Chapter 12

Blake was right about the morning, though wrong about the afternoon. He'd managed to get up and dressed, in at-home trousers and a loose linen shirt; Peter had brought some of his clothing. He'd lost some weight, being ill; the trousers almost fit well enough again, over his thighs.

He was sitting in the small study, flipping through his journals, making desultory notes on how best to organize chapters—Murray, his publisher, would be in ecstasies over the length and therefore price of this volume—when both Ashley and Cam appeared, framed by the white lines and slate-blue rug and botanical prints of the room. The sun was out, mostly, skittering in and around clouds; the room hadn't needed a fire today. It warmed more with their presence: white-gold and auburn-dark, Ash's slender owlish elegance and Cam's broad shoulders, the prettiness of Ash's chin and the mature grey flecks in Cam's hair.

Blake set his notes aside quickly, in case they needed him to move. "You're home early."

"We need to talk to you." Ash had a hand in Cam's, Blake noticed, as they came up to him: unremarked, as if they did so often. "Well, first, we should say—we think we've worked this out, you know, we were thinking about it. How this could work."

So this was it. The limits of his time. The portion of the story he'd been allotted. Blake nodded.

"It's not unusual, you know," Ash went on, quick words like chattering knives, flaying open skin with each syllable, "to have a personal physician—Byron's done it, other gentlemen've done it, and we can tell everyone I'm still ill—"

"You are," Cam contributed. "Those lungs of yours…"

" You said I'd get better. Gradually, yes, I know. My point is, no one'll care if Cam moves in, and…"

"And I'd been thinking about London," Cam took up, "in any case. Bigger clientele. All your lords and ladies. Got recommendations from the Duke of Straithern, and the Duke of Auburndale, haven't I? Thinking I might set up a practice here."

Blake just kept nodding, because that made sense, and said, through the continued flaying-alive, "You'll be an absolute success, especially if you've got Ash; he can send you all his Royal Antiquarian associates too."

"I could!" Ashley practically bounced with glee. "I will."

The Arctic, Blake thought. America. The frontier. Some wilderness. Where he could bleed to death in silence, hidden away from any view. "Make sure someone's organizing all your household expenditures and income, then. If you're…combining households."

They exchanged glances. "But," Ash said, "you are, too…aren't you? That is—I know you don't like your house, and—and everyone knows you do what you want, you never follow convention…and if I'm assembling an ambitious library, and you're a writer, it'd make sense that you'd be involved in my project, wouldn't it?"

"You want to employ me?"

"As a friend, not a secretary—it would be a reason for you to be here. I—we—we thought that it made sense, if we're living together…" Ash faltered. "Do you…not want that?"

So much. Deeper than every bruise. Every ounce of his being. The sun ducked behind a cloud again. "I've got a book to finish."

"You could do that here."

"I can always visit."

"No, but…that's not…do you think we don't want you to live with us?"

"If you're thinking that," Cam said, "you'd be wrong," but his hand hadn't left Ash's, as they stood in front of Blake, in Ash's study, in Ash's house.

"I don't have any plans yet." True. Nothing settled. South America, perhaps. Jungles. Rivers. As far from London, libraries, physicians, as he could get.

"But that's just it! We think you're going to leave us." Ash's voice shook. "And we don't want you to—we nearly lost you once, we can't lose you again, we love you. We need you. Please don't go."

"But," Blake said, bewildered. "I'll stay if you ask. I always do, don't I?"

"Oh God." Ash's whole face crumpled. "You don't know—how can you not know, what have we done—you think we don't love you but you'll still stay with us because I ask…Blake, I'm so sorry…what have we done, to make you think you deserve that?"

"Nothing!" Most of Ash's declaration made no sense, but his own response was instinctive: Ash was hurt, and Blake would try to fix it. He pushed himself to his feet. Reached out. Took Ash's free hand. "You've done nothing. I promise. I won't leave. I love you; you know I do. I'll stay and do all your accounts. You're dreadful at mathematics and I need to write the next book in any case."

Ash yanked his hand away. His eyelashes were damp. "Stop. Just—just stop."

"Er…stop what?" He knew, or he thought he did. Stop trying to help. Stop agreeing. Make the break easier.

