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Something for the Pain
by kel

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"In Wherton, a stranger was not sent away hungry, but the rules of mine and
thine were sacrosanct.
  The difference was that we were not strangers -- we were outlaws.  In our
pitifully puny way, we were at war.  Essentially with the Tripods, but
indirectly with all those who, for whatever reason, supported them.  Including -
- I forced myself to stare it in the face -- all those I had known and been fond
of at the Château..."
-- John Christopher, The White Mountains


Maison Vichot, Le Jura, France, September 2089 AD


Henry tries hard not to mind, really tries, as the space behind him cools and he
waits to hear Beanpole's bed creak under Will's weight.

It's been nearly three weeks since they left the Château; nearly two since Will,
unCapped, alone and desperately brittle, caught up with them.  Henry knows he
should care about why Will's come back, why he did what they all knew he
wouldn't, why he's so sure nobody will come after him, but can't bring himself
to give a tuppenny damn.

Will's back, and everything else has stopped mattering, including why he stayed
behind in the first place.  Henry doesn't ask questions.  He knew, obscurely,
that Eloise was a symptom of Will's discontent, and not its cause, but he hasn't
poked at it since leaving.   It's over, done, gone.   She was easy to forgive,
once he didn't have to look at them together, and once he realised he'd rather
Will cared for her than not.  He's thought a lot about Beanpole's quiet
acceptance of their friendship; more about his defence of it, and is ashamed of
not listening to him sooner.  It's too late to work out what he wasn't saying.


=== *  ===


France, August 2089 AD


One day gone, one day dead.  Two days gone...

Walking with Beanpole in silence, Henry concentrates fiercely on managing
without, on learning not to turn to where Will should be when things need
answers.  Training himself not to leave space for him next to the fire, and to
keep the third plate in the rucksack.  Not to listen for his voice.

It isn't as hard as he feared, once he's worked it all out; all he has to do is
skip ahead past all the aren'ts and won'ts and may-as-well-be's.  To say, and
keep saying, Will's dead, and things are like this under his breath.   Why,
it's just a matter of counting distance and steps and time and spoons; over and
over and over until the spaces stop being holes and turn into places where
nothing happens to be.

He's been through this before.  They both have.

Beanpole's sorrow is opaque; he says nothing, but his hands are restless,
touching every stone and tree and fence they pass, curling his fingers in
waterside sand and Henry's hair at night.    Whether he's aware of what he's
doing or not is anyone's guess.  It makes Henry want to punch him sometimes, but
he lets him be.  For now.

For Henry grief is a practical problem, as natural as waiting for harvest, or
washing footprints from a beach.

He'd never seen the sea before they ran away, and it's haunted him ever since.
How big it is, how real; how it works all on its own without men or horses or
anything.  How not even Tripods can fuck it up.  He thinks about walking next to
it, about footprints in the sand; how you wait and you wait, and even when the
tide comes in it takes more than one wave to smooth them.  Many more, if they're
old and deep, and Will's footprints have been in Henry for years.

In stone and private.  But stone turns to sand, Beanpole says.  If you wait long
enough.

The final week at the Château, with all its nastiness and secrets, makes no
difference.  Unpleasant and hard, yes, the culmination of a month of growing
anger.  A month of living, and growing, apart.  But Will was still somehow
there in all the calculations Henry made, even when they didn't see each other
and didn't speak.  Tangential.  Necessary.  Inevitable.  It was easier to
exclude him, then, knowing deep down it wasn't really real, that it wouldn't
really last.  It couldn't.  That sort of thing didn't happen to them.

And it had, and he's still not sure how things had got that bad, and when he
thinks back to walking away, all he remembers is this is it, and the shock
when they'd shaken hands.  Because that's what Wherton boys do, if they're
brought up right, and Parkers always are.  Shake hands to make up, seal deals,
say goodbye to strangers.  He hadn't thought about it, hadn't planned it, not a
bit of it, and he'd bet Will hadn't either.  They'd just done it, automatically,
despite everything.

It was one hell of a mistake.  It knocked the wind out of him, the touch of skin
on skin; shocked him with the sudden, dreadful conviction that what they were
doing was wrong.  Not leaving, or staying, or any of that, but choosing to part,
pure and simple.  It yawned under him, stripped all his anger away and left him
struggling to breathe, but it was too damn late to fix and Will wouldn't meet
his eyes.

He'd had to make himself let go.  He'd expected to want to.

Walking away was fine.  Turning away, now, that hurt like hell and took forever.
But walking away was fine because once he couldn't see Will, he wasn't there,
and wouldn't be again.  Ever.  And frightened to hell, he made every step a
beat, a chant: Will's dead, and things are like this, and it'd been easy not
to look round, when he concentrated, even when the anger didn't come back.  He
just sang it under his breath, let it pick up momentum and drag him dry-eyed
behind it for hours.  And when the words ran out, he'd had Beanpole to follow
and miles to count, and they'd tiffed about food and rest and warmth and all the
other things that were more important than Will when the sun rose over cattle
trampled by Tripods.

And Will is dead and gone and one of Them.  And they sleep by day, and travel by
night; and by the third day he lets Beanpole hold him for warmth, and hates it.
He sleeps badly when he does, but can't sleep if he doesn't, and at least it
keeps those bloody hands still.

Four days gone, four days dead, and the pleasantly cool breeze turns into
chilly, wet winds and freezing rain, and they have to keep walking at daybreak.
Common land, Henry thinks, or maybe the intersection of estates; miles and miles
of flat, fallow fields, no food, no shelter, and everything a beautiful
overgrown green that palls very bloody quickly in the end.

They're ready to drop by the time they come across a strange, straight river
with no real banks; running for miles, it seems, and the same width as far as
they can see.  No way to cross, and both too tired to swim; but luck is with
them, and only a mile or so downstream they find a long and narrow boat tethered
tightly with old rope.  It makes a welcome haven from the storm.

It reminds Henry of Jack's den, back home, or what he'd seen of it from outside.
He'd never been invited in.  Small and dark, with a sweetly musty smell rising
from peeling veneer and faded red leather benches, it suits their needs
admirably.  The roof leaks, a little, but there's an old blue bucket already
under the hole and the walls and windows are sound.   It seems to be a regular
waystation for travellers. The remains of old campfires dot the riverbank, and
the strange, shiny table inside bears bronzely bubbled crescents where lanterns
have been left too long.  The cupboards hide blankets, some clean, some home to
mice who seem unperturbed by their intrusion.  Henry supposes they survive on
food scraps or paper, the remnants of faded pictures falling from warped and
swollen wooden frames.

