fic: The Wolf Prince (Pete/Patrick, AU, 2/3)
*
Still in bed, Patrick asked, "But how do you know it's me?"
He was still in bed most of the day, but he got out and did small things around the house. But just around the house; the one time he'd offered to go out and get fresh snow to melt for drinking water, Pete had actually smacked his arm and given him a lecture, then threatened to tie him to the bed. "And not that I wouldn't enjoy it, but I was preferring to save it for our honeymoon," he'd finished, and Patrick had been so embarrassed he'd taken to his bed without another word. Right now, he was darning socks.
Pete looked up from where he was cleaning out the plates they'd eaten dinner from. Patrick had to admit he was getting better at domestic things, though he could hardly get worse. "In the house?" he asked, bewildered. "I can smell you. I'd know if you were someone else cleverly disguised as Patrick."
Patrick flushed. "No," he muttered, "I mean. In the dreams. The ones that sent you here."
"Oh." Pete blinked. "I just. I do. I've had them since I was younger."
"I haven't," Patrick said. "I've only had them a few months."
Pete just nodded. "That makes sense. It doesn't -- it's magic. Magic flows through our veins; it allows us to change shape and live out a greater span. Humans don't have that same magic. You've probably only started having the dreams since I came to find you."
"But..." He flushed and sat up in bed. "It could have been anyone. There's got to be dozens of villages from your home to mine. Why--"
"I knew what you looked like when I was fifteen," Pete said. "If I were blind, I could find you. I could find you in a crowd of hundreds, or thousands, or ten thousand."
"And you..." Patrick fumbled for words. "You've done this before."
"Headed blindly into the world of men to find you and drag you home to be married?" Pete snorted. "Not hardly. No one told me there'd be menial labor. I'm just glad you don't have things to plow."
"No," Patrick said, exasperated. "I meant." He made a very vague hand gesture. "With men--"
"Oh!" Pete started. "Oh, that. Yes, I have." He frowned at Patrick. "I'm not -- it will be very good," he said, as if that were the only problem. "Maybe awkward at first, but once we get you used to being naked--"
"I don't want to have sex with you," Patrick said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Of course you do." Pete sounded so sure. "My senses are sharper than yours, remember? Your scent changes when I'm around you."
"I -- that's not--" Patrick blushed. "How can you tell whether or not I'm attracted to you by smell?"
"Not just by smell," Pete said. "There's all sorts of things -- how wide your eyes are, how fast your heartbeat. Smell's just the most obvious." He cocked his head and looked at Patrick. "For example--"
And then he was up and on the mattress, draped in Patrick's lap, arms looped around his neck. Patrick yelped and grabbed hold of Pete's waist, hoping to keep his balance so Pete didn’t fall off the edge and crack his skull. Pete didn't seem to notice; he was too busy burying his face in Patrick's neck and taking a deep breath.
"Right now," he muttered, flush against Patrick's skin, "I can hear your heart beating faster, which means you're either excited or scared. And you don't smell scared." Another breath. "Your stomach is making little noises; you're probably starting to get hungry. Your skin is bright red, your eyes are fluttering, and I can smell how aroused you are." Deep, slow sniff. "And how nervous."
Patrick gawked. "I'm not ner--"
Pete sat back enough so Patrick could see him. "Of this, what we're doing. Two men."
Patrick felt himself blush harder. "It's wrong," he said, very quietly. "That's what everyone says, anyway. So no one does it."
"Do you think it's wrong?" Pete asked, just as quiet. "Here, at home. Not in the middle of town; I understand discretion. Just here, with no one else around."
Patrick took a deep breath. No one had ever asked him that before. They'd asked if he had a wife, but not if he wanted one. They'd asked his health, and his mother's while she lived, but that was all. They'd always just assumed, which he was more than happy to encourage.
"No." Patrick's voice was still soft. "I don't think it's wrong."
"Then why are you still here?" Pete snapped. "We could leave! We could go, right now--"
"This is my home!" Patrick yelled. "I will not just leave it--"
"Patrick." Pete shifted in his lap, moving to straddle his thigh, arms still around Patrick's neck. He had very strong arms, Patrick noted absently, and strong thighs, and his back and shoulders were--
"Come with me," Pete whispered into his mouth, fingers moving up to stroke his belly. Patrick shivered but didn't move away. Even if he wanted to, he wasn't sure he could; his knees felt weak, and his cock was a stone pressed against the curve of his stomach. "Come with me, Patrick, please."
"I--it's winter!" His voice sounded strange to his own ears. He knew why, he knew it. If he could just think...
"I'll keep you warm." Pete's voice was a promise. "I'll sing you down the moon, if that's what you want. I'll teach you to hunt." He rolled his hips, gentle but firm, and grinned when Patrick made a noise. Such bright, sharp teeth.
"I can't!" Patrick shouted, shoving him away with clumsy hands. Pete fell backwards, but not off the bed. “I can't, please don't ask me again." His throat felt hot with tears and stupid besides. He reached down to pick up the socks. "I'm sorry," he added in a whisper.
Pete just looked at him. "I can wait," he said, sprawled out on the other end of the bed. "I've waited this long, I can wait a little longer." His eyes were dark. "But I see no reason for you to keep lying to me when I can take a deep breath and tell otherwise."
Patrick, his head bowed, said nothing.
Part III
When Patrick felt well enough, he insisted on heading back to the village one more time to sell his farm surplus, small though it was.
"You could keep them, you know," Pete said, watching him tie things up and stack them neatly. "How are you going to get there? You don't even own a horse!"
"I've never needed one before." That was technically true. He could have used one, certainly wanted one, but needed? No. His mother had raised him to be wholly self-reliant, and he had a strong back. If he needed a rest, he took it. And yes, he'd nearly waited too long this year -- hoping for a clear day of false spring, when the cold wouldn't let his bones ache too badly, once he returned home -- but that was his own fault. He'd take it easy tomorrow.
"I can do it," Pete offered. "I'm stronger than you." There was no smug superiority in his voice, just certainty.
Patrick bristled. "You are not!"
Wordlessly, Pete walked over to the sack and picked it up as if it weighed no more than a shirt. Patrick hadn't tried lifting it yet -- loading it was enough fun, thanks -- but experience told him he couldn't do that, not so fast and never so effortlessly.
People will talk! a voice in him yelled. They'll wonder why a stranger is in the village! And when they realize he's with you--
Then a new voice spoke, this one calm and a bit cold: As long as he shows himself off, no one will care that he's a stranger; the women will flit around him, the men will want to see his back as he leaves. They'll be so confused, they'll never think of asking where he's from.
Patrick was quiet for a moment, then said, "We need to get you into some of my clothes."
*
They'd come on a good day: the last big barter day before everyone hunkered down for full winter. It was more populated than Patrick remembered, but it should be; there were any number of farmers, like him, who lived outside the village proper and only come in to trade or sell, not to mention wandering traders who went from place to place with wagons piled high with goods.
"That's what I thought you were, at first," Patrick explained to Pete, when he first caught sight of them. "You know, before I threw the bowl at you."
"I remember," Pete said dryly. In a pair of Patrick's trousers and a shirt that was apparently left over from childhood (in the way it fit Pete's shoulders were any indication), he looked less like someone working a farm stall and more like one of the disreputable people his mother had warned him lurked in large towns. Little like a prince, at any rate. "We get them too, though not as often. Maybe once every two or three years."
"Really?" Patrick was surprised, for some reason.
"Yes, really. I don't come from another plane of being, love. Far to the north, but that's hardly the same thing." He stretched, exposing flat, tan stomach. Patrick had to fight to keep from staring. Pete noticed and grinned. "The last group came by the year before last. I got my sister a feast day dress and some books, but they didn't--"
"You have a sister?"
"A sister and a brother," Pete said, like Patrick hadn't interrupted, "both younger. Which means I'm next in line for the throne." He made a face. "I don't really want it. The whole thing seems like too much responsibility."
"You'd be good at it," Patrick argued, frowning. "You're very responsible."
Pete shrugged. "The point is," he said, "we get them, same as anybody." He stretched again. "Where's that woman with the juice? You look pale."
"I do n--"
"Never mind, I'll find her." Pete brushed his hip against Patrick's -- Patrick had given him too many lectures on being casually physical where people could see to attempt a kiss -- and vaulted over the edge of the stall, disappearing into the crowd.
*
When the sun was sinking low and Pete still hadn't returned, Patrick started to worry.
He packed up what was left that he'd brought (precious little, turnips and some sad, tiny tomatoes) and what he'd gotten (dried meat, which made him gag but kept very well over the winter; new books, seed for corn, yarn, and a new quilt for his bed), then went looking.
