Happiness in Numbers

by Nicole Field

  Holiday Jones had always wanted to be good for someone. His parents. His tutors. His instructors in everything from magical channeling to swordplay to seduction. He opened up at the slightest hint of honest praise, and got embarrassed—but not enough to bother hiding it—about his own enthusiasm for Much Ado About Nothing.

  Ryan had known about his own bedroom inclinations after a few interesting encounters involving one or two supervillains with bondage-related tricks, followed by later exploration on his own. Nevertheless, he had been astounded at the strength of his own instinctive response: putting a hand casually on Holly's shoulder, giving him instructions to follow, telling him he'd done well. Holly flushed pink and pretty every time, and did as instructed.

  Shaken by this, Ryan had said as much to John one night. Holiday, still recuperating and easily worn out, had gone to sleep early, in the guest rooms that'd become his. He'd gone, in fact, after Ryan had caught him valiantly pretending to be awake during movie night—Holly had never seen Star Wars, which was a crime against both cinema and science fiction history—and had told him to go to bed. Holly had started to protest; Ryan had leaned over and put a finger over his lips and Holly had stopped talking and gazed at him with huge hazel eyes and unmistakable arousal.

  Ryan had felt it too. Physical, emotional, a spear of gold to the gut. John's arm over his shoulders, and Holiday Jones' breath against his index finger.

  He and John tended to switch, in bed; depended on the day, the mood, who felt like what, who needed which role if any at all. John hadn't played with kink much but was a quick study and impressively strong and good at responding to a partner's needs; he wasn't quite comfortable with causing pain or humiliation even in a good way—preferring caretaking and gentle control of a scene—but he could tie a damn good knot and he knew how to issue military-style orders. The two of them had worked that out over the months of being partners, in bed and out.

  They did not keep secrets. They never had.

  They trusted each other with their lives and their hearts, which had been why Ryan, shutting the bedroom door behind them, had said, "Holiday—I mean, tonight, that was—"

  John had sat down hard on the bed. Answered, "Me too."

  "Really?" Ryan had come over to sit beside him. Taken his hand. "I didn't think you thought that way. I mean, not like I do."

  "I don't. Or I never did." John had run his free hand through his hair, ruffling it up. "I don't know. I see him, and he's trying so hard, he's got that big heart, even after everything, and then he looks up at me and he says, 'Yes, John,' in that voice, when I ask him for something, and I just—I want to—"

  "You want to take care of him," Ryan said. "To make him feel good. Or maybe give him orders and put him over your knee and tell him to get off while you spank him, not hard—I know you wouldn't hurt him—but enough so that he knows he's yours, enough that that pretty ass turns all pink. And then you'd hold him after."

  "Oh, hell," John said. "Yes. All of that. Everything, god, everything you just—and he's still, what, seventeen years old, and he's still healing and he looks up to us—I can't, we can't, that's not right. I've never wanted this before. I love you. I don't know how to feel this. Can I love him too? I never thought I'd have—after Robbie, and then there was you, and now this—"

  "You can," Ryan had said, swinging a leg over his, settling into his lap, taking John's face in his hands. "You can feel this. It's not just you. I'm there too. The way he looked at me. Those damn eyes. That heart. I think—I think we might have to talk to him."

  John had fallen backward onto their bed. Thrown an arm over his eyes. "About what? He's a kid. He shouldn't have to think about—maybe he'd be better off staying with someone else—"

  "We can offer to send him over to Tim," Ryan had said, landing atop him and sticking his head under John's despairing elbow, "but it'll be up to him. Making that decision for himself. And he's eighteen, not seventeen. As of last week. I was updating our calendar and he came in to ask if he could bring over some books from his place and I realized we didn't know his actual birthday. So I asked. Also he's survived more than most people have. Even most of us. He's younger than we are but he's absolutely not a kid."

  John had groaned. Ryan had kissed him.

  And the following morning had been the tipping point anyway. Holiday had vanished after loading the dishwasher, and they'd started worrying after an hour or so and had gone looking. Ryan had found him first, sitting on the small rock-hewn balcony below the main observation windows; Holly had hastily attempted to pretend he'd not been crying.

