Page 27 of The Queer Principles of Kit Webb
“Good,” Kit said, his voice a bit gruff. And then they stood there like a pair of idiots, Percy’s fists in Kit’s hands. “Good,” he repeated, and watched Percy’s eyes open a bit wider. They weren’t a simple dark gray, as Kit had previously thought, but the same glittering steel as the buttons on his waistcoat.
The late afternoon sun that filtered through the high, dusty windows of the back room lit Percy so he was all porcelain skin and cheekbones and hair the color of a new guinea, all golden and bright. Kit was thinking of how very badly he did not want to hit that face, when the next thing he knew Percy was aiming a punch at his jaw.
“You can do better if you swing like so,” Kit said, blocking the blow and demonstrating the desired arc of his arm. Percy tried and didn’t quite manage it. “No, let me show you.” He stood behind the other man, moving their right arms as one. “Like that.” Kit used his left arm to wrap around Percy’s chest, holding him in place. “Now you do it.” Since they were so close, Kit naturally dropped his voice and found that he was all but whispering into Percy’s ear. Percy tried to duplicate Kit’s movement and got it on the first try. “Now try this.” He showed Percy how to punch upward, then how to hook his arm in from the side.
These motions were second nature to Kit, easy as breathing, so he didn’t have to pay close attention. So it was only natural thathe noticed the silkiness of the pale gold hair that had escaped from Percy’s plait, and the scent of soap and leather that seemed to come from the soft skin of Percy’s neck, or the way their bodies fit together. He couldn’t help but notice. It would be odd if hehadn’tnoticed those things, really.
Then Kit went through all those various punches again—purely in the name of thoroughness, that was all.
On their next round, Percy knocked Kit flat onto the floor. He wouldn’t have fallen if it hadn’t been for his leg, but it was still a good effort.
“Oh bugger,” Percy said, staring down at him, aghast. He held his hand out to help Kit up. Kit took it, and for an instant he let himself enjoy the surprising strength of the other man’s grip. Then he pulled hard, tumbling Percy onto the floor and using the momentum to get back to his own feet.
After that, they were off. They were almost evenly matched, what with Kit’s injury and Percy’s inexperience, but he could see Percy catching up, right before his eyes. Occasionally Kit would call out an instruction—“You have two hands, use them both, God damn you” or “Tuck your chin down if you can’t dodge a hit”—but either Percy was a quick learner or he had more experience than he let on.
“What do you think you’re doing with your feet?” Kit panted. “This isn’t a gavotte. Plant them both on the floor.”
Percy did as he was told, dodged a punch, attempted to trip Kit, and then laughed. “How do you know what a gavotte looks like?”
Kit tripped him. He was getting better at balancing on his good leg. “What, do you think poor people aren’t allowed to dance?”
“Oh, don’t even try to convince me that you’re poor,” Percy said, springing to his feet. “I see how much money you take in. In fact,” he added, attempting to grab Kit’s wrist and winding up with both his hands pinned behind his back, “it’s a wonder that you ever bothered with robbery.”
Just for that, Kit tightened his grip on Percy’s arms. “You do realize that you need capital to start a coffeehouse, right?”
“So that’s why you did it? You needed capital? And then you stopped as soon as you had enough money to open a shop, not, say, three years after opening this coffeehouse?” Percy, attempting to get free, wriggled in a way Kit tried not to find quite so interesting.
“No, I did it because I like taking things from people who have too much.”
Percy stepped hard on Kit’s foot, but Kit didn’t let go. “Oh, so you’re an altruist, then. A modern-day Robin Hood.” He made a gagging noise, and Kit laughed despite himself.
Kit realized that while Percy might not have walked into this room knowing what to do with his fists, he already understood the basics of fighting, or maybe strategy. He knew the importance of anticipating his opponent’s next move, and he didn’t make the beginner’s mistake of putting defense before offense. He didn’t underestimate Kit, and on the contrary seemed delighted when Kit surprised him.
He also knew how to fall, and more importantly how to get up. He knew how to move. God, the way he moved—Kit wanted to watch Percy fight someone else, just to be able to savor every lithe movement, every turn and twist and blow.
And after what had to be half an hour, the blasted man still wasn’t out of breath. Kit was panting. Not only did his leg ache,but so did the entirety of Kit’s person, from his neck to his toes. When Percy got in a solid hit to Kit’s jaw and followed it up with a punch to his stomach, it felt inevitable. Kit felt himself crumple, bending at the middle, and the last thing he did before falling to his knees was pull Percy down with him.
“Mercy,” Kit said, breathing hard. “No more.”
“Oh, thank God,” Percy said, collapsing onto his back. “Christ.”
“I take it you were having me on when you said you hadn’t ever been in a fistfight,” Kit said, tipping forward so he was on his stomach, his cheek resting on his arm.
Percy turned his head. “No,” he said, sounding surprised. “I’ve done some fencing, but I’ve never fought anyone with my hands. It always seemed a very common thing to do.”
Percy’s face was streaked with dirt, and he had blood on his upper lip. “You look like a proper ruffian right now, so I think you might have been right,” Kit observed.
“My valet will have fits,” Percy said.
Kit lay still for a moment, catching his breath and watching Percy. “My mother had a garden,” he said.
Percy turned toward Kit at this non sequitur, but didn’t say anything.
“She mostly grew herbs, but also the usual country flowers: foxglove, larkspur, you know. When they were first married, my father brought her cuttings from a rosebush.” The rosebush had been in Percy’s father’s rose garden, a fact Kit had forgotten but which now brought him up short. He was lying on the floor with the heir to the Duke of Clare, after tussling like a pair of schoolchildren.
“That’s not a very good story,” Percy remarked after Kit hadgone silent. “The next time you choose to regale me with the tales of gardens or horticulture or mothers, or whatever you were doing, do strive to be more entertaining.”
Kit snorted. “She hated that rosebush. She had a garden filled with flowers that bloomed without any special treatment, but that rosebush needed careful pruning and daily watering. She had to put eggshells and iron nails in the soil. I used to hear her out in the garden, muttering under her breath at it. But every summer, the wretched thing bloomed. And every summer, she acted like she had personally brought those blossoms back from hell itself.” He swallowed. “That’s how I feel when I get my hands on a gentleman’s purse. When that purse goes from being theirs to not being theirs anymore, I feel like I’ve done something.”
