43. 43.
Supper was passable. He was not a practised cook, and although Folke had helped himself to rich ingredients not his own, it still didn’t compare to anything his lovers could have prepared. All the same, it sounded like his stew was well received.
Never mind their contemplative silence.
Broken only once he tired of eating and let his spoon clatter back into the bowl, supper unfinished.
Sounding cautious, Finlay began, “About what that ponce Barnaby said. . .”
The conversation he’d been dreading.
Folke reached for the buttons on his old shirt. Pushed one under the nail of his forefinger. “So, you’ll be leaving, after all.”
He’d known. All along. Had been right to worry, all this time. Yet couldn’t fault them for it. There were bigger things at stake than his feelings. He couldn’t very well condemn Spain to collapse.
“Ye need to understand, mo leannan, that this was an unusual case. Ordinarily, things dinnae progress so quickly.”
Bitterly, Folke said, “What bad luck, then.”
So it would be weeks or months or even years before they returned. The thought of having to go about his days waiting to hear their voices or feel their touch again—it was all he could do not to lament, already. He’d be all alone as foretold, and perhaps like a fool, he would wait until he couldn’t wait any longer, and then continue waiting for men that might not turn up until it was too late. By then, he might have succumbed to the ground that had seemed so eager to swallow him whole.
“Would ye consider coming wi us?”
He baulked, his wallowing staggering to a halt.
Leaving meant going places. Travel, and people, and a great deal of discomfort.
It also meant being with Finlay and Darach. Men who cared for him a great deal. Whom Folke cared for, an equal amount. Whose kindness and comfort he had come to adore.
Voice tight, he managed, “What would I do about my sheep and this place, and all of my books? And. . .what of this person who will replace Thomas?”
“We get it,” Finlay said, hurried. “It’s a big ask.”
“Dinnae fash about anyone else. Na one will join us without my say so.”
Finlay added, “Listen, we’re more than happy to come back when we can. The problem is,” a hint of discomfiture now laced his tone, “we don’t trust these assholes not to come after you while we’re gone.”
“Oh.”
His finger stung, and Folke remembered to ease off the small, plastic button.
Strange, the relief he felt, at being given no choice but to be with them.
“We know you’re not comfortable anywhere other than here—”
“I’ll come.”
Silence.
“If it means I’ll get to be with you both, I’ll come. For as long as you’ll have me.”
“Are ye sure? It would involve a lot o’ travel, ye ken.”
“You just told me it’s either be with you, or stay and risk being murdered,” Folke said, wry. “I think it’s an easy enough choice to make.” After all, he’d had a taste from Thomas’ attempt and couldn’t say he was hungry for more.
“What about Socks and Shawl?” asked Finlay.
Folke tapped a button nearer the centre of his chest. In time with the understanding he wouldn’t survive either of his sheep passing away, and be left all on his own without purpose. He’d collapse, back into old patterns.
“Ye could ask the local farmers if they’d take them?”
His face contorted with distaste. “They’re mutton farmers. They wouldn’t know fine wool if their briefs were made of it. My aunt, she might be able to help.” Eleanor had boasted about her large garden before, nestled against the foot of a hill on the outskirts of Brenin Bach. “Will you take me to visit her?”
“O’ course.”
Although he would have liked to help while his lovers collected the dishes, Folke couldn’t remove himself from where he sat with his heart staging mutiny against his rib cage.
He’d agreed to travel to Spain, to other places. He had agreed to leave . His childhood home would stand in these hills, abandoned, until his return.
If he ever returned.
Folke swallowed against the pounding in his throat. His chair wobbled as he stood and followed the sound of sloshing water and the squeak of a towel rubbing across stoneware. Held his arms open wide, desperate for reassurance, and twisted his fingers into a wool jumper and a vest as bodies collided with his.
He kissed Finlay and Darach and let them lead him upstairs to undress. Readily accepted Finlay’s reasoning that movement remained vital to his recovery while both men took him. Slow and gentle. Passionate in the way they kissed him in turn, filled him with their pleasure. Held him close.
And as he drifted off to sleep wedged between sweat-slickened bodies, Folke did so with an anxious hope that chased him through his dreams and well into the morning.
Persisted during breakfast.
Didn’t vanish as he eased into the car.
Worsened upon reaching Eleanor’s home.
Ruefully, Folke said, “I’ve been here only once.”
For his mother’s wake. He couldn’t remember much of it.
