Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  “Ben?” He made Ben’s name a soft question, as if quiet words would keep them all hidden for a greater length of time, but Ben turned regardless, and then stopped to stare at him with an expression of confusion. His eyes however, were bright as they traveled from the man in his arms and then back up to his face. Quickly, James pressed on, though he hated to ask it of the child, when he was already endangering him. “Could you look ahead, see if there are…?”

  “…Men comin’?” Ben finished for him with an easy smile, as though uncaring of the risk in what James asked of him, of Sir Marvell’s sharp eyes.

  “Yes, but….” He could not stop himself from adding more, wanting to pull Ben back when the boy began to step away. But the boy was already imperiled along with them, and would be able to slip places where James would be noticed. Still, he lacked words. “…Have care.” He looked down the street when Ben would not and almost missed the sudden, furious drop of Ben’s eyebrows, and the tight set of his jaw.

  “You have care, Master James, not I.” The child’s words gouged him even as his eyes widened with the appearance of innocence, and then he was spinning around on his heel and running away from them.

  The growing ache of his arms finally made James step back from his view of Ben’s distant figure, and he was reminded of René, and then astounded that he had forgotten. He ducked back into the inn and remembered at last Villon’s demand.

  “I am a fool.” James exhaled and loosened his grip slowly, letting Villon slide down the length of his body to the ground, though keeping his hands on his shoulders so he would not fall.

  “Aye.” The sneer that twisted René’s face brought the colour to James’ cheeks, the mocking tone to his word draining it away and making his lips fall open on a startled breath. But René only shook his head at him and continued to sneer, regarding him dismissively. “You are a fool not to leave now like the boy, when I want you to go.”

  With a sound like a groan, Villon shook himself free of James’ hands and backed away one step to stare at him. A spot of colour reddened his face now, a splotchy, uneven sort of red, like a sick man, and his eyes held that same feverish sparkle as he opened his mouth and tried to say more.

  “But I have not finished with thee,” James spoke first, firming his voice and pulling away from Villon. The man had chosen to stand on his own, and told him to go, and it was only the knowledge that René had said it because he could not be the one to leave that kept James in the inn at all. Villon was shaking on his feet even now as he looked up with evident surprise, flinging his curls back and then wincing at what the undoubtedly strong throb of pain in his head. “There is something owed,” James murmured, mostly for his own ears, but René narrowed his black eyes and reached out, supporting himself against one low table. James stretched out a hand and found a chair behind him, though he could not sit yet, for fear that he would grow faint and be unable to rise again.

  “Wh…what happened?” To his shame, his stammers returned at last, but he had no time to curse himself, not with so little time left now that each breath seemed almost wasted. But the need to know was a burn in his chest.

  Villon was still, watching him with eyes that did not move, and James felt the wood pound against his fist as it hit the side of the chair. “Your ship, René? What passed?” An open mutiny was still a blank in his mind, not against this man, even moon-faced and strung up across from him now, like some dead man already twisting in the breeze. “Damn you, René!” That burst from him so hard it hurt, for there was still no reaction from Villon. “Where was Marechal?” The most baffling question of all, the beast’s absence when his master had needed him, and James’ voice deepened and roughened with his temper as he fought for the words.

  “ Il n’est rien to you what passed!” The ground shook with the force of the shout, or mayhap it was the shaking of René’s body as he flung himself flat against James, nearly knocking them both to the floor. James had a startled moment to get his hands up as though fending off a blow and then Villon was upon him, dispensing of his feeble attempt at defense by slapping his hands away as though they were of no consequence. That he had not had the strength to stand alone a moment ago seemed to James a distant, mistaken thought as ivory hands pushed him back and down into the chair, making him gasp at the unrelenting wood on his rear, protesting in small, shocked words that René ignored.

  He felt the warm, stale air of the inn on his stomach as his shirt was torn from his belt and pushed up, and the sweaty skin prickled, tightening as René scraped a hand across it and then shoved it crudely into his pantaloons, settling carefully on his knees and arching his body away from James even as his hands took liberties.

