Chapter 6

As it turned out, Cam managed near-perfect timing; he'd tried to estimate how long the walk would be, if his beloveds were being generous with him, and he'd just got a decent luncheon laid out and tea done when the door opened. He turned; Ash was saying something, laughing, pink and gold and fairylike, flushed from exertion but in a healthy way. Blake's arm was around him, firm and sturdy; they were so lovely, so perfect, that Cam forgot what he'd meant to say.

Ashley, who lived for words, had some. "We thought you might still be downstairs—not that we were hoping you'd—I mean, we would have stayed up here and waited—"

"He means," Blake said, "that we can leave again. If you'd rather." He took in the fire, the coziness, the sliced ham and deviled eggs and cheese and scones. "Though you were waiting for us, it looks like."

"I was. I missed you two, y'know." He came to meet them halfway across the room, needing to be closer, to be with them.

Some shuffling of greatcoats happened. Ash began to say something; Blake moved an arm, hastily. Cam paused. "What's wrong?"

"No no no," Ash said, "nothing, we promise—" But he glanced at Blake; they looked far too conspiratorial, in that moment.

Cam said, "What is it? And you also didn't leave here with that satchel, this morning; I know you didn't. So talk."

Blake laughed, tinged with rue; shrugged the satchel from a shoulder, held it out but didn't open it. "Should've known you'd notice. We thought we'd have time to hide it."

"To hide it."

"It's a surprise. Not done. But…well, go on." This time he did offer it; Cam took the bag, and opened it up.

And pulled the object out, in surprise. "You bought a sketchbook? I could have—"

"Go ahead and look."

Cam did. And froze, hands touching thick creamy paper, clutching the binding.

Blake was a more than decent artist with quick sketches, moments, scenes and scenery, glimpses of rivers and mountains and far-off locations he'd explored. This time he'd drawn Edinburgh.

He'd captured so many places. A towering view of the Castle, of course; but also the walk up, the streets Cam knew the way he knew his own hands.

Blake had brought to life the market, a bustling square, the dart of a running dog, the arches and spires of the town. Alleyways, wide lanes, horses and carriages, skies overhead. A few of the sketches had Ash in them: laughing, windblown, pale-haired as a thistle-sprite out to wander the hills and byways of the city.

Blake had drawn the bookshop, their bookshop, not in today's sunspear weather but in rain, splashing merrily across the shop front. He and Ash had found that old familiar student pub, and had caught that too, inside and out.

There were more pages—blank and not—but Cam stopped at one, letting the book fall slowly open: the front of his building, this building: his practice, his home. Done with care and precision, each brick and each window and the small plaque proclaiming this to be the premises of Doctor Cameron Fraser, simple and simply clear.

Cam's hands were shaking. He whispered, "You did this for me."

"It really isn't done." Blake put a hand on his arm, steadying. "It was Ash's idea—we thought you might like it. I wanted to do more, before we leave. That coffee-house you took us to, and the Hume monument, and a view of Arthur's Seat…"

"You gave me this. Home." He put his hand over Blake's. "You both did."

"We hoped you'd like it?" Ashley, thin face anxious, put a hand out as if to reinforce the question. "Was it…not a good idea?"

"The best. The two of you…" He stopped, laughed: full of amazement, love, brimming-over emotion. "Oh, the two of you. I love you."

Blake's whole face got brighter. Ash said, "I wish I could draw, but at least one of us can?" and stepped in closer, arm sliding around Cam's waist. "We love you. Our Cam."

"I am that." He closed the sketchbook, with reverence. He wanted to kiss them, to worship them, to feel them so close there'd be no distance left; his skin wanted to sing. It was arousal, and it was more.

He set his sketchbook down carefully on the sofa. Behind the windows, the sun waltzed with the clouds: leaping, bounding, in and out. The room was warm with light. He felt each breath, each touch of sofa or book or fabric as if it were all new.

He thought, from the way they both gazed at him, that Blake and Ash felt something of that too: this newness, this transfiguration.

He said, voice rough, "You're both…well enough? Not too tired?"