He asked the goodwives if they'd seen his friend -- "my cousin, really, second on my father's side, his mother will be furious if I don't send him back healthy and hale, he's getting married in the spring." They all clucked their tongues and looked sympathetic, which was good; but they hadn't seen Pete, which wasn't.
He was headed to the smithy, just to check and see, when he heard what sounded a great deal like two people kissing. Patrick stopped and tilted his head, listening.
He really should warn them, he thought, before one of the goodwives -- or, worse, the priest found them. There wasn't an inch of him that particularly wanted to see two young people in a passionate embrace, but better he stop them than someone else.
"Come on!" he whispered furiously down the alley, inching in. "I don't care what you're doing, but market's almost over. Say your goodnights and hurry before your parents spot you and start arguing over the dowry."
The pair jerked apart. Patrick wasn't entirely surprised to see that they were both men, though he was surprised when he spotted one of the traders, a man not quite his own age with tattoos not unlike Pete's, with jet-black hair that hung in a sharp wave over one eye. His trousers were unbuttoned, but Patrick couldn't see anything.
The other man was Pete.
Patrick's heart stopped.
"My father won't leave without me," the trader laughed. "I am the pride and joy of my family." His teeth, while not as sharp or white as Pete's own, were more than bright enough to make Patrick's stomach throb dully. "Go away, little village boy. Tell no one what you've seen or bear my curse upon your head."
Pete took a step forward. "Patrick--"
"Patrick?" The trader laughed again. "This is him?" He said something in a florid, delicate tongue; it sounded a little like the Latin the priest said on high holidays. "--plump bite of meat--"
Pete punched him in the mouth. Caught out, the trader flew back a few steps.
"You will not say that again," Pete said tightly. Just for a second, Patrick could see the prince: cool, arrogant, not used to being denied. "You will leave, now. We are done here."
The trader's expression softened. "But you didn't--"
"We are. Done. Here." Pete's voice was like ice. Patrick found himself staring, horrified and fascinated, at how red Pete's mouth was. Like he'd been eating berries, or sugar beets. And it was so slick--
"I'll go," Patrick said quickly. "The two of you say...whatever you need to say. Pete, you can catch up with me on the way home." And oh, it burned, but Patrick's mother would rise from the grave to wallop him if he wasn't polite to a stranger. He made himself smile and say, "It was nice to meet you, sir."
The trader smirked. "And you as well."
Patrick nodded and headed back for his supplies. Pete ran after him and caught his arm. "Patrick! Please, please listen to me--"
"Listen to what? There's nothing you can say." Gently but firmly, Patrick tugged his arm out of Pete's grip. "If you decide to stay longer, feel free. I'll leave the door unlatched."
*
The walk back was solemn, a little cramped. Patrick had purchased less with money on his mind -- he even had some coins to bring home, stored away for spring -- than Pete's strong back. His own was lacking, but he'd make do. He always had before; company or no, he saw no reason for that to change.
He'd just breasted the edge of town and started through the canopy of trees leading to his land when he heard whining near his feet. He dug around in his pocket for a strip of dried meat, tossed it to the wolf.
When they got home, Patrick shooed the wolf to lay in front of the fire while he unpacked. He put the food and books away and spread the quilt over his bed.
When he was done, Patrick put his coat back on. "I'm going for a walk."
As if prompted, the wolf leapt to its paws and went to go after him. Patrick held out a hand. "No," he said, very firm. "Stay here by the fire, where it's warm."
Patrick walked into the woods, already shivering, and thought about a great many things.
He thought about stories he'd heard as a child: handsome princes stealing village maidens, princesses sleeping for a thousand years, snarling garou-beasts raiding villages.
He thought about his brother (dead in the earth) and his father (disappeared when he was a baby). He thought about the youngest Wilson boy, who he'd once thought he loved; and Miss Asher, who was sweet and lovely, and whose eyes kept cutting to Conrad, the innkeeper's son, on the few occasions they'd spoken; and how Miss Asher had vanished with Greta, the miller's daughter, two years ago come spring.
He thought about the smirk the village boy gave him when he left that afternoon, and how red Pete's mouth had looked, like he'd been caught eating berries. He thought about how the wolf had looked at him -- all grave concern, neither fear nor anger.
He wondered, very briefly, if it would hurt, then realized it did not matter.
Then Patrick turned and walked home, crunching ice and snow beneath his feet as he went.
*
Wolf-Pete was asleep before the fire when Patrick entered. He hung his coat up and stamped his boots clean, shivering a little. He brushed a few flakes out of his hair and took his boots off, dusted off his shirt and trousers.
He stood next to the wolf and waited. When it didn't stir, he said Pete's name once, quite calmly.
Pete was alert in an instant, head wilted, whining a question: What? What's wrong?
"You win," Patrick said. "I'm tired of fighting. I've fought you -- I've fought myself my entire life. And I am tired of it." He stopped to scritch behind Pete's ear for a moment.
"Tonight," he said softly, knowing full well Pete could hear him just fine, "I am yours."
Then he stood and went into the bedroom to get ready.
*
Patrick had changed into his nightshirt and brushed his hair, only to find Pete sitting on the edge of the bed when he returned.
Patrick put the brush down. "Hello."
"You don't have to do this," Pete said, very quietly. He was, as usual, only wearing a pair of trousers. For once, Patrick let himself stare his fill. Pete was beautiful, if not as tall as Patrick imagined. His dreams made Pete taller, when in bare feet they were roughly the same height. He suddenly seemed very young.
"Yes," Patrick said, "I do. I can't have you forever--"
"You idiot, of course you can!" Pete glared at him.
"--but I can do this." Patrick reached up to unbutton his nightshirt.
Pete's hand stopped him. "You're serious," he said, after a moment. Patrick nodded. "Then there are -- this damn small village. Are you clean?"
"Am I--" Patrick stared at him, baffled. "I took a bath last night, remember? You insisted on helping."
"I always insist on helping," Pete said, and leaned forward to whisper something in Patrick's ear. "That's what I meant by--"
"I understand," Patrick said quickly. His whole head felt as red as his hair. "That's. I think so?"
Pete's voice was gentle but firm. "Go check. I need to find something slick."
Patrick stopped, half out of the room. "Why would you need to--"
"I promise I'll explain," Pete said, pointing out the door. "You worry about yourself."
"I -- yes." Patrick nodded.
"And hurry back!" Pete called, which just made Patrick blush harder.
*
When Patrick came back -- thoroughly clean and vaguely mortified -- Pete was in bed, covers pooled around his waist. Patrick opened his mouth to ask why, but stopped when he saw the trousers next to the bed.
Instead, he said, "Clean," and closed the door. "Did you find whatever you needed?"
"As close as I'm likely to around here," Pete said, holding up a small jar of hand cream. It was supposed to be for women, but it kept his hands from getting red and chapped in winter, and it wasn't like he had someone around to chide him for it. "I'm an idiot. I should have thought to bring some with me."
"You didn't think to bring clothes with you," Patrick pointed out.
"No, I--" Pete looked embarrassed. "I sort of. Convinced myself that you'd recognize me on sight and throw yourself at me."
Patrick blinked at him and said, very carefully, "No."
"Yes, I know that now." Pete shifted. "I -- it made sense at the time, shut up."
Patrick smiled a little. "So. What do I-we--"
"First," Pete said, "you come here." He patted the bed. There was a pile of sheets on the floor, Patrick realized, and right on its heels: He changed the bedding. The thought made him blush all over again.
Patrick walked over and sat on the mattress, staring at his feet. He started when he felt Pete's hair -- grown out, now, strangely dashing -- brush his shoulder.
"It's all right," Pete murmured. Pete was smelling him, Patrick suddenly knew, more because of the soft breath against his skin than because Pete was being ostentatious about it. He might have been just nuzzling, were he not garou.
"You want to do this," he murmured in Patrick's ear. "Though you're scared."
Patrick swallowed. "Yes."
"It's perfectly all right to be scared," Pete said. "I was, my first time. Or I would've been, if I'd had time to think about it." His smile was rueful. "It was a bit...fast."
"I only get to do this once," Patrick said softly. "I want it to be good. I don't - is that selfish?"
"No." Pete shook his head. "And you can do it as often as you want! Do I have to get out of bed and make you a little sign?" He went to throw the covers back.
"No!" Patrick yelped. He caught a glimpse of firm, strong thigh and hip before he settled the sheets back into place. His heart started racing. "No, that's -- fine, yes, a hundred times."