  When Ryan had put a hand on his shoulder and asked, Holly had tried to apologize, through tears, and had admitted haltingly to wanting him, wanting him and John. He'd tried to say he was sorry for making them uncomfortable, for being even more of a problem, for intruding on their love, because they did love each other, he could see that, he was almost fully recovered in any case, he should just go.

  Ryan had stopped him there. Had yelled for John, who'd come running, medical kit clutched in one hand and fear about reopened wounds vivid in the whiteness of his face. Ryan had told Holly to say that first part again, about the wanting, about the way he felt near them, around them, when they told him he was good.

  Holiday, wide-eyed and a bit damp from tears and ocean-spray, had stumbled through this confession a second time. John, kneeling beside him, had visibly melted. Ryan had put a hand on the back of John's neck, put the other hand into Holly's long loose hair. He'd asked Holly, then, if it'd be okay for them—for them both—to kiss him, if that would be wanted, if that would be wanted now.

  After the yes, Ryan had kissed him for the first time, there on that sea-spray damp balcony under morning sun. Had pulled John in to share.

  John, it turned out, had strict scruples about sex and the extremely recent occurrence of Holly's eighteenth birthday. Ryan had rolled eyes at him on general principle, for the impressively pompous phrasing, but agreed. Holly had said, "Oh, but I'm not a virgin, Mother and Father hired tutors for me in everything, and I think I'm fairly good at sex? I mean, I know how to do quite a lot of things? And I can get my feet all the way behind my head."

  John had at this point gone off to take a very long cold shower. Ryan had buried his face in his hands and then resolutely taken on the task of explaining to a bewildered former supervillain-in-training why this was not the best approach to reassuring anxious new partners.

  *~*~*

  In the present, in the kitchen, they found food. Gathered up bowls. Settled into the flavors of home: rich spices, melted cheese, decadent layers.

  They mostly didn't bother eating at the table, and tonight was no different. Both Ryan and John wanted Holly tucked between them, easy to reach after the events of today. This required a bit of arranging, back on the sofa, but they all had good balance and coordination. Holly ended up mostly on John's lap, leaning back against him. They hadn't bothered bringing him a bowl; John had said not to.

  They took turns feeding him, instead.

  Forkfuls and careful bites. Nibbles of garlic bread. Sips of water. Holly began looking drowsier, radiant and unfocused and compliant, as this went on. John kissed him a few times, nuzzling caresses into his hair, his ear, the side of his face. Holly murmured something wordless and let his head rest on John's shoulder. Ryan gave him another bite. Holly parted lips obediently and took it.

  "So good," Ryan said, and set the fork down, and brushed a thumb over the corner of that mouth, collecting a stray bit of sauce, and pressed it to those lips. Holly licked it clean, eyes bright. "Our good boy."

  "You know you are," John said, fondly. "Everything you do, how brave you are, and then coming home and letting us take care of you. Because you know how much we love that. No, we're not getting up yet, you can wait. We're going to hold you for a minute."

  Holly nodded again. The fire spilled light across his hair, across his cheek, over the spot where marks had all but disappeared. The television had turned itself
into some sort of beachside house-hunting show. Ryan wasn't listening. He stroked a hand along Holly's leg, up that thigh; he explored slim muscles and the line of that hip under cozy, stretchy fabric.

  Holly let out a little yearning noise.

  John said, "Shh," and ran a hand over his hair. "Stay still."

  Ryan played with him more, sneaking the hand beneath clothing: no rhythm, nothing to predict. Holly twitched, tried to behave and stay in place, clung to John.

  They held him. They held each other, moving together. The night unfolded leisurely, no rush.

  After a while John leaned over to kiss Ryan, deliberate and inviting and delicious. He tasted a little like tomato sauce and a little like the eucalyptus touch of his inhaler, medicinal and dry. Ryan liked that reminder—John was here and doing fine—and kissed back readily, nibbling at John's lower lip, letting John's tongue tease his mouth. Holiday watched them, wide-eyed and supported by John's arm, breathing faster.