"Not at all." Ashley practically bounced in place. "Have you got plans for us?"

"Not plans. I'd not made them. But…" But yes. So much yes. So much wanting, vivid as the sea in one of Blake's sketches. "Orders, if you'd like. Bedroom, you two. Now."

Now, and yes; they tumbled that way, tumultuous, swept by emotion. The faded bed-hangings fluttered with revived welcome. Sunlight stretched along the floorboards, the woven rug.

"Mine," Cam said. His heart pounded. "Both of you."

"Completely," Blake said.

"Of course," Ash said, and kissed him, with a little nip to Cam's lower lip, a note: a flower of sensation.

"Good," Cam said. "Not toys, not for this…but feeling it, yes…"

He did have some ideas, and he wanted them all to feel everything he was feeling, the surety and the vow of it; he took proprietary charge of them both, and got them bare and in bed, Ash lying back and propped up against pillows, Blake settled between those long slim thighs, having been instructed to pleasure Ash with his mouth, and to do it well.

Blake kissed Ash's left thigh. His hair swung down along the line of his jaw. "I like that order."

"So do I," Ash said helpfully.

"‘Twas the plan, you liking it, you understand." That made them both laugh, at least until Cam's hand came down across Blake's backside, a snap of sound and pinkness and presence. Blake whimpered, hips lifting shamelessly. "Not scolding you," Cam said, "not yet, at any rate; but do as you're told, give him pleasure, get his prick in your mouth as you kneel there, and show us how well you listen."

Blake did a small wriggle of enjoyment at the command, the authority; and bent, taking Ash's prick into his mouth.

Cam drank up the sight. Christ, that was good. Ash's long hard length, reddened with need. Sliding between Blake's plush parted lips, pushing in. Ash's hand in Blake's hair, taking charge. Blake's own prick hung and bobbed between his thighs, not touching the bed, because Cam had told him not to: no friction, no relief. His tip was wet and shiny.

He ran a hand along Blake's spine, the length of him. "I love you. Both. And I want to fuck you. Like this…" He pressed fingers into the cleft of Blake's arse, not penetrating, but promising. "So that it's all of us. So that, when I'm inside you, lad, you're making Ash feel good; it's us filling you up, using you as we like, between us."

Blake's whole body tensed, stirred, reacted; his prick dripped suddenly, a gleaming ribbon of need. Ashley breathed, "Yes, that," and his hand shoved Blake's head further down, holding him in place. "All of us."

Cam did one more quick swat across Blake's arse, just because he wanted to and they all liked that; and got up to find the oil he wanted, infused in a way that warmed and added sensation; he did not have much of this one left.

But he had the direction of the friend who'd made it. He could acquire more, before they left. That was a possible thing.

He was careful, because he needed to take care; but as swift as he could make it, and Blake did not mind a bit of roughness. Fingers, stretching. Muscles opening, unfurling. Cam's hand and the oil. Blake moaned around Ashley's prick, sounding drunk on sensation, the length in his mouth and the fingers in his hole. His body swayed, grew more malleable, pliant.

Cam made sure Ash was watching, as he lined himself up, pushed his prick deep inside Blake's open body. Eyes meeting, holding. Alight with emotion.

They moved in unison, found rhythm, took Blake's willing mouth and hole between them. Ash's hand guided Blake's head, taking over that as well. Blake moved with them, as they wanted him, completely theirs. His body was hot and needy around Cam's cock; his mouth was wet, messy, well-used. His prick dripped continuously.

Ash whispered, "I need to—so close…" and thrust upward, burying himself deep in Blake's throat. Blake's hole clenched; Cam groaned. Ash panted, "So good…God, the way that looks, the way this feels…oh, I'm going to…" and kept Blake pinned in place, while his head tipped back and the release rippled through him.

Blake, held there, swallowed—Cam saw the movement of his throat—and swallowed again, and could not move because Ash did not let him up. Blake's body jerked, arched: needing to breathe, needing to come.

