41. 41.
41.
“ A ren’t you going after him?”
“You’re my priority right now.”
Folke rubbed his chin with the base of his thumb. “What if he talks?”
The exact same question Thomas had asked about Folke. His lips curled at the irony.
“Darach said to take care of you, so that’s what I’m doing. That’s what I’d be doing with or without his command.”
With prompting, Folke gathered the will to rise out of the tub. Tried not to complain at being towelled dry. Kept his objections to himself once led to the bedroom, where Finlay helped him into a fresh set of undergarments. Perched him on the bed’s edge.
“I can take you to the hospital, if you want.”
“No,” was Folke’s immediate reply. “I can’t afford it. Besides, I’m not convinced they’d be any better than you.”
A faint, skeptic huff. “Your faith in my skills is appreciated.”
“You should take care of yourself first,” Folke said as a touch moved down his left shin toward the ankle. Carefully, he reached out. Fingers clasped his own without pause. “Your hand is freezing cold.”
Reluctance lanced Finlay’s incoherent grumble.
Folke added, “Please.”
“Fine. Try to relax.”
Wryly, Folke muttered, “Sure.”
He listened to Finlay dispose of his clothes in the hallway. A metallic chime against wood and faint drips suggesting he’d thrown them over the railing. Water thundered into the tub again, the squeak of skin against enamel shortly following. Not much time was spent in the bath, Finlay seemingly in a hurry to get back to him. His bare feet scuffed the floor in the bedroom. The wardrobe door warbled its complaint in a low whine. One step, two steps. A snap of elastic.
“Do you want something for the pain?” Finlay must have caught the discomfort on his face .
“I only have whisky and I don’t care for the taste.”
“I meant morphine.”
Folke paused, resisting the need to flex the tension out of his shoulders. Rather than answer, he said, “I worry for Darach. Are you going to find him?”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
Something dragged across the floor, heavy.
“Why? Do you believe Thomas will come back?”
“Not if he knows what’s good for him.”
All manner of things rustled and clinked. Firm fingers lifted Folke’s leg. The stink of alcohol didn’t prepare him for the terrible sting in his ankle as Finlay ran iodine swabs over wounds left by teeth.
He sat in silence while his lover worked to mend him. Dressed and bandaged his ankle. Checked on the injury near his toes, and his head. Cleaned the cuts on his face. Administered an injection into the crook of his elbow.
“To help with infection,” he’d mumbled, more so to himself.
Then insisted Folke get under the covers, before he caught his death. Finlay allowed him to remain propped against the headboard, at least.
He lingered by the window, while Folke struggled to relax. Keenly aware of his lover, the way he shifted from foot to foot. The slide of skin as he crossed his arms. The poorly suppressed huffs, tamping the air with apprehension.
“If Darach needs you, please go.” When Finlay didn’t move, he added, “I swear I’ll go out there and help him, if you won’t. Is that board with the nail still around?”
That earned Folke an impatient tongue-click.
“You’re going to stay where you are.”
“I can’t be that bad. You haven’t even bandaged my ribs.”
Finlay clicked his tongue. “Because every time I did that for soldiers, they’d develop complications.”
“Such as?”
“Pneumonia. I can’t prove it, but I suspect it’s related.”
An interesting theory Folke knew nothing about. Longed to ask what had made Finlay fail his exams, were it appropriate just then. But it wasn’t, and Finlay wasn’t moving either.
Folke whipped away the sheets and set his feet to the rug. Cutting off the beginnings of protests, he snapped, “I said I’d go if you won’t.”
“Fine. Fuck !”
Finlay dressed in such a hurry it created a whirlwind. In between he grumbled for Folke to get back into bed, right-the-fuck now. Then he paused by the door, the handle jolting under his touch.
“I can’t guarantee Thomas won’t be back.”
“He won’t be,” said Folke, surprising himself with his confidence. “Because as far as he knows, you’re still here.”
Finlay dashed back to kiss him, swift but with meaning. As the door clicked shut, however, Folke’s confidence dwindled faster than the rain pouring down from the roof. Splashing endlessly, bringing with it the echoes of his fall into the sinkhole.
Scrubbing his palms over his face only served to hurt him worse. Guiltily, Folke slid out of bed. Cursed Thomas several times over as he dressed. Limped down the stairs. Grabbed spare boots and lamented the loss of his crook as he made his way out to the barn as quickly as possible. Not that it mattered, freezing rainwater already permeating his clothes by the time he struggled to slide the doors closed.
Socks and Shawl bleated upon his arrival. He staggered into the pen, breathless with exertion, and slid down against the half wall into hay. Winced as shorn bodies knocked into him, but took comfort from fuzzy lips flapping over his knuckles.
Despite their restlessness, both ewes settled down on either side of Folke as the storm battered the barn. Steady drips nearby suggested there was a leak within the roof. He would ask Finlay to help once his lovers returned.