A rusting metal sink takes up one end of the boat, clogged with ashes and old
coals.  Henry is delighted to see that a makeshift chimney, a thick metal tube
of the type adorning the ancestors' carriages in Paris, will divert smoke
outside.  Perfectly safe for cooking, although Beanpole doesn't believe it; he
has the townsman's fear of fire under low ceilings. Henry takes charge, if only
because exhaustion and long hair don't mix with naked flames.  He sends the
Frenchman to dispose of the older ashes.

By the the time their meal of dried meat and stolen potatoes is ready, the cabin
is warm and welcoming.  Beanpole, waiting for the rain to ease, has forgotten
his task and covered the table with charcoal sketches of the strange steam-
powered machines he has dreamed so long of making.  They overlap with smaller,
more stylised images that Henry doesn't look at too closely; jagged renderings
of Tripods and Caps and seashells.  Beanpole wipes it all away with his sleeve,
dying it to match the smudges on his face; angry marks testifying to the
banishment of private tears with blackened fingers.

Henry doesn't look at them, either; just sends him out into the rain to wash his
hands.  When he comes back, soaked through and shivering, the marks are gone.
Henry hopes he will not catch cold; they must pass as Capped labourers returning
from the tournament if questioned, and cannot if they are ill.  He brings Jean-
Paul blankets; one for comfort and one for warmth.

Sitting comfortably to eat, side by side, looking out through smudged and dirty
windows at the rain, it is warm and peaceful, although they douse the fire for
safety.  It's as well they do; two Black Guards ride past, less than an hour
apart.  Perhaps there are regular patrols;  they dare not do anything that will
attract attention.

Wary of further horsemen, it is mid-morning before they decide to risk sleep;
one of the benches unfolds to make a mattress wide enough for two, so they curl
together under coats and keep the dampest blankets away from their skin.

Henry's tired as hell, but can't drift off; Beanpole's stroking his hair again,
and it makes his skin crawl.

Henry learned to hate being touched after his mother died, surrounded by people
who hugged and patted and pulled him close even though they weren't her, and
didn't care for her, and whispered things behind their hands.  He pushed them
away, violently, to comfortable distances; and they've stayed there ever since.

Except Will, who didn't have the decency not to know better.

But Will's dead and things are like this.  So he studies the tiny
crenellations in the padded leather backrest, little splits and tears where
buttons used to be; listens for mice inside the mattress and waits for Beanpole
to stop.  He always does, eventually.   Beanpole needs this; this is his
counting, his singing under his breath, his watching of waves.  Henry can cope.
He survived the Orion, didn't he, and the Château: sailors and Black Guards
holding his arms and running their filthy fucking hands over him in search of a
Cap.  This isn't anywhere near as bad.

It'll stop soon.  The worst is nearly over.  Warm fingers brush the nape of his
neck, curling in his hair, baring one tiny patch of skin just above the bone.
He can feel Beanpole's breath there, the warmth of his lips, far too close.
Jean-Paul kissed him there, the first night away from the Château.  Hasn't
since, but he spends minutes sometimes, knuckles on the skin, lips close by and
warm, and it always feels as if he might.

Waiting to be sure he won't is hell, because even Henry could feel that it was
gentle and genuine, born of loneliness.  It seems such a sad and simple thing to
fear.   And he badly wants to know if he'd mind it less a second time.

It doesn't usually take this long, for Beanpole not to kiss him again.  Minutes,
and more than minutes, and he's still there.  And Henry's tired and empty and
they can hear the hunting calls of Tripods in the rain.  And it's just too damn
much today, because Will would never have kissed him, never in a million years,
and he's fed up with things that make him think of Will.

"Oh for fuck's sake... Either do it, or don't, just don't bloody hover over me
like that."

He regrets it, immediately; he hadn't meant to speak.  Beanpole pulls back as if
burnt, rolls away without a word, his long, wet hair, turning the pillow cold
behind him, replacing the warmth of his fingers on Henry's skin.  It leaves
Henry disappointed at the rush of relief that he is gone; disappointed in
himself and numbingly in the wrong.

The silence is quickly too much to bear.  He turns over, makes himself touch
Beanpole's shoulder.

"I'm sorry."

Beanpole, lying on his back, doesn't look at him; keeps his eyes on the ceiling.
It's close enough here to touch, just, if he stretches, and he concentrates on
scratching at the peeling paint, pulling it carefully away in strips.  His face
is flushed the deep, deep red of embarrassment.

"There is no need.   I know you are...  I should not have."

And Henry's mortified, filled with the need to explain that it's not the
touching he minded, just this once, but the uncertainty.   But there's nothing
he can say, really.    Henry doesn't have the words.  He's never needed them
before.

Beanpole's left his little-moons on again.  Henry can't remember him sleeping
without them, since the Château.  They need to be ready to run if surprised,
although he doesn't see it'd make a lot of difference at the moment.  Right now
they're streaked and stained, especially around the edges, where Beanpole's
fringe, and perhaps his tears, have caught and dried in the cracks.

He's never thought about how it must feel, to have eyes that don't work.  To
live in a world that stops making sense six inches away.  But he understands
panic very well.

He reaches, without warning, for the lenses.

Beanpole automatically throws up an arm to protect himself, catching Henry's
hand to push it away.  And Henry's first instinct is to pull away, but Beanpole
won't let him, and although it scares him to death Henry's damned if he'll back
down so he makes himself hang on, shaking and terrified at the way their fingers
have interlaced.  And the longer they stay that way, the more he shakes, and
it's a relief when Beanpole turns away, onto his side.

Doesn't let go, though.  And Henry has to move closer, has to let his arm be
drawn down; and he resists, tensed to the point where his shoulders hurt and the
rest of him seems hit with some strange paralysis.  Still shaking, sweating now,
white-knuckled fingers digging into Beanpole's hand; exhausted and trying hard,
so hard, not to kick out, kick him away.

"Breathe, Henry."

Said softly, seriously.  And that does it; makes him laugh, of all things, and
he's pulled against Beanpole, must collapse against him, bent against his
shoulders.  And Beanpole, whose grip has been gentle and whose hand will bear
bruises tomorrow, lets go.

Henry snatches his hand away like a burnt child, but doesn't retreat; lets his
forehead rest against Beanpole's back and waits with closed eyes, heart racing,
until he is calm.  The whole thing's taken less than a minute.  It's twice,
three times that before his breathing steadies, before he feels able to open his
eyes, and in that time he feels Beanpole turn towards him and move back, giving
him space he can ill afford.

