Chapter 34

Scene 6: Compound grounds.

Despite October’s steady march onward toward winter, the Kentucky territory is southerly enough to keep a few jealously-guarded motes of summer in reserve well toward the end of the year, and after nearly two weeks of his new strange routine, Rafael rises to find a dawn of suffocating heat and absolutely oppressive humidity. Sword practice is early enough to render the exertion bearable, but by the time Connor suggests going out to the gardens, Rich steps outside and says, “Ugh!”

Rafael has to agree. This manner of day he is well-familiar with, and knows to spend it in the shade or in the water if at all possible. He already sweated out half his body-weight clacking about the courtyard with Sol, and has no intention at all of being coaxed into Connor’s inane hare-racing, no matter how the man might tease him for it.

The heat seems to test Rich’s inhuman constitution just as it might a lesser man; by the time they make it out to their usual haunts and find Connor absent, Rich’s pale face is blotchy pink and his shirt is turning damply translucent.

“He’s prolly out around the east side,” Rich sighs, and plucks uselessly at the sweaty, skin-tight fabric. “He’s almost the same color as me, and I’m sure as hell gonna fry in like ten minutes if we don’t get over in the shade.”

Rafael had thought to seek shade but had entirely forgotten the matter of burning, even though he’d seen how tender and pink Rich turned after only a brief time out on the balcony. Strange that a people made to be invulnerable should have such a delicate weakness to the very sun itself.

“Should we be out here at all, then? I shouldn’t like you to risk a bout with skin cancer, however superficial and easily excised…”

“Aw, nah, I’ll be fine,” Rich laughs. “You’re sweet. Just, I fry up like a shrimp if I don’t watch out in the afternoons, so maybe cancer’s on the list but mostly I’m tired of all my fucking skin peeling off because it got hit by exactly one too many photons and freaked out about it. Some day I’m gonna find the grave of whatever idiot geneticist thought white was a great skin color and I’m gonna wipe my big fluorescent ass right over his gravestone.”

Entirely taken aback, Rafael stares at him. “Some people are white naturally,” he says, though now that he comes to think of it he’s actually not sure of this assumption. A terrible fey impulse has him adding, “I’ve had any number of white friends. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Yeah and good for you, but it’s not all that fun for me,” Rich sighs, and glares at the sun again. “Carraway doesn’t even have sunscreen in the house, the jackass. The troops around here order their own in, and I got enough trouble getting nanocream off them to try for anything else.”

They round the corner to a more shadowed side of the mansion, and find Connor already there walking the ornate rim of a fountain, soaked to the knees and splattered to the waist as though he’s fallen in several times while waiting. He brightens at the sight of them and hops down, and Rich bounces on his feet next to Rafael and takes off after the man without so much as a word of hello.

The enthusiasm quickly wanes, under the vast, crushing grip of the humidity. Rich makes a game attempt, but breaks first to lie down in a fountain and gasp, throwing an arm over his eyes under the merciless sun.

“Fuck, it’s gross out here,” he groans. “I feel like I’m breathing grass soup.”

“Probably a big storm comin’,” Connor says, and trots over to settle on the edge of the same fountain, eyeing the towering purple clouds mounding up on the horizon with a strange and desperate longing in his sky blue eyes. “Smells like it, anyhow.”

“Like, a real storm, finally?” Rich says, sitting up in the water. “I’ve only seen the summer showers, so far, and everyone said they weren’t anything to worry about. What should we do? Does the grounds crew need help getting anything clamped down?”

“Whoa, hold up there,” Connor says, and thumps the flat of a fist against Rich’s chest as he moves to clamber to his feet. “Nah, Red. Easy there, down. We en’t gotta do a damn thing—except maybe get inside, unless you wanna shower with that bath.” He kicks a spray of water over the mountain of Rich’s body. “Storms are real bad where you’re from, huh?”

“The Fleet is made of boats,” Rich says, like he’s had to say it a lot. “On land, the weather just sorta happens to the environment. On the water, the weather is the environment. It shapes everything.” He wards off another splash from Connor and climbs to his feet, holding one of his hands up to the breeze, then gives a low frustrated growl. “I’m never gonna get over how nothing moves out here, it’s like my feet have gone blind…”

Rafael frowns thoughtfully. “You would feel the storm coming,” he guesses, watching Rich shift his weight on the turf like he’s waiting for it to rock below him. “Even from the darkest, most windowless depths of a ship I suppose the weather would make itself known.”