“Four steps up,” Darach warned. Both him and Finlay held his hands, each on their respective sides. Led him up, and prompted him to knock on the door.
It swung open not moments later.
Eleanor’s floral perfume permeated his nostrils long before she could overcome her shock.
“Sorry for the unannounced intrusion,” Folke mumbled.
“Oh, my—Don’t be! Are you alright? You have scratches on your face, and what’s going on with the rest of you? You’re favouring your right?”
Christ. “I’m fine. I took a spill is all. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Further shock that Folke considered quite overblown, before Eleanor’s hold on the door handle shifted, causing it to rattle. Her feet slid across tiles. “Come in. We’ll get some tea going. Henry, put the kettle on!”
“Henry?” Folke echoed.
Slyly, “The mail clerk I told you about.”
So that was going well, then.
“He’s not moved in already, has he?” Folke demanded, even as he struggled not to limp.
“Your lovers are living with you already,” Eleanor shot back.
Folke countered, “They didn’t start out that way, now did they?”
“I don’t know what you get up to, and I don’t want to know.”
Laughter broke free. He grimaced at the ridiculous noise Eleanor made in response.
“I can’t remember the last time I’ve heard that,” she said.
His touch slid across papered walls, to the bevels of a lacquered frame. A door leading into a room much warmer than the hallway boasted glass panes still covered in net tape. There, he lingered. Wondered if he could go through with it. If, at any point, he would change his mind and let his lovers down.
Darach groaned with discomfort inside the warmer room, while Finlay’s hand gently patted Folke’s elbow in an attempt to get him moving.
He didn’t.
“You look worse for wear, if you don’t mind the observation,” Eleanor said, suspicious.
“I see that keenness runs in the family,” Darach replied, nonplussed.
“Mhm. So, you took a spill, you’re injured—badly, by the looks of it. Care to tell me what’s going on?”
“I’m leaving,” Folke blurted in a panic. Air trapped itself in his chest while he continued to pick at tape that could have been removed a while ago .
“Leaving where?”
“To. . .various places,” Folke said. “I came here to ask if you’d look after my sheep.”
A long exhale, before Eleanor’s soft footfalls approached. Her slender hand rounded his biceps and squeezed, consolingly. Perhaps with compunction. “I’d love to, I would, but I have no means to look after five sheep.”
Hurt and regret wrapped around his throat. Squeezed so much, he struggled to breathe. To say, “I’m down to two.”
“Oh, Folke, I’m sorry.”
He didn’t care to be embraced just then, but kept his jaw clenched so as not to speak up while Eleanor pulled him into a painful clinch. Held him for far too long, her hair soft under his chin.
“I can’t bear losing them too,” he said, hating how thick his voice had become. The stinging in his eyes.
Mercifully, his aunt released him. Stepped back, and clasped both his forearms. “I can keep them here. I’m sure Henry wouldn’t mind looking after them. He likes animals. Our garden is big enough to tide them over, and it leads out into the hill. We were going to keep chickens, but I guess we’ll be building a shed instead.”
“I still have some of their wool to sell off. I can give you the money, for the trouble.”
“Don’t be daft,” Eleanor said, walking away at the sound of cups wavering across saucers. “We’re happy to do it. Right, Henry?”
“Of course we are!” A jaunty, deep timbre with a faint stutter. Cups heaved in a final rattle of ceramic, set down nearby. Henry added, “What are we happy to do?”
“We’re getting two ewes instead of chickens.”
“Right.” There came no discernable smell, other than faint hints of musk, Henry’s footsteps muffled against the rug that had to be occupying most of the room. “I’m Henry, it’s nice to finally meet you. Your aunt has told me a lot about you.”
Eleanor hissed her partner’s name.
“Oh! My apologies. I’m holding out my hand for you.”
Did he have to?
Folke begrudgingly shook the hand that clasped him with iron strength. “I appreciate you agreeing to take Socks and Shawl.”
“Those are their names, are they? Lovely. Clever. Come sit, have a spot of tea.”
It would be rude not to.
Folke’s fingertips slipped past the door’s edge and across the wall. Along dust-free furniture and to cold tiles embossed with patterns he couldn’t make sense of. He recalled the pops of a stove fire whilst sitting in a chair nearby in this very room. Feeling angry, betrayed. Utterly heartbroken and lost.
Now, he only felt that same nervous hopefulness he had since yesterday.