When he finally looks up with fiercely dry eyes Beanpole is holding out his
lunettes, awkwardly.

"Here."

And Henry doesn't understand, so Beanpole shifts a little down the mattress, and
slides them gently onto his face.

He can't see a damn thing.  They feel heavy, awkward and constricting, and the
world's the wrong shape and too far away.  Too many edges, and strange
refractions through the cracks, and Beanpole's face makes no sense at all.

He pulls them off, fast, hands them back; and Beanpole slowly, deliberately
tucks them away safely under the bench.

He settles down on the pillow again, dark eyes huge and unfocused, face only
inches away.

"We cannot afford to be frightened of each other, Henry."

There is a resignation in his voice Henry has not heard before; an old, deep
tone that worries him.  Henry's grown to think of him as younger, somehow,
especially with Will gone; as someone sporadically wise but strangely broken,
needing unobtrusive, careful reining in for everyone's safety.  Henry, always
happier at a distance, has never really looked at him before, not as he does
now.  It's a shock to see the beginnings of whiskers on his upper lip, to be
reminded of how much older he is.

Past Capping age.  Well past, the Lieutenant had said, with strange and
unprovoked contempt; and Henry, distracted by his own fears at the time, sees
suddenly why.  Jean-Paul should be nearly two years a man, by law.

He's an adult, an unCapped adult.  Only the second Henry's ever seen; and the
only one he trusts.

For all their talk of Freemen, the idea is still unthinkable, in so many ways;
it's never felt real.  To see it made flesh, and in a friend, is breathtaking.
It makes Jean-Paul unique, and precious.

More precious.   Henry never had friends, before.

"But I'd never hurt you.  You must know that."

It's a given, in Wherton, that unCapped Parkers have tempers, an old parochial
joke.  Henry and Will are like their fathers before them, and Ralph and John
were like theirs.  Those Parker boys, people say: one mind, four fists.  Henry's
quicker to peace than his cousin, but hell beforehand, and they both know how
hard he's been working to stay under control now he's alone.

He's not the only one.

"I think so.  But you are unpredictable.  Volatile.  And I am... importun.
Do you know this word?"

"Lonely?"

Beanpole smiles, sadly.  "No.  But I am that too.   If I was alone... but I am
with you, and should behave well.   But we are both sad, and I think perhaps
Henry would not mind one kiss.  And I think perhaps he would not mind another
one.  But if this happens, then there is a third.  And then another, and after
that...  and it would not stop.  C'est moi, Henry."

"Like at the Château."

"Yes, no.  They wished it, and you do not, and...   I am trying very hard."

"I know."

"I do not wish us to fight because I am stupid."

"It's not stupid."

Beanpole reaches out, as if to brush Henry's fringe out of his eyes, retreats as
he flinches.

"But it is selfish.  I must think first.  Not to... kiss it better."

He sounds lost, almost; looking inward, old and matter-of-fact.

"What if... if I learned not to mind?"

"Then it is worse."

"Because I'm not Will?"

"No.  Because I am not."

Such a sad and simple thing.  Henry's the closest to crying he's been in years.

"But--"

Beanpole looks at him, puts a finger over Henry's lips; lets it hover, without
touching. Henry tries not to think about how warm it might be against his skin.

"We wish different things."

Stone, not sand.  And he'd do anything to take the pain away.

"How the hell would you know?"

"Give me your hand."

And Beanpole holds out his own, in the space between them.

"Go on.  Look at me if it will help."

It does and it doesn't, so he concentrates on breathing as Beanpole's hand folds
patiently and gently around his own,as it pulls it down, under the covers and
comes to rest against an instantly recognisable  hardness.

And Henry, to his own surprise, does not flinch, or pull away.

"Do you see?  C'est  moi, Henry.  I think to kiss you, and so.  Je
bande.   Ma peine départ, brièvement.  Demain, elle retournera, mais...  Do
you wish this, from me?  To be walking, tomorrow, for weeks, with me, if?  To
think of him, if?"

And Henry can't say either yes or no with any honesty, even to the parts he
understands.

"This will not wash him away."

"I know that."

"Then what?"  said gently.

And Henry can't answer, because as much as he wants to know what it is like to
have held Will, to have kissed him and been wanted by him, it is not now
possible.  Perhaps it never was.  And he's far too old to believe being held by
someone to whom Will mattered will help.

Perhaps to be held, in itself, he thinks, with sudden, sharp longing.  Henry has
never admitted to loneliness; but it is a stone in him now, and cold.

Henry makes a decision; takes a deep breath and nods toward their unseen hands.

 "Would it matter who was here?  For...?"

Beanpole holds his gaze, says quietly  "No."

"Then let go."

And Beanpole does, slowly; and Henry turns his hand over, closes his eyes and
lets his palm settle against  Beanpole's body, settle, and squeeze; lets the
warmth of him soak into the underside of his knuckles.  Begins to stroke,
slowly, apprehension fading with the strange familiarity of the shape under his
hand, with the simplicity of his intent.

"Henry... I did not mean..."

"I know.  I want to."

Roughened fingers stroke his face, softly.  It takes all his control not to pull
away, but he forces himself to be quiet, and calm.

"Don't.  Please."

Beanpole exhales sharply, and rolls over slowly onto his back, arms folded
behind his head.  Henry concentrates on the rough cotton, stretched warm and
taut under his hand, on the geography of seams, stitching, tears and patches;
explores them with his fingers, thinking here are holes from scrambling over
fences, and there, from careless bounding over rocks, undressing to swim.  He
slides his fingers over them, over the bare skin they reveal; opens his eyes and
watches Beanpole's parting lips, the flush gathering on his cheeks, and feels
desire of his own building.

It carries questions and spectres in its wake, and Henry knows it would be
easiest to stop now, to stop with grace and do no damage in retreat.  But he
imagines himself in Beanpole's place, and knows what he would want, if it really
didn't matter who was there.

He gently undoes the buttons on his breeches, for comfort; then does the same
for Beanpole, smoothing his shirt out from underneath, baring startlingly white
skin.   Palm flat on Beanpole's belly, he stretches his fingers out slowly until
the lower two reach thick, wiry hair and begins a gentle, slowly widening
spiral, hip to bony hip and the softer flesh between, smiling at the way the
muscles tense under his touch.   He slides his hand, slowly, up under Beanpole's
shirt, feels perspiration on the hair he twists and pulls softly under his
fingers.    He has stumbled upon Jean-Paul with lovers at the Château, and knows
he has a weakness for teasing, for kisses and the gentle scrape of fingernails
under his arms.

