Chapter Text
Bror hung around the Café all afternoon, waiting for Ansha to show. Tonight was a free-night, and he hoped Ansha would be able to find out for him what had really happened to Tilrey.
Bror had already been to Linden’s twice in the past four days. He no longer expected to hear the truth from that ass of a driver. On their first meeting, Jorning had seemed friendly enough, all smiles for Bror and concern for Tilrey as he described a terrible fall on the ice. When Bror begged for entry, the Skeinsha said Tilrey was drugged up and sleeping, and Bror saw no reason to doubt him.
But today, when Bror returned, Jorning had been less polite. “Nettsha’s still really hurting,” he’d said, no longer smiling as he blocked the door. “Not ready to see anyone. Anyway, he can’t talk with his jaw wired shut. Do you want to embarrass him?”
“I won’t try to make him talk!” Bror didn’t like this stranger’s tone when he talked about Tilrey. It sounded intimate, almost possessive. “Just want to make sure he’s okay. Two minutes and I’m gone.”
“Why wouldn’t he be okay?” The driver’s eyes widened. “You think we’re keeping him prisoner?”
After ten minutes or so of arguing, Jorning agreed to talk to Tilrey and disappeared inside. He returned with a note, which he practically tossed at Bror. “Believe me now?”
It was Tilrey’s handwriting, all right. After reading it, Bror left—but reluctantly.
Now he unfolded the note to read it for the tenth or twelfth time. It was a slow hour at the Café. Soft conversation and warm yellow lighting made the place feel cozy, especially with a summer snowstorm raging outside.
A storm raged inside Bror, too, as he read Tilrey’s words.
Brorsha—I look and feel like death warmed over. Remember when I sapped too much and was a drooling mess? That’s me right now. Can’t talk either. You’re better off staying away. Not good company, trust me. Be back at the Gym before you know it. We need a rematch in the pool. Dibs on Lane 387!
This had confused Bror at first, because the pool had only fifteen lanes. Then he’d remembered that 387 was the number of their favorite suite in the Vacants. Tilrey was promising him they’d be together soon, in bed.
But why not just say that? The breezy vagueness wasn’t like Tilrey at all. Was the driver not trustworthy?
Bror glared down at the note, wishing it would give him answers. Tilrey’s writing was pinched, spiky, and precise, except for occasional dramatic swooshes that reminded him of the passion his friend showed in bed.
“What’s that?” Ansha asked, slouching up to the table. “Love letter?”
Bror swept the note under the table. Then he decided he was being childish and showed it to Ansha. After all, he needed his friend’s help.
“From Tilrey,” he said and explained the circumstances.
Ansha winced when Bror told him about the accident. “I was wondering why he wasn’t at the Lounge two night ago.”
He took his time reading the note, lips moving as he sounded out words, then returned it to Bror. “Shit.”
“What are you thinking?” Bror didn’t like that worried look.
“You don’t believe he actually fell on the ice, do you?” Ansha was practically whispering. He picked up his foamy tea and took a nervy sip.
“Well, if he didn’t, what happened?” Bror wanted to shake Ansha, but he couldn’t antagonize him now. “Did you hear something from Verán? Spit it out!”
Ansha glanced quickly around the room, as if he thought someone might be listening. “Didn’t you ever have an aunt who’d show up to the Communal Meal with a black eye or a split lip? You’d ask why, and she’d say she fell on the ice?”
Bror was confused. “I have five aunts. All sure-footed.”
With an exasperated sigh, Ansha leaned in until Bror could feel his breath. “This has nothing to do with balance. Verán says the Magistrate hasn’t been the same since his stroke. He’s got a short temper. I don’t know for sure, but I think maybe … Tilrey didn’t just fall.”
Understanding washed over Bror like icy water.
The next instant, rage exploded inside him, making his eyes burn. “You think Fir Magistrate hurt him?”