Pete raised an eyebrow. "That'd take some time," he said. "I'm good, but I'm not really speedy. I prefer slow and steady--"
"Oh for god's sake," Patrick snapped, and lifted the nightshirt up and off, tossing it across the room.
Pete stared at him.
Patrick flushed and folded his arms across his chest. He wasn't as -- streamlined as Pete, and it was very drafty, and he'd never been comfortable being entirely naked, even around himself. But they weren't getting anywhere just talking, or so it seemed.
Pete kept staring.
"Yes, fine," Patrick said, exasperated, "maybe it's not what you thought. But I can't be that bad. Village wives say I'm decent marriage material, and I can't help but notice you aren't speaking."
Pete kept staring.
More to the point, Pete and his very focused expression kept staring. His pupils were very dark, Patrick noticed, and he was taking very deep breaths, and shifting against the bed sheets, hand on his thigh, very close to his--
Patrick flushed.
"Patrick," Pete said. Patrick had never heard him use that tone of voice before, soft and tender and eager all at once. "Patrick."
"I. Yes, what?" Patrick shifted, wishing he was the one under the sheets.
"Come here."
Very slowly, Patrick inched closer. Inch. Inch. In-
"Patrick." And then Pete was kneeling on the bed, close enough that their thighs brushed. He was maybe the most serious Patrick had ever seen him. "You will not regret this, I promise."
Patrick gaped. "Who said I'd regret it? I never--"
And then Pete was kissing him, hands firm on Patrick's shoulders, pulling them both down to the bed.
*
Patrick knew, perhaps a bit vaguely, what men and women did together. His mother had explained it to him when he was younger, though mostly using words like "duty" and "expectation". She hadn't been at all forthcoming about the details; the one time he asked, her mouth had slipped into a thin line and he'd been sent out to chop wood, which was his most hated chore. He hadn't asked again after that, though by the time he was old enough to want more knowledge on the subject, he was reasonably sure he'd never take a wife; the point was moot.
He had an even more vague idea of what two men were supposed to do together, mostly because of the instructions Pete had given him. Regardless of how it made his stomach tight with anticipation, it still seemed very undignified.
That disappeared when Pete pressed the jar of cream into his hand and told him, smiling a little, what it was for. Then it was undignified and strangely thrilling.
There was a moment of hesitation when he reached down and pressed a finger inside Pete, between his buttocks: how could anything so uncomfortable be pleasing? But then Pete was arching his back and making soft noises like he couldn't stop himself, and Patrick forgot all about hesitating. He eased in another finger, then another. He was about to go for four when Pete stopped him with a hand to his wrist, back already tense with pleasure, mouth laughing. "Any more and I'll finish before we've started," he said, still laughing, and grinned when Patrick flushed. "I'm more than ready for you." A glance back over his shoulder at Patrick's erection. "...maybe."
Another moment's hesitation: when he slid inside, holding totally still at Pete's murmur. "A moment," Pete gasped, back taut like a bowstring, "a moment, that's all--" He let out a long breath and sighed, leaned his head back to touch Patrick's shoulder. "Yes," he whispered, "yes, go ahead."
Patrick found he couldn't move. "I don't want to hurt you," he whispered back. His cock felt enormous, scalding; if he moved now, surely he'd hurt Pete somehow, maybe terribly. "What if--"
"Please," Pete gasped, and that was more than enough for Patrick.
His memories got lost after that. Everything was tight and warm and good and slick enough to move, like some kind of dream. Pete wasn't even saying words anymore, just panting and making sounds Patrick had never heard before. But he got the gist of them; none sounded pained, except when Patrick slowed down enough to get a few seconds of control over himself.
"Stop," Pete said after a few moments. His face was tight with concentration. "Patrick, stop fighting it. Let it happen."
Patrick froze. "I can't," he said softly. "I - what if something happens?" "Something" was vague at best, but he'd heard his mother's loosely-worded stories of the horrors of the bedroom. Maybe it would be just as bad for two men, maybe worse. What if--
Pete just laughed. "The only thing that'll happen is this," he said, and did something with his muscles that made Patrick spasm and thrust inside him, hard enough to almost hurt. The world was too large and too small all at once; everything was narrowed down to this bed, the circle of his arms and what lay inside them.
"Oh, yes," Pete said, laughing again, joyous, and brought Patrick 's fingers down, laced with his own, to curl around his own cock. Patrick whimpered and thrust faster, fingers moving blindly, trying to bring Pete the same pleasure he was feeling. "Yes, Patrick, yes, don't stop, don't--"
And then Pete was burying his face in Patrick's throat, gasping and spilling over their fingers. The smell of it, the glisten of it on their skin, was so much like his own and so not that it ripped Patrick open and spread him out, a mad, rutting thing on clean sheets.
When Patrick could think again, he was sprawled against Pete's chest. Pete's damp fingers were carding through his hair, his breath warm against Patrick's cheek.
"That was sex," he murmured, smiling. "Was it so scary?"
"Yes," Patrick said honestly, taking a deep breath. "But not. Not wrong." He wanted to say more, he really did, but that seemed the extent of his words just now.
Pete seemed to understand, though, just nodding. "You should sleep now," he said, "if you're tired."
"'m not tired," Patrick said, yawning. He tightened his arms around Pete's waist.
"No," Pete said in his ear, "not a bit." He scratched his fingers along Patrick's scalp. "Sleep. We'll talk in the morning."
Patrick meant to respond to that, he really did, but he was already drowsing.
*
The next morning, Patrick let himself panic for exactly ten seconds.
What had he *done*? He had lain with another man, the way he would with a woman -- with his *wife*, no less, if he were ever to marry. Worst of all, he'd done it with a monster, a garou -- a prince of the garou. It was a miracle he hadn't been eaten during the night. The creature had played foul witchery on him: some spell, surely, to make him do such a thing. He would never--
Beside him, Pete yawned. "G'd mornin'," he said sleepily, scrubbing his hands across his face. He looked very young, and exhausted besides.
--never doubt again, Patrick thought, and smiled at him. "Good morning. How did you sleep?"
"Like I had sex with a commoner," Pete said, and burst out laughing at the look on his face. "Patrick! I'm kidding. I slept soundly."
"Yes," Patrick said awkwardly, "that's. That's good." He started to sit up, then realized the sheets would be around his waist and thought better of it.
Pete's smile was soft, a little sad. It made him look older. "You regret it, then."
"No!" Patrick yelled. "--yes. I don't regret it, exactly, but it's very -- different." He glanced at Pete's face, then sat up. "A long time ago--" deep breath "--when I realized I liked men, I knew I would never marry. I could not do that to myself, or someone else. So I'd live alone, and never -- do what we did last night," he said, only flushing a little. "The priests forbid it unless you're married."
"That will never be anything but asinine to me," Pete muttered. "So you just, what. Thought you'd live and die alone, some lonely old man in the woods?"
Patrick shrugged. "Yes."
Pete gaped for another minute, then narrowed his jaw. "That's not going to happen," he said. "You know that, don't you?"
Patrick just smiled. "You cannot stay here," he said, gentle as he could. "You must go back to your people eventually."
"Yes," Pete said, "I do." His gaze was fever-bright. "And you can come with me."
This time, it was Patrick's turn to gape. "What?"
"Come with me," Pete said again. "You will never want for anything. You will be revered as royalty, and none will stand against you. You can learn, if you wish: philosophy, art, magic, other languages. You can keep farming, or explore tombs -- whatever you want, it will be yours. Anything, everything you want, in all the world." He colored a little and added, "And you would have me."
Patrick's mouth moved soundlessly. "I ca-what about the farm? I can't just let it lie fallow."
"You hate it here," Pete said bluntly. "You hate its small minds, its distrust of things that are different. You hate that instead of staring at boys, you hole yourself away for fear of being hurt. Or worse."
Patrick's mouth thinned. "It's my choice."
Pete nodded. "Yes," he said. "And now you have another."
Patrick closed his eyes and thought. He'd lived here all his life; his mother was buried at the far left edge of the property, near the large border rock. He had no real friends, no family to abandon; someone would find the house empty, or they would not. It would be none of his concern. It was excellent land; it would not be abandoned for too long, he thought.
And he could learn! He could see the world, or at least another part of it, and be more than just a farmer. There would be books -- books! Books he'd never heard of, books he had, books not yet written! He could learn another language, or an instrument.
And best of all, he'd be with Pete -- Pete, who was even now watching him narrowly, unsure of what he'd say. Pete, who had actually blushed once or twice the night before, which Patrick hadn't thought possible. Pete, who'd traveled almost a thousand miles to find him, because of some dreams he'd had.
Pete, who loved him.