He traces patterns on Beanpole's sides and chest, watches the movement of his
hand beneath the shirt, the trembling of Beanpole's eyelashes, the catch of
teeth upon his lower lip, and resolves that he is willing to be touched in
return.

He withdraws his hand, slowly, and sits up; motions Beanpole to follow, reaches
out unsteadily and touches his shoulder  where his still-damp hair meets the
collar of his shirt.

"Take it off."

He is flushed, aroused, and it shows; Beanpole smiles warmly, the lingering
concern in his eyes dissipating at the decisiveness in Henry's words.

"Everything?"

And Henry just nods, so Beanpole stands up and strips to his shirt, returning to
kneel on the bed, smiling mischievously.

"I said everything."

His shirt, designed for someone much broader, hangs voluminously from his
shoulders and hides his erection.

"But you must help me, Henry... I cannot see the buttons.  And my hands, they
are cold..."

Challenge and acceptance in one, and Henry gives in, not quite smiling; must
kneel with his legs between Beanpole's to reach, must meet Beanpole's gaze as he
undoes the buttons, one by one.  And it is cramped and hard to balance as their
movement rocks the boat, and he cannot complain about Beanpole's warm and
steadying hands on his waist.

They creep under his clothes, as he draws aside the shirt, pushes it slowly down
over white, warm shoulders with shaking hands;  creep under his thick woollen
jumper and the undershirt beneath and sit, light as gossamer, on his skin.

"Now you..."

And Beanpole pushes gently at the turtleneck, and Henry is clothed, and Beanpole
is naked and hard and hot, so hot under his hands, and Henry is suddenly burning
and afraid and cannot  move.  And he can't speak, and the sudden guilt in Jean-
Paul's eyes shames him, makes it worse.

"Henry...?  Je t'ai effrayé...   I am so sorry... Shall we stop?"

Henry, eyes closed tight, shakes his head.

"I'm sorry..."

"Shh..."

Beanpole's hands close around his own, warm and gentle.

"You have been very brave.  I could not do this, if.  If you do not want, Henry,
I do not mind..."

Henry squeezes his hands, forces a smile.  "I mind..."

"Then we will do this, slowly...  Look at me, Henry.  Laissez-moi voir tes
taches de rousseur.  Ils me charment... ils sont comme des étoiles... tes
constellations..."

And the words mean nothing, but there is tenderness in Beanpole's voice, so
Henry submits, concentrating on the movement of material on his skin and not the
heat of Beanpole's hands, careful to stay above the waist. Normally
unembarrassed by nakedness, Henry cannot bring himself  to meet Jean-Paul's
eyes, and turns away.  Beanpole moves to kneel behind him, touches Henry's
shoulders, gently, rests his head against Henry's and lets his hair sweep over
the soft skin.

He knows the effect it will have, and is not disappointed; Henry is left
breathless.

Beanpole kisses the back of Henry's neck, once, twice, with parted lips; lets
his tongue touch and warm the skin.  Henry shivers, and leans back against Jean-
Paul's chest, grateful for the lack of an embrace, of any restriction.  He feels
understood, suddenly; lets Beanpole's gentle stroking of his arms and back relax
him, aware suddenly of bare, hot skin, hard against his back.   Beanpole presses
against him gently; the shape of him sliding up and down Henry's spine arouses
them both.

 "Do you like this?  Be truthful..."

"Yes."

"I will stop if you do not."

"I like it..."

"Good.  Are you warm enough, Henry?"

And he isn't, and when Beanpole's arms slide around him and squeeze, gently,
it's more than welcome; it makes him shiver, but whether it's the cold or
Beanpole's rough fingers on his skin or the feel of his hair sweeping gently
over his back, the gentle kisses on his neck or the small, gentle bites, he
can't  say.     Henry has a little spare flesh, just a little, and Beanpole runs
his fingers gently along the tiny folds in his belly for a while, back and
forth, warming the white skin.  It's intimate and accepting, and the gentle
advance to his thighs and beyond startles him less than it might.   Beanpole
withdraws one hand, strokes down Henry's arm, gently, kissing his neck and
whispering against his skin,  the tiny bristles on his upper lip scratching
gently along the curve of his shoulder.

"Calme-toi.  Tu est sûr, Henry."

"Beanpole--"

"You are safe.  Remember, this is me, and I will stop, if."

And he reaches down further, again;  it's a shock to feel him unbuttoning, one-
handed and expertly, then slide his hand under Henry's breeches so casually, as
if it were the most natural thing in the world; curl around him, tug gently,
free him, stroking and squeezing.  And Beanpole's casual kisses begin to move up
his neck, and his other hand travels slowly over his torso and up; touches him
gently, under the jaw, strokes his cheek.  And Henry tenses a little, but does
not pull away.

"I would very much like to kiss you, Henry... here, and then here... may I?"

And Henry's first reaction is no, but he wants it not to be, so very badly, and
he lets Beanpole come close, turn him slightly; feels the brush of his
lips,closed, then open, the touch of his tongue, and both of them breathing
roughly now.  And Beanpole traces patterns on his face, his lips following his
fingers, until he is stroking the freckles under Henry's lower lip.  And Henry
starts shaking again, just a little; tense and suddenly, terribly, afraid; so
Jean-Paul releases him, moves around to kneel between Henry's legs, not too
close, one hand on himself.

He rests their foreheads together, touches his own lips, parted and moist,
touches his own tongue and slowly, so slowly, runs his thumb over Henry's upper
lip, slides it gently into his mouth and  touches his tongue.  Whispers "c'est
moi Henry, c'est  seulement  moi", over and over again, moving closer, lips
brushing against Henry's with the motion of the words until Henry gives in, and
pulls Beanpole to him, hard, in frustration.

Kisses to Henry have always seemed such passionless things; the Capped are never
fervent, even before marriage, and Will and Beanpole have behaved gently, with
decorum, around him.  But this, it is like fighting;  it opens him, makes him
vulnerable and unafraid, makes him feel and he wants it, wants Beanpole close
and hard against him, and Beanpole kisses him hard and properly, intrusively, as
unchastely as possible, forcing him back onto the mattress.