“Yeah, of course,” Rich says impatiently. “The way any boat moves under your feet tells you all kinds of things that landside folks just don’t care about not knowing. Wind, temperature, heading, how the engines are doing, and of course how big the boat is, her material composition, her draft, her dimensions, hell, even her crew size—but this place just holds dead calm every single fucking day. No pitch, no yaw, not even any vibration through the decking. It’s creepy as hell to be looking out the window at rain you can’t even feel. I get so fucking sick of living my life on this whole stupid movie set of a world.”

“Aww,” Connor says, and pats Rich on the arm. “Maybe it won’t pitch you around but it’ll be nice enough once it gets here. Cool everything right down.”

The storm takes longer to approach than Rafael expected. The day is still bright and sunny at lunch, and then it starts clouding over, and a couple hours later the wind hits just before Carraway dismisses them, the trees visible through the window bending and waving. Rich hurries through the halls, Rafael jogging after him, and ducks out the closest door outside.

It’s still hot, but the wind coming through is deliciously cool, and Rafael closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of the oncoming rain.

When he opens his eyes, Rich is swaying on his feet. It’s alarming: the man is normally as steady as stone and graceful as a goat. But Rich’s eyes are fixed on the far horizon, the deep green billowing motion of the surrounding forest, the silver shine of leaves racing along in great swelling arcs. Like waves, like the ocean. Or a distant northern lake…

Rich’s face is distant with pain, his heavy brow furrowed and his broad mouth tense, his green eyes as dark as the storm-wracked trees. Are they the color of that longed-for lake, those deep waters? Rafael could drown in them, and would, at a preference, to having to bear witness to the first tear work its way down Rich’s graven cheek, a raindrop far in advance of the rain.

Hesitantly Rafael touches Rich’s elbow, and Rich flinches away, badly startled.

“Oh!” he says, and claps a hand to his chest. “Oh, right, yeah, Raf, there you are. Fuck me, I was pretending for minute…” he sniffs hard, rubs his cheek with the back of his wrist, rolls his great architectural span of shoulders as if to settle himself back onto his foundations. Then he breathes in and forces a smile, unconvincing but brave.

“If there’s nothing we have to take care of during the storm,” he says, “we might as well take advantage of the cool spell.”

“Somehow I doubt you’re suggesting a comfortable little stroll through the arbors, admiring the blossoms and taking in the evening air,” Rafael says, following Rich’s lead and keeping his tone light. Rich’s smile stretches to a more real-looking grin and he scuffs a bare heel against the brickwork.

“No, I was thinking, maybe, y’know. While we’re out here. You could be… it!” At the last, he pounces forward, blindingly fast, and taps one finger glancingly against Rafael’s nose. It’s a butterfly’s kiss, delivered by intercontinental ballistic missile, and in the next moment Rich has turned on his heel and is pelting madly away, laughing.

The trees rustle and whisper, the breeze smells familiar and wild, and Rich’s laugh is as deep and beguiling as a hunting horn. Rafael tilts his head back, takes a deep breath, and throws himself down the path.

After only a few twists and turns he catches sight of Connor, coursing fleetly along beside him. “Now this is racing weather!” Connor says, and draws temptingly closer, matching their strides. Rather than waste a single measure of his extremely limited breath, Rafael veers to the side and tags him with a final burst of vigor, then slows to a winded and grateful trot.

“Rich is—somewhere beyond,” Rafael tells the man. “Wear him out for me, if you’d be so kind?”

“Oh, don’t quit now, lover boy, we’re just getting warmed up,” Connor says, and tugs playfully at Rafael’s hands, arms, and shirt, until he extracts a promise to catch up as soon as he might. Then the man goes speeding off like a sight hound, mission-focused.

Rafael continues to trot gamely down the path, grateful for the sweet cold breeze across his sticky, overheated flesh. Rich and Connor are tussling by the time he finds them, Rich badgering Connor gently around and Connor swatting and squirming and twisting away from his great reaching hands. Rafael hesitates, uncertain of this development in the game, and then Connor dances back away from Rich’s slow swipe at him, catches sight of Rafael and promptly ducks around behind him.