"Would I have to be a wolf?" Patrick finally said, frowning. "I don't know that I'd want that."
"It would be your decision," Pete said. He didn't look like he dared believe it. "Not everyone does. Most do, but not all."
Patrick bit his lip. "I - but you walked. How would we get there? Almost a thousand miles--"
"We could take a carriage," Pete offered. "I assume you'd want to bring some things with you, like your clothes and books."
Patrick blinked. "I hadn't thought of it," he admitted. "It would be a shame to leave them behind." More the books than the clothes; even his fanciest was showing threadbare in places.
"We'll leave tomorrow," Pete said, "if I can find somewhere in the village to rent one."
"There are places," Patrick said. "All right, place, but it's there." He paused, then reached out and stroked Pete's arm, very gently. "Do you -- could we wait another day?"
"If you want," Pete said, frowning. "Why?"
Patrick's fingers moved over, teasing one of Pete's nipples. "Um," he said. "I thought we could--"
Pete gaped at him for a moment. "Yesterday morning, you were flustered when I didn't wear a shirt." He settled his hands around Patrick's waist. "You have changed."
"Not entirely," Patrick said. "I still wish you'd wear a shirt indoors. Magic or not, you're going to get a chill, and it's entirely the wrong time of year for--"
"Patrick," Pete said, laughing, and tugged the blankets over their heads.
*
Pete left after breakfast the next morning -- terrible porridge (Patrick) and fresh-killed game (Pete) -- to go to town and hire a carriage. Patrick offered to go with him, but Pete just shook his head.
"I remember how to get to the village itself, and you've given me directions to the shop," he said, shrugging into one of Patrick's shirts. (Incredibly, all of Patrick's clothes fit Pete, who took it as a good omen. Even more unfairly, they looked excellent on him. Patrick would have complained if he wasn't so busy staring.) "Your village is small, love. 'The third shop past the smithy' shouldn't be hard to find."
"But they don't know you," Patrick protested, sitting up in bed. He flushed when Pete's eyes touched him, but made no mood to cover himself. "You're a stranger. They -- we don't take kindly to strangers."
"Some might remember me from yesterday," Pete said, buttoning his borrowed trousers. "And if they don't, well, I'm a stranger with money. You'd be surprised how fast that'll warm people up."
"Not around here," Patrick said. It might actually make them more suspicious. He started to get out of bed.
Pete got to him first. "Stay here," he said, "and sleep. If you want to do something, pack what you want to take with us."
It wouldn't be a lot. Patrick sighed. "If you're sure--"
"I'm very sure." Pete tucked the shirt in and wrapped Patrick's feast day coat around himself, then leaned in to kiss his lover's mouth. "Stay in bed."
"I can't pack if I'm in bed," Patrick pointed out, sinking back against the mattress. He tugged the comforter up over himself.
"No," Pete said. "But you can do other things." He leered.
Patrick pointed at the door. "Go," he said, "before I delay you further." He leaned back.
"Oh, no," Pete said, laughing. "You started this, remember?" He started unbuttoning his shirt. "I really should come back there--"
"Go." Patrick pointed at the door again. "I promise I'll be here when you come back, packed and ready to go."
Pete sighed. "If you insist," he said, buttoning the shirt back up.
Patrick just smiled 'til he was out the door, then burrowed back under the covers. Maybe just a quick nap...
*
When Patrick finally made it out of bed, he put on a pair of trousers and puttered around a bit aimlessly. He made himself some tea and took out his two traveling bags, which -- as far as he knew -- had never been used by either of his parents. They were, he realized with some dismay, not as large as he remembered. He'd just have to pack carefully, then, and not let himself be rushed.
The furnishings would have to stay; not that he minded, or cared. Doubtless Pete's family had finer things wherever they were going. The bedding could mostly stay too, save the comforter; that, he wanted to take with him. He wasn't sure whether to leave his clothes or not. All of them were thin in places, and plain, but it seemed wrong to expect a new wardrobe just because he was -- what?
Patrick stopped, frowning. Were they married now? That was what the priest in town made men and women do if they were caught doing what he and Pete had done (six times in two days), but he didn't think it counted if you were both men, or if one of you was magic. He decided to ask Pete about garou custom when he got back, and reached for a shirt.
Someone knocked.
Patrick frowned and slipped the shirt on, then made his way to the door. "I told you, it's not as if you need a--" he started, opening it.
There were three men standing outside, staring at him expressionlessly. The priest made four. He was dressed as if it was one of the high holidays, from his long robe and high collar to his wide-brimmed hat.
"Goodman Stump," he said politely. "May we come in?"
"I--" Patrick said. The men brushed right past him. His jaw felt tight. "Please," he muttered, "come in."
"Thank you," the priest said. "We must speak to you, Goodman Stump. It is a matter of some urgency."
Patrick blinked. "Of course," he said. "What is the ma--"
"Something's gotten into my chickens," one of the men said. He was standing right in Patrick's face and looked, as all the men did, vaguely familiar.
Patrick blinked again. "What?"
"My chickens. Something's got in and et them all up."
"His chickens," another man said. "I've lost two head of cattle this week. Some damn fool--" his glare didn't leave a lot of guessing room "--done opened a wolf trap and let him in."
"I did not!" Patrick said, automatically, and tried to remember. Had he? He didn't think so. Just Pete, but Pete had stuck to rabbits and small game -- squirrels, other rodents -- when he hunted; Patrick had seen him. Maybe he hadn't reset the trap when he'd let Pete ou--
--oh, hell, this was his fault. He hadn't reset the trap, and a real wolf had gotten in. "I'm sorry," he said, wincing. "I accidentally -- there was a rabbit caught in it a few weeks ago. I rescued it and tried to save it, but it never recovered." Looking guilty wasn't something he needed help with, he knew. "I forgot to reset the trap. I'm sorry."
There was a silence.
"Goodman Robin says he's seen you out here," the priest finally said. His voice seemed...cooler, somehow. "With a wolf."
Patrick gaped.
"For some time now," the priest added. "Letting it sleep indoors, even, which is a bit strange."
"He was givin' it orders," one of the men muttered. The other two nodded. "Like -- like a witch or something."
"The only order I was giving was to piss outside," Patrick said, "and that one took him awhile. He's a dog, not a wolf."
The priest's smile was thin. "Part dog, perhaps. But most of him is a foul wolf-beast, sent here to tempt you to sin--"
"Now wait just a minute!"
"--and you have succumbed, Goodman Stump," he finished. "Given in to your base desires and had knowledge of the workings of this thing."
He meant collusion, Patrick knew; that he'd selected these men for grudges he held against them, and taken them out accordingly. But on "base desires", all he could think of was the silk of Pete's back against his fingers, and how it felt to slide inside him; and at the idea that he should be ashamed of that, his temper bloomed.
"I did no such thing," Patrick said coldly. "I freed a rabbit, I'll admit. I forgot to close the trap after, I'll admit that too. I got a dog -- a dog, not a wolf -- to keep me company here in the woods, where I live alone. If a wolf has come in, I am truly sorry, but I did not knowingly let it in. Call me a fool if you will, but not that I did such a thing maliciously."
He pointed at the door. "And I think you should leave my home. Now."
There was another silence. The priest met his eyes; Patrick matched them and did not look away.
"We will discuss this again, Goodman Stump," the priest said, and turned towards the door.
Next to the bed, one of the men yelled, "Shit! He's had company!"
Patrick and the priest both turned around at that.
The slightest of the men -- maybe not even Patrick's age, but if you were married, you counted as a man -- had pulled the sheets and comforter back. The two of them had spilled too much seed between them to be properly accounted for by just one man, sinful dreams or not. And then the blood--
("I cannot believe," Patrick started, fuming.
"It's fine," Pete said. He wasn't laughing, but his voice was suspiciously bright. "It is, Patrick. It happens. Are you all right? You're not -- are you sore?"
Patrick shifted, frowning. "I'm not comfortable," he said slowly. "But I'm not in pain, either. Mostly I feel...empty?"
Pete beamed. "What a coincidence!" he said, reaching for Patrick. "So do I.")
"You have lain with a man," the priest said. All pretense of politeness or civility was gone, now. "You have fornicated with him as you would with a woman, hands and mouths in unclean places--"
"I have n--" All right, mostly untrue. "It's not unclean. Just...different. It doesn't mean I set wolves on anyone, or--"
"Wolves!" the skinny man yelled. "More than one! He summoned a pack of them!"
Oh, for-- Patrick walked over to the skinny man and shook him by the shoulders. "I did not--"
"Don't you touch my brother!" another of the men shouted.
Then something hit Patrick in the back of the head, hard, and the world fell away.
