by J. A. Rock
“Break it?”
“Yes.”
“But…” Chant appeared to consider this. “Now?”
“Well, yes.”
“We would have to go to Russell Street.”
“It is worth the trip, I’d say. To kill two birds with one stone like this. You shall be rid of some of what you’re holding in, and I shall be rid of the desecrated jug forever.”
Chant laughed softly. “You are mad.”
“Oh, that should have been obvious to you from the start.”
Chant smiled, though he didn’t look at Gale. He stared at his hands, trapped between his knees. “It was.”
“So, to Russell Street?”
Chant stood slowly, and Gale with him. He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I look a fright, I’m sure.”
“It is very early still. No one of consequence will see.”
Chant snorted. “Please don’t hasten to reassure me that I in fact look quite lovely.”
“Well, you do,” Gale said, frowning. “It’s just… If I may?” He extended a hand slowly toward Chant’s face, giving Chant time to grant or deny permission, just as Gale’s mother had done for Gale as a boy.
Chant nodded once, and Gale cupped Chant’s jaw, brushing his thumb under the man’s eyes and flicking away the wetness there. Then, on an impulse—perhaps the strangest impulse he’d ever had—he kissed the matching spots where he’d wiped away tears, salt clinging faintly to his lips. He stepped back so he could see Chant’s face. It was still red and damp, and his eyes shone with unshed tears, but he was indeed lovely. And there was need in his gaze. Gale might not have been brilliant at interpreting emotions, but Chant’s longing was as plain as if he had spoken it. Chant began to lean forward, then stopped, a question in his eyes. Gale stepped forward again and kissed him softly on the mouth. It seemed such a natural thing to do. Chant kissed him back with a cautious hunger that Gale answered with a sigh and a nonsensical murmur against the other man’s lips. Chant closed his eyes, and Gale tasted salt again as Chant’s tears spilled over. He stroked the side of Chant’s face. The man’s eyes remained closed, his pale lashes darkened and stuck damply together. Gale ran his thumb back and forth along one elegant cheekbone until Chant at last opened his eyes. He met Gale’s gaze with a shyness Gale had never before seen from him.
Gale said, “You do not have to do anything right now except break a jug. And you do not even have to do that if you don’t wish. I will get us to Russell Street. You may sleep there after the jug-breaking, as I have ruined any hope you had of a good sleep tonight. Or I will take you back home. You need think of nothing else except how good it will feel to watch an exceptionally ugly piece of pottery shatter at your feet. All right?”
Chant nodded. “All right,” he whispered.
“No murders, no missing dogs, no orphaned children—”
“You are making me think of all of those things by saying them.”
“Right. I’m sorry.”
Gale kissed him again, this time on the forehead. How could he not have realised, until now, all that he felt for this man? What did one do when one had firmly rejected the world again and again and then found himself too proud to ask to be let back in? Gale had never meant to stray so far from kindness. Just that it had been so much easier to barricade himself in, to invite others to try to hurt him so he could experience that small satisfaction every time they could not get close enough to do so. It had felt like a victory when in fact it was a self-inflicted wound deeper than any Society might have laid upon him. It was so stunningly easy now to do what he should have done all along and take Chant’s hand.
“Come on then, my friend. Let me take care of this.”
Of you.
But he didn’t say it.
Chant found Gale’s rooms in Russell Street to be tidy if a bit stark. The woman who’d chased him away from the building two days ago was nowhere in sight.
“The place is quite pleasant. Though it does not look entirely lived in.” Chant straightened his coat. He’d tried to dress well, at least, to make up for his swollen face and dishevelled hair. He’d had some practice over the years in dressing without the help of his man. But he’d been so out of sorts as he’d pulled on his clothes he was not sure he looked at all put together. His front was already covered in dog hair from his goodbye to Miranda, and he’d forgotten his greatcoat entirely—an oversight Gale had remedied as soon as he’d noticed it by lending Chant his own.