  “René!” James nearly choked on the name, twitching against his will at the familiar cradle of René’s palm, and René rubbed his cock furiously, latching onto his shoulder with his mouth at the same time and tightening his teeth around a section of cloth, pressing into the flesh. A bruising ache followed it, and James twisted his head, grateful only that the inn had been closed, and that there was no sign of René’s former captor. “This is not…”

  A growl from René silenced him, and hair spilled over his face as René sat up and leaned into him at last, his face and eyes so starkly lit that James could no longer speak to look on him. He fumbled as he sat there, and moaned uncontrollably as René licked his red lips in a deliberate taunt, flicking out the pink tip of his tongue over his teeth.

  “This is mine.” René recovered his English only to spit and bark like some furious animal from a menagerie, but James was straining against the chair as the warm cradle became a crushing grip, squeezing his prick until the whole of the blood in James’ body seemed to pound there. Still, he squirmed, and the pressure grew harder, punishing and painful. “You are mine.”

  “I…?” James could not finish the thought, knowing it was foolish to argue with this madman and yet unable to entirely stop himself, even as wet breath heated his cheeks and black eyes raged for him.

  “ Les miens!” The taut whisper was nothing as his prick was abruptly released and his balls crushed beneath a wandering hand, and then he felt the pressure of fingers pushing inside of him. His mouth opened, gasping for air at the forgotten burn of it, but he was given no time to relax himself, just a rough, stinging entry. His stomach trembled, or the floor shook once more, and the body above him was cold and heavy, shaking; he had thought it to be the floor. He turned his head away from the merciless, strange eyes and looked to the door, which yet remained closed.

  Harsh breathing did not tickle his ear, but echoed and wheezed like an old man’s rattle, and James lifted his hands, finding René’s waist and shoving him back. “Stop!” He shouted it loud, and desperately, pushing his own chair back and letting Villon leave his hands. “You are not well!” That he had to say also, watching how René stumbled and barely kept his footing, his eyelids growing heavy and his face draining of its momentary meretricious glitter. James breathed, several times, sucking in air and holding himself still, unwilling even to adjust his clothing yet.

  René spun almost before his eyes, swaying as though he might fall at any moment, as though there were no ground beneath him at all, but he did not attempt to return to his position on James’ lap, and James put out one hand carefully as he got to his feet, using the other to tuck his shirt into his loosened pantaloons. “You are not well, René,” he repeated softly, to hear himself say it, for René seemed not to hear him.

  “You are a fool who will not leave,” René said quietly as though James had not spoken, halfturned from him. But the words carried, and James felt his mouth tighten, a thousand choice words in kind held behind his lips by the sheerest scrap of will. The pallor of his skin said clear enough the other man was not well, though his ill temper was familiar enough.

  “Then perhaps I will leave,” he tested this and received no answer, leaving him with a frowning face and an empty body. Nodding slowly, he moved at last, stepping past Villon’s still figu
re toward the door.

  As though startled, though James had not Villon’s silent way of walking, René jerked around, and it was only the lack of a sword in his hand that saved James from an unintentional gutting. A pale face grew paler and then James barely got his arms up in time to catch his falling figure, but he felt the trembling of René’s form as he sagged against him, the hands that grasped at his hips to stay upright.

  “James,” René moaned, a pitiful animal, and James lifted his chin and looked out over where the street stretched out, beyond the wall and door, to where Ben would soon be waiting. “James,” René whispered once more, as if the name was all he knew.

  “Marechal.” The name came to his mind cautiously and he said it so, feeling the tense, worn muscles under his hands fairly falling apart with the strength of their quivering, answer enough to his next question. “He is…dead?” If he were not then he must certainly be a traitor to his lord, and René’s vengeance would find him for his betrayal. Rage surely was what tightened the slender body in his arms at the name of Marechal, humiliation at what had been taken from him, his great ship.