“Get him!” Connor says—to Rich or Rafael, it’s not clear—and shoves Rafael forward into Rich’s arms. Rafael stumbles forward, and Rich scoops him up.

“Oh,” says Rafael, startled, and Rich must read his hesitation for reluctance, because his grip loosens uncertainly, his grin falling. Rafael squirms free of his hold, but instead of dropping to the ground he gets a knee up on one of Rich’s biceps and hoists himself onto one of the man’s shoulders. Rich sputters and grabs, trying to steady him, and Rafael twists away and pivots as gracefully as he can to settle firmly down on Rich’s shoulders and wrap both arms over his eyes.

“Well?” he says to Connor, feeling childish and foolish and breathless, high above the ground in the wind from the storm. “Get him!”

Connor whoops in delight and dives forward to tackle Rich, completely ineffectively. Rich is laughing, trying to fend Connor off with one hand and peel Rafael’s hands away from his eyes with the other, and for all his attempts at protest sometimes his hand just comes to Rafael’s knee instead, holding him where he is, steadying him.

Rafael is the first to feel a heavy, warm drop of rain, and he has barely a moment to consider giving some kind of warning before the rain comes with redoubled force, a sudden wash of large drops that soak Rafael’s shirt in moments. Rich swears and Connor yells again, throwing his head back and laughing toward the dark, heavy skies as the rain washes over the compound grounds and bows all the trees with its weight.

It’s Rafael who sees the figure standing uncertain and small in one of the doorways; he waves an arm, breathlessly soaked and laughing despite himself, and Sol takes a few delicate, disapproving steps out into the rain, then turns his face up into the downpour, letting it slick his shining hair into long strokes of ink.

“Sol! Hey!” says Rich, having peeled one of Rafael’s hands away from an eye—sputtering and laughing as the rain runs down into his mouth, flattens his hair and turns its vividly unreal red a deeper shade of garnet. “Fuck—signore, come save me!”

Sol focuses fast and comes towards them in a swift, rolling jog, nearly a prowl. Rafael’s never seen him run, before. He takes his exercise before the heat of the day, in the muse’s courtyard and in the staff gym. Martial practice, not sport. Even now, there’s nothing exuberant about him, nothing uncontained: he’s as focused as a hunting cat.

“What are you doing up there?” he demands of Rafael, as soon as he’s close enough not to have to shout.

“Admiring the view,” Rafael retorts, and is delighted when Sol draws up short, eyes wide, ears back.

“Don’t give me that,” he says, weakly, flustered.

“Then what would you like me to give you?” And Rafael blows him a kiss.

“Rich!” Sol says, almost plaintively. “What’s the big idea, huh? You morons are out here making a whole damn spectacle of yourselves, it’s nuts. Don’t you have the sense to come in out of the rain?”

“Nah,” Rich says cheerfully. “We’re stupid.”

“You can teach us poor country boys a lesson or two, I reckon,” Connor says. “That is, if you could catch us.”

“What?” Sol asks, and then, “Ow!” as Connor darts forward, pinches the tip of one of his long ears, and gives it a sharp tug before skipping away. “Alright, get bent, come here—”

Connor only dashes off through the rain, pausing just long enough, as Sol falters, to blow him another kiss. The dignified patrician snarls in fury and tears off after him, and Rich laughs, grabs Rafael’s other wrist to get his eyes free, and runs along behind the chase. Rafael finds himself riding aloft, at startling speed and with no noticeable effort, Rich’s hand on his knee, rain beating against his face and shoulders.

It turns into a curious game of chase; Sol isn’t a runner by choice or inclination, but he’s marvelously fit and his pride is easy enough to sting. Connor teases him along, racing fleetly out ahead when chased, then circling back to nip at his heels, pull the buttons off his vest, tweak at locks of his dark hair, spurring him into another furious bout of pursuit through the rose maze. Rich just jogs cheerfully along behind, keeping pace, cheering the two of them on indiscriminately.

“Alright! Alright, to hell with this, to hell with all of you!” Sol finally shouts, his voice a raw, hoarse caw of rage, and they all fall back, blinking at each other in the rain. He turns on one heel and stalks directly away from Connor, scrubbing at his face with the back of his wrist, uselessly dashing off the rain.

