Lee chapter twenty

[maculategiraffe]

Okay, this is another short one-- but it just felt done. (The chapter, not the fic, which is neither short nor done.)






Lee woke frightened, the way he always woke-- would probably always wake, he thought, no matter what the rest of his life looked like, or how long it was-- with his heart pounding, frightened by the softness of the bed, the soundness of his sleep, trying to figure out the trap. It didn't help that he was alone in the bed; most mornings, now, he could turn and nestle into Bran's warm, reassuring body until his heart slowed down a little.

At the thought of Bran's body, Lee felt his cheeks heat up, realizing he was still wearing his crumpled tunic, stained with sweat and semen, and remembering how it had gotten that way. How he had moaned and come, without even earning the orgasm by bringing Bran off first. Not only was he the worst sex slave ever, but he didn't particularly rate as a fellow slave, either, even if Bran was nice enough to... well, to be nice to him.

He wondered where Bran was; probably he had been called into service by the master or one of the senior slaves, as he'd predicted. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Lee sat up and tried to decide whether to go looking for the older boy, or wait until someone came to get him for breakfast. He didn't much want to go walking through the halls in his soiled tunic-- not that he was ashamed of what had happened the previous night, but everyone in this house seemed to fuck each other, and while Lee had been informed that no one was supposed to fuck him or manhandle him without the master's permission, he didn't exactly want to advertise something that Yves or Jer might take to mean it was open season. After all, if Holden had to decide whether to believe that one of his pets was lying or that Lee was, Lee wouldn't have put much money on being believed. If he'd had any money.

But-- returning to the problem of his clothing-- he was sticky and sweaty enough himself that putting on a fresh tunic wouldn't do much more than get that dirty. What he really needed was a bath, but he didn't dare just walk into the bathroom by himself and start the water running, as if he belonged here. Bran had been bathing with him for the last two weeks; maybe if he could find Bran, he could get clean before he put on a fresh tunic. Lee squirmed out of bed, still wearing the dirty tunic; the alternative was to go naked, which he didn't think would do wonders in terms of not advertising that his ass was open for fucking.

The master's door was closed, as was Greta's; Yves' was open, the room empty, the bed made. Lee passed Jer's open door last, hoping Bran might be in there. He wasn't, but Yves was, curled naked and asleep in the bed with a pillow hugged to him, his loose curls obscuring his eyes, looking no older than Bran; and so was Jer, dressed and pulling on a pair of boots that made him look even more intimidating than usual.

Jer wasn't really more than a couple of inches taller than the master, but he seemed enormous to Lee as Lee wavered in the doorway of his bedroom, trying to decide whether to flee before Jer could look up and see him. Lee had never seen a slave wear boots before he came here, but though they were usually barefoot in the house, the slaves here were allowed to wear boots when they left the house to go to market. The thought of market reminded Lee of the peach he'd thought to ask for; the temerity required to ask for such an unearned indulgence had seemed much more plausible the previous night than it did in the harsh light of day.

"Hey, kid." Too late to get away now; Jer had seen him. "What happened to you?"

Lee went crimson, taking in Jer's curious, half-amused gaze on his stained and crushed tunic. "I-- last night--"

"You and Bran have fun?" Jer asked when Lee trailed off.

Lee nodded mutely, trembling. After a moment, Jer came towards him, and Lee backed up involuntarily till his back was against the doorframe, not daring to turn and run. Jer reached out and brushed Lee's cheek with the back of his hand.

"Not going to hurt you," he said gruffly. "You need anything?"

Lee looked down at the toes of Jer's boots, then back up; Jer's face looked genuinely kind, and Lee blurted, "Are you-- are you going to the market, sir?"

"Yep," said Jer laconically.

Lee swallowed. "When you-- when you go-- do they tell you-- exactly what to buy, or can you-- sort of-- I mean-- decide?"

"Fox tells me what we need, but I can get other stuff if I want to," said Jer, looking at Lee curiously. "You need me to get something for you?"

Lee hesitated, trying to nerve himself up, realizing that he should have asked Bran to ask Jer for him, or just waited until it was Bran's turn to go to the market. He'd gone this long without a peach; he could wait long enough to ask the person he wasn't afraid of to waste their master's money on something Lee didn't need. He wondered how expensive a peach was. Bran wouldn't get angry at him for asking, but Jer--

"You want to come with me?" Jer asked.

Lee stared at him.

"Pretty sure the master wouldn't mind if you asked him," said Jer. "You've been out of the house already. Might be fun to see the market." There was a bit of a pause before he added, rather gruffly, "I'd take care of you."

