Page 27

27

COLD COMFORT

H enry and Léon were, for all intents and purposes, back out in the freezing night.

The structure of the stable provided some protection from wind, and thankfully they hadn’t seen a drop of the red rain since Henry had pulled Catherine out of the pit.

Even so, stepping onto the wooden planks, straw strewn about the place, the smell of horses and hay all about them, it seemed like one of the worst possible places to strip off and try to get clean.

A large metal tub was placed down in the middle of the floor, filled by the same young man who had taken their horses earlier.

Into this was dropped a burning brick from the fire, scolding hot, setting the water to a brief bubble, then a gentle ripple, from which an enticing steam rose.

Henry stood on one side, Léon on the other, and both looked down at the water, their carefully arranged expressions hiding whatever each was thinking, while the light of one lantern provided all the illumination available to them.

Destroyer stuck his head over a gate and gave a whinny, to which Henry replied, “Shut up,” and the horse disappeared back into darkness with a snuffle.

Henry moved fingers to the collar of his shirt and Léon, with a blush, tried not to look.

Instead, he reached for a washcloth, which he fumbled in his haste.

He bent down to pick it up, flicking off the hay that clung to it, and Henry, having already loosened the string at the top of his shirt, wrenched the bottom free, flashing his navel and the line of hair that ran down his midline, that disappeared invitingly into his breeches.

Léon’s eyes followed uncontrollably when Henry stretched his arms over his head, his view of Léon’s hungry gaze safely hidden just for a moment.

And that moment was permanently branded on Léon’s brain.

Henry’s chest was broad and strong, his nipples hard, erect against the cold.

He drew his stomach in with the frigid air, muscles taut and undulating over every delicious inch.

Léon wanted his skin beneath his tongue.

He wanted him down on the stable floor.

Christ, what was wrong with him?

His opinion of Henry, his relation to him, had changed so dramatically during that very long day.

He hadn’t feared him since the hot moment they’d been stuck hiding in the bushes, and since then…

The way he held his sister, his reasons for all the things he’d done, his manner in kidnapping and stealing from people, his relation to that weird horse, that fleeting moment of…

Would he have called it ‘tenderness’, during the carriage ride?

Something inside Léon had softened at each and every step, but when Henry had taken a bullet for him…

His eyes went to the red wound on his biceps.

It had scraped the skin, which looked sore and swollen.

But how close it had been to his heart.

A fraction of a second earlier or later, and one of them would have been dead.

Henry was reaching for a cloth, the line of his body curving as he leaned over, and Léon thought of those soft hands pulling the cloak up to his shoulders.

He thought of Henry’s smile.

And it was like a rock inside him cracked open.

He found he craved that affection.

Some soft part of him, long since covered over, had been exposed that day, and Léon ached for that tender touch.

Not the touch of Souveraine, which was always there, always kind and loving, but something stronger.

Harder. More definite.

That… intimacy . That, longing…

He pulled his eyes away, dipping the cloth into the water, running his other hand around his midline, trying to ease the physical tension.

“I wish you’d rethink the carriage. And leaving.”

Léon chanced the meeting of their eyes when Henry spoke, but Henry was turning the bar of soap over in his hands, scrubbing the blood away.

Léon brought the hot cloth across his neck, goosebumps breaking on his skin, and made no reply, staring down into the tub.

Henry flicked a glance up at the steaming rivulets running down Léon’s chest, over his firm pink nipples, and he couldn’t remember a time he’d been so desperately attracted to another man.

His arms were enormous.

He must have been incredibly strong.

But it was framed inside such delicate beauty.

The softest, most sensitive mouth, the shyness of the eyes, until they flared in vicious defiance.

That cocky smile. “If you really have to go, just take a horse. You could say you came across it by chance. Claim ignorance about the carriage. Or say I took off with it.”

“Or that my masked man did?” Léon joked.