“Shh!” Ansha grabbed Bror’s hand and squeezed it until Bror winced. “Stay calm, Brorsha,” he added, relaxing his grip. “I mean, it happens. I’ve gotten slapped around. Haven’t you?”
Bror squelched an urge to shout A fractured jaw doesn’t just happen! He reminded himself that Ansha came from a rougher background than his own.
“I don’t get ‘slapped around,’ no,” he said, forcing himself under control. An occasional smack on the ass didn’t count. “If István raised his hand to me, I’d leave him.”
“Well, you’re big and scary, Brorsha, and you can leave. In case you haven’t noticed, Rishka can’t.”
Bror didn’t need the reminder. “A slap or two isn’t the same as broken bones,” he said tightly. “If that man hurt Tilrey, I’ll make him pay. I’ll get him expelled from the Council. I’ll fucking crush him.”
He clenched his free fist, the ferocity of his anger filling the terrifying vacuum that had opened inside him when Ansha first clued him in. Linden would be sorry he’d ever laid eyes on Tilrey. And that driver, doing the Magistrate’s lying for him—Bror would make him regret it, too. Everyone involved would pay.
Then he noticed the look on Ansha’s face. Worry and something softer—concern, maybe even pity. How could Ansha pity Bror?
Bror had been crushing his friend’s hand. He released it and growled, “What the fuck is that face for?”
“You know you can’t do anything, right?” Ansha looked straight at Bror, no snark in his tone. “I know you want to be a hero, but we’re not talking about a schoolyard bully here.”
“Sure as hell, I know it won’t be easy.” Bror wasn’t naïve. He was the one who’d shown both Ansha and Tilrey the ropes of the Core; he knew how things worked. He didn’t take foolish risks.
But when the image of Tilrey with a broken jaw surfaced in his mind again, he had to repress a snarl of animal rage. “We let Strutters get away with a hell of a lot, all the time. But broken bones, Ansha? No fucking way.”
Ansha patted Bror’s back as if to ground him. “We don’t know for sure what happened yet, and the driver obviously won’t talk. I can find out from Verán or Besha.”
“Well, then, fucking find out.” Bror sounded different to himself—like a complete asshole. He knew Ansha didn’t deserve his anger, so he tried to rein it in. “You gonna see Verán tonight?”
Ansha promised to learn what he could. Rising to leave, because it was nearly time for them both to prep for tonight, he said, “You really care about Rishka, don’t you?”
“I’d do the same for you, Ansha,” Bror snapped, still a long way from calm. “You think if some Strutter beat the shit out of you, I’d be okay with it?”
“Nah. You’re a good guy, Bror.” Ansha’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “I wish you’d been around back when I was getting clobbered every day at recess. But the way you feel about Tilrey, it’s different. You gotta at least admit that.”
Bror knew it was true, though he had no way to describe his relationship with Tilrey. “Friends” didn’t cut it anymore, and they were certainly more than just fuck-buddies.
“Tilrey’s sensitive,” he said, still hoping to make Ansha believe all he felt was a big brother’s protectiveness. “I mean, not that you aren’t. But he’s vulnerable.”
Ansha hoisted his brows. “Tilrey’s a hell of a lot tougher than he was when he came to Redda—trickier, too. Trust me on that. He’ll be okay, Bror, I promise. We’ll make sure he is.”
Nine verdant, steaming hells, we fucking better. A line from Tilrey’s note kept repeating itself in Bror’s head, and the more he thought about it, the more it worried him.
You’re better off staying away.
***
“What’s your name?” Jorning demanded.
Tilrey looked up from the broth he’d been sucking through a straw. Consuming everything in liquid form was getting old fast, and so was being functionally mute.
At least he was getting better at expressive gesturing. He gave Jorning a shrug intended to convey You know my name, why ask?
For the past few days of Tilrey’s convalescence, Jorning had been kind and patient. He hadn’t attempted to touch Tilrey again the way he had their first night home. But now he was scowling. “Your friend called you Tilrey. Is Nettsha not your real name?”