Lee was strangely tempted by the prospect of visiting the market for the first time since he'd become a slave, but the idea of having only Jer for protection, when he wasn't one hundred percent convinced he didn't need protection from Jer, was too alarming. Besides, the handsome young lord was coming over today, and Lee admitted to himself, with a slightly shamefaced shiver, that he didn't want to miss a minute of that.

"Never mind," said Jer before Lee could think of a way to refuse his offer without sounding disrespectful or ungrateful. "Just a thought. Maybe in a week or two. You need a bath," he added, looking Lee up and down again with obvious amusement. "Where's Bran? I thought he was in charge of cleaning you up."

"I d-don't know," Lee stammered, wishing fervently that he did know.

"Master's room," said Yves from the bed, and uncurled himself from the pillow, stretching luxuriously. "Hey, stud. Don't scare the kid. Bran will beat you up."

"Wasn't scaring him," said Jer, retreating to the bed and yanking Yves into his lap; Yves yawned widely and draped himself against the older man like a cat, while Lee smiled a little despite himself at the idea of Bran physically attacking Jer. "In the master's room, you said?"

"Yeah, and probably looking like Freyja on the fourth night," said Yves, squirming out of Jer's arms and swinging his feet onto the floor. "Jealousy does wonders for the master's libido."

"As if it needed any help," said Jer, while Lee stood stock-still, frozen by the word jealousy. "Think Bran will be able to walk anytime soon? Somebody needs to rinse this one off."

Lee barely heard him; he was too horrified at the thought that what he and Bran had done last night had somehow brought their master's anger down on Bran. He'd thought Yves and Jer liked Bran; how could they let it fall so casually, almost jokingly, that Bran had been punished too savagely for their play last night to walk this morning?

"Poor kid," said Yves, his eyes on Lee. "Is it just me, or did he go two or three shades paler just now?"

Jer glanced up. "Yeah, he did. What's up, Lee?"

Lee's mouth was too dry to answer.

"Oh, fuck," said Yves suddenly. "Lee, honey, I didn't mean the master was upset with Bran. He was just-- when I said jealous, I meant-- I mean, Bran being with someone else makes him--" He broke off with a grimace and said to Jer, "Help."

"Bran's fine, kid," said Jer, with a quick, amused smile at Yves. "Go see for yourself."

"Do you think they're--" Yves began.

"I think they'd both rather be interrupted than have Lee out here looking like he's about to faint," said Jer. "Come on, kid."

Before Lee could move, his hand had been gripped in Jer's strong, warm one, and he was being led down the hall towards the master's door, his heart pounding in his throat. Jer paused, listening, at the door for a moment, then opened it and nudged Lee gently inside.

Bran lay prostrate on the bed, his eyes closed, his face flushed, his curls in mad disarray. The master lay half on top of him, one arm and one leg flung across him, his cheek resting against the curve of Bran's neck, his thick dark hair spilling across the nape. Both men were naked, both more relaxed than Lee had ever thought it possible to be, even in sleep, and though Lee could see a few scattered bruises on Bran's back, they were too irregularly shaped to be whip marks and too small to be the marks of fists or boots.

"See," said Jer to Lee, and Bran stirred, making a soft, contented sound. As Lee tried to imagine what it would feel like to make that sound on waking, Holden grunted and rolled off Bran, only to yank the boy hard into his arms and strain him close, his eyes still shut; Bran made another pleased, inarticulate noise and buried his face in his master's neck.

"Now they're just showing off," said Jer, still addressing Lee, and then to the bed, "Master? You awake?"

"Depends," said Holden, his eyes still shut. "What time is it?"

"Time to give Lee a bath," said Jer; at the mention of Lee's name, Bran's eyes snapped open and he turned his head, blinking and smiling at Lee. Holden sighed and opened his eyes, too.

"Hey, kid," he said sleepily, as Bran held out a hand and Lee nearly ran towards the bed, scrambling onto it and then perching uncertainly, looking down on Holden and Bran. Both men laughed; Bran took hold of Lee's arm and tugged him gently down on the bed between himself and his master.

"Look at you," said the master to Lee, amused. "You must have had a pretty good time last night."

"Looks like Bran didn't make out so badly either," said Jer, leaning in the doorway, and Bran giggled, happy, sated, safe. Lee stared at him for a moment, then turned to his master, gazing at the older man's face so hard his eyes began to cross, then put a hand up to touch it as if he were blind. Holden held still for his touch, looking slightly puzzled but not at all displeased as Lee's cautious fingers traced the curve of his jaw, his lips, his cheekbones, his creased forehead.

"Master," he said, intently, and then couldn't think what he'd wanted to say. Thank you. This is real, isn't it? I'm not afraid.

"Master," he repeated, and laughed, suddenly, helplessly. "Master? Do you think-- could I have-- a peach?"