Ash tugged at his hair, pulling him up for a breath or two. Blake's eyes were wet, long eyelashes damp. His cheeks had pinkened from exertion. Ash said, words tumbling, "So good, so sweet, taking it all…is this good, for you? Our Blake."

Blake moaned, wordless and blissful, and licked at the tip of Ash's spent prick, mouthing, nuzzling. "Ah," Ash said, "more, then…" and guided him back down, so that Blake could suckle at the length.

Cam felt his own body tighten, pushing him toward the brink, at that. He thrust harder, pounding, hips slamming into Blake's. Incontrovertible. Inarguable. Forever.

Blake had begun shaking, twitching, helpless tiny spasms between them. His mouth was occupied by Ash's softening cock; his eyes had closed. Ash said, "Cam—" and used the hand in Blake's hair to ease him up; Blake was trembling, breathing frayed at the edges, as Ash's prick slid from his lips.

Cam stopped moving. Buried in him, but not thrusting. "Blake. Look at us."

Blake shivered, tried to focus, couldn't quite seem to. His eyes were wide and hazy, swallowed by submission, drowned in it.

"Shh," Cam told him, "you're fine, lad, you're safe, we're here, just breathe for us," and eased out of him, gingerly. His own cock throbbed, denied release; less important, for now.

Ashley said again, more concerned, "Cam—should we—"

"We're all right, lad." He touched Blake's cheek. "Can you look at me, just now? Blake?" Reassuringly, Blake could, and did; but was shaking everywhere. Cam ran a thumb along his cheekbone. "Too much? Talk to me."

"Cam," Blake whispered, barely a sound; and turned his face into Cam's hand, not hiding but overwhelmed.

"All right, come on…you're here, we're here, I've got you. D'you want us to stop? Give you a minute, then?"

Blake shook his head this time, but that wasn't a word. Cam sighed. "You remember your signal for that, love? You tell me you do remember, or we stop now. If you can't recall."

"I…" Blake shut his eyes, opened them. "No, please…please don't stop. I need…"

"Aye, I know, but we're not doing this if you're not here with us."

"Please just…" Blake shut his eyes again. Exhaled. Opened them. More awareness had come back. "Viola. But it's all right, I'm not saying it, don't stop, please."

Cam studied his face for a moment. Nodded.

Ashley said, softly, "Can I help?"

"You can." Cam drew Blake closer, kissed him. "Something nicer, I'm thinking. How about we let Ash hold you, and I'll give you what you need, but slow. Gentle."

Blake nodded back, and it was a true answer, so Cam tucked him down into Ashley's open arms and slid in behind him and petted him for a moment, cock pressed snug against Blake's inviting arse. Ash held Blake close, kissed him across lips and cheek and eyebrow and nose, shifted their hips so that Blake's rigid unfulfilled prick rubbed against his spent length.

Oh, that was very nice; Cam approved, especially as Ash stroked Blake's hip. Their mingled hair fell over the pillowcase, light and dark against creamy linen.

He kissed the nape of Blake's neck, under wayward witch-dark hair. "I'd like to fuck you now. If it's not too much."

"It's not," Blake murmured dreamily. "Yours, please."

"So you are. Ours. And so very good at that. Being ours." Back to it, but slowly, tenderly. With care, with love. Blake moaned as Cam adjusted their bodies, handled him, pushed in. This position did not offer much leverage for hard thrusts, but that wasn't what they needed, just now.

They needed this: this molten pooling together, moving together, flowing. Joined.

He breathed, knowing they'd both hear the words, "So good, you are—like this, him holding you, me inside you, you can feel it all, aye?—everything we're doing to you, how much we want you, how we love you…" and he meant I need this, I need all of this, I want this, I love you both completely, as he moved inside Blake and Ash's hand reached over to rest on his hip, pulling him closer.

Ash whispered, "Can he come?" Blake moaned again, beyond words, shuddering between them.

Cam said, "He can—you can, go on, show us how good you feel, let go, let it out," and rocked into him again, deep-seated, to the hilt.

Blake made a sound like a sob, as if unable to hold back even that; and his body convulsed, and he was coming: a long drawn-out flood of climax, white-hot and liquid and given over to them.