  “I will take you to the docks.” James decided abruptly, no longer surprised to hear the madness issue from his lips, though knowing he spoke the words that would lead to his own end. “You have friends there?”

  “You will not,” René countermanded him instantly, and James blinked and frowned, pulling slightly on one naked arm. Villon immediately leaned to the side, nearly toppling and it was James’ arm which saved him from falling, not his own.

  “I think today we will do what I wish, René,” James told him faintly, and sensed the fury in the impotent body. He laughed softly, and knew René misunderstood it, though he did not give him the true reason as he kept his eyes from the chair just paces from them both. But he set the still, weak man carefully on his own feet when his mirth had faded. “After you are safe, you will no doubt want to kill me if my lord Marvell has not. Now here is my coat.”

  He stripped it off, eager to be rid of it with the heat in any case, and held it out to René who was watching him with eyes as narrow as shards of glass, and just as sharp. Nearly, James recalled his first impression of the Devil, though then there had been amusement softening his expression even if James had not recognized that emotion as such until afterward. Now his look lacked even that as he struggled to scowl, and small beads of sweat dotted across his chest. James was reminded instead of Ben glaring at him in the street moments ago.

  “Sailors may go bare-chested, Villon, but none are so pale as you,” James explained, and resigned himself to playing a French valet once more when René did not move. It was more like the dressing of a girl’s poppet than dressing a struggling Ben, for René’s arms remained limp and still even as he glowered and undoubtedly cursed James in French words that James lacked knowledge of. Yet James was grateful for it, keeping his touches light, and his body an arm’s reach from the smaller man. All of René’s strength seemed to have left him again, but he was steadier on his feet now, and his chin was raised high enough to make James wonder if it had ever been anything else.

  When he had finished, brushing the coat quickly over the bones of his hips and then moving to loosely button it over the white, abused chest, Villon ended his mutterings. Cutthroats likely had taken the man’s other clothes from him, and James knew that another sharp smile crossed his face at the thought of another stealing Villon’s crimson coat. He left it there, uncaring if René saw his madness or not, knowing that perhaps now his soul was growing as black as his and suddenly too weary to care overmuch.

  “To the water so I may be rid of you at last,” he muttered indistinctly, remembering how he had once felt the desire to swim in the clean sea surrounding them. Then he opened the door and looked out, sighing to see they still went unnoticed.

  “I will go alone to the waters.” Without looking at him, René took a slow step to the door and crossed the threshold, lifting one hand to shade his face. He came near to James and James drew back against the doorframe, shaking his head.

  “Our Fates seem bound together, Villon,” he remarked, and noted that René’s other hand had returned to hold up his loose breeches. “Ben will return soon, and it will be a long walk for you.”

  “The child!” René spat with an abrupt violence that nearly made James take a step back, but Villon said no more through his closed, white lips, and his feet did not attempt to carry him away. The offer to carry him turned sour on James’ tongue as they waited, until he swallowed to be free of the bitterness. They did not speak again until Ben came from the down the road, surefooted and quick in their direction, though he stopped well short of them.

  “The lady hasn’t sailed,” he reported clearly enough, putting one hand over his eyes to squint at James. Before James could ask which lady, Ben was turning his contemplative frown on René. “The lady captain they said was named for her quinny, who did her business with m’lord Marvell.”

  “ L’Aranha?” James glanced at the pale, frozen figure next to him and breathed the word, ignoring Ben’s crude remarks. IfL’Aranha had not been behind René’s trials, then she might yet be a friend; if René Villon had people he named as friends, surely it would be someone that he allowed such intimacies. He and the woman had touched many times, and she had even struck René and gone unharmed. René denied that they were lovers, but a woman’s soft heart would not allow her to turn away an injured and weakened man. “Is she with Sir Marvell now?” The previous night’s ill business would have affected her as well, left them all with a useless arrangement.