Henry's hands move automatically, protectively to Beanpole's waist, stop him
rolling on top of him, keep the weight of him at a safe distance.  When they
break apart, finally, for breath, Jean-Paul's hand moves to Henry's body, only
to find it firmly replaced upon his own.

"Henry?"

"Show me."

Henry, earthy and pragmatic, has a healthy respect for solitary pleasure; his
preoccupation with the spaces between people led early to awareness of desire,
however vague and unfocused.  He approaches the idea with the same thoroughness
he brings to everything practical, studies himself well in the little privacy
available.   It makes him intensely curious about others; but there has never
been anyone to ask.

He alternates between kissing Beanpole and watching him; keeps one hand on
himself and the other on the back of Beanpole's as it moves, concentrates on
fitting his fingers into the grooves between Beanpole's knuckles, feeling the
way the bones move and shift under his fingers and the heat and smoothness of
the skin beneath.  He reads him more easily than he had imagined possible,
monitoring his breathing, the deepening flush on his face, the changing urgency
of his whispers, and judges his moment well; takes Beanpole's tongue into his
mouth and lowers his thumb over his slit, barely touches wetness and revels in
the sudden warmth all over his hand and torso.

The commonalty of it, his own delight in being right, shocks him, but not as
much as when a breathless Beanpole raises Henry's wet fingers to his mouth,
prolongs his final throes.  It must show, because he laughs for the first time
in days.

"It makes it better, Henry..."

"You--Oh god...  that's..."

"Répugnant? Oh, I am very bad.  I know."  Grinning wickedly, he smears semen
wetly over Henry's mouth and cheek before he can push him away.

"Beanpole!"

But he can't help laughing, and Jean-Paul's tongue on his fingertips is like
nothing he has ever felt; he tells himself it is only polite to return the
favour, and feels his body tighten in response.  It reminds him, abruptly, of
his own need, absurdly forgotten.

Beanpole, his smile broadening, rolls over onto his stomach and peers seriously
up at Henry, one hand straying to the deep red between his legs, fingers cupping
his balls, stroking the base of his cock as best he can under Henry's hand.

"Bad, bad, bad.  Do you wish me to be worse?"

Without waiting for an answer, he removes Henry's hand gently and replaces it
with his own, raising himself swiftly and moving to take Henry in his mouth.
Henry watches, at first puritanically aghast, then with incredulous delight.

"Oh my-- You are disgusting, you really are.  How can you do that?"

"Je suis desolé.   Shall I stop, Henry?"

And Beanpole grins up at him, resting his lower lip on the slick, wet head of
Henry's cock.

"Don't you bloody dare..."

And Henry pushes him back down, laughing; it's much, much less threatening than
the rest of it all, and it takes him no time at all to claim his right to guide.
Flushed and thrusting, he climaxes soon and messily, which surprises Beanpole
and leaves them both giggling stupidly.

"Now you."

"No fucking way."

"Yes, Henry... come here..."

And Beanpole twists, makes as if to clamber up Henry's body; Henry's hands on
his shoulders keep him away, so he changes tactic and tries to kiss him instead;
Henry doesn't push him away, pulls him into a bear hug, holds him tightly,
ignoring his protests and giggles, until he stops struggling.

"Behave."

"Moi?  Jamais!"

"I'm not doing that.  No.  No, no, no, no, no."  Henry squeezes him in time with
the words, revelling in the feel of his body against him, in how breathtakingly
easy it is to want him there.  "Got that?"

"D'accord.  You are not.  Let me go.  You are not."

And Henry releases him, and Beanpole rolls over to lie beside him, flushed,
sticky, grinning, and Henry is charmed once more by his smile; cannot see the
adult in him.

"Not today."

Henry scowls. "Not any day."

"We shall see.  La fois prochaine tu me poliras..."

"Watch it."

"You understood?"

"No.  But I'm beginning to understand you."

Jean-Paul smiles, brilliantly.  "I think perhaps you are.  And you will do this
for me, and again, and again, and..."

Henry flat on his back, can't help laughing.   "Don't push it."

"Ah, but it is good for you..."

Suddenly serious, he strokes Henry's sweat-matted hair from his forehead, peers
closely at him with concern.   "Did you enjoy, Henry?"

Henry props himself up on one elbow, dips his mouth to Beanpole's and kisses him
slowly, unchastely, and hard; doesn't mind at all when Jean-Paul's arms close
around him, suddenly aware of the strength in him, the length of his hands on
his back, the sweat on the hair under his arms.

He stands it as long as he can, then pushes him away, slowly, until they are
lying fully apart.  Close, and not touching at all, although his skin is
singing.  He lies happily as Beanpole retrieves the blankets and covers them.

"Very much.  Je suis...  er... "

"Happy?  Warm?"

"Knackered."

"Et demain? "

"Est demain.  I know that much."

"Then do you know tu m'attire. Tu m'as toujours attiré.  Je sais tu l'aime,
Henry, et je l'aime aussi, mais...  peut-être nous ne blesserons pas..."

"Speak English."

"No."  Beanpole touches his lips, gently. "Next time, no English at all."

"Next time?"

"You must learn."

"Learn what?"  Henry's grinning.  "This isn't going to help me in a market."

Beanpole grins back, wickedly.  "One never knows.  In Calais, I very often..."

"I don't want to know, I don't.  Who says there'll be a next time?"

"Ah, mon chinois."  And Beanpole waggles his penis, taps it gently against
Henry's leg, and squeaks. "Encore.  Encore.  You see?"

"You're mad, you know that?"

"C'est  moi, Henry.  Do you want me, again?  Say yes.  Yes yes."

And he's grinning, brilliantly, charmingly, artlessly, and all Henry can do is
laugh.

Beanpole's hand finds and clasps his again, brings it to lie between them at
shoulder height.

"We have many years together, I think.  In the mountains.  To remain friends
without him, Henry, matters to me.  Very much."

"More than this?"

"Yes."

"Then yes."

"Then all is well.  So."

Beanpole lets go, opens his hand and turns it, slightly, until they're resting
palm to palm.  No pressure, no anything, just warmth.  The scent of him, rising
on warm air from beneath the blankets, is overwhelming.

"Now what?"

"Now nothing.  I too have knackered.  Sleep well, Henry Parker.  Demain, nous
baisserons."

"You must be bloody joking."

But he's smiling, and Beanpole says nothing further, closes his eyes and presses
their palms closer.

And Henry, sticky, exhilarated, with salt on his lips, is free to turn away, or
take his hand from Jean-Paul's, but he does not, despite a lingering, reflexive
dismay that is no less real because he can see that it is nonsense.  But it is
muted, and conquerable; he can cope, and he will.