*
Part Three
Still in bed, Patrick asked, "But how do you know it's me?"
He was still in bed most of the day, but he got out and did small things around the house. But just around the house; the one time he'd offered to go out and get fresh snow to melt for drinking water, Pete had actually smacked his arm and given him a lecture, then threatened to tie him to the bed. "And not that I wouldn't enjoy it, but I was preferring to save it for our honeymoon," he'd finished, and Patrick had been so embarrassed he'd taken to his bed without another word. Right now, he was darning socks.
Pete looked up from where he was cleaning out the plates they'd eaten dinner from. Patrick had to admit he was getting better at domestic things, though he could hardly get worse. "In the house?" he asked, bewildered. "I can smell you. I'd know if you were someone else cleverly disguised as Patrick."
Patrick flushed. "No," he muttered, "I mean. In the dreams. The ones that sent you here."
"Oh." Pete blinked. "I just. I do. I've had them since I was younger."
"I haven't," Patrick said. "I've only had them a few months."
Pete just nodded. "That makes sense. It doesn't -- it's magic. Magic flows through our veins; it allows us to change shape and live out a greater span. Humans don't have that same magic. You've probably only started having the dreams since I came to find you."
"But..." He flushed and sat up in bed. "It could have been anyone. There's got to be dozens of villages from your home to mine. Why--"
"I knew what you looked like when I was fifteen," Pete said. "If I were blind, I could find you. I could find you in a crowd of hundreds, or thousands, or ten thousand."
"And you..." Patrick fumbled for words. "You've done this before."
"Headed blindly into the world of men to find you and drag you home to be married?" Pete snorted. "Not hardly. No one told me there'd be menial labor. I'm just glad you don't have things to plow."
"No," Patrick said, exasperated. "I meant." He made a very vague hand gesture. "With men--"
"Oh!" Pete started. "Oh, that. Yes, I have." He frowned at Patrick. "I'm not -- it will be very good," he said, as if that were the only problem. "Maybe awkward at first, but once we get you used to being naked--"
"I don't want to have sex with you," Patrick said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Of course you do." Pete sounded so sure. "My senses are sharper than yours, remember? Your scent changes when I'm around you."
"I -- that's not--" Patrick blushed. "How can you tell whether or not I'm attracted to you by smell?"
"Not just by smell," Pete said. "There's all sorts of things -- how wide your eyes are, how fast your heartbeat. Smell's just the most obvious." He cocked his head and looked at Patrick. "For example--"
And then he was up and on the mattress, draped in Patrick's lap, arms looped around his neck. Patrick yelped and grabbed hold of Pete's waist, hoping to keep his balance so Pete didn’t fall off the edge and crack his skull. Pete didn't seem to notice; he was too busy burying his face in Patrick's neck and taking a deep breath.
"Right now," he muttered, flush against Patrick's skin, "I can hear your heart beating faster, which means you're either excited or scared. And you don't smell scared." Another breath. "Your stomach is making little noises; you're probably starting to get hungry. Your skin is bright red, your eyes are fluttering, and I can smell how aroused you are." Deep, slow sniff. "And how nervous."
Patrick gawked. "I'm not ner--"
Pete sat back enough so Patrick could see him. "Of this, what we're doing. Two men."
Patrick felt himself blush harder. "It's wrong," he said, very quietly. "That's what everyone says, anyway. So no one does it."
"Do you think it's wrong?" Pete asked, just as quiet. "Here, at home. Not in the middle of town; I understand discretion. Just here, with no one else around."
Patrick took a deep breath. No one had ever asked him that before. They'd asked if he had a wife, but not if he wanted one. They'd asked his health, and his mother's while she lived, but that was all. They'd always just assumed, which he was more than happy to encourage.
"No." Patrick's voice was still soft. "I don't think it's wrong."
"Then why are you still here?" Pete snapped. "We could leave! We could go, right now--"
"This is my home!" Patrick yelled. "I will not just leave it--"
"Patrick." Pete shifted in his lap, moving to straddle his thigh, arms still around Patrick's neck. He had very strong arms, Patrick noted absently, and strong thighs, and his back and shoulders were--
"Come with me," Pete whispered into his mouth, fingers moving up to stroke his belly. Patrick shivered but didn't move away. Even if he wanted to, he wasn't sure he could; his knees felt weak, and his cock was a stone pressed against the curve of his stomach. "Come with me, Patrick, please."
"I--it's winter!" His voice sounded strange to his own ears. He knew why, he knew it. If he could just think...
"I'll keep you warm." Pete's voice was a promise. "I'll sing you down the moon, if that's what you want. I'll teach you to hunt." He rolled his hips, gentle but firm, and grinned when Patrick made a noise. Such bright, sharp teeth.
"I can't!" Patrick shouted, shoving him away with clumsy hands. Pete fell backwards, but not off the bed. “I can't, please don't ask me again." His throat felt hot with tears and stupid besides. He reached down to pick up the socks. "I'm sorry," he added in a whisper.
Pete just looked at him. "I can wait," he said, sprawled out on the other end of the bed. "I've waited this long, I can wait a little longer." His eyes were dark. "But I see no reason for you to keep lying to me when I can take a deep breath and tell otherwise."
Patrick, his head bowed, said nothing.
Part III
When Patrick felt well enough, he insisted on heading back to the village one more time to sell his farm surplus, small though it was.
"You could keep them, you know," Pete said, watching him tie things up and stack them neatly. "How are you going to get there? You don't even own a horse!"
"I've never needed one before." That was technically true. He could have used one, certainly wanted one, but needed? No. His mother had raised him to be wholly self-reliant, and he had a strong back. If he needed a rest, he took it. And yes, he'd nearly waited too long this year -- hoping for a clear day of false spring, when the cold wouldn't let his bones ache too badly, once he returned home -- but that was his own fault. He'd take it easy tomorrow.
"I can do it," Pete offered. "I'm stronger than you." There was no smug superiority in his voice, just certainty.
Patrick bristled. "You are not!"
Wordlessly, Pete walked over to the sack and picked it up as if it weighed no more than a shirt. Patrick hadn't tried lifting it yet -- loading it was enough fun, thanks -- but experience told him he couldn't do that, not so fast and never so effortlessly.
People will talk! a voice in him yelled. They'll wonder why a stranger is in the village! And when they realize he's with you--
Then a new voice spoke, this one calm and a bit cold: As long as he shows himself off, no one will care that he's a stranger; the women will flit around him, the men will want to see his back as he leaves. They'll be so confused, they'll never think of asking where he's from.
Patrick was quiet for a moment, then said, "We need to get you into some of my clothes."
*
They'd come on a good day: the last big barter day before everyone hunkered down for full winter. It was more populated than Patrick remembered, but it should be; there were any number of farmers, like him, who lived outside the village proper and only come in to trade or sell, not to mention wandering traders who went from place to place with wagons piled high with goods.
"That's what I thought you were, at first," Patrick explained to Pete, when he first caught sight of them. "You know, before I threw the bowl at you."
"I remember," Pete said dryly. In a pair of Patrick's trousers and a shirt that was apparently left over from childhood (in the way it fit Pete's shoulders were any indication), he looked less like someone working a farm stall and more like one of the disreputable people his mother had warned him lurked in large towns. Little like a prince, at any rate. "We get them too, though not as often. Maybe once every two or three years."
"Really?" Patrick was surprised, for some reason.
"Yes, really. I don't come from another plane of being, love. Far to the north, but that's hardly the same thing." He stretched, exposing flat, tan stomach. Patrick had to fight to keep from staring. Pete noticed and grinned. "The last group came by the year before last. I got my sister a feast day dress and some books, but they didn't--"
"You have a sister?"
"A sister and a brother," Pete said, like Patrick hadn't interrupted, "both younger. Which means I'm next in line for the throne." He made a face. "I don't really want it. The whole thing seems like too much responsibility."
"You'd be good at it," Patrick argued, frowning. "You're very responsible."
Pete shrugged. "The point is," he said, "we get them, same as anybody." He stretched again. "Where's that woman with the juice? You look pale."
"I do n--"
"Never mind, I'll find her." Pete brushed his hip against Patrick's -- Patrick had given him too many lectures on being casually physical where people could see to attempt a kiss -- and vaulted over the edge of the stall, disappearing into the crowd.
*
When the sun was sinking low and Pete still hadn't returned, Patrick started to worry.
He packed up what was left that he'd brought (precious little, turnips and some sad, tiny tomatoes) and what he'd gotten (dried meat, which made him gag but kept very well over the winter; new books, seed for corn, yarn, and a new quilt for his bed), then went looking.