Tilrey, Rishka, Bror’s voice whispered inside Tilrey’s head, hoarse with passion.
Tilrey pushed the memory aside and reached for his indispensable notebook. Tilhard/Tilrey = legal name. Nettsha = Island’ s name for me. My friends haven’t all made the switch.
Jorning looked perplexed. “So you’d rather be Nettsha? Like how I got called Jorning in the service, and now I like that better than Boris?”
It wasn’t like that at all. But Tilrey shrugged and wrote, Best to call me what Fir Verán calls me.
“But is it what you want? Even when we’re alone?” A furrow had appeared on the driver’s smooth brow. He opened Tilrey’s dresser and started pulling out clothes. “You must like one name better than the other.”
When he turned with his arms full of trousers and underclothes to find Tilrey staring at him in surprise, Jorning added in an apologetic tone, “It’s a free-night. Fir Verán asked to see you.”
Tilrey didn’t reach for the notebook. He knew his dismay showed on his face. The swelling was going down, and he’d been tapering off the meds. But it felt way too soon to face Verán.
Jorning dropped his eyes. “Fir Linbeck explained everything, so Fir Verán won’t be surprised. Fir Tollsha made him wait as long as he could. But now you need to get dressed and go.”
***
Tilrey could walk okay, and it felt good to use his legs for a change. He made a mental note to ask Jorning if he could go to the Gym and run on the track, very late or early when the place was empty.
Besha intercepted them in the coldroom of Verán’s apartment. He peered at Tilrey, frowned, and then led him inside, leaving Jorning behind without a word. “You look a little better. Not as much as I hoped.”
In the sitting room, Ansha was pouring tea under Verán’s stern gaze. When the old man glimpsed Tilrey, his eyes opened wide, the expression mixing repulsion with a certain cold relish. “I told you the creature was unpardonably insolent to me, Besha. I don’t know what’s got into him. And now look at him—ruined.”
Ansha set down the teapot. When their eyes met, Tilrey saw a flash of horror on the other boy’s face, rapidly followed by sympathy. Then Ansha’s expression went blank again, as he took his place beside Verán.
Besha sat Tilrey down on the opposite end of the sofa, as if he didn’t want Verán to see Linden’s handiwork up close. “Let’s not assume the worst, Visha. The doctors say he’ll heal like new.”
Verán scoffed, dipping a pinkie into his ever-present sap vial. “Maybe. But what if he provokes Mosha again? The boy’s broken somehow. It’s like he wants punishment.”
Broken, like a machine worn out from overuse. It made sense. Tilrey hadn’t expected to hear anything so reasonable from Verán. He stared into space as Besha “defended” him.
“I don’t know what Nettsha said to you, and I’m sure it was inexcusable, but this mess with Linden is completely different. The driver was there—he saw everything. Mosha was rough with the boy, and when the boy resisted, Mosha lost his temper…”
And so on. Already knowing the story, Tilrey tuned it out, watching Ansha lap up sap from Verán’s palm. When he raised his head, his eyes met Tilrey’s again.
And fear pinched Tilrey’s throat shut as he realized what Ansha’s presence meant. He’ll tell Bror everything.
He had to keep Ansha quiet. But how? He started following the conversation again while keeping a close eye on the other kettle boy, who was now in Verán’s lap.
The two Councillors were debating whether Linden was still fit to hold his office. Verán hoped they could “prop him up” for a few more years, but he instructed Besha to watch for any erratic behavior by the Magistrate in the Council chamber. “We have a stranglehold on the majority for now. But we don’t want any Mainlanders gossiping about how Mosha’s just a figurehead.”
Besha bobbed his head like the yes man he was. “Of course, Visha. Will do. I have noticed he sometimes … wanders on the podium, but then he catches the thread again.”