Henry gave the briefest of smiles, nervousness ratcheting up the tightly pulled atmosphere until he couldn't find words. There was only the sound of splashing water to fill the barn.

Léon noticed the way Henry’s wound remained untouched, and said, “You’re going to have to wash it.”

Henry’s head turned down, the lines that moved in his neck drawing Léon’s gaze. What a beautiful neck it was. What he’d give to lick it, just once.

“It’s fine,” said Henry.

“It’s not,” said Léon.

“It’s fine,” Henry insisted.

Léon tsked his tongue, then shuffled to Henry’s side and grabbed his elbow.

“I said it’s f-ahhhh!” He sucked air over his teeth as Léon pressed the washcloth to the cut.

“Don’t be a baby,” Léon laughed.

“It stings!” Henry slightly wondered if Léon enjoyed hurting him, just a bit, because after all, he did deserve it. But Léon’s smile was sweet, his tone kind and playful, and it would have been the smallest tilt of Henry’s head just then to steal a kiss from him. He stared at the gorgeous lips, and when Léon’s questioning emerald eyes caught him, he heard himself say, “Stay the night.”

Léon’s movements slowed. What did he mean? Did he mean… No. Léon must have been mistaken. But it was enough to make him drop Henry’s arm and sink down by the tub, hiding his embarrassment by scrubbing himself extra hard. “If you want the carriage, to hide Catherine, you should take it.”

“I don’t. That’s not what I meant.”

“Okay.”

Henry passed the washcloth across his ribs. Léon followed the movement. Henry offered, “If you want to leave now, I’ll give you a shirt. And… You could take my cloak. It’s cold.”

A shiver across Léon’s shoulders seemed to emphasise the very word. And he thought of Henry out on the road, no home, travelling with everything he owned and down a shirt and a cloak. It was an incredibly kind offer when he considered it that way. “I couldn’t do that.”

“You can’t go back like that,” Henry said. “You’ll freeze. And all because you don’t want to stay the night here.”

“It’s not that,” Léon replied softly.

“I think it is. Let the boy sleep. Let the bar wench sleep.” Léon attempted to break in but was spoken over. “Just get some rest. It’s safe here.”

“I have to clear my name. Maybe that means very little to you, but it means everything to me. It’s all I have.” With that statement, the barn and the water and all his velvet ideas of Henry fell away. What an intoxicating illusion it had been.

Léon dipped his head down to the water, rinsing his hair, scrubbing at it with soap, trying to get every piece of Henry and the pit and the last few days off of him. Because it wasn’t only the filth. It was the beauty and the tenderness he’d found. And it was crushing him. It was every soft word Henry spoke, every small thought for him, the idea of a bed with him. He had been surviving—doing fine with émile and Souveraine and his life. He ran the cloth over his arms, working to erase it all, and he felt the blade in his hands, and it was Sophie’s face, and Marie’s face, and it was on and on, and it felt like it was never going to stop.

Then it was Henry’s hand, gentle on his shoulder, and Léon looked up in shock.

“Don’t go back.” The frigid air sharpened until it felt like pins in Léon’s lungs. Henry, sitting on the wet floor beside him, moved a hand to his cheek. “Stay the night.”

Something close to a cry crept up Léon’s throat, and he choked it down. Henry tilted his head, his eyes fathomless, with a kindness and an understanding Léon hated to see there, revolted against, because it made him feel too vulnerable. And Henry asked, “Are you not worn down by it?”

“Worn down by it?” Léon repeated, feeling as lost and lifeless as whatever was at the very bottom of that deep pit of bodies.

“This life,” whispered Henry, his finger stroking over Léon’s cheek. “You must tire of the life of an executioner, all the trappings that go along with it.”

Léon shied away from him, giving a fake smile that came off as both curious and cynical, and he spoke the cruelest words he could gather up, aimed to belittle Henry, to push him away. “What a luxury it must be to be able to be ‘worn down’ by things.” He slapped Henry’s hand away. “No, Henri. I’m not worn down. I don’t get to be worn down.”