“Oh, fuck, Sol, hey,” Rich says, concerned, and jogs forward enough to catch his shoulder. “Hey, hey, sorry, man, we were just playing. I thought we were just having fun.”

“I’m not here to be made fun of,” Sol snaps, and shoves Rich’s arm away. “You assholes can go catch pneumonia out in the mud. I’m off.”

“Sol, hey, we’re sorry,” Rich says again, but Sol is already vanishing into the maze.

“Man couldn’t take a joke if the good Lord came down and handed it over, I swear,” Connor says carelessly, and laughs when Rich turns to glare at him. “Oh, don’t give me that look, Red, some guys can’t take a li’l teasing and that’s on them.”

“We should play nicer, if someone isn’t having fun,” Rich tells him, voice hard.

“I do cute,” Connor says, and bats his wide blue eyes, shaking springing wet curls out of his face. “Not nice. There’s a difference. You wanna come spank me for it, big man?”

“No,” Rich says, “I think we’re probably about done here,” and turns to follow Sol. Connor darts after them, and this time he pulls at Rafael’s foot, nearly unseating him from his perch.

“I said no,” Rich snaps, his voice a thundercrack, and in one of those unsettling flashes of speed the man has caught Connor by the upper arm, his fist wrapped all the way around as he takes a firm step away. “Let’s go in, Connor. It’s getting cold, anyway.”

“Alright, alright,” Connor says, but puts his own hand on Rich’s taut knuckles, as though savoring the pressure. “Lord, you’re a big damn bull. Let me loose.”

Rich does, then reaches up to take hold of Rafael instead, helping him with perfect delicacy down to his feet and then holding him close, all radiantly warm muscle under the rain-chilled skin.

“You alright, hon?” he says softly, and Rafael endeavors to nod and then ruins it by giving another sharp shiver as a fresh gust of rainy breeze blows past him. It felt so warm when the rain began, but he doesn’t have much body heat to spare, and he finds himself huddling closer to the generous heat of Rich’s chest.

“So we’re all good, everything’s okay,” Rich confirms. “Let’s go raid the galley, I’m frozen.”

A wave of warm air rushes over Rafael as they step through the front door into the entrance hall, and with his face turned into Rich it takes him a moment to realize why, to understand why Rich just stopped still in his tracks and caught a fast, small breath. Until Rafael turns, and his own heart freezes solid in the constriction of his throat.

Carraway is standing there, watching them, smiling, as always. “Well, look at you boys, dripping all over the floor,” he says, and Rafael tenses, but there’s little reproach in the man’s voice. He looks amused, lazily pleased. “Y’know, it did my heart good to see you having so much fun out there, but you’re all going to catch your deaths of cold if you don’t get warmed up. Come on in here.” He ushers them into the parlor off the hall, where there’s a crackling fire in the fireplace and a tray on the low table, mugs and glasses set out among a number of plush couches.

“Take a seat, boys,” Carraway says genially. “Get those wet things off and have a little something to warm up again. There’s hot cocoa and brandy.”

There are towels in a stack by the fire, soft and warm and indulgently huge. Rich bustles around getting everybody their own, casting the occasional uncertain glance over his shoulder at Carraway, who’s watching the whole scene with tolerant amusement. Connor throws himself still sodden onto one couch, vigorously toweling at his tousled curls.

Rafael, for his own part, strips demurely and pats himself dry, then sets to bringing all their discarded clothing over by the fire. As though these dainty, wretched scraps of costume are worth the effort… but it fits the scene and his part in it, and it’s good to have something to do with his hands. And Rich would only do it, if he didn’t.

“I’ll take a brandy, if you don’t mind,” Carraway tells Rich, who apparently doesn’t, and sets to serving drinks with a will. One glass of brandy, three mugs of cocoa, then Rich’s hand returns to the decanter and he looks anxiously, hopefully at Carraway.

“Go ahead, treasure, I know what you like,” Carraway says with warm indulgence. Rich ducks his head and mutters something vague and embarrassed, but doesn’t hesitate to serve himself a measure of hard liquor that would probably kill a normal man on the spot.