  Ben answered that she was not and James blinked, realizing that his eyes had not left René. “May we trust her?”

  “I will go alone to the water,” the other man repeated, meeting his gaze and then taking a shuddering step from the door.

  “To fall in?” Ben questioned boldly and James twisted his head away from René with his mouth open. “Ben!” Not long ago, the boy had seemed to see Villon as some idol of courage or wickedness, and now his green eyes were the merest slivers, so cool as to make James shiver. But there was little time for this now as well, and James closed his eyes, smoothing back his hair, aware that strands had been knocked free by René’s forceful embrace. “We must go, and quickly, before we are discovered.”

  “Him too?” Ben jerked his chin in Villon’s direction, setting his feet apart before he turned back to study James. “She might take us along, but we don’t need him for it.” “You want to leave this place?” His strained voice rose high, and James glanced between the two figures before him, feeling the dark thickness in his mind urging him to turn away, to sleep and wake up to find himself in a green meadow of the countryside, resting in the arms of someone claiming to love him. But he could not sleep, and he knew Ben’s answer, for Ben had given it already in Sir Marvell’s office.

  René’s eyes were burning against the waxy colour of his face, the borrowed coat dropping loosely past his wrists, giving his chest the impression of depth until he breathed and the shadows were shown to be empty of solid flesh. Perhaps he had been so thin before, and James had seen only the red of that bloody coat; it was impossible to tell now, with him looking nearly as starved as the child had been when James had first known him. Yet now the man and that child wore nearly the same face, hating him surely for his failure to act, his weakness in staying when he ought to leave.

  “We will see thee to the lady’s ship, Villon, and there we shall leave you.” Villon was so eager to be rid of them that he still glared, taking a wide step backward and guiding himself with one hand pressed to the wall.

  “Enough, Ben!” James shouted a moment later in something nearly like his father’s voice when Ben looked ready to protest, and then slashed the air with one hand. “We have no time for this.” He strode forward to keep himself from swooning to the ground and sent his eyes upward to the Heavens, seeing the sky a clear blue and hoping the Lord meant it to lighten their spirits.

  Villon wa
s still walking on his unsteady, spread legs, looking as James must have on his first days aboard a sea vessel, and so James paused near him to slide his arm around the tense muscles of René’s waist and pull the other man hard against his side. His belly was full of serpents that stung him acidly with each place the other man touched him, when René hissed at every point of contact, but he pushed away his sickness and looked upward again, nearly wishing for a cloud in the empty sky.

  Cold pressed into James even through his shirt and the coat René wore, and he thinned his lips, wondering at how long the man had been left to lay on the floor. Even a criminal deserved better than the chill of the ground, even if few others had ever seemed to share his view.

  His grip would not allow René to pull away though René tried until a grunt escaped him, and James’ tightly closed mouth curved into a bitter smile. It lasted until he turned to find Ben, and entreated him hurriedly with his free hand, wincing as his other hand brushed against René’s stomach. His name slipped from René’s lips, angry, or shocked.

  “Please, Ben,” James begged readily, wanting Ben to remain within his sight now, sighed in dizzied relief when he saw the challenging frown that meant that yet again Ben found his words displeasing but would follow nonetheless to prove him a fool.

  The muscles underneath his palm contracted, moments before René himself shuddered, and James realized he had flattened out his hand to hold the struggling body still. “If we find you a bottle, Villon, others might think you drunk,” James whispered harshly, vaguely surprised at how quiet the other man grew when he spoke. “Not a difficult role for René Villon to play, even in this state.” His mouth continued to move even as his brain seemed to grow still, as quiescent as the man in his arms, but a distant logic seemed to come with the words. The liquor might warm the man’s blood. René was cold as well as limp in his hands, and it took only a little effort to assist him down the way a few steps, half-carrying him. It took his dignity from him, to be nearly dragged, but not nearly as much as his falling in the dirt might do, and it was probably more than he deserved in any case. As for James, he had grown accustomed to looking the fool.