He asked the goodwives if they'd seen his friend -- "my cousin, really, second on my father's side, his mother will be furious if I don't send him back healthy and hale, he's getting married in the spring." They all clucked their tongues and looked sympathetic, which was good; but they hadn't seen Pete, which wasn't.
He was headed to the smithy, just to check and see, when he heard what sounded a great deal like two people kissing. Patrick stopped and tilted his head, listening.
He really should warn them, he thought, before one of the goodwives -- or, worse, the priest found them. There wasn't an inch of him that particularly wanted to see two young people in a passionate embrace, but better he stop them than someone else.
"Come on!" he whispered furiously down the alley, inching in. "I don't care what you're doing, but market's almost over. Say your goodnights and hurry before your parents spot you and start arguing over the dowry."
The pair jerked apart. Patrick wasn't entirely surprised to see that they were both men, though he was surprised when he spotted one of the traders, a man not quite his own age with tattoos not unlike Pete's, with jet-black hair that hung in a sharp wave over one eye. His trousers were unbuttoned, but Patrick couldn't see anything.
The other man was Pete.
Patrick's heart stopped.
"My father won't leave without me," the trader laughed. "I am the pride and joy of my family." His teeth, while not as sharp or white as Pete's own, were more than bright enough to make Patrick's stomach throb dully. "Go away, little village boy. Tell no one what you've seen or bear my curse upon your head."
Pete took a step forward. "Patrick--"
"Patrick?" The trader laughed again. "This is him?" He said something in a florid, delicate tongue; it sounded a little like the Latin the priest said on high holidays. "--plump bite of meat--"
Pete punched him in the mouth. Caught out, the trader flew back a few steps.
"You will not say that again," Pete said tightly. Just for a second, Patrick could see the prince: cool, arrogant, not used to being denied. "You will leave, now. We are done here."
The trader's expression softened. "But you didn't--"
"We are. Done. Here." Pete's voice was like ice. Patrick found himself staring, horrified and fascinated, at how red Pete's mouth was. Like he'd been eating berries, or sugar beets. And it was so slick--
"I'll go," Patrick said quickly. "The two of you say...whatever you need to say. Pete, you can catch up with me on the way home." And oh, it burned, but Patrick's mother would rise from the grave to wallop him if he wasn't polite to a stranger. He made himself smile and say, "It was nice to meet you, sir."
The trader smirked. "And you as well."
Patrick nodded and headed back for his supplies. Pete ran after him and caught his arm. "Patrick! Please, please listen to me--"
"Listen to what? There's nothing you can say." Gently but firmly, Patrick tugged his arm out of Pete's grip. "If you decide to stay longer, feel free. I'll leave the door unlatched."
*
The walk back was solemn, a little cramped. Patrick had purchased less with money on his mind -- he even had some coins to bring home, stored away for spring -- than Pete's strong back. His own was lacking, but he'd make do. He always had before; company or no, he saw no reason for that to change.
He'd just breasted the edge of town and started through the canopy of trees leading to his land when he heard whining near his feet. He dug around in his pocket for a strip of dried meat, tossed it to the wolf.
When they got home, Patrick shooed the wolf to lay in front of the fire while he unpacked. He put the food and books away and spread the quilt over his bed.
When he was done, Patrick put his coat back on. "I'm going for a walk."
As if prompted, the wolf leapt to its paws and went to go after him. Patrick held out a hand. "No," he said, very firm. "Stay here by the fire, where it's warm."
Patrick walked into the woods, already shivering, and thought about a great many things.
He thought about stories he'd heard as a child: handsome princes stealing village maidens, princesses sleeping for a thousand years, snarling garou-beasts raiding villages.
He thought about his brother (dead in the earth) and his father (disappeared when he was a baby). He thought about the youngest Wilson boy, who he'd once thought he loved; and Miss Asher, who was sweet and lovely, and whose eyes kept cutting to Conrad, the innkeeper's son, on the few occasions they'd spoken; and how Miss Asher had vanished with Greta, the miller's daughter, two years ago come spring.
He thought about the smirk the village boy gave him when he left that afternoon, and how red Pete's mouth had looked, like he'd been caught eating berries. He thought about how the wolf had looked at him -- all grave concern, neither fear nor anger.
He wondered, very briefly, if it would hurt, then realized it did not matter.
Then Patrick turned and walked home, crunching ice and snow beneath his feet as he went.
*
Wolf-Pete was asleep before the fire when Patrick entered. He hung his coat up and stamped his boots clean, shivering a little. He brushed a few flakes out of his hair and took his boots off, dusted off his shirt and trousers.
He stood next to the wolf and waited. When it didn't stir, he said Pete's name once, quite calmly.
Pete was alert in an instant, head wilted, whining a question: What? What's wrong?
"You win," Patrick said. "I'm tired of fighting. I've fought you -- I've fought myself my entire life. And I am tired of it." He stopped to scritch behind Pete's ear for a moment.
"Tonight," he said softly, knowing full well Pete could hear him just fine, "I am yours."
Then he stood and went into the bedroom to get ready.
*
Patrick had changed into his nightshirt and brushed his hair, only to find Pete sitting on the edge of the bed when he returned.
Patrick put the brush down. "Hello."
"You don't have to do this," Pete said, very quietly. He was, as usual, only wearing a pair of trousers. For once, Patrick let himself stare his fill. Pete was beautiful, if not as tall as Patrick imagined. His dreams made Pete taller, when in bare feet they were roughly the same height. He suddenly seemed very young.
"Yes," Patrick said, "I do. I can't have you forever--"
"You idiot, of course you can!" Pete glared at him.
"--but I can do this." Patrick reached up to unbutton his nightshirt.
Pete's hand stopped him. "You're serious," he said, after a moment. Patrick nodded. "Then there are -- this damn small village. Are you clean?"
"Am I--" Patrick stared at him, baffled. "I took a bath last night, remember? You insisted on helping."
"I always insist on helping," Pete said, and leaned forward to whisper something in Patrick's ear. "That's what I meant by--"
"I understand," Patrick said quickly. His whole head felt as red as his hair. "That's. I think so?"
Pete's voice was gentle but firm. "Go check. I need to find something slick."
Patrick stopped, half out of the room. "Why would you need to--"
"I promise I'll explain," Pete said, pointing out the door. "You worry about yourself."
"I -- yes." Patrick nodded.
"And hurry back!" Pete called, which just made Patrick blush harder.
*
When Patrick came back -- thoroughly clean and vaguely mortified -- Pete was in bed, covers pooled around his waist. Patrick opened his mouth to ask why, but stopped when he saw the trousers next to the bed.
Instead, he said, "Clean," and closed the door. "Did you find whatever you needed?"
"As close as I'm likely to around here," Pete said, holding up a small jar of hand cream. It was supposed to be for women, but it kept his hands from getting red and chapped in winter, and it wasn't like he had someone around to chide him for it. "I'm an idiot. I should have thought to bring some with me."
"You didn't think to bring clothes with you," Patrick pointed out.
"No, I--" Pete looked embarrassed. "I sort of. Convinced myself that you'd recognize me on sight and throw yourself at me."
Patrick blinked at him and said, very carefully, "No."
"Yes, I know that now." Pete shifted. "I -- it made sense at the time, shut up."
Patrick smiled a little. "So. What do I-we--"
"First," Pete said, "you come here." He patted the bed. There was a pile of sheets on the floor, Patrick realized, and right on its heels: He changed the bedding. The thought made him blush all over again.
Patrick walked over and sat on the mattress, staring at his feet. He started when he felt Pete's hair -- grown out, now, strangely dashing -- brush his shoulder.
"It's all right," Pete murmured. Pete was smelling him, Patrick suddenly knew, more because of the soft breath against his skin than because Pete was being ostentatious about it. He might have been just nuzzling, were he not garou.
"You want to do this," he murmured in Patrick's ear. "Though you're scared."
Patrick swallowed. "Yes."
"It's perfectly all right to be scared," Pete said. "I was, my first time. Or I would've been, if I'd had time to think about it." His smile was rueful. "It was a bit...fast."
"I only get to do this once," Patrick said softly. "I want it to be good. I don't - is that selfish?"
"No." Pete shook his head. "And you can do it as often as you want! Do I have to get out of bed and make you a little sign?" He went to throw the covers back.
"No!" Patrick yelped. He caught a glimpse of firm, strong thigh and hip before he settled the sheets back into place. His heart started racing. "No, that's -- fine, yes, a hundred times."
Pete raised an eyebrow. "That'd take some time," he said. "I'm good, but I'm not really speedy. I prefer slow and steady--"
"Oh for god's sake," Patrick snapped, and lifted the nightshirt up and off, tossing it across the room.