Gale nodded. “It is a bit like your home in that regard. Or rather, no. Your home does look lived-in. It just looks like you are afraid to live in it fully.”
Chant’s mouth hung open for a second. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Only that your house has much of you in it, but there is also a palpable sense of your own fear to occupy it entirely, perhaps because you think that doing so means you are edging out the memories of the loved ones you’ve lost, when in fact it means nothing of the sort, and it is slowly draining you, in a nearly imperceptible way, to pour so much of yourself into your memories as though you fear their very ghosts will return to those memories to find you absent from them, gone to live in the present. You fear that seizing the happiness you are entitled to will be somehow disrespectful to those you have grieved for. Am I close?”
Chant could do nothing but gape.
“Oh God. I have hurt you again.” Gale looked genuinely horrified. “Please, Chant, I didn’t mean to. I am absolutely terrible at offering comfort and at everything to do with conversation, really. You may break the jug over my head if you wish.”
Chant gazed at him with more interest than affront. Gale’s skin was red-gold in the lamplight, and he… he meant it. He was sorry. He was afraid of offending Chant. He cared what Chant felt. Gale had kissed him—he could still feel Gale’s lips on his—and Gale had brought him here to break a jug. “You’re right,” Chant admitted. “Though I wish you weren’t.”
Gale said nothing.
“Oh God.” Chant drew a breath, willing himself not to weep again. Gale surely wouldn’t have the patience for another round of such childish behaviour.
“It’s all right,” Gale said again. And once again Chant’s entire body relaxed.
Chant stared at the floor. “They’re not coming back.”
“No.”
“Even if I break the jug.”
“Even if you break the jug.”
“But it might… feel good to break the jug.”
“It might,” Gale agreed. “And to scream. Or cry some more. You may punch me if you like—though not very hard. My frame is rather insubstantial.”
“Will you tell me what happened to the jug to make you hate it so?”
“No.”
“All right. Where is it?”
“Here.” Gale brought it to him. It wasn’t as ugly as Gale had made it out to be. It was stout and earth-coloured, a good two feet high, with a deep lip that tapered to a small spout on one side. A deep red glaze ran over the rim and about halfway down its sides. Chant took it from Gale. It was unexpectedly heavy.
“What if the neighbours hear?”
“They’re quite deaf.”
“You are lying.”
“I would not tell you to break it if I felt there would be any serious consequences.”
Chant drew a deep breath, feeling suddenly foolish. And yet, Gale was looking at him as though he were anything but foolish, as though this moment they were about to create together was as intimate as any they might share in a bed.
Chant dropped the jug.
It hit the floor with a thunk, toppled to its side, and rolled across the floorboards, unharmed.
“It is very well made, Chant. You are going to have to put some effort into breaking it.” Gale picked the jug up and handed it back to him.
Chant hurled it downward this time. He did not give himself time to think. He simply threw it.
It shattered into several large shards and a few smaller pieces. Chant stamped on t
he smaller pieces, grinding them to dust. He could not seem to stop. But when he finally did, he stared at the mess, a sick shame washing over him.
“It is only a vase. It is not them.”
“Don’t you think I know that!” Chant snapped.
“I do,” Gale said. “Go on and yell at me. I am not them either. I shan’t go away.”
“Oh God,” Chant choked, putting his fist to his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”
“You are not allowed to apologise. It is the one rule here. That, and do not piss and vomit into my jugs.”
Chant opened his eyes. “Piss and vomit?”
Gale held out his arms as though he were quite accustomed to embracing people, which Chant did not think he was. And Chant stepped into his arms as though it were a familiar routine between them, broken pottery crunching under his shoes. “I’m sorry. I had no wish to upset you further, but yes.”
Chant laughed, a bit hysterically, into Gale’s shoulder. Gale’s hand never stopped moving up and down his back. His answering chuckle bumped his chest against Chant’s in a way that was incredibly reassuring.
“In quantities you cannot fathom.”