Tilrey wondered if all that obsequious nodding was scrambling Besha’s brain. Both of them seemed to have forgotten he was there, which was a relief. He didn’t matter except as a symptom of the Magistrate’s mental decline.
As the strategizing dragged on, Ansha rose to brew a new pot. Verán glanced at Tilrey again and winced, as if he really had forgotten him. “At least while he’s wired up like that, he can’t mouth off.”
“But he also can’t suck cock.” Besha snickered, playing up to Verán as usual. “His greatest talent.”
“Pity, isn’t it?” Verán beckoned to Tilrey and patted the cushion beside him.
Tilrey obeyed the silent command. He sat very still as Verán clamped a possessive hand on his knee. “Look me in the eye, boy. Have we learned our lesson yet?”
Tilrey met the man’s flinty gaze. Nodded. Right now he felt nothing for either Councillor but a cold distaste. Less than a ten-day ago, he’d come so close to death that he still felt its presence like ice at his heart.
“No more being difficult?” Verán persisted, glaring at him. “No more questioning your betters?”
It took Tilrey a moment to realize the Councillor was referring to their quarrel, the incident that had landed him with Linden. How long since then? Decades seemed to have passed, but it was probably still less than a ten-day. The offense was fresh in Verán’s head.
Tilrey knew how stupid his defiance had been. He’d dared to remind Verán of pimping his own nephew to Malsha, an incident that the old man had surely done his best to bury under fathoms of self-delusion.
Tilrey had been a different person that day, intoxicated by Bror’s love. Suicidally naïve. He doubted he’d ever be that person again.
He shook his head. “No, Fir.”
Verán stroked up Tilrey’s thigh—more gingerly than usual, as if he expected his usually resilient fuck-piece to crumble under his hands. “What do you think?” he asked Besha over his shoulder. “Shall we start giving him to the inner circle before he’s healed? Gourmanian’s been asking for him.”
Besha chuckled. “I’ll bet. I’ll just brief them first, so they aren’t too put off.”
So they know not to complain, Tilrey thought.
“You’ll tell them a story, of course,” Verán said. “They don’t have to believe it.”
Besha nodded. “The driver told the doctors something about a bar fight. We can use that.”
***
Verán sent Besha away before they went to bed, and Ansha braced himself. He could tell from the majority leader’s squeamishness that he didn’t want to fuck Tilrey himself, not in this state. But he might still want to see someone else do it.
“No kissing tonight,” Verán said as Ansha straddled Tilrey and unclasped his tunic, trying his best not to hurt him. “You might open up stitches or something.”
Tilrey’s sensitive, Bror had said earlier today. And Ansha had scoffed.
Now, lifting Tilrey’s hips to tug off his trousers, he was all too aware of his friend’s fragility. Ansha had endured thrashings, sure, but never one like this. The two black eyes, the swelling, the mangled lip, the wired jaw—it hurt just to look at Tilrey.
Ansha knew how it felt after some asshole went to town on you—as if your body were a breakable vessel you had to clutch protectively to your chest. And he could sense Tilrey cringing away from the touch, despite pretending he felt nothing.
When Ansha spied deep purple bruises on Tilrey’s ribs, just starting to yellow at the edges, he sucked in his breath. “Maybe,” he suggested, “I could suck him off, Fir. If I get on top of him right now, I might hurt him.”
Verán was nursing a sap vial, bedclothes and pillows mounded around him. “Nonsense,” he said. “If the boy can walk, he can take a cock.”
But Ansha heard a note of uncertainty there. Worried about getting blood on his bedclothes, the old bastard. “Let’s just see how he takes my fingers first, Fir. I’ll make him squirm for you,” he promised, knowing that even the kindest touch would make Tilrey squirm right now, and not with pleasure.
Verán relented.
Ansha rolled Tilrey on his side and fingered him for a while, trying to be gentle. Then he placed Tilrey’s hand on his own cock—still soft, because nothing about this turned him on—and said, “Make me come.”