When he closes his eyes again, it's because he's exhausted, not because he has
to, and he drifts into sleep thinking things are like this.   He's only
vaguely aware of his own fingers curling and closing around Beanpole's, and not
in the least of the brush of Beanpole's lips on the back of his hand.


=== * ===


When he awakes in early dusk it is to find Beanpole's finger again on his lips
and a different intensity on his face;  it is time to move on, except there are
no stars, no light, and nowhere safe to walk along the river's slippery banks.
Jean-Paul has heard a horseman wheel and stop; he motions Henry, confused at his
nakedness, to the door, presses makeshift weapons into his hand.  They wait in
ambush, half- and hurriedly dressed, tense and prepared for violence; pull the
intruder in with force, and find it is Will, petrified at their assault and
falling at once into the warmest, weariest of smiles  when all is clear.

He takes Henry's hands at once, holds them hard, clings for dear life.  Then
Beanpole's, then Henry's again, hard enough to hurt.  The rainwater on his hands
mixing with the dried traces of them on each other, and the tiny cabin stinking
of sex, and he hasn't noticed, or if he has he doesn't care; and all of them
pretending they can't see how close to tears the others are.  No kisses, no
embraces;  the barge is too small and Will too bruised and sore from where his
horse has thrown him, or so he says.   And there is distance between them all,
although it is good distance, the kind that happens when the world has
stretched, and held, and snapped back an instant before breaking.  Distance over
sand, not stone.

So they sit together, keep each other warm as darkness falls, and do not ask why
Will returns alone.  He wears his padded collar high, but it does not hide dark
blue bruising on his throat.  Henry, having become sensitive to Beanpole's
movements, sees with shock that it does not surprise, but does as Jean-Paul does
and says nothing.  He's suddenly very conscious of all the things he does not,
perhaps will never know; Will radiates a very particular sadness, the same pain
that his return has almost banished from Henry.

Almost, because Will seems very different now.  Older, somehow.  And because
Henry's body is still singing, and it was not Will's hands that made it so; and
because he now understands, with relief and some sadness, that he does not need
it to be.

Will sits apart from them, and after their first exchange, does not encourage
touch.   The quiet press of Beanpole's careful hand on his own prevents Henry
asking about Eloise; without thinking Henry interlinks their fingers to stop
Jean-Paul scribbling nervous patterns on the table.  He is unaware that they
touch each other until he notices Will watching them.  He rises quickly, and
busies himself with rekindling the fire.  It is dark enough to risk it now, and
they will not move on tonight.

The tale of Will's encounter with the Tripod is enough to distract him from what
is unsaid, by all of them; from the silences and looks of understanding that
pass between Will and Jean-Paul, from Beanpole's sudden quietness.  Henry woke
full of their closeness, and forgot it at once in the joy of Will's return; in
the inevitable lull, it bemuses him, pleasantly, to remember what he has done.
He watches Beanpole's mouth tighten in the effort to say nothing; watches his
terrible struggle with his hands, keeping them restrained and not reaching for
Will.

Every now and then he meets his cousin's gaze; finds no disapproval in it, only
reappraisal and a fierce, sad affection that stops his heart.

He looks hard at himself, later; looks hard at Beanpole, turned away from him in
the bed they must share again because Will retired early and alone, and regrets
nothing.  He hadn't in his wildest dreams imagined he'd ever see Will again.
Hadn't hoped to.   Hadn't let himself.

Beanpole had, had hoped without belief, and it astounds Henry.  Such a sad and
simple thing, such a very young thing to do.

Sleepless and no less lost than he was without Will by his side, Beanpole hangs
over the side of the bench, brushing hair that smells of Henry from his eyes and
tracing patterns in spilt water on the floor: little circles in larger ones,
bisected by crescents.  A coat of arms, Henry thinks; he has seen it on a
shield, although he cannot remember whose.

He makes a decision, quietly; kisses Beanpole awkwardly on the temple, whispers
merci  and turns to the wall.  Over, done, gone.  It's a surprise when
Beanpole turns to hold him, and more to realise that he hoped he would.


=== * ===


Maison Vichot, Le Jura, France, September 2089 AD


Will had kept running his hands through his hair, nervously, unconsciously,
those first few days; it was almost a tic, and Beanpole had had to reach out and
stop him, repeatedly.   Henry has the feeling of missing something, of things
too big to see, but he's grown used to that with these two.  There's a language
between them he doesn't understand; of touches and silences, constantly
evolving, centred on the notion of fragility.

They are easier together now, but things are still not right between them.
Henry is certain it has nothing to do with the intensified relationship that he
and Beanpole share.   Beanpole touches him frequently now, as he would any
friend; nervously, unconsciously, and more than when Will wasn't here.  But Will
says nothing, and Henry has learned quickly not to mind.  He finds it only
welcome and frustrating; it culminates repeatedly in vigorous, playful sex with
Jean-Paul that harms no-one, and allows Henry to be calm with Kirsty Vichot when
she takes his arm to tread the grapes for wine.  And to be honest and restrained
when he returns her kisses; they are more viscerally welcome than Beanpole's,
but subject to proprieties that make him glad his friend provides a method of
relief.

Henry's French, like his physical tolerance, has improved beyond measure,
although very little of what he has learned may be used in polite society.  He
has developed a taste pour enculer and the verbal crudities Beanpole enjoys;
they are friends who have fun, and that is all.  He trusts Will to see he does
not stand between them.

If Jean-Paul is what Will wants, of course; there is no way to know.  Will's
respected Henry's silences for years; tolerated him when he needn't have, and
asked no questions when he clearly had the right.  The least Henry can do is
return the favour.

It has been hard, in some ways, to have Will back, after Henry's intensive,
angry self-discipline; the ground between them has changed in ways he can't
identify.  They have aged and altered, and see each other with new eyes.  But
Henry thinks perhaps it is for their good, that it is healthy.  Henry gritted
his teeth and held to the pact they made in Rimney, the only way he could; they
parted and survived, and do not love each other less.  He did not know he was
loved, before.

It is a strength to know that he can do it again if he must, and feel no guilt.
The old certainty, the intangible, unquestioned permanence of Will's presence,
has not returned.  It is a surprise, coming back from the vineyard of an
evening, to see Will at all.  And every day when they return, Will looks up,
startled into smiling; and Henry thinks and things are like this, and wonders
if the relief he sees in his cousin's eyes shows in his own.  And watches him
look away as Beanpole follows Henry in.