Connor is carelessly and entirely naked by the time he grabs for his mug of hot chocolate, and lounges back against the sofa in the glow of the firelight in a long stretch of starkly sectioned tan lines. His face, shoulders, and arms are densely freckled, while the constellation thins out from his chest to his stomach, and his inner thighs are almost entirely bare, pale as milk. Like Rich, he’s white enough that his nipples and the head of his dick are the same soft, candied pink as his lips. Rafael realizes he’s staring interestedly only when Connor raises his mug in a teasing salute, and Rafael hastily turns his attention away, perching demurely at the edge of a nearby loveseat to accept his own steaming mug from Rich.

The play of peaceful domesticity, with the kindly patriarch presiding over his boys in front of a roaring fire, is surreal in a way Rafael should be used to by now, but it still startles him. With all Carraway’s wealth and power, what the man enjoys is pretending he’s kind and generous and beloved, so here they are to be fed treats and cosseted and played with. And it works better than it should: Connor seems perfectly content to sprawl naked on his couch with a drink in his hand and a careless smile on his face as he savors the heat of the fireplace. Rich is already halfway through his glass of brandy and happily eyeing the decanter in hope of more.

Rafael seems the only one waiting for the sting, the catch, the backhanded cruelty, the only one aware of how flimsy and briefly worn Carraway’s mask of paternal kindness really is. But what is he to do, dash the chocolate to the ground, jump to his feet, accuse? Instead of such a dramatic suicide, he sips his chocolate with a dainty grace, playing the elegant counterpoint to Connor’s careless self-indulgence as the heat of the drink struggles to melt the knot of anxiety behind his breastbone.

“It’s good to see you all taking some time to enjoy yourselves,” Carraway finally says, after a measured swallow of his brandy. He reaches out and ruffles Rich’s damp red hair into a bristle. “You work too hard, treasure, and I don’t see the rest of you sweet little things around near as often as I’d like. It livens the place right up, having all you bright young boys running around in it.”

“I think everyone could do with more playtime,” Connor drawls, drains off his mug with a messy slurp, and serves himself a second before Rich can. “Y’oughta order some board games in, sir. I’m a pretty decent hand at Mad Cow, I don’t mind telling you.”

Rich snorts a laugh. “You’re a traveling veterinarian,” he says, as if this were somehow a normal conversation. “You’ve got a starting advantage, don’t you?”

“Who would want to play a game they couldn’t win?” Connor says, and raises his glass impudently to Carraway. “Life’s all about playing to your strengths, huh, sir?”

“I’ve found as much, yes,” Carraway chuckles, and toasts him with his brandy.

There’s a lull in the conversation, and Rafael nears the bottom of his first mug just as Connor downs the last of his second. The fire is very warm, and Rafael relaxes his towel and stretches himself out along his own seat, cautiously enjoying the heat simmering through him after so long out in the chill.

“That’s right, darlin’,” Carraway says as Connor reaches to pour himself another round of cocoa, “you just have as much as you like. Treasure, why don’t you try some? It’s nice and hot.”

Rafael abruptly reevaluates the heat all through his body. He’s not overheating from the fire and the hot drink, his skin is prickling with warmth because the cocoa is spiked.

Connor might realize too, because he’s drinking his third mug more slowly, but Rafael isn’t sure: he’s been here awhile, is familiar with at least some of the games Carraway plays, but he’s of such a different character than Rafael himself is, so much bolder and more fearless. He might be welcoming this particular twist to the evening, with the way he shifts and sighs on the couch, paying no real mind to the way his pale pink dick is starting to fill out against his bare thigh. Rich seems entirely oblivious, obediently applying himself to his own mug after a brief, longing glance to the rest of the brandy.

“How’s that treating you, sugar?” Carraway asks, and ruffles Rich’s hair again, then starts steadily combing his fingers through the thick red strands.

“It’s very nice, sir,” Rich says. “I’m not so big on chocolate, really, but it’s—y’know, it’s really good anyway, thank you.”

“It’s damn good,” Connor says. “I’ve got a sweet tooth as long as an elephant’s tusk, y’know, and there’s a hell of a lot of places out there you can’t get chocolate for love or money.” His free hand’s stolen down to his rising dick, as if unconsciously, and he’s starting to play his fingertips over it, idly rubbing and petting.

Rafael flicks a look at Carraway from under his lashes and finds the man smiling, watching Connor with lazy anticipation. The smile is no guarantee Connor won’t suffer some amount of torment, of course, but at least he’s not about to get thrown to Sandgren.