  Ryan laughed. "You like watching us, don't you?"

  Holly's lips shaped the yes, all lit up with enthusiasm plus the strokes of Ryan's hand. His hair got into his face.

  John tucked it back. "One question. What you said earlier, kid. You said you think you'd tell us. If you got hurt."

  "I said I would," Holly objected, but meekly. "I will. It was only—for a minute I felt—but I know why it's important. I promise."

  "I believe you." John curled the hand around his throat again, not cutting off air but providing pressure. "But I think you need a reminder. About belonging to us. So you remember to tell us everything. Sound fair?"

  Holiday had apparently forgotten how to talk, getting lost in attention and belonging. Everything he needed, Ryan thought. Everything they needed, tonight.

  "Yes," Holly finally managed. "I mean, yes sirs. What did you have in mind?"

  "You want to know?" John glanced over his head at Ryan.

  Shrugging, Ryan said, "Up to him, but I'm not sure he gets a say." This was untrue; Holly could always say no or stop or red or yellow, slow down, wait. They'd established that early on. Incontrovertible. No forging ahead without those rules in place.

  "I was thinking about spanking you," John mused, drumming fingers over vulnerable breath and blood, "but then again you showed up with those cuts, and I'm not sure I want you face-down, over my knee or on the bed, putting weight on that…"

  "But I'm fine!"

  "Yeah…I don't know, though." He paused, nudged Holly's chin up. "Not because I think you're lying, I know you're not, you wouldn't. But because I don't like seeing you hurt."

  Ryan raised eyebrows. Murmured, "Sometimes I do. If you ask us for it. If it feels good."

  "Everything feels clear," Holly said. "Like flying. Like—like being weightless, except anchored, because you're my anchors. But I don't want you to do anything you don't want to, either." He met John's eyes first, but turned that wide, wood sprite gaze to Ryan as well. "I want to feel whatever you want to make me feel. I love that. Being that much yours. Especially when…" He hesitated, finished, "Especially right now. Please."

  "I know," John breathed back, fingers loosely holding his chin. "I know. We love you."

  "I think," Ryan said, hand getting tighter around Holly's pretty cock, enough of a grip to earn a gasp, "I've got an idea."

  They tumbled into the bedroom—their bedroom—together, trading kisses and caresses and laughter. Ryan stepped on John's foot once. John, carrying Holly, got closer to him and backed him up against the wall until they ran out of space, bodies meeting, aroused and expectant.

  Ryan said, "You might be bigger, but I'm more flexible," and wrapped a leg around John's. Holly's rainclouds played melodies across stone and glass and oceans, surrounding their home, drenching the world in silvery song.

  They tumbled into the bedroom—their bedroom—together, trading kisses and caresses and laughter. Ryan stepped on John's foot once. John, carrying Holly, got closer to him and backed him up against the wall until they ran out of space, bodies meeting. Ryan said, "You might be bigger, but I'm more flexible," and wrapped a leg around John's.

  Holly's rainclouds played melodies across stone and glass and oceans, surrounding their home, drenching the world in silvery song.

  Their bedroom held laundry baskets and thick island-weather blankets. It kept safe several of Holly's current books on infamous historical duels and scandals, plus John's favorite old leather belt, coiled innocuously by the bedside. It protected Robbie's dog tags, in a closed box—not hidden, not dismissed, but put away and quietly approving—on one of the carved-out rock shelves.

  That shelf space also contained a ridiculous plush bear that John had bought when Ryan had first moved in. The bear wore a cape and a mask, and clutched a tiny sign in both paws that said I'm super-glad you're here! John had put him on top of one of the last moving-boxes for Ryan to find; Ryan had said, "That is literally the world's most super-terrible pun," because his new partner was clearly a tremendously muscular sentimental dork and also because his chest felt weirdly flutteringly pleased at the thought.