Beanpole and Henry offer labour in return for board, and help the Vichots in the
vineyard.  Will, invalided yet again, spends his time in the kitchen or the
arbour, doing what he can and chatting to Madame Vichot or little Lucy.  He and
the child have taken to each other with all their hearts, and they spend many
hours together.  He seems happiest with her, resting in the sun and playing
silly games with le nounour Marie-Jean, a battered doll she quickly gives a
sling to match his own.

It's as animated as Will gets, when not arguing with Henry about moving on.
When he's alone, or thinks he is, he seems to sink into himself, to hide.  He'd
been all right while they were travelling, while he had something to concentrate
on, to drag him along.  But here...

Sharing a small room with him is difficult; one bed for two and one for one, and
none of them knowing what the rules are any more.  Will slept alone, by choice,
when he returned; took a single berth in the barge and persisted when they
abandoned the river.  Wherever they rested, if he woke during the night to find
them beside him, he moved away.  For their part, they made time for intimacy,
when privacy permitted; when he slept, or rode ahead, or foraged for food.

It is a little more difficult here, but they manage.  They take pleasure in each
other because they need to, and because they can.  It eases Will's presence as
much as it did his absence.   More, perhaps; they cannot help his pain, but they
know the shape of each other's.

Henry had expected to keep sharing with Beanpole at the cottage; he's used to it
now, and looks forward to the Frenchman's wayward arms around him when he wakes.
But on their first night with the Vichots, Will, near-unconscious from blood
loss, was safely asleep in the double by the time they joined him.

Perhaps it was invitation; perhaps Madame Vichot's insistence.  To Henry, the
space beside him was rightfully Jean-Paul's, and said so; but Beanpole had
refused, out of respect and common sense.  A restless sleeper, he moves wildly
in the night and would jar Will's wounds.  So Jean-Paul sleeps alone because
he's used to it, and Henry curls back to back with Will, careful not to touch,
because he's used to it.  And of the three, only Will doesn't sleep well,
although he needs it most.

He is grieving, and must be given time.

Henry knows the signs of old, and knows better than to look for tears.


=== * ===


Henry hasn't cried in years.  He forgot how, after his mother died, although it
seemed at the time the only thing he had the energy to do.  Not being able to
was breathtakingly, criminally unfair.   Things got too big all of a sudden;
people stopped talking, or talked too much, or touched him, and they all gave
him stupid, useless things to do that didn't make any damn difference to
anything.

When he wants to cry and can't, he thinks of flowers, Vagrants bringing flowers;
of pollen on his sleeve and the smell of old water when he'd had to throw them
out after she'd gone.  His father hadn't wanted them in the house.   He'd got
blood on his sleeve, too, from falling over on the little bridge that crossed
the stream, halfway to the Parkers.  Running from -- or was it after?  it seems
strange not to remember -- bigger, jeering children, who thought the fact that
she'd been ill was funny.

It hurts even now, although he knows it was only fear that made them laugh.
Adults didn't fall ill after the Tripods came.  Injuries and infections were one
thing, but only the unCapped and Vagrants got properly sick, disease-sick, and
it didn't take too much brain to make the connections they had.

He'd always wanted to ask his father if they'd had her Cap checked, to make sure
it was working properly, but never dared.  The older he got, the less ashamed of
himself he'd been for wanting to know.

His mother wasn't mad.   Women didn't go Vagrant.   Well, not often.  And the
ones who did didn't seem that different from normal people, really.  Sadder,
perhaps; louder, sometimes.   But you knew they were different, you could see
it.   She hadn't been different, just... lively.  Lively sometimes and down at
others, and that was perfectly understandable, living where they did, and doing
what they did, which was the same damn thing, day in, day out.  Thank the
Tripods.

It hadn't affected his father.  Same damn man, day in, day out.

He's been telling himself she wasn't different for years.  He wonders when he
stopped thinking that was a good thing.    Madame Vichot is different;
colourful, changeable and compassionate.  Like his mother.  Capped, like his
mother.  And she freely, happily, calls herself  Vagrant; talks of travel and
love and says Vichot takes away the pain.

He'd heard his mother crying sometimes, when his aunt was visiting, and he'd
been cross-legged under the table and hiding from his stupid cousins who never
understood anything.   How could she be unhappy, she said, with everything
anyone could want.  If only it didn't hurt so damn much.

She never talked about being sick, though.  If he woke with nightmares and ran
in to find her red-eyed, she told him it was because she'd been frightened too.
Mothers always knew what their sons were dreaming, she said; when the monsters
come for you, they come for us, and if we're doing our jobs properly we bop them
on the head when the Tripods aren't looking.

And what if it's a Tripod in the dream, asked Henry, although he knew he
mustn't.  Well, then, she said, whispering so his father wouldn't hear, we bop
them too.   Just like that.  Bang on top of their silly tin heads, and melt them
down for drums.  It was a terribly wicked thing to say, and it made them laugh
until it hurt.  She'd taken his hand, put him back to bed and curled up
alongside him to keep them away; sworn, made funny, fierce faces, and poked her
tongue out at the dark, and sometimes she was still there in the morning.

They both slept better that way.

When she was getting worse, when she was gone, he hadn't cried, but he hadn't
slept, either.  Just shut his eyes and ignored everything until it was all right
to get up.  He got very good at that, very quickly.  He could do it with his
eyes open, during the day, make people think he was listening and behaving
instead of being somewhere else in his head.

He didn't mind if they thought he was stupid.  It shut them up, and stopped
people trying to hug him.  Especially his father, who seemed small and bemused
and not in the least the same damn man any more, although he hid it well in
company, and completely after a week.

There were Vagrants at the funeral.   Eight or nine, from who knows where; they
seemed to have come specially, although no-one knew how they'd known.  People
she'd looked after when they were ill, or when their children were taken away.

They hadn't been allowed into the service.  Vagrants cried and carried on, and
dropped colourful weeds on the grave.  It disturbed people.

Other children pointed, and said their parents said whatever she'd caught, she'd
caught it from them.

He thinks he might have been running after them after all, with stones maybe.
Or dodging them.  It's all confused now, so long ago; he knows he ran, he knows
he fell, he knows he punched somebody and got punched back.  Remembers being
ground into the dirt, blood and dust  mixing with pollen as they'd rolled over
the makeshift, tattered wreaths he hadn't quite had the nerve to throw away.