So lovely, so beloved, and Cam heard himself groan, caught up in the wave of it, tumbling over that peak.

They stayed together, entangled, for some uncounted sunlit time. The bed was warm around them. One of the pillows had tumbled to the floor. It lay atop the woven rug, in the sunstreak.

Blake was shivery and quiet and breathing not quite evenly; he whimpered when Cam went to move. Cam mentally shook his head at himself, reinforced, "You're all right, love, we've got you, you were so good, so very good," and eased out of him, and went and got a cloth and water, for some clean-up. Ashley gathered Blake up and petted him, touched him, talked to him: anchors, grounding, more important than the words themselves.

Blake woke up enough to promise, "I'm all right," and he seemed to be, at least on the way to it. He was over-sensitive and plainly exhausted, but his eyes were clear, serene, fulfilled. Cam told him, "You are, and we're here, we love you, that was lovely, exactly what we needed, all of us; let me see, for a moment," and checked him over.

He'd been a bit rough, earlier—not so much at the end, but he'd asked a lot of Blake's brave and beautiful body. That hole was pink and used, but nothing worse, as far as he could tell; his hands, his fingers, had left a bruise or two. Those should fade, but he put salve on them anyway, cooling as herbs in snow.

He told Ash to keep petting Blake, and grabbed the dressing gown and ran downstairs; he came back with food, and now-cool tea, for recovery. He made sure Ash ate something as well, and himself, for that matter.

He looked at his lovers, the other pieces of his soul, here in the big bed with the palimpsest curtains. Sunlight, on an afternoon. Warmth. The contentment in his body, well satisfied, knowing he'd done that for them as well.

He steadied the teacup for Blake to take small sips. The steadying felt like a revelation. Not a big shouted-from-on-high type. No, an uncovering, a stripping-away, a showing. Himself, and what he wanted.

Because this, this, was what he wanted: himself with them, his Blake and his Ashley. Sharing a bed, yes; sharing more. Trust, right there for the giving, the having. All of them noticing, if one of them might not be well; each of them being honest about it, about want and safety and pleasure. The way they all had, from the start.

He thought of half-packed trunks, and a sketchbook, and a future. They'd given him that.

Because they did that, the three of them. Giving each other what they needed; leaning on each other, when necessary. No debts, no obligations: not what he'd wondered, in the carriage. No owing. Only choice, and the joy of it.

He and Ash had Blake cuddled up between them, amid the remaining pillows. A loop of golden cord decorated one bedpost. The heavy bed-hangings hung down. They were built for the cold, up here.

He still liked the color, the emerald hue. Perhaps they could pick out something similar, but lighter. For London.

Ashley reached over to touch his arm. "You're being quiet."

"I'm not, really," Cam said, truthfully. His heart was beating fast. Picturing that future. "Just thinking."

"You are so." Blake yawned. "I'm awake. I can hear you fretting."

"No, not so much." He kissed the top of Blake's head. "Only happy. How're you? Both of you."

"Sticky," Ash said. "Also happy. Thinking about Shakespearean characters. Viola, you said, Blake. I'd meant to ask earlier. Unless you meant something else, but I did wonder. It's a bit modern for me, and yes, classical arrogance, I know how that sounds."

"Patience," Cam said quietly, "and disguise, lad?" He'd wondered, too, the first time. The Earl of Thorns, and a character full of concealed longing. He hadn't asked; not his business, then. After, once he'd known Blake even better, he'd thought he'd guessed correctly.

"Oh, both your faces." Blake yawned again. "I feel like I did after a day navigating wild rapids in the Canadian mountains…no, in a good way. Wrung out. Triumphant. Also wet. And, yes, what you said, but also…it's a happy ending, that one. She's rewarded for it. It's a comedy—I mean it ends well."

"Romantic," Ash said.

"Optimistic," Cam said.

"Something like that. I just like happy endings. I like believing in them." His smile was a story, a tale, a promise, shared between them. "And you're mine. A happy ending."