Because they would return.
All he could do was wait and hope. A hope undone with each cloudward rumble. Striking further fear into him—although none more so than the heavy slide of the barn doors opening. Freezing Folke over as it shut again, and the latch’s metallic clack followed. Each step across packed dirt toward him shoved his heart further up into his throat. Until it pounded against his oesophagus.
A loud, claggy inhale.
“Why are you in here?”
Folke could do nothing, say nothing. Rigid with the knowledge that he would die at the hands of a teenager, after all. That Finlay might not be near enough this time to put a stop to it.
Rattling of the pen gate before it squeaked open. Rain-soaked boots squelched as sluggish feet scuffed the ground. Opposite him, Thomas huffed. Snorted loudly.
“I think Fin broke my nose.”
Still, Folke’s jaw remained locked.
“I’m not going to try and kill you again,” Thomas mumbled. “So stop looking like I’ve kicked your sheep.”
Folke barely managed to swallow, his mouth dried up, trembling around a fearful breath.
“What are you doing here?” He startled at his own voice. Heard it as though he were faraway, floating in the dark, merely listening in.
“Where else am I supposed to go?” Droplets pelted the hay, soughing as Thomas shifted. To sit down, maybe.
“And you thought the barn, where Fin can hear and likely smell you, was the best place to hide?” Anger had found its way into Folke’s words.
“He’s not here right now, is he?”
Had Thomas run only so far to watch the cottage?
“He’ll be back, and Darach! What then?”
Thomas made a dismissive noise. “I guess then they’ll kill me.”
“ Why ?” Folke demanded, unsure if it even mattered why Thomas had attempted to murder him, but the question had stumbled out, regardless.
With unconcealed aversion, “They’re so disgustingly in love with you, they would have never done what we should’ve from the beginning.”
“Did you think,” Folke snarled, aware of the danger he was in but unable to keep his resentment under control, “that maybe murdering an innocent man isn’t the answer? How about a bloody bribe? Or tell him he was imagining things!”
Another insouciant sound. “I do what I’m told. We have regulations to abide by.”
“Bloody hell, Thomas. You’re a child. You have better things to do than follow military commands.”
“Like what?”
“Play football!”
“Huh?”
“Or, I don’t know—” Folke floundered, convinced Thomas was unlikely to enjoy books to the extent he had as a child. “Go to school. Study. Play fetch with a dog.”
Be something other than a killer.
Silence. Then, “Like it’s that easy.”
“Fin and Darach are never going to forgive you, do you realise that?”
“They would’ve forgiven me once they realised it was for the best.”
Folke scoffed in chagrined disbelief. He eased his grip from around woolly bellies, only now aware of stiffness in his fingers. Smoothed his touch over the ewes in silent apology.
Struggled to respond.
Thomas was set in his ways. There was nothing Folke could say to change his mind. Didn’t even care to. It would make little difference, at this point.
“Are you going to tell them I’m here?”
“They’re going to find out whether I do or not.” Folke tried not to let his face contort with disgust. Tried, and failed. Aware Thomas crept towards asking if he’d keep his presence a secret.
“This is the last wave, you know,” Thomas said. “After this, they’ll stay maybe a few more days and then leave. For good. You’ll be all by yourself again.”
Folke kept silent. Focused on the pain caused by each breath taken. Not as terrible as the truth flaying his heart.
They were supposed to have weeks together, at least. Not mere days.
“That might be enough for them to stop being angry with me.”
Folke spat, “What the hell do you want from me?”
“I want nothing from you . Except. . .maybe once they come back, don’t tell them I’m here. They’ll kill me, you know. No matter what you say, they’ll do it. Do you really want that on your conscience?”
“You manipulative, infantile—” Folke bit down his snarling. Deeply inhaled and let the pain keep him from spiralling. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have stopped Fin.”
Thomas groaned, his exhale muddy. Fabric scratched the barn’s wall. “Good. Then you’ll keep quiet until they’re over it.”
He sounded entirely unfazed, and Folke hated that he couldn’t keep the quaver out of his own voice. “They’re not going to get over it!”
Another one of those infuriating, carefree sounds. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
Biting down the need to question Thomas’ sanity aloud, Folke threw his anger into rising to his feet. Tensed his jaw against the throb and used his stirring ewes for support. Rough wood scraped his palms as he grasped the gate. Didn’t yet open it, uncertain if he could trust Thomas with his sheep.
“If you hurt my sheep, Thomas, I’m going to personally ensure that you won’t make it to adulthood. Do you hear me?”
“Blimey, you’re a lunatic! I’d never hurt them. Besides, they look like they’re on their last legs, already.”
Folke removed himself from the barn while he could, now fully convinced Thomas wasn’t quite right in the head. That he would change his mind about murdering him at the tick of a clock.