He remembers hitting people.  Hitting Jack, maybe, all of a year older and
always in charge; not part of the fight, but summoned to stop it.  Remembers him
getting between Henry and the others, already bleeding and cursing.  And Will,
grabbing his arms while Jack saw the others off, not holding tight enough at
first and being headbutted and  kicked and punched hard; then throwing his arms
around him and holding on and on and on until Henry crumpled like a calf with
its throat cut, and cried.

And Jack, good old Jack, had walked away quietly, left him to it.  And Will
hadn't had the decency to do the same, and he'd hated him for it.  And been so
damn grateful he was there, and hated him even more for that; but Will wouldn't
let go, and Henry stayed in the dirt and cried as they bled all over each other.

Eventually, Will had helped him down to the stream to wash his face and hands,
and when Henry had finally looked up he'd been limping away down the road,
carrying the flowers to the Vagrant House.

Not a word said, and they'd never talked about it.   Not then, not later at the
millhouse when other people quietly arranged for him to stay, not later still
when it dawned on both of them that Henry wouldn't ever leave.

His father couldn't be expected to look after a child, not on his own.  Too busy
on the farm, doing the same damn thing, day in, day out.

And now Henry is here at the vineyard, day in, day out.  And Will's not doing
any damn thing, with his side like that, and his mind all over the place.

He's sure Will thinks he's done his crying already, what there is of it; alone,
for the most part and before they met up again.  But the need's still sitting in
him, smooth and embedded as the Tripod button had been; and nowhere near as easy
to cut out.

The infection in his side is healing, slowly, thanks to Madame Vichot.  The rest
will take time, and there's not a damn thing any of them can do to help it
along.


=== * ===


Henry's leg has gone to sleep; cursing silently, he has to turn over, face the
window, face the other bed.  Beanpole makes them leave the curtains open, let
the moonlight in; he hates being inside in the dark, seeing nothing.  He'd sleep
on the roof if he could, even in this weather.

Jean-Paul's half in shadow and quite, quite still for once, sleeping soundly
with his arms thrown protectively over his face.  Henry's found him hell to
share with, sometimes.  Bony bloody elbows, all at nose height.

And he's alone.  Will hasn't joined him after all.

The windowsills here are large enough to sit on; they double as trunks.  It
seems every surface in the Vichot cottage hides storage one way or another;
Henry supposes it's necessary, with all those daughters.   Their room is no
exception.

Will's sitting on the sill now; his knees drawn up to cradle his bad arm and his
bare feet sticking out of the far-too-big nightgown Beanpole threw off bad-
temperedly after ten minutes in bed alone.

He looks very young.   Still not crying.  Still wanting to.

All the colour's bleached out of him by the moonlight; the contrast between the
nightshirt and his skin and his dark hair makes him seem fragmented, as if
pieces of him rest on different planes.  Too bright to look at, too dark to see.
The nightshirt bunches up around his waist, hangs unbuttoned, the scoop neck
showing faint, whisper-blue bruises on his chest and neck under Eloise's locket,
disappearing under the bandage.  Old and fading, like the ones on his wrists he
rolls his sleeves down to cover during the day. Barely noticeable.

Henry assumes they're from when the Tripod took him, like the livid claw scrapes
on his sides, and the bruises from falling off the horse.  He must have been
held down, knocked out, in some way, for that ...thing... to have been embedded
so firmly.

Beanpole says the wires on the bottom twitched as if they were alive while he
worked; it made cutting it out a nightmare, doubly risky with double the pain
and nothing to dull it, nothing, as the pen-knife caught and blundered its way
around each separate part of the circuitry.  It had screwed itself in and spread
itself out, each wire firmly in the flesh, separate and anchored deep, like oak
roots.

Neither of them's said a word about how much easier it might have been if Henry
had been there.  Had held Will quiet, held him down until he passed out, instead
of running away and not listening to him trying not to scream.

At least he had been finding the Vichots, finding their way here; it made up for
it, a little, when they were carrying Will and trying not to look at all the
blood on Beanpole's hands.

His mother had screamed a lot, in the last week or so.  Nobody knew why; they
said she'd been given something for the pain.

Will's looking at his wrists now, pushing back the sling on his left arm;
fitting his own hand around it, fitting his fingertips to the darkened spots.
Henry can see his hand tighten around it, see his knuckles pale before he lets
it go.  See the way he leans back, finds another mark; pushes down the bandage
in the centre of his chest under the locket and traces its outlines.

Too light to be a bruise, too dark to be skin.    Two little white circles in a
large dark one,  a white crescent bisecting.

Henry's heard Madame Vichot talk of burns, and call for lavender.

Will tips his head back against the wall.  Eyes shut tight, crumpled and quiet,
shedding no tears.  And Henry knows the right thing to do is turn over, look
away, because this should be private.  But if he turns away he'll think about a
shield, spun carelessly by the indulgent victor in practice jousts, its handsome
owner watching Will as he walked with Eloise.

He should turn away.  But they're in the hills now, and it's cold, and Will's
shivering, just sitting there in that stupid bloody gown and nothing else.  And
Henry's a Parker through and through, and the one thing Parkers have knocked
into them is that you don't let people get cold, whoever they are, whatever
they've done, whether they want it or not; and he's up and on his feet before he
knows it, doing what his father would have done, what Jack would have done, what
his mother did day in, day out.

He takes blankets with him, pulls Will gently away from the wall and throws them
round his shoulders; one for comfort, one for warmth.  And doesn't look at him,
just takes Will's good hand and makes sure he takes hold of the cloth so it
can't fall away.  And he's about to do what his father would have done, what
Jack would have done, and go back to bed without saying a damn thing, when Will
opens his eyes, and Henry can't get over the look of surprise in them, cutting
through the fear and the weariness and the beginnings of tears.   And it comes
to him that Will doesn't expect to be forgiven, for any of it.  For Eloise, for
the Château, for leading the Tripod to them.  For coming back burned.

Henry's never understood why people thought Will was the clever one.

And things are like this.  And Henry's got a million things to say, a million
questions he already half-knows the answers to and doesn't want to ask; in case
he hears it's violence, in case he hears it's love.  And it seems forgivable to
stay there, just this once, and pull Will close while he cries; look out at
Beanpole sleeping and the grapes under the moon, the way Will had looked out at
the stream when they knelt together on the bridge.

Not a word said, and they'll never talk about it.  But inside, he's learning the
shape of Will in his arms, and whispering fiercely, over and over again: melt
them down for drums.


=== © arjuna 2003 ===