Rafael’s own arousal is beginning to twitch upwards, the languorous heat winding ever more persuasively through him. Rich is watching Connor too, now, brows knitted anxiously together, and then Carraway chuckles.

“Well, baby blues, looks like you’re enjoying yourself plenty, hmm?”

“Yessir,” Connor drawls, arching his back and stretching a little, hand still sliding along his dick. “Could maybe stand to hear any other ideas you had for the evening, this one being so damn nice, and all.”

“Shadow, you’ve been awfully quiet tonight,” Carraway comments. He takes Rich’s cup and tops it up himself, equal measures cocoa and brandy, and gives it back. “I’m sure you’ve got something to suggest.”

Rafael shifts against the cushions uneasily, acutely aware that he’s sweating now, that his damnably responsive dick has risen to full mast, that his heart’s racing and his tongue’s gone thick behind his teeth. He makes a show of demurely sipping at the dregs of his own cocoa, then realizes his mistake when he lowers it empty and Carraway immediately gestures—imperiously—for him to refill it.

Rafael follows the order, thinking as quickly as he can when the heat of the fire and the chocolate seem to have crept into his very skull. Connor seems unlikely to complain regardless of the outcome, as long as he isn’t left unsatisfied at the end—which is good, because Rafael doesn’t know yet what Carraway likes to see of the man, what he might enjoy the most.

What he does know is the impudent edge to Connor’s smile, the way he’s looking at Carraway as if he’s daring the man to chastise him. And Carraway still looks amused, but there’s a certain line at the corner of his mouth, some undefined shadow to his eyes, that makes Rafael think he’s noticed it as well.

“I believe I could oblige, sir,” Rafael says, and Connor’s eyes flick to him instead, the edge of challenge and expectation only growing. Rafael makes a show of returning his gaze, using the momentary eye-contact to consider—how to shape the request, what words best to use to tempt Carraway’s appetite. “It seems he has some energy in excess. I believe I could wring the last of it from him, if I was allowed. Sir. Perhaps he would be in, in a more—” Damnation, he’s well and truly sauced, now. Whatever Carraway mixed into that drink must have been strong. Rafael blinks through a wave of dizziness, licks his lips and pushes on, trying to disguise his momentary falter. “A more respectful frame of mind—”

“Aw, c’mon,” Connor says, breathless now, twitching with it, eyes flickering from Carraway to Rafael’s dick and back again. “Takes a lot to fuck the sass outta me, Romeo, and you ain’t got what it takes—”

“Now, sweetheart,” Carraway says, chiding, and Connor cuts off, licks his lips, catches his lower lip in his teeth, as pink and soft as the rest of him, bitten red. Carraway considers him for a second, and then gives half a laugh and settles back in his chair, waving a hand in lazy acquiescence.

“Go on then,” he says. Adds, “Not too gently with him now,” a hint of a growl beneath the words, and Rafael sees Connor take a shuddering breath, a flash of defiant anger and burning arousal darkening the blue of his eyes. Then that flash is gone, and he turns to Rafael and gives him a bright, sharp, challenging grin.

The provocation is enough to pull Rafael up off his seat and over to Connor’s, light-headed with lust and whatever the drug is, and he straddles Connor’s lap and kisses him hard, grinding up against him. Honestly, in this state, Rafael isn’t well-suited to dominate anyone, especially someone so demanding, but he’ll do his damnedest.

Connor’s breathing hard by the time Rafael pulls back, anyway, and his hands tug at Rafael’s shoulders, trying to pull him back down.

“C’mon, fuck, get on with it!” Connor gasps, hips rocking against Rafael’s weight. Rafael considers his course of action for a moment, and then fumbles down, takes hold of Connor’s wrists and pins them back against the couch as firmly as he’s able. Carraway chuckles, sounding deeply amused, and takes a hearty swallow of his brandy; Connor jerks, arching against the restraint, hips rocking and chest heaving.

“You like that,” Rafael observes, and then startles at the sound of his own voice. He scrambles, attempting to remember how one takes charge in circumstances such as these, and then raises his chin haughtily and says, “Good. You’ll prove a fitting entertainment before I’m through with you, if I have to wring you out like a rag to do it.”