Staggering in through the back door, Folke searched its surface to lock it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done so. Couldn’t remember moving up the staircase either, yet found himself back inside the bedroom, lingering by the window. Icy under his fingertips. Strumming with the batterings of rain.
He was under no illusion that his lovers hadn’t taken a life outside of what was strictly necessary. Darach had confessed it, along with remorse. Although surely, they had a line they wouldn’t cross, one they would draw at killing someone so young. Even if it meant foregoing vengeance.
But would they cross it to ensure Folke remained safe?
Glass-tremors pulled him from his thoughts. Its rhythmic vibrating reminded him, strangely, of the footfalls of many. Yet no more lashings of a downpour, or the peal of thunder. Even the winds had calmed.
Folke sucked in a breath, the muffled shout of a man outside urging him to limp downstairs. To yank open the front door and dash down the stoop. Unconcerned for his socks as he dashed through puddles and mud.
Finlay barked at him, asked what the fuck he was doing out of bed, but Folke didn’t care. Flung himself forward, trusting arms to catch him. Ignored the sharp pains in his chest as he kissed slender lips with a fierceness that still wouldn’t convey how worried he’d been for them.
He clinched the lapel of a soaked overcoat with his right hand and reached out with the other, palm settling against flawless cold. Damp, like clutching an icicle fallen from the roof.
“He won’t change.” Said gruffly against the side of his face.
Folke pulled away from Finlay and hopped a step to better embrace Beithir’s nose, arms curling around the breadth like that of an ancient yew tree. He ran his palms over the rounded edges of what were, unmistakably, gigantic nostrils. The air shivered with each humid breath brushing over the top of his head, riffling hair not yet dry.
“Is it over?” he asked, feeling ever so small with the way his voice cracked.
Finlay said, “It is.”
“Then you should alter.” Folke pressed a kiss to the glaze-like skin. “If my aunt comes back, I’m not sure she’ll take it very well.”
A gust more powerful than any windstorm followed, the snort sending him stumbling back and into an arm curling around his shoulders to keep him steady. He twisted his fingers into his jumper at the gnash and crack of bones and the strained roar. At the agony Darach had to be in.
“You have a knack for understating,” Folke said once he heard the ragged panting of a man.
He floundered forward, fingers connecting with frigid skin covered in the sticky inclination of wounds. Uttered an apology at Darach’s pained grunt, and lowered to his knees to meet him where he lay crumpled in the dirt. Overbearing notes of metal and bleach engulfed him as Folke combed fingers through wet hair. Attempted to lift his lover’s head into his lap.
“Darach?”
Another grunt, but no true response. Neither a willingness to move.
From behind him, “He gets like this after staying as a serpent for a few hours.”
A refusal to be human? Folke couldn’t blame him. All the same, he consolingly suggested, “Could you get like this inside, where I can dry you off and Fin can tend to you?”
Water-encumbered grass bubbled under a heaving sigh. A loud groan, and Darach shifted beneath Folke’s touch. Sodden fabric stuck to his face as Finlay neared to help both of them up. He had to be carrying Darach’s clothes.
Sounded like he struggled to carry a rather uncooperative Darach, too, if the grumblings and strained grunts were anything to go by.
Once inside, the squeaky drag of skin ceased, replaced by weighted feet lethargic in their tread. Folke trailed after both his battle-worn lovers, unmindful of the water they left through the cottage. Carefully ascending the stairs, he reached out to discover hard metal strapped to Finlay’s back. A further, explorative touch suggested it was a weapon. He withdrew as though scalded, the heavy metallic snap while Thomas cocked a gun at him resounding.
“They’re killable with guns?” Folke quietly asked, needing the railing at the top of the stairs for support. His ribs were painful, but the bite’s burn in his ankle was quick to make itself known again.
More sodden clothes joined the ones already hanging there, including Darach’s thick leather coat.
“Only the Ruck,” said Finlay.
There wasn’t much else Folke had the strength to ask about. Perched the lidded toilet while Darach bathed, tended to by Finlay. Certain the hissed breaths were from pain as scissors snipped and cartons rustled and water sloshed.
Wordlessly, Folke agreed to Finlay’s help with yet another change into dry undergarments, following the sound of a monumental man dripping water everywhere—into his bedroom.
He let Finlay ease him down into bed. Waited until he thought the two were ready before he held out his arms for both to join him on either side. Heavy heads nestled into the crooks of his neck. Hot breath rushed over his skin and bodies encased him, limbs mindful of his ribs as they slung over his stomach and hips and wrapped around his legs.
As he slid his touch through hair, Folke exhaled in a tanglement of relief and fatigue. Took comfort in the repetitious movement. Caressed foreheads with his lips, and allowed himself to rest with the knowledge that for now, they were safe.