Léon climbed to his feet and moved for a towel.

The comment had ruffled Henry to bewildered defensiveness, and he followed, snatching up another towel. “Is it not human to be tired? Or to object?”

Léon let out an incredulous chuckle. “Look around you. What’s humane about this existence? You see so much promise in the world, Henri, because you’ve been given all the beautiful things it has to offer on a plate. If you saw daily how most of us live—not for a couple of hard years, but from the cradle—if you saw the darker side of humanity…” Léon’s eyes misted over, and he tried to blink it away. He knew how unfair he was being. He believed just then that Henry’s intentions were pure, that his heart was good. And that twisted Léon’s own heart because he wanted it. He wanted that purity and optimism and that way out. So he said truthfully, softly, “I wish I could see the future you see. I wish I could touch that. I wish I could believe, like you do. But I cannot.”

And all Henry saw just then was Léon. He looked straight into the unveiled and gaping nothingness inside Léon’s heart. The hole that’s scraped out of a person when every avenue in life has been blocked, every beloved thing broken or taken away, every door closed before he got a foot to the threshold. It was a vast emptiness, populated only with responsibility and death and worry. With the belief that his goodness, what little he could conjure, might be the only goodness he would ever see in this life. The short and hard life that was killing this man, one head at a time, as he stood steadfast on the scaffold, letting the axe drop, over and over, day after day, a little piece of himself ebbing away with the flow of blood from every severed neck. Hack and hack and hack went the axe, and tick and tock went the clock, his precious and beautiful existence ticking away with it.

Henry saw Léon whole and in a new light, like he’d never seen him before. He knew that he admired this man deeply, in a way that made his gut ache. He wanted to take him in his arms, pull his chest against his own, and let his heart fill up the cavernous space inside of Léon. As though his heart, swollen in his chest, could beat big and strong enough for the both of them—bleed that life back into Léon that had been taken from him. Give him the hopes and dreams that had slipped away from him so long ago.

But Léon, having let the silence rest between them for too long, said, “Goodnight.”

Henry grabbed his hand. Léon pulled his back by instinct, and Henry grasped it harder until Léon settled, more surprised than upset by his touch.

Henry said only, “I’m sorry.” For what could he say? What else could he say after every awful thing he’d done? Every putrid thing he’d said? And to this man, who he now felt unworthy to even lick his shoes.

Léon’s features darkened a shade, the words of Henry’s pathetic apology shooting every awful memory like an arrow through his chest. He turned his head away, because it was only about to lead to a fight if either of them spoke of it.

He wouldn’t say it was okay. Or that he had forgiven him. Léon would never say that, and Henry knew it, so he kept his head bowed, Léon kept his turned away, and Henry held onto his hand, brow compressed, lips hard, as he tried to search for the words. The right ones, that would fix it. But there were none. There was no fixing it.

He raised his eyes and found Léon’s locked onto him. And they were sad, and they were fearful, and it pained Henry to think he had put those dark shards into those beautiful eyes. He’d done it so many times, and now… Now all he wanted was to make it better.

His other hand reached for Léon’s cheek, to feel his skin beneath his palm, to bring him close, feel his forehead against his own, to kiss it all away if Léon would only let him. But Léon moved before ever he could. He pulled away, his hand slipped from Henry’s, and he was gone. He disappeared into the inn. The door closed behind him, without so much as a final glance over his shoulder.

And Henry felt rotten. He felt all the loneliness and sickness and loss that he’d earned. He felt that heart too big in his chest, and that fever too hot in his veins, and he wanted to vomit. And there wasn’t a thing for it. Not a thing to fix any of it. And it was all his own stupid fault.

But he never could have known that Léon, inside the inn and out of sight, rested his head against the door that sat between them, holding the shaking hand that Henry had just touched to his heart, trying not to cry.