Tilrey worked on Ansha. He didn’t get much of anywhere, but it didn’t matter, because soon Verán was asleep.
“It’s okay. You can stop now.” Ansha removed Tilrey’s hand from his wilting cock and spread a blanket over him, then got up to turn out the lights.
“Fuck,” he whispered, returning to bed, being sure not to crowd Tilrey. “I told Bror I’d find out what happened to you. I never thought…”
Tilrey’s body stiffened, as if he’d suddenly woken from a deep sleep. He shook his head violently and raised a finger to his lips.
“You don’t want me to tell Bror,” Ansha translated.
Tilrey nodded, a beseeching look on his face.
“But here’s the thing, Rishka. Bror’s already guessed. Now he needs to see for himself you’re not dead.” Remembering Bror’s rage, Ansha added, “You don’t want him to do something stupid, do you?”
Tilrey flinched, and Ansha knew they were thinking the same thing. Bror was savvy in many ways, but not this way. Seeing the damage to Tilrey might make him do something they’d all regret.
Tilrey shook his head again. He pulled Ansha close and whispered into his ear, the monotone words hissing through his wired jaws: “Can’t see me like this.”
“I know. I know.” Ansha stroked Tilrey’s arms, trying to soothe him. “But the thing is, he’s already upset.” Which is partly my fault—but Bror would’ve figured out the truth on his own sooner or later. “And you might be the only person in the world who can calm him down.”
It had stung Ansha to see Bror fly into a towering rage over Tilrey, just a little. When somebody threatened to “crush” the General Magistrate of Oslov for your sake, that was more than friendship talking. That was sheer and utter madness. Ináthera. Love.
Right now, though, holding a battered Tilrey in his arms, Ansha couldn’t find any jealousy in his heart. Tilrey and Bror had something, and he might as well accept it already. What use were friends if you didn’t help them through times like this?
“Tell the driver to let you see Bror,” he instructed, patting Tilrey’s back. “I’ll come with him. Together we’ll make Brorsha understand.”
***
Bror had no patience left for the Magistrate’s driver. When he and Ansha came to Linden’s door on the afternoon following the free-night, he let Ansha do the talking.
That turned out to be the right move. Ansha fawned over Jorning as if he were an Upstart, and this time the driver let them in almost immediately. “I cleared it with Tilrey beforehand,” Ansha whispered as they crossed the sitting room. “But a little politeness never hurts.”
At Tilrey’s door, though, Jorning paused to block the way. “He’s still not well,” he said, glaring straight at Bror. “Promise you won’t tire him out?”
A growl of rage swelled in Bror’s throat. Before he could release it, Ansha answered with a sweet smile: “We promise. We’re so grateful you’re taking good care of our friend. It was just a matter of time before he had an accident like this.”
Jorning looked startled. “Like…?”
“Falling on the ice! Poor Rishka’s clumsy, especially when he’s wasted. He has a lot of good qualities, but grace isn’t one of them.”
With that, Ansha waltzed past the driver and hit the door button. Bror couldn’t help savoring Jorning’s confused expression. Had he not expected anyone to buy the lie about how Tilrey got hurt?
When the door opened, Bror’s schadenfreude vanished. He found himself hanging back, dreading what came next.
Ansha had warned him Tilrey’s injuries were bad, really bad. Bror knew how to conceal his feelings with a blank expression, but it wouldn’t be easy. Abandoning Tilrey would be even worse, though, so he stepped resolutely inside—to find Tilrey in bed with his back to them. His shoulders were hunched, his head bowed as if he didn’t want to face them.
Jorning patted Tilrey’s back. “Hey, your friends are here. You change your mind about seeing them?”
“Why would he change his mind?” Without waiting for permission, Ansha sat down on the bed. He threw an arm around Tilrey and whispered in his ear.
Bror watched from a few paces away, feeling helpless. He could think of so many ways to comfort Tilrey, but none of them were possible with the driver standing right there.