Chant clutched at the back of Gale’s coat, twisting fistfuls of the fabric in a childish effort to assure himself Gale really would not vanish. He drew in a deep breath, then loosened his grip. Exhaled.
“Good man,” Gale whispered.
Chant had no wish to be anywhere but Gale’s arms. But he was exhausted, and Gale’s patience was unlikely to last forever. “I can see myself home,” he said into the wool of Gale’s coat. “Thank you for being so kind to me.”
“You may sleep here as I said. Or I will take you home.”
“No, truly.” Chant stepped back. Gale’s arms loosened around him but did not release him, and Chant could not bring himself to take another step back and break the embrace entirely. “You’ve done more than is necessary. I—”
“This is not a favour I am doing out of a sense of obligation,” Gale said seriously. “Tell me what you wish.”
“I… I am very tired. And I feel embarrassed. And strange. And very… tired.”
“Then might I suggest we get you out of your coat and shoes and into the bed?”
“What about the investigation?” It came back to Chant suddenly. “You said you had other news.”
“The investigation can wait.” Gale’s voice was still soft, but he spoke with utter certainty. He drew the heavy curtains until only a thin strip of light remained on the floorboards.
“I…” Chant could scarcely believe this was happening. He didn’t feel at all nervous that Gale would grow impatient with him for needing comfort, that Gale would expect anything of him in return. He felt entirely safe here. “Very well.”
And then Chant let Gale remove his coat, cravat, and waistcoat, as though he were a small child who could not do such things without assistance. The shoes he managed on his own, and he pulled his stockings off too.
Gale hesitated. “I have slept in breeches before. It is not terribly comfortable. Should you wish to remove yours and sleep in your shirt, I shan’t be offended. I have already seen you in half dress, after all.”
Chant snorted. “At least I had a gown on then.” He hesitated. “Are you… staying? You seem not to have slept at all.”
Gale shrugged. “I could do with a rest. If that doesn’t bother you? I can sleep in the chair if you prefer. Or we can share the bed. I promise to be a gentleman.”
“You are not sleeping in the chair, Lord Christmas. I forbid it.”
“Ah. Well then.” Gale shrugged out of his own coat, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and yanked free his cravat. His shoes and stockings went next, pushed into a pile beside Chant’s. “If you forbid it, I daren’t go against you.” He stepped toward the bed.
“You find breeches uncomfortable to sleep in,” Chant pointed out.
Gale stopped. “I do.”
“If you wish to remove them, I shan’t be offended.” He managed a ghost of a smile in response to the lift of Gale’s brows.
Gale hesitated only a second, then began to unbutton the fall on his breeches.
Chant worked on his own buttons, though he could not keep himself from watching Gale as the man stepped out of his breeches and stood before Chant in just his shirt, which hung to his thighs.
“If you’ve looked your fill,” Gale said with a hint of imperious annoyance that Chant knew was a tease. “Might I have my turn?”
Chant grinned and finished removing his own breeches. He tossed them on top of Gale’s. His breathing was not entirely even. Gale was gorgeous. Gale was always gorgeous, and especially so half-stripped of his clothing. But Chant had not the energy for anything carnal right now. He didn’t even know if the interest was there on Gale’s part. Though, if the front of his drawers was anything to go by, Gale was at the very least not uninterested.
“I have fantasised so often about you taking off your clothes in front of me,” Chant confessed. “It is every bit as delicious as I imagined. I only wish that tonight I were not so…”
“Tired?” Gale supplied gently.
“I’m sorry.”
“What is the one rule?”
“Don’t piss and vomit in your decorative pottery.”
“The other one.”
“Don’t apologise,” Chant murmured.
“Precisely. Benjamin Chant, if you think this was all some ploy to get you into my bed… well, you’re not wrong. But the object was to get you into my bed so you might rest. Anything else we might do in a bed will happen if and when we are both eager for it. You may believe me.”