Pete stared at him.
Patrick flushed and folded his arms across his chest. He wasn't as -- streamlined as Pete, and it was very drafty, and he'd never been comfortable being entirely naked, even around himself. But they weren't getting anywhere just talking, or so it seemed.
Pete kept staring.
"Yes, fine," Patrick said, exasperated, "maybe it's not what you thought. But I can't be that bad. Village wives say I'm decent marriage material, and I can't help but notice you aren't speaking."
Pete kept staring.
More to the point, Pete and his very focused expression kept staring. His pupils were very dark, Patrick noticed, and he was taking very deep breaths, and shifting against the bed sheets, hand on his thigh, very close to his--
Patrick flushed.
"Patrick," Pete said. Patrick had never heard him use that tone of voice before, soft and tender and eager all at once. "Patrick."
"I. Yes, what?" Patrick shifted, wishing he was the one under the sheets.
"Come here."
Very slowly, Patrick inched closer. Inch. Inch. In-
"Patrick." And then Pete was kneeling on the bed, close enough that their thighs brushed. He was maybe the most serious Patrick had ever seen him. "You will not regret this, I promise."
Patrick gaped. "Who said I'd regret it? I never--"
And then Pete was kissing him, hands firm on Patrick's shoulders, pulling them both down to the bed.
*
Patrick knew, perhaps a bit vaguely, what men and women did together. His mother had explained it to him when he was younger, though mostly using words like "duty" and "expectation". She hadn't been at all forthcoming about the details; the one time he asked, her mouth had slipped into a thin line and he'd been sent out to chop wood, which was his most hated chore. He hadn't asked again after that, though by the time he was old enough to want more knowledge on the subject, he was reasonably sure he'd never take a wife; the point was moot.
He had an even more vague idea of what two men were supposed to do together, mostly because of the instructions Pete had given him. Regardless of how it made his stomach tight with anticipation, it still seemed very undignified.
That disappeared when Pete pressed the jar of cream into his hand and told him, smiling a little, what it was for. Then it was undignified and strangely thrilling.
There was a moment of hesitation when he reached down and pressed a finger inside Pete, between his buttocks: how could anything so uncomfortable be pleasing? But then Pete was arching his back and making soft noises like he couldn't stop himself, and Patrick forgot all about hesitating. He eased in another finger, then another. He was about to go for four when Pete stopped him with a hand to his wrist, back already tense with pleasure, mouth laughing. "Any more and I'll finish before we've started," he said, still laughing, and grinned when Patrick flushed. "I'm more than ready for you." A glance back over his shoulder at Patrick's erection. "...maybe."
Another moment's hesitation: when he slid inside, holding totally still at Pete's murmur. "A moment," Pete gasped, back taut like a bowstring, "a moment, that's all--" He let out a long breath and sighed, leaned his head back to touch Patrick's shoulder. "Yes," he whispered, "yes, go ahead."
Patrick found he couldn't move. "I don't want to hurt you," he whispered back. His cock felt enormous, scalding; if he moved now, surely he'd hurt Pete somehow, maybe terribly. "What if--"
"Please," Pete gasped, and that was more than enough for Patrick.
His memories got lost after that. Everything was tight and warm and good and slick enough to move, like some kind of dream. Pete wasn't even saying words anymore, just panting and making sounds Patrick had never heard before. But he got the gist of them; none sounded pained, except when Patrick slowed down enough to get a few seconds of control over himself.
"Stop," Pete said after a few moments. His face was tight with concentration. "Patrick, stop fighting it. Let it happen."
Patrick froze. "I can't," he said softly. "I - what if something happens?" "Something" was vague at best, but he'd heard his mother's loosely-worded stories of the horrors of the bedroom. Maybe it would be just as bad for two men, maybe worse. What if--
Pete just laughed. "The only thing that'll happen is this," he said, and did something with his muscles that made Patrick spasm and thrust inside him, hard enough to almost hurt. The world was too large and too small all at once; everything was narrowed down to this bed, the circle of his arms and what lay inside them.
"Oh, yes," Pete said, laughing again, joyous, and brought Patrick 's fingers down, laced with his own, to curl around his own cock. Patrick whimpered and thrust faster, fingers moving blindly, trying to bring Pete the same pleasure he was feeling. "Yes, Patrick, yes, don't stop, don't--"
And then Pete was burying his face in Patrick's throat, gasping and spilling over their fingers. The smell of it, the glisten of it on their skin, was so much like his own and so not that it ripped Patrick open and spread him out, a mad, rutting thing on clean sheets.
When Patrick could think again, he was sprawled against Pete's chest. Pete's damp fingers were carding through his hair, his breath warm against Patrick's cheek.
"That was sex," he murmured, smiling. "Was it so scary?"
"Yes," Patrick said honestly, taking a deep breath. "But not. Not wrong." He wanted to say more, he really did, but that seemed the extent of his words just now.
Pete seemed to understand, though, just nodding. "You should sleep now," he said, "if you're tired."
"'m not tired," Patrick said, yawning. He tightened his arms around Pete's waist.
"No," Pete said in his ear, "not a bit." He scratched his fingers along Patrick's scalp. "Sleep. We'll talk in the morning."
Patrick meant to respond to that, he really did, but he was already drowsing.
*
The next morning, Patrick let himself panic for exactly ten seconds.
What had he *done*? He had lain with another man, the way he would with a woman -- with his *wife*, no less, if he were ever to marry. Worst of all, he'd done it with a monster, a garou -- a prince of the garou. It was a miracle he hadn't been eaten during the night. The creature had played foul witchery on him: some spell, surely, to make him do such a thing. He would never--
Beside him, Pete yawned. "G'd mornin'," he said sleepily, scrubbing his hands across his face. He looked very young, and exhausted besides.
--never doubt again, Patrick thought, and smiled at him. "Good morning. How did you sleep?"
"Like I had sex with a commoner," Pete said, and burst out laughing at the look on his face. "Patrick! I'm kidding. I slept soundly."
"Yes," Patrick said awkwardly, "that's. That's good." He started to sit up, then realized the sheets would be around his waist and thought better of it.
Pete's smile was soft, a little sad. It made him look older. "You regret it, then."
"No!" Patrick yelled. "--yes. I don't regret it, exactly, but it's very -- different." He glanced at Pete's face, then sat up. "A long time ago--" deep breath "--when I realized I liked men, I knew I would never marry. I could not do that to myself, or someone else. So I'd live alone, and never -- do what we did last night," he said, only flushing a little. "The priests forbid it unless you're married."
"That will never be anything but asinine to me," Pete muttered. "So you just, what. Thought you'd live and die alone, some lonely old man in the woods?"
Patrick shrugged. "Yes."
Pete gaped for another minute, then narrowed his jaw. "That's not going to happen," he said. "You know that, don't you?"
Patrick just smiled. "You cannot stay here," he said, gentle as he could. "You must go back to your people eventually."
"Yes," Pete said, "I do." His gaze was fever-bright. "And you can come with me."
This time, it was Patrick's turn to gape. "What?"
"Come with me," Pete said again. "You will never want for anything. You will be revered as royalty, and none will stand against you. You can learn, if you wish: philosophy, art, magic, other languages. You can keep farming, or explore tombs -- whatever you want, it will be yours. Anything, everything you want, in all the world." He colored a little and added, "And you would have me."
Patrick's mouth moved soundlessly. "I ca-what about the farm? I can't just let it lie fallow."
"You hate it here," Pete said bluntly. "You hate its small minds, its distrust of things that are different. You hate that instead of staring at boys, you hole yourself away for fear of being hurt. Or worse."
Patrick's mouth thinned. "It's my choice."
Pete nodded. "Yes," he said. "And now you have another."
Patrick closed his eyes and thought. He'd lived here all his life; his mother was buried at the far left edge of the property, near the large border rock. He had no real friends, no family to abandon; someone would find the house empty, or they would not. It would be none of his concern. It was excellent land; it would not be abandoned for too long, he thought.
And he could learn! He could see the world, or at least another part of it, and be more than just a farmer. There would be books -- books! Books he'd never heard of, books he had, books not yet written! He could learn another language, or an instrument.
And best of all, he'd be with Pete -- Pete, who was even now watching him narrowly, unsure of what he'd say. Pete, who had actually blushed once or twice the night before, which Patrick hadn't thought possible. Pete, who'd traveled almost a thousand miles to find him, because of some dreams he'd had.
Pete, who loved him.
"Would I have to be a wolf?" Patrick finally said, frowning. "I don't know that I'd want that."