The driver’s got a crush, Ansha had suggested when they were planning this.You need to make him think you’re only Tilrey’s friend, or he’ll get difficult. And sure enough, Jorning was hovering in a way that suggested his interest in Tilrey was more than professional.
Asshole. Bror could only stand there with his fists clenched, waiting for Tilrey to turn around.
“You say the word, Nettsha, they’re out of here,” Jorning said with a warning glance at Bror and Ansha, as if their very presence might be a threat to Tilrey.
Tilrey scribbled on a notepad and passed it to the driver. Jorning frowned as he read, then said, “Okay. But only an hour. Be back after that.”
Ansha shot Bror a triumphant glance.
“You two, be careful. Don’t try to make him talk,” Jorning lectured them from the doorway. “He’s got stitches.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it!” After the door closed behind Jorning, Ansha rolled his eyes. “Guess you have a new admirer, Rishka.”
Tilrey hadn’t moved, still facing the wall. Ansha rose and signaled Bror with a head wag to take his place on the bed.
Bror forced himself to sit beside Tilrey, angry at himself for being afraid. Not of Tilrey, never of Tilrey, but of what he was about to see. And of his own reaction to it.
“Hey, Rishka,” he said in a low voice. “Ansha told me what to expect. And … what happened. Why you didn’t want to see me.”
A brief tremor ran over Tilrey, but he stayed still.
Very carefully, Bror cupped Tilrey’s knee through the bedclothes. “I was pretty pissed off—not at you, obviously! You can see I’m calm now.”
“He was so angry he scared me!” Ansha contributed. “Be glad you’ve never seen him that angry, Rishka.”
Bror scowled at his friend. You’re not helping.
But maybe Ansha actually was helping, somehow. Because now Tilrey finally untwisted his upper body to face them.
Bror had prepared for this moment. He would not let his feelings show. But when he saw the livid bruises, the swelling that transformed the contours of Tilrey’s face, and the wired jaw, he sucked in a breath and blinked hard.
He wasn’t squeamish. He’d seen the aftermath of drunken brawls. But when the opponent couldn’t strike back, it wasn’t a fight, was it? This amount of injury couldn’t be excused as “discipline” or “punishment,” either. To Bror it looked like torture, plain and simple.
And they were all accepting it because of who the torturer was.
Bror knew the longer he stared, the more he would alarm Tilrey. So he did the only thing he could: He threw his arms around his friend and pulled him close, as if he could somehow retroactively shield him from everything that had happened.
“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he breathed in Tilrey’s ear. “No, don’t try to talk. Just nod.”
Tilrey shook his head. He relaxed into Bror’s arms, propping his forehead on Bror’s shoulder.
It was a familiar position for them. But now Bror sensed Tilrey’s fragility in the stiffness of each movement and the ragged hitches in his breathing. He longed to kiss Tilrey and reassure him with the heat of his mouth. That didn’t seem wise, though, so he kept still and rubbed lazy circles on Tilrey’s back, hoping the rhythmic motion would soothe him.
They stayed that way a while. After a bit, when he dared, Bror ran cautious fingers through Tilrey’s hair. Tilrey’s breathing leveled out.
“I’ve missed you so much,” Bror breathed. “So much.”
When they finally parted, and Bror was able to notice something besides Tilrey, he saw that Ansha had found a way to occupy himself. He was sitting crosslegged on the floor with a large book in his lap. “A little light reading?” Bror asked.
“Yeah, right.” Ansha scowled with comical exaggeration. “Don’t you have any fun books, Rishka?”
Bror’s eyes met Tilrey’s. Now they were both smiling, just a little. And the ray of sunlight on his friend’s mangled face did something to Bror that the earlier mute misery hadn’t.