His touch knocked into something cold. It clattered to the floor .
“Sorry.”
“It’s just a candle,” Eleanor said. “Chair’s about two steps away from you. Tell me then, where are you going? Am I to assume you’re going with these two gentlemen?”
“Darach and Finlay,” Folke said. “And yes. We’re going to travel a bit. I think it might be good for me.”
“I think so too.” Yet Eleanor didn’t sound convinced. Didn’t seem like she’d let the details go, either, even while Henry busied himself serving everyone tea. Pressed a saucer and cup into Folke’s hands. “What brought this on? Does it have something to do with your injuries? You’re struggling to even sit.”
“Christ. I’ve fallen in love and I’m being reckless. What does it matter? I’m getting out instead of shutting myself away. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Alright, alright,” Eleanor said, placating.
Folke bristled, aware he’d fallen into old habits. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Sounded like she meant it. “I’m glad you’ve decided to join the living, and you’ve certainly made your boyfriends happy just now.” Before Folke could react, she added, “What are you planning on doing with Bwthyn Ywen?”
Sipping tea bought him time to mull on that. Perhaps he would hold onto it. At least until he was sure he would remain welcomed by Darach and Finlay, no matter what.
“I don’t know yet. I might sell it at some point. Unless you want it?”
“Goodness, no. As much as I appreciate the offer, I don’t think I could afford the repairs needed.”
“Fair enough.” Folke settled back into the rather plush chair. It wasn’t comfortable. “I’m not sure I can afford it, either.”
He definitely couldn’t.
Maybe that was a fate always intended for the cottage, to dwindle until it became no more than moss-covered stone and forgotten books. It had served its purpose and now, like the brook, it would sit in the recess of his mind for as long as he didn’t draw near.
“When are you leaving?” asked Eleanor.
“In a couple o’ days.”
Folke faltered.
So soon?
No point in delaying, he supposed. Dallying would only encourage a change of mind.
“I hope you’ll make use of a telephone to check in, at least.” Eleanor did an admirable job of hiding her own surprise. Although Folke had caught it, the saddened tremor in her words.
“I promise, I will.” And he meant it.
Conversation wasn’t difficult to have when Finlay and Darach so expertly manoeuvred the smallest of talk, saying nothing about everything. Filled Eleanor and Henry in on who they were as people, rather than profession.
Promised to look after Folke, as they said their goodbyes.
He needed to endure one more firm embrace, and a clap on his arm from Henry, before he let his lovers guide him back to the car.
To Bwthyn Ywen.
A home with a yew tree as old as the cottage itself. It had been his home for thirty-four years. The home of his parents, and been well-loved by families long before. Folke had never once stayed anywhere else for any length of time, let alone remained the night. Although he would have been lying to himself if he’d said he belonged here, in this cottage, on those hills, surrounded by nothing. He hadn’t felt belonging for so long now. Only considered Crossing Wells his final resting place, as if that were a goal to work towards.
He would say goodbye to his childhood home and so do with his lovers at his side.
He would leave. . .happy.
And as, two days later, he closed the shutters and window of the dining room, locked out the echoes of a grandmother clock long gone silent by closing the door, Folke’s heart beat with something nigh unrecognisable.
It beat with excitement.
An eagerness for what awaited him. So foreign and pure, he feared he might lose touch with the floor. That he would drift away into the skies unless he grounded himself by reaching for hands that were already held out for him, always.
“All done?” Finlay asked.
“I suppose so.”
When he stepped outside to join Darach at the bottom of the stoop, the air seemed to smell different. There was rain, of course, chilly droplets soaking into his scalp. Although there clung a freshness to the winds Folke had never noticed before. Maybe it was that his sheep weren’t in the barn any longer, taking with them the constant worry and sorrow he’d felt. Or maybe the hills were saying goodbye to him as he was to them. Quietly, with gratitude for the solace they had brought him. And with relief, for he’d never again need to endure their loneliness.
“Are ye ready?” Darach asked, delivering a tender kiss to the curve of his cheekbone. Rucksacks and a suitcase scraped over gravel.
“Yes.” Folke took Darach’s hand in his left, and Finlay’s in his right. Squeezed to reassure them that there wasn’t even a droplet of doubt in his heart. “I’m just sorry we’ll miss the autumn festival.”
“No, you’re not,” Finlay said, teasing.
Folke smiled. No, he wasn’t.
Y Diwedd