"It would be your decision," Pete said. He didn't look like he dared believe it. "Not everyone does. Most do, but not all."
Patrick bit his lip. "I - but you walked. How would we get there? Almost a thousand miles--"
"We could take a carriage," Pete offered. "I assume you'd want to bring some things with you, like your clothes and books."
Patrick blinked. "I hadn't thought of it," he admitted. "It would be a shame to leave them behind." More the books than the clothes; even his fanciest was showing threadbare in places.
"We'll leave tomorrow," Pete said, "if I can find somewhere in the village to rent one."
"There are places," Patrick said. "All right, place, but it's there." He paused, then reached out and stroked Pete's arm, very gently. "Do you -- could we wait another day?"
"If you want," Pete said, frowning. "Why?"
Patrick's fingers moved over, teasing one of Pete's nipples. "Um," he said. "I thought we could--"
Pete gaped at him for a moment. "Yesterday morning, you were flustered when I didn't wear a shirt." He settled his hands around Patrick's waist. "You have changed."
"Not entirely," Patrick said. "I still wish you'd wear a shirt indoors. Magic or not, you're going to get a chill, and it's entirely the wrong time of year for--"
"Patrick," Pete said, laughing, and tugged the blankets over their heads.
*
Pete left after breakfast the next morning -- terrible porridge (Patrick) and fresh-killed game (Pete) -- to go to town and hire a carriage. Patrick offered to go with him, but Pete just shook his head.
"I remember how to get to the village itself, and you've given me directions to the shop," he said, shrugging into one of Patrick's shirts. (Incredibly, all of Patrick's clothes fit Pete, who took it as a good omen. Even more unfairly, they looked excellent on him. Patrick would have complained if he wasn't so busy staring.) "Your village is small, love. 'The third shop past the smithy' shouldn't be hard to find."
"But they don't know you," Patrick protested, sitting up in bed. He flushed when Pete's eyes touched him, but made no mood to cover himself. "You're a stranger. They -- we don't take kindly to strangers."
"Some might remember me from yesterday," Pete said, buttoning his borrowed trousers. "And if they don't, well, I'm a stranger with money. You'd be surprised how fast that'll warm people up."
"Not around here," Patrick said. It might actually make them more suspicious. He started to get out of bed.
Pete got to him first. "Stay here," he said, "and sleep. If you want to do something, pack what you want to take with us."
It wouldn't be a lot. Patrick sighed. "If you're sure--"
"I'm very sure." Pete tucked the shirt in and wrapped Patrick's feast day coat around himself, then leaned in to kiss his lover's mouth. "Stay in bed."
"I can't pack if I'm in bed," Patrick pointed out, sinking back against the mattress. He tugged the comforter up over himself.
"No," Pete said. "But you can do other things." He leered.
Patrick pointed at the door. "Go," he said, "before I delay you further." He leaned back.
"Oh, no," Pete said, laughing. "You started this, remember?" He started unbuttoning his shirt. "I really should come back there--"
"Go." Patrick pointed at the door again. "I promise I'll be here when you come back, packed and ready to go."
Pete sighed. "If you insist," he said, buttoning the shirt back up.
Patrick just smiled 'til he was out the door, then burrowed back under the covers. Maybe just a quick nap...
*
When Patrick finally made it out of bed, he put on a pair of trousers and puttered around a bit aimlessly. He made himself some tea and took out his two traveling bags, which -- as far as he knew -- had never been used by either of his parents. They were, he realized with some dismay, not as large as he remembered. He'd just have to pack carefully, then, and not let himself be rushed.
The furnishings would have to stay; not that he minded, or cared. Doubtless Pete's family had finer things wherever they were going. The bedding could mostly stay too, save the comforter; that, he wanted to take with him. He wasn't sure whether to leave his clothes or not. All of them were thin in places, and plain, but it seemed wrong to expect a new wardrobe just because he was -- what?
Patrick stopped, frowning. Were they married now? That was what the priest in town made men and women do if they were caught doing what he and Pete had done (six times in two days), but he didn't think it counted if you were both men, or if one of you was magic. He decided to ask Pete about garou custom when he got back, and reached for a shirt.
Someone knocked.
Patrick frowned and slipped the shirt on, then made his way to the door. "I told you, it's not as if you need a--" he started, opening it.
There were three men standing outside, staring at him expressionlessly. The priest made four. He was dressed as if it was one of the high holidays, from his long robe and high collar to his wide-brimmed hat.
"Goodman Stump," he said politely. "May we come in?"
"I--" Patrick said. The men brushed right past him. His jaw felt tight. "Please," he muttered, "come in."
"Thank you," the priest said. "We must speak to you, Goodman Stump. It is a matter of some urgency."
Patrick blinked. "Of course," he said. "What is the ma--"
"Something's gotten into my chickens," one of the men said. He was standing right in Patrick's face and looked, as all the men did, vaguely familiar.
Patrick blinked again. "What?"
"My chickens. Something's got in and et them all up."
"His chickens," another man said. "I've lost two head of cattle this week. Some damn fool--" his glare didn't leave a lot of guessing room "--done opened a wolf trap and let him in."
"I did not!" Patrick said, automatically, and tried to remember. Had he? He didn't think so. Just Pete, but Pete had stuck to rabbits and small game -- squirrels, other rodents -- when he hunted; Patrick had seen him. Maybe he hadn't reset the trap when he'd let Pete ou--
--oh, hell, this was his fault. He hadn't reset the trap, and a real wolf had gotten in. "I'm sorry," he said, wincing. "I accidentally -- there was a rabbit caught in it a few weeks ago. I rescued it and tried to save it, but it never recovered." Looking guilty wasn't something he needed help with, he knew. "I forgot to reset the trap. I'm sorry."
There was a silence.
"Goodman Robin says he's seen you out here," the priest finally said. His voice seemed...cooler, somehow. "With a wolf."
Patrick gaped.
"For some time now," the priest added. "Letting it sleep indoors, even, which is a bit strange."
"He was givin' it orders," one of the men muttered. The other two nodded. "Like -- like a witch or something."
"The only order I was giving was to piss outside," Patrick said, "and that one took him awhile. He's a dog, not a wolf."
The priest's smile was thin. "Part dog, perhaps. But most of him is a foul wolf-beast, sent here to tempt you to sin--"
"Now wait just a minute!"
"--and you have succumbed, Goodman Stump," he finished. "Given in to your base desires and had knowledge of the workings of this thing."
He meant collusion, Patrick knew; that he'd selected these men for grudges he held against them, and taken them out accordingly. But on "base desires", all he could think of was the silk of Pete's back against his fingers, and how it felt to slide inside him; and at the idea that he should be ashamed of that, his temper bloomed.
"I did no such thing," Patrick said coldly. "I freed a rabbit, I'll admit. I forgot to close the trap after, I'll admit that too. I got a dog -- a dog, not a wolf -- to keep me company here in the woods, where I live alone. If a wolf has come in, I am truly sorry, but I did not knowingly let it in. Call me a fool if you will, but not that I did such a thing maliciously."
He pointed at the door. "And I think you should leave my home. Now."
There was another silence. The priest met his eyes; Patrick matched them and did not look away.
"We will discuss this again, Goodman Stump," the priest said, and turned towards the door.
Next to the bed, one of the men yelled, "Shit! He's had company!"
Patrick and the priest both turned around at that.
The slightest of the men -- maybe not even Patrick's age, but if you were married, you counted as a man -- had pulled the sheets and comforter back. The two of them had spilled too much seed between them to be properly accounted for by just one man, sinful dreams or not. And then the blood--
("I cannot believe," Patrick started, fuming.
"It's fine," Pete said. He wasn't laughing, but his voice was suspiciously bright. "It is, Patrick. It happens. Are you all right? You're not -- are you sore?"
Patrick shifted, frowning. "I'm not comfortable," he said slowly. "But I'm not in pain, either. Mostly I feel...empty?"
Pete beamed. "What a coincidence!" he said, reaching for Patrick. "So do I.")
"You have lain with a man," the priest said. All pretense of politeness or civility was gone, now. "You have fornicated with him as you would with a woman, hands and mouths in unclean places--"
"I have n--" All right, mostly untrue. "It's not unclean. Just...different. It doesn't mean I set wolves on anyone, or--"
"Wolves!" the skinny man yelled. "More than one! He summoned a pack of them!"
Oh, for-- Patrick walked over to the skinny man and shook him by the shoulders. "I did not--"
"Don't you touch my brother!" another of the men shouted.
Then something hit Patrick in the back of the head, hard, and the world fell away.
*
Part Three