28. 28.
28.
‘ D reich’ seemed appropriate as misted rain clustered, pelting Folke with brazen droplets. One sought his right ear and landed a perfect shot. Folke grimaced.
He was used to rain, of course. It was unavoidable, and when out on the hills herding his sheep, it didn’t matter what he looked like or how deep the rain soaked into his clothes.
But he wasn’t herding his sheep. He was being herded. By Darach, down the winding path. Made better by an arm loosely coiled around his hip. The occasional kiss pressed to his temple. The feel of smiling lips against his skin undoing the weather’s attempt to chill.
“Ye look lovely, Folke.”
Folke’s mouth strained, the satisfaction that his efforts weren’t completely wasted an unfamiliar tickle in the back of his mind. “Thank you.”
You smell fantastic.
The distinct leathery aroma of carbolic soap didn’t mask the scent of trees and earth.
“The clouds near the horizon are so dark, they look like scorched wood wi bands o’ silver.”
Wonderment fluttered within Folke’s chest. “Bands, or are they tufts?”
Darach hummed, musingly. “Now that ye mention it, tufts.”
“And the grass?”
Was he being greedy by asking?
“As green as it can get, but shady. Yellow, where the sun’s getting throuch on the other hills. Maybe we’ll get lucky, an it wonae be raining in town.”
“Maybe.”
Among the patter so emblematic of Welsh weather and the scutter of pebbles underneath their feet, the stream murmured in the approaching distance. His crook barely grazed the forsaken path.
Curious, how quickly he’d learned to follow every movement made and step taken, no matter how subtle. Darach’s frame as noble as a cromlech, yet moved with a grace and fluidity reminiscent of Yorkshire-fog against his fingertips. Whispering in the gales with mysteries unrevealed.
Darach left him to find his own way to the other side of the car upon reaching it. Folke hesitated, his fingers collecting droplets clinging to a smooth, cold handle. On the rare occasion he permitted Eleanor to drive him to Crossing Wells, he always clambered into the back, petulant in his silent protest.
He debated doing that now.
“Sit wherever ye like.” The snap of a door followed.
Folke slid his fingertips across the car, gathering further rain, ensuring he had the front passenger side. He slid in. Fumbled with the crook. Knocked into something more pliant than glass or a leather seat.
Darach grunted. “I’ll put that in the back, if ye dinnae mind.”
“Sorry,” Folke mumbled, relinquishing it.
Hazel wood thunked the backseat.
Keys jingled, and the slide of their jagged metal lurched his heart.
“Darach,” Folke said before the key turned. He rubbed his palms across his knees, drying lingering dampness. “I’m not. . .very good with people.”
“Naw? That’s news to me.”
Folke clucked his tongue. Swung out in hopes of smacking Darach’s arm, his hand quickly trapped in a warm hold and raised. Caressing hot breath quieted any playfulness, replaced by desire with such ferocity it left him reeling.
“Ye’ll be fine,” Darach murmured into the centre of his palm. Trailed his mouth down Folke’s wrist, drizzling tender kisses. Prevented from going further by the stiff cuff of his wool coat.
The awkward angle of his right arm didn’t stop Folke from curling his fingers into bristling hair. Lightly, he tugged Darach toward him. Rain chilled glass met with the back of Folke’s head, a gear lever momentarily getting in the way of a great form descending. Lips collided. He yielded under the urgency of Darach’s tongue, his rousing gasp swallowed whole.
A hand had found its way between his legs, grasping his cock through the slacks.
“Has Finlay wrung ye dry yet, or d’ye have more to give?”
Folke would have thought the flagrant erection Darach rubbed was enough of an answer, but it wasn’t about that, he realised.
Pulling away from the lure of that succulent mouth wasn’t easy, the roll of a palm against his cock working to ensnare him further. He flung his left hand up, fingers slipping into Darach’s mouth in an attempt to nudge him away. A knee clicked, and the enveloping warmth vanished.
Folke waited for him to settle down. Needed the time to catch his breath.
Thickly, he asked, “Is there a problem?”
There was, and he knew it before Darach broke his silence. Because Darach didn’t like to share. Finlay had warned him of this twice already.
Yet he had, anyway, due to a lack of choice.
“I’m sorry.” Undertones of hurt marked Darach’s voice. “I didnae mean to cross a line. ”
All Folke could think to do was rub the base of his thumb between his brows, face still aglow with desire. He was thankful for the engine rumbling to life, the car rocking into motion.
Darach was the better driver out of the three.
Rain lashed the windshield, objects unknown whipping past. Each sibilated howl jarring against Folke’s ear, an inch away from the cold radiance of the window.
“Why don’t you have a choice?”
His question must have caught Darach off guard. During the time it took him to respond, Folke counted four more passing objects. Trees, perhaps and another car, he was sure.
“Ye mean,” Darach began slowly, as though each word weighed heavy on his tongue, “why I dinnae have a choice but to share ye?”
The answer to that was obvious, and so Folke said nothing.
Waited.
They passed five trees.