  That shelf held one more item, and that item was a miniature sketch of him and John, caught laughing at something in the kitchen, himself with miniscule lightning-bolts at the fingertips of one gesturing hand, John's eyes captured in the act of adoring him. That piece told a story in lyrical black ink, hand-drawn. Holly was a more than decent artist—those relentless lessons in aristocratic perfection at work—and had offered it to them shyly on the three-month anniversary of them all being a them. He'd included himself in the scene, unobtrusive and pixie-sized and sitting on the lower corner of the countertop where ink-lines blurred into ragged edges. Tiny Holly was hugging one knee to his chest, letting one long leg dangle, and smiling at them both.

  They hadn't known he could draw. He didn't, not often. But sometimes.

  Their bed took up most of the room. Heroic capacity. Nice and sturdy. Plush and firm. Opulent thread counts. Thick carved headboard, dark wood over reinforced heaviness.

  John tossed Holly into bed—Holly landed amid blanket-hills and a fortress of pillows, which merrily scattered themselves, and lay there smiling—and pulled off his own shirt and threw it vaguely at the laundry basket and got hands into the waist of Ryan's pajama pants. "You have too many clothes on. So do I."

  "You can help with that—"

  John laughed. Sudden crimson petals tumbled like happiness out of thin air: through the bedroom, onto the sheets, onto Holly's hair. A spectacle of roses, a shower of them, a garden of them. Vanishing swiftly, just enough to give an impression.

  John Trent, aka Sundown, had picked up that code name for a reason. Robbie Rivers had gotten minor telekinesis, that physical power, out of those government experiments. John, along with the standard super-soldier package, could create illusions. Temporary and localized, but nevertheless useful: he could bring down darkness, hide a presence, craft mirages out of thin air, trick eyes and senses into perceiving what he wanted them to.

  Right now John evidently wanted them to feel adored. Cherished. Romanced, even; Ryan said as much, amused. "Feeling traditional?"

  John shrugged, smiling. Holly, rose-petals in that tumbling black hair, was smiling too.

  Ryan raised eyebrows at them. Reached out to the universe. Gathered up fiery pinpoints of light: the leaping sparks that bound elements together. His own contribution.

  Fireworks, clear and bright as a metaphor—love and breathlessness and everything he felt, looking at his partners—burst across their bedroom.

  Both John and Holly promptly applauded.

  Ryan let the last of the fireworks dazzle and fade out in shimmering streaks, matching Holly's sorcerous raindrops outside; he grabbed John's hand and tugged them both over to the bed, meeting Holly's beckoning eyes and laughing mouth amid rose-petals and dissolving light.

  *~*~*

  After, lying entwined with John and Holly in the ebbing of pleasure, Ryan gradually came back to earth. He felt good eve
rywhere; he'd need to shower again, or they all would, together, in a minute or two. He could play with Holly's hair, in the shower.

  He let himself close both eyes, contented.

  John put arms around them both. Held on. Smothered a cough in a handy nearby pillow. Ryan fumbled fuzzily around. Threw the inhaler at him.

  They lay entangled, listening to breaths and heartbeats and the rain. John found a sheet with his toes and pulled it up; they'd both noticed that Holly's skin felt a bit cold. Ryan got closer on the other side, keeping their worn-out youngest third defended against chilly temperatures. John traced another lopsided heart on his back. Ryan stuck a foot through both his partners' ankles.

  After a while he pushed himself up on an elbow. Brushed hair out of Holly's face, beside one shut eye. "Holly?"

  "I'm awake," Holly said, though he sounded only marginally so. "I feel… that was…"

  "Good?"

  The eye opened, followed by the other. "Good isn't enough. I don't know. Miraculous. Marvelous. Tired. Like some sort of confectionary, all pink and fluffy and weightless. Was that… was it, for you…? I love you. So much. I'm yours."

  "Mmm," John said, and bit his shoulder. "Delicious."

  "We're great." Ryan dropped a kiss on his nose. "That was perfect. You're good, you're always good, but that was… you feel fucking amazing, Holly, and you make us feel amazing, and you're ours and you're perfect. Even if you have the weirdest metaphors. Pink and fluffy? Confectionary? Is that like whipped cream?"

  "It could be." Holly yawned. "Give me a few moments. Then we can talk about whips."