"We're doing this wrong," Cam said. "Blake. Listen. Answer me. What do you want?"

Blake stared at the rug, felt the command tug at his chest—and, even now, annoyingly, his cock; responding to dominance—and did not know how to answer. He had to, though, so finally he said, "I want you both to be happy."

"Ah," Cam said. "But, you see, lad…there's some of the problem. Because we're an us, all three of us, and we're not happy if you're not happy."

"But I am," Blake said. "I am."

Cam sighed, muttered, "I'm decent at healing work, but this's more like a miracle," but also put out a hand, took Blake's chin in that unassailable grip, made him look. "You're thinking that you're not good enough for us, am I right? That you're going to go away and leave us here together, and we'll not think about you ever again?"

Blake started to answer, flippant: the Earl of Thorns at his best, a last performance. Cam's hand bit down harder. He shut his eyes against the fire of it: the pleasure, the dominance, his own surrender. "You might think about me. I…I thought you might. Sometimes."

Ash's voice brimmed over, silver-gold with tears. "That's what you think of us?"

"No!" He opened his own eyes in horror. "No, I…I didn't mean…"

"That's not it." Cam's voice was the voice of a man holding the broken pieces of a crystal globe together, knowing they'd splinter if he let go. "That's what you think of yourself, isn't it, lad?"

"Is that true?" Ash took a step forward. Touched Blake's face, lightly: scholar's fingers brushing Blake's cheekbone, the corner of one eye. Blake knew he felt the burning sea-salt there; he'd been trying not to let it fall, but Ash's hand broke every barricade he'd haphazardly built up.

Ash made a little hurt noise, discovering the tears. "Oh, no. No."

Cam said, very gently, "Kiss him, go on," and Ash glanced back, laughed—not a real laugh, the sort that came out of too many emotions, realizations, unfoldings—and leaned in.

His mouth was warm and unpracticed and sweet. The kiss danced along Blake's veins like wine, intoxicating, dizzying, a gift that turned his head to white-hot sparkles.

Ash kissing him. Cam's hand at his head, holding him in place. Honey and solid oak, starlight and deep Scottish roots.

His knees wanted to buckle.

Cam stepped in and kissed him too, and Ash did not pull back, so they ended up tangled together: tongues, mouths, meeting, shared and sharing, delicate and hungry, beloved and brand-new. Cam liked to take charge, directing; Ash kissed like champagne, all delight. Blake gave up and gave in and let himself be kissed, wanted, tasted, consumed.

"We want you," Ash said, and bit Blake's lip. "We love you. We were planning this life with you."

"I love you," Cam said, "the person who smiled at me, on a rainy street and a chilly day, and made me want to smile back. And I love him—" That one was for Ashley, who beamed. "—because he's all brightness and sugar and twinkles—starlight, like you said—and I didn't expect that, but I should've known anyone you'd love would be worth the loving. So I do. And that's not any more or any less than how I feel about you."

Blake honestly did wobble on his feet, at that.

"All right," Cam said, "let's try this, then. Bedroom." He put his hand on Blake's wrist. "Ashley, your turn."

"Hmm." Ash's grin blossomed, magical as night-flowers. And he set a hand on Blake's hip, then slid it over: a stroke across Blake's cock, blatant, obvious.

Blake heard himself gasp.

"Yes," Cam agreed. "I was thinking we'd wait, you weren't doing as well as I'd've liked, but…some of that's this, isn't it? You weren't feeling right, and we weren't giving you what you need."

"I don't need…"

"Yes you do, and you'll take what we give you." Cam paused. Looked him squarely in the eyes. "But you tell me, first. That that's what you want. Us taking care of you."

"I…" He couldn't ask. Could he?

Ashley stroked his cock again, over his trousers. Played with the buttons. Let the hand linger over Blake's length. "Wait," Cam said to him, and Ash stopped. His eyes were anxious.

"I do…I mean, I want…" Blake swallowed. It was difficult. "I want you to. To give me what I need. To—to take care of me. If you…want that."

"Aye," Cam said, and kissed him: hand in Blake's hair, other hand on Ash's waist. "I do. We do."