“I told ye I’m na ordinary man.” Another lull. “Yer thighs, Folke. I burned them, an I’m sorry. I get passionate, an I do things I dinnae mean.”
Folke’s slacks shifted across his thighs as he adjusted himself in the seat, reminding. A singe, no worse than spilling tea on himself.
“And. . .Finlay stops that from happening?”
Reluctantly, “Aye.”
A deep inhale snagged at the centre of his chest, realisation like pinpricks across his skin, slithering up his neck, the back of his head.
“You’re the lightning.”
He’d said it quietly enough that, should Darach wish to spare him, he could ignore it. Not confirm it.
More reluctantly still, however, “Aye.”
“How?” Folke asked, then immediately understood he knew the answer to that already.
Wolf-skins and Barghests and. . .
“Beithir.”
Folke’s throat clicked on a swallow that didn’t ease the burr formed within.
Dragons.
The tapestry near complete. He didn’t know how he’d not stitched it together before now. Finlay’s scars, the rolling thunder that had become too common the past few days. It was Darach— Beithir . The serpent of lightning.
“I ken this changes things between us, in ways I wonae be able to appreciate. I wish I could have told ye sooner, Folke. If. . .If ye na longer want to be near me, I’ll understand.”
“What?” Folke pushed away from the window to sit upright. “No, I—”
Like you too much.
God, he liked both men. So much it carved his insides. It would create a sinkhole, if not consume him entirely.
He fisted his shirt, digging fingernails under the buttons. “I know I’m difficult and–and stubborn. I don’t deserve your attention, or Finlay’s.”
They were powerful men, more than Folke could have ever imagined. Capable and kind, each in their own way. How was he meant to follow suit, when he had nothing to offer them?
“I know you can’t stay forever, but please. . .be with me. I won’t be able to stand it otherwise, Darach.”
An abrupt lurch nearly sent Folke into the windshield. The world around him quivered and jerked. He steadied himself, palms flat against window and dashboard. A last forward tug, and all fell silent but for the car’s idle rumble.
Folke panted around his shock and the burn in his chest, too startled to do much else other than wonder if they had just crashed.
Leather creaked.
In a strained growl, “I’m gaun’ae kiss ye now.”
“Alright.”
He’d barely gotten the word out before large hands cradled his face and lips crashed into him. The hold warm, the kiss urgent. Folke clutched at impossibly wide shoulders. This time, it was he who was gently pulled forward, whose knee knocked the gear lever in his attempt to climb Darach.
The car heaved, the engine cut.
Folke swore into Darach’s mouth, prompting a laugh. A sweet rumble faintly shaking his shoulders.
“Just as well,” Darach said. “We have coffee to drink.”
Although the air brimmed with desire and things untold, a tranquillity settled over Folke. Permitting him to sit in comfortable silence for the duration of the drive. To count the passing things and linger on the knowledge gained.
That changed the moment they came to a stop, and the sound of people permeated the car. Drawing Folke’s shoulders tight with tension, and fear into his heart. Its icy burn painful with the opening and closing of a car door. The door opened on his side, his world laid bare to the bustling thoroughfare of chatter and a great many footfalls over wet asphalt.
His pulse pushed up into his throat, chest tightening.
Can’t breathe.
“Och, Folke.” Darach’s gentle touch encased his hand, fisted into the fabric across his chest. “Ye’ll be alright.”
Folke didn’t mean for his entire body to lignify while eased out of the car. He must have weighed nothing to someone with dragon-like capabilities, pulled upright and absorbed into an encompassing embrace. The leather of Darach’s coat was soft, downy fur a comfort against Folke’s cheek.
High pitched laughter set his hair upright. The shrill noise faded, along with an uneven clack of heels. Cars bulled past. Doors opened and closed, some with bells, others only squeaked, or rattled as they slammed. The clinking of ceramic and cutlery pricked his ears above the rest and, noticeably, the scent of coffee.
Folke lifted his head, face gone warm from where he’d buried it against Darach’s chest. No rain to cool his cheeks. He released a quavering breath and the throttling hold he had on the coat. Darach hadn’t yet let go of him .
“Alright?”
He forced out an acknowledgement. Only a grunt, the best he could muster. Darach’s arm remained around his shoulder, his hand seeking Folke’s to cradle, keeping him close. It was only a short distance to the cafe, the heart-pounding noise of the town subdued once the door closed behind them.
Voices all around, melting into a blur of indiscernible conversation. The floor felt smooth under his shoes when he took a step forward. It creaked like wood.
“It’s very quaint,” Darach murmured. “Like a tea room. The walls are pale green, an’ the upholstery of the chairs is a washed out pink. I canae say it looks good.”
Folke’s responding laugh fluttered. No, that didn’t sound like a particularly good combination of colours to him, either.
Whispered against the side of his head, “Ye’re breathtaking when ye smile.”
And a quick, tender kiss to his cheek.
On unassured feet, Folke allowed Darach to guide him to a chair. Despite the ugly picture he’d conjured, the armrests were a flourish of smooth wood. Near pristine, his gliding fingertips finding only one small nick in the shellac. The upholstery not uncomfortable, stitched swirls pronounced.
