Page 21 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Auden says. The slow drawl is broken with anger and something else. Shame?
“What do you want to talk about then?” Saint pushes. “The fact that we’ve come twice with each other since last night? Or maybe that I’ve fucked—also twice now—the girl that’s always been meant for you?”
I try not to stiffen at that—at the reminder of Ralph’s stupid belief that I was somehow destined for Auden, and at the reminder that, for whatever reason, Saint believes it. I want to sit up and inform them both that I’ll choose whom I belong to, because while I’d love to kneel for someone, I only kneel when I want and for whom I want.
Possession? Sounds delicious. Plaything? Sign me up.
Puppet without a choice? Not so much.
But I don’t sit up and tell them that, not yet, because damn it all, I’m too curious.
“I’ve already told you how I feel about it,” says Auden.
“I know,” Saint replies. I can’t read the emotion in his voice. “It kills you.”
Kills him?
Next to me, Auden sucks in a deep breath. But he doesn’t correct Saint, doesn’t counter with any kind of alternative. Meaning it must be true, or close enough to the truth.
Kills him.
I knew there would be some jealousy swirling around—sometimes it feels like our little band is made of nothing but jealousy. My jealousy of Delphine when she was engaged to Auden, Saint’s jealousy of Ralph’s delusional belief that I belonged to Auden, Auden’s jealousy of the burgeoning affection between Saint and me. There’ve even been times when I’ve felt waves of jealousy coming off Rebecca about Delphine, and waves of jealousy coming off Becket about . . . well, about everyone. Every one of us free to fuck and fight while he’s collared by God.
But to hear the stark proof of it . . . the pain Auden feels about what Saint and I have and about what we’ve done. It hurts. It feels wrong. I can’t diagnose how it feels wrong, or why. Because I don’t feel any guilt or shame about sharing a bed with Saint—God knows, I’ve been falling for him since I’ve gotten here. Since we kissed when we were children.
But I don’t like sharing something that shuts Auden out.
Are the two of us fucking up by fucking each other?
“I’ll earn her submission,” Auden says finally. “I’ll earn having her in my keeping. That’s what matters.”
“You’re very confident.”
“Obviously.”
“What happens if she still wants to be with me instead?” St. Sebastian’s words are edged with hostility, but I hear what’s underneath them. Fear. He’s worried that I’ll leave him for Auden.
Christ. Auden is in agony that I want Saint; Saint is terrified I’ll choose Auden. And yet, when the three of us are together, all that agony and terror fuse into something holy and filthy and wonderful. How? How can the three of us trip into these moments of beauty when there’s all this jealousy and fear webbed between us?
And how could we ever repeat what we shared today when it’s obvious that the two of them still hate each other as much as they crave each other?
This question flowers slowly in my mind as Auden answers, quietly, “Then I’ll wait.”
St. Sebastian doesn’t have an answer to that. Neither would I.
Sleep creeps back in as the boys lapse into silence, and I’m almost entirely under the surface when I hear St. Sebastian ask, “What was the M for?”
The question makes no sense, and I wonder if I’m already asleep, already dreaming when Auden says back, “For mistake, St. Sebastian. For mistake.”
And to that—whatever it means—Saint doesn’t have an answer. At least not before I drop into a deep, dream-packed sleep for good.
Chapter 8
Eight Years Ago
Three restless days after seeing Auden at the Abbey, St. Sebastian kicked listlessly around his house, finally heading down to his favorite spot on the river for a swim. All the obvious haunts were frequented by a pack of boys from school he didn’t mess with—scowling, smoking lads who didn’t like him because he was smarter than them or because his skin was browner than theirs or because they knew he’d kissed Jared Kress behind the library last summer—or for all of those reasons put together. So far he’d managed to evade them by keeping to himself and staying out of their way—since they lived in the market town two miles down the road, it wasn’t always hard—but there was no guarantee his luck would hold, and he wasn’t interested in finding out what would happen if they managed to corner him somewhere even remotely isolated.
So swimming in a spot only he seemed to know about it would be.