Ash made a pleased sound, and burrowed in closer, head on Blake's shoulder. "Yes."

"Both of you get some rest," Cam said. "I'll wake you in a minute. And…yes. But also…not endings. Beginnings, might be. New stories. Together."

They both beamed at him for that. Blake said, "You should get some rest, as well; taking care of us, and everything."

"I will. I'm here with you." He would—he was also tired—but he waited until they'd both fallen asleep, in a satisfied heap of limbs and hair and love. He gazed at them, in the floating amber of the day.

His loves, yes. His new beginning. Losing nothing, giving up nothing; building, instead. The life he could have now, and it'd not be the same as his life before, no; it wouldn't be that.

But it was a life he wanted, because he did, oh, he did.

Adventures, and novels, and poetry. And a great big bed.

He caught himself yawning, too, and tipped his head against Blake's, and made sure his arm was thrown all the way over to find Ash's hip. He told himself to wake in an hour or so; he held them, drowsing.

He woke with the sense that it'd been longer than he'd planned; the sun had nearly gone. Both sets of eyes, hazel and ink, were open and studying him. Ash's hand was lying on Cam's chest; Blake had made all the muscles small and tucked-in, a comfortable cuddle in the loop of Cam's arm.

He said, "Were you two watching me sleep?"

"Yes," Ash said, unrepentant. "Entirely handsome."

Cam snorted.

"I was thinking," Blake said. "I've been planning to sell the townhouse—I mean Wildborough House, not our place. It's awful and I don't necessarily want it in my name."

"Aye," Cam said, not entirely sure where this was going, but here if Blake needed support, "d'you want me to deal with it, then? Talk to your solicitor?"

"Actually I was thinking…" Blake took a deep breath, let it out. "It's complicated—it is a family house, even if my father sold it off the first time. It means…something. And you could use someplace to see patients, couldn't you? Of course you're living with us, you're officially Ash's physician, but if you're helping other people, as well."

Cam's mouth moved. He wasn't even sure of the word.

"Don't look at me," Ash said, "this one's news to me too. But I think it's a good idea."

"I'll give it to you," Blake said to Cam. "Or sell it, if you'd rather, for some ridiculously cheap amount, as long as you fuck me like that again. We don't have to put that part in the legal documents."

Cam's mouth was still open. He managed, "You want to give me your house."

"Not to live in," Blake said. "We're all living together, anyway. I don't want that house, but I do want to do something worthwhile with it, and you'll know what to do. It'll be yours, to set up however you'd like." He paused. Flashed that dazzling sparkle of mischief. "I'll still do all our accounts. I'm good at that."

Property. His own. Expensive. In his name, not a lease or a borrowed set of rooms.

A place he could turn into something good, something useful. To build upon, taking an old heartache that pained a man he loved, and changing it. Transmutations, into gold.

They'd live together, come home together, of course; that was not in question. But this would be more: another space for them, a reclamation. A happy ending, for that story.

He wondered whether Mrs Burke and young James would like to come down. To help out. He might need a staff, a housekeeper, an assistant. He'd certainly have the space.

He could decorate. Getting rid of the tasteless rebellious statues and nude art pieces, which Blake would not mind—and indeed Cam would handle that, so Blake would not have to be reminded. He could pick out shades of green and gold. He could put up Blake's sketches.

He could do some research, some investigations, into infectious tropical diseases. He'd meant to do that, using Blake's journals and notes. He could look into those experiments with iron infusions—

He looked at Ashley's smile, at Blake's hopeful expression. He thought that, in five short days, the rest of this fortnight, they'd be on the way back to London. Toward home.

He said, "Of course you're doing our accounts, you're the best at that," and nudged Blake with a knee. "I'm thinking I'll take you up on that. Once we're back. And tonight, tomorrow…" He waited, let the anticipation stretch. "You're good at lists and inventories and organization, too. You can both help me finish up here, with the packing-up."

Blake put his head on Cam's shoulder; his fingers traced a heart across Cam's stomach, a shape over bare skin. Ashley, smiling at them both, said, "Yes, we can."

THE END