Folke grunted again when Darach murmured he’d be back. Forced himself to focus on reaching around. Cloth covered the square table. A tight weave secretive of its pattern. To his right, the cold touch of glass and a wood wall beneath, divots within the panels suggesting a chair had been knocked into it at least once. Behind him, the distinct click of a ceramic cup meeting its saucer. Someone had to be sitting there. Folke hunched his shoulders and curled into the table.
Quiescent conversation became clearer the longer he sat there, exposed and without his crook. He hadn’t even thought to bring it. Two men to his left discussed an uncle, returned from the war a different man.
They didn’t know that wolf-skins and Barghests and dragons existed. That creatures might descend upon them to bury all of Wales, if Darach and Finlay and Thomas failed to subdue them.
Darach had said the knowledge would change his entire perception of the world, yet all Folke felt was dislodged. Separated from the world he straddled now, and the one he had burrowed in for years.
“Here we are.”
He fought the immediate urge to reach out for Darach. Instead, carefully grazed his touch over the cup set before him. The nutty aroma of a coffee enriched with milk and something he couldn’t place caressed his senses. Although hot, Folke stroked his thumb over the cup, musing its pattern.
“Ivy leaf,” said Darach.
His elbow nudged Folke’s arm. He’d taken a seat beside him, rather than across. Folke supposed that made sense, if they were meeting with someone.
“Nearly the same pale green as the walls, an it has gold outlines.”
So that was what he’d picked up with the pad of his thumb. Darach nudged him further when he stirred his drink for him, metal swirling against ceramic.
In a murmur, “Thank you. ”
“I wonder what ye’ll think of this coffee.”
Folke took that as a cue to drink, the first sip nearly too hot. He twitched his head back in surprise. The smokiness of the coffee was unmistakable, but it was sweet, the flavours nuanced. Gliding down his throat, imprinting itself in his mouth like a fond memory.
“Thought ye might like that.” The smile in Darach’s voice was plain.
“I do.” Folke took another sip, and another. Swiftly becoming greedy for the sweetened nutty notes, the cream turning the beverage to velvet. “What is it?”
“It’s called a Mocha. Mixed with chocolate.”
A huff of surprise left Folke. It had been so long since he’d last tasted chocolate.
“I’ve never had it with coffee before,” he said, already down to the last sip. “My mother would make hot chocolate on occasion. Usually after a rainy day out on the hills.”
“She meant a lot to ye.”
His cup gently clicked in its place on the saucer. “She was all I had.”
“Ye had yer sheep, too. And yer dog.”
A frown pushed his brows together. Idly, he thumbed the faintly raised outline of the ivy leaf. “I appreciate you telling me. . .about yourself.” Darach didn’t respond, but Folke knew he had the man’s attention, no matter how quiet his voice had become. “And. . .I really appreciate everything you have done and are still doing for me.”
But I don’t really deserve it.
I’ve not been honest about myself.
Darach’s secret noble, while his own was shameful. Pathetic.
“When. . .” Folke paused to fill his lungs with a bolstering breath. “When is that man going to arrive? Does he even know where to meet?”
“He’s already here,” Darach replied in a joyful timbre.
“What?” Folke straightened the slump in his shoulders. Lifted his head to listen for any sign they weren’t alone at their table. “Where?”
With barely concealed mirth, “It’s me, sweet Folke.”
His mouth opened around mute befuddlement. Snapped shut when the realisation hit.
Incredulously, “Darach!”
Folke wanted to be angry. Being dragged all the way to town, to people , under false pretences should have angered him. All this time, his sheep could have been unburdened. He would have been right to be frustrated, at least.
But the abrupt change in Darach’s demeanour, gone from jocose to concern when he said, “I’m sorry, I didnae think ye would have come on a date wi me any other way,” notched Folke’s heart with immediate forgiveness.
“A date,” he repeated, lamely.
Panic seeped into each word, “I’m sorry. We’ll leave, an’ I’ll shear yer sheep the moment we get back.”
Darach’s chair scudded the floor. Folke’s hand shot out. He twisted his fingers into the sleeve of the leather coat. Right then, he couldn’t think what to say. So he tugged. Darach wordlessly reclaimed his seat beside him.
“This likely goes without saying,” Folke said, slowly. “But. . .this would be my first date.”
He wasn’t going to count the one he’d been on with Alys, when that had only involved an angry stroll through the village. Along with a quick visit to the grocer’s. Because he was pettish and ill-mannered.
“Then,” Darach loosened his hand from the sleeve, bringing it up. Beard hairs tickled and lips brushed the back of Folke’s hand. “It’s an honour to be yer first.”
Folke cleared his throat around creeping embarrassment. Affection and raw desire unhidden in the way Darach kissed up to his wrist. Caressed the underside with his fingertips, the touch feather-light. Folke leant in and relished the press of lips against his cheekbone.
“There’s a park nearby,” Darach whispered into his ear.
“I’d love to go.”