, intent on cleaning the pen, if nothing else. “How much of one? Are we talking lycantrophy?”
“Biting you would’ve been a poor decision if that were the case.” Finlay had moved back. “Do you actually believe in such tales?”
“I don’t know what I believe.”
Less than a week ago, Folke would have said, “No,” and been assured in his answer. Now, he wasn’t sure what to even think.
“I’m no Lycanthrope.”
Folke kept his silence as he slogged from one end to the other, as certain as he was terrified that there was more to follow.
“But it is in my blood.”
Steel tines froze mid-scrape. Folke waited for any suggestion of a jest, but after several moments, it became clear he would not be so lucky today.
“Enough for me to smell far better.” Leather soles scraped the ground behind him. “To see farther.” They crunched through hay on his right. “Hear more clearly.” Now in front of him, moving to the left. Finlay was circling him. Deliberate in his attempt to frighten.
“Are you scared?” Behind him again.
“No,” Folke ground out. He shoved the pitchfork hard across the ground, then aimed for the wheelbarrow again. Sodden hay and debris pelted galvanised metal.
“Your heartbeat would say otherwise.”
“My heartbeat says I’m in the middle of working.” Raking turned to frustrated jabs. “And that I don’t buy your bollocks.”
Finlay was trying to scare him, and he couldn’t understand why. Finlay could hear his heartbeat from where he lurked to his right, and the meaning of that did frighten Folke.
Rather than respond, the man’s hum drifted away. Leaving Folke to continue his task. To mull over what had been revealed.
Was it a revelation, or just another tactic to. . .
What, confuse him?
Sweat dampened Folke’s shirt by the time he’d cleared the pen. Nothing but dirt to catch the pitchfork's sweeping prongs, which he set aside. He ascended the ladder in the barn's back, the scent of fresh hay strong in the open loft. Even after years of knowing precisely where the loft floor ended, Folke was hesitant to rise to his feet, crawling on both hands and knees to get around. He’d fallen once, and it had hurt enough to leave a lasting impression.
Hay prodded his palms as he grabbed a bale, the wire unforgiving on his fingers. He got to his feet to put his back into swinging the bale forward, off the loft’s side. It landed with a sibilating thud.
“You should shout a warning before you do that.”
“For God’s sake!” Folke fell to his rump, clutching the nearest hay bale. He didn’t move, an overwhelming vulnerability crawling into his hunched shoulders.
Scared, after all.
His heart twisted with the realisation, and filled with longing for Darach at once.
“Sorry.” Strangely, Finlay sounded sheepish.
Folke expected a myriad of mocking pet names to follow. An expectation unmet as Finlay shuffled closer, hesitantly.
Was he afraid of heights, too?
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“And yet you skulk.”
“I just like watching you.”
“You’re supposed to be watching Shawl and Socks.”
The answering snort was entirely too close.
Knuckles brushed his cheekbone, the touch feather-light. Folke hated that it made him curl in on himself—away. Hurt laced Finlay’s intake of breath, the touch vanishing.
“You’re afraid of me.”
“You just told me you’re a Lycanthrope,” Folke snapped, wishing they could do this elsewhere. “I still call bollocks, but you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not entirely ready to trust you. Because either you're making a fool of me, or. . .”
Or what Finlay claimed was true.
And then what?
What would change? Finlay was still Finlay.
Abrasive, but protective.
Domineering, yet conscientious.
“I'm not a wolf-skin.” Glumly muttered. “My ancestors were. I told you, it’s in my blood. Diluted through the generations.”
Folke dragged a clammy palm over his face. “Next you’ll tell me Darach is actually a—a serpent .”
He did not like the silence stringing between them, weighted by allusion.
“Oh, come off it." Folke flailed his hand forward to shove Finlay. He succeeded only in smacking a chin before his hand was caught in a firm hold.
“Not a snake, exactly.”
“Fin— Finlay .” Folke wanted to pull away, but lips pressed to his knuckles, weakening any resolve to place distance between them.
“I like it when you call me ‘Fin’.”
“You’re making a fool of me.”
“I'm trying to be honest with you.”
“So I'm supposed to believe such things exist?”
Faint grunting. Finlay might have seated himself nearby, Folke’s hand now held at a lower angle.
“You wouldn't be the only one.” Murmured against his palm. “Is it so hard to believe?”
With his free hand, Folke rubbed the base of his thumb just below his lower lip, at a loss on what to say.
True, many believed in such folktales.
At length, Folke uttered, "No more bizarre than sinkholes swallowing all of my sheep.”
And certainly no stranger than lightning, striking the earth to form large patches of glass.
“Please, tell me what’s going on.”
No longer pushing it aside, out of his mind. It was time he knew.
“I’d tell you right now, Precious, I would,” Finlay began, then stopped, the words catching in his closed mouth. "Darach insisted we talk to you together.”
“And when Darach returns, you’ll use Thomas as an excuse to avoid telling me.”
Silence.
“What was it I killed in here?”
“It was already wounded. ”
Folke did not respond, because Finlay owed him an answer. He would sit here and wait until he was given one. He freed his hand and crossed his arms—and legs too, for good measure. Sat in silence. Until there came a resigned sigh.