Chant looked at Gale, words snaring on one another in his throat. Finally, he simply said, “Thank you.”
Gale gestured to the bed, and Chant climbed in slowly, every part of him aching as though he’d just been in a brawl. Gale climbed in beside him and pulled the covers over them both.
Suddenly, Chant was wide awake.
“Later, might we break the vases in my house? The ones Reid left.”
“Certainly.”
“Good,” Chant said. “I’m ready to be rid of them.” He paused. “Will you not tell me the other news?”
“No,” Gale said simply. “Later.”
Chant sighed, but it was relief he felt, not frustration. He shifted, attempting to get comfortable.
Gale set a hand on his shoulder. “Sleep now, my friend. Nothing bad happens in this room.”
Chant could very well believe that was true. He could imagine this place becoming a sort of sanctuary as long as Gale was here with him. Could imagine it starting to look lived-in. “Except to jugs.”
Gale’s laugh was unexpectedly loud in the near-darkness. “Except to jugs,” he agreed.
Chapter 16
Chant awoke to watery sunlight glinting on the fraction of windowpane he could see exposed between the dark curtains. His eyes itched, his throat was raw, and he felt wrung out like a piece of wet cloth pulled through a mangle. He was too tired to even berate himself for unburdening his soul to Gale last night or to feel the sting of humiliation for doing so. Perhaps that would come later, or, he thought, blinking up at the ceiling, perhaps it would not.
He turned his head and looked at Gale in the faint light.
He had thought that Gale might look younger in sleep, softer somehow, but he had failed to take into account Gale’s contrary nature. Instead of wearing a mask smoothed out by slumber, Gale’s forehead was pinched and his brows were drawn together. His mouth was downturned stubbornly.
“Of course you scowl in your sleep,” Chant whispered to him fondly. “Of course you do.”
A part of him longed to touch Gale’s forehead to smooth away the furrow in his brow, but at the same time, he was unwilling to risk waking him. And so he lay there instead, warm and weary, and simply watched him.
“Why are you staring at me?” Gale’s voice was gravelly with sleep, and he did not open his eyes.
&n
bsp; Chant did not know how to respond. Perhaps he ought to pretend to be asleep. But before he could make a decision, Gale cracked one eye open. Chant regarded him, still unsure what to say. As more of last night came back to him, his stomach tightened, and yet, the humiliation still did not come. He felt curiously calm, and what he recalled more than anything was the sensation of being in Gale’s arms. Even as the darkness of the past had washed over him, had made him feel broken and ashamed in a way he had not for many years, some part of him had felt anchored by Gale’s touch.
Gale had not recoiled. Had not thought him a terrible person.
“Are you all right?” Gale opened both eyes.
Chant smiled slightly. “I am.”
Gale sighed and closed his eyes again, pulling one arm out from under the covers and placing his hand on Chant’s shoulder. Chant hardly dared move. After a few minutes, Gale’s hand slid down to the middle of Chant’s back. Gale pulled lightly, and Chant shifted closer, his head fitting beneath Gale’s angular chin, his face pressed to the man’s neck.
And then Gale whispered sweet words of romance…
“De Cock may have murdered Claude de Brouckère and stolen his jewels. If that is so, I do not know whether he sold them off at once when the Condor docked or whether they are still hidden somewhere, but I think the jewels have something to do with why Visser is dead and de Cock is chasing a dog he doesn’t even like.”
Chant did not particularly want to leave this bed. But Gale’s mind was clearly back on the investigation.
“It is a theory I should like to explore in more detail, once you and I have had a conversation.”
Chant blinked against Gale’s neck. He did not lift his head. “A conversation?”
He was suddenly nervous. Perhaps this was the point where Gale told him that yes, he’d been happy to help Chant through a singularly horrible night, but he had no wish to maintain an association with a man as cowardly as Chant. Chant, who had done terrible harm to his own family and then wept about it in Gale’s arms like a child. Well, he could hardly blame Gale for that, could he?