Hot tears rose to Bror’s eyes, blurring his vision. He knew he couldn’t stop them from falling, so he didn’t try. He only hugged Tilrey again, hiding his messy face against Tilrey’s shoulder, and said in a low, broken voice, “This is never gonna happen to you again. Never.”
He wanted to make a different vow: to “crush” Magistrate Linden, the way he’d proposed to Ansha in his rage yesterday. At the very least, he wanted to promise to bring the man to justice.
But deep down, Bror knew he had no power to do either of those things. Upstarts had protections he and Tilrey didn’t, protections that would crush them both before he could even get started.
This was a time for survival, not playing the hero. So Bror held Tilrey close and wept, reminding his friend that at least they could endure this together.
***
Suddenly Tilrey was the one comforting Bror, rubbing his back, and it felt good for a change. He might be broken now, but in the future he hoped they could take turns being the strong one. Everyone needed someone to lean on sometimes.
Even Ansha was more than pulling his weight as a friend today. He’d handled the situation brilliantly, talking Bror out of doing anything drastic, so Tilrey could simply enjoy Bror’s arms around him. Held in that solid grip, he didn’t feel frightened by Bror’s tears, because they told him his friend was resigned to reality.
Time was passing, though. Jorning had given them only an hour. Reluctantly, Tilrey tugged himself free enough of Bror to reach for his notepad and pen.
He wrote: You’re right. This won’t happen again. But you’re not the one who can stop it. Promise me you won’t talk to anyone, even István.
Bror frowned at that. His tears had dried, but his face was so pale between the blotchy patches that he looked ill. “István might be able to help, though.”
Tilrey shook his head.
A Mainlander has no pull with the Magistrate. Linden listens to his nephew, though. Tollsha, Besha, and Verán will make sure it doesn’t happen again.
He tried to look confident as he handed Bror the note. In reality, he had little respect for Tollsha’s influence over his uncle, and he knew Verán would care only as long as he found Tilrey “useful.” Besha might want to help, if only for selfish reasons, but Tilrey doubted he could do much on his own.
No. The real line of defense was Tilrey’s power to read people’s moods—and then to seek help from Jorning, who could divert Linden’s rage by “punishing” Tilrey in other ways the Magistrate enjoyed. Together, they needed to channel the old man’s desire for violence into activities that wouldn’t do lasting damage.
Jorning appeared to be thinking along those lines, too. This morning, he had given Tilrey an update on Linden: He asked how you were last night. I don’t think he’ll want to see you till you’re better. His tone was reassuring and conspiratorial, as if they were allies against a powerful and erratic enemy.
Once Tilrey could talk again, they would agree on a plan going forward. And if being sure of Jorning’s cooperation meant accepting his occasional clumsy advances … well, that was a small price to pay.
Bror still looked doubtful, but he put a brave smile on his face. “So Tollsha knows? That’s good. I heard he’s his uncle’s favorite. Maybe I could talk to him?”
Tilrey shook his head vehemently. So did Ansha, who’d put the book away and gotten up. “I can talk to Tollsha, Bror. I know what to say. You can’t be so … obvious.”
“About what?” Bror gave Tilrey an anguished glance. Tilrey dropped his eyes.
“Don’t let people know you’re stuck on Rishka,” Ansha said matter-of-factly, plopping down at the foot of the bed. “It’s fine for me to speak up for him, because everybody’s seen me fuck him.”
Bror flinched visibly. Tilrey clasped his friend’s hand tight.
“What?” Ansha asked, having also caught Bror’s reaction. “That’s what happened on Election Night, Brorsha. You know that. Anyway, Strutters figure it’s kinda natural and sweet that I’m concerned for him. But you? Might come off a different way. At least for now.”
Bror hadn’t stopped glowering. “You’re saying it would be less weird for me to defend Tilrey if Verán had made the two of us fuck for his amusement?”
Ansha shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.”
Crude as Ansha was, Tilrey knew he was right. Upstarts were less likely to feel threatened by a bond between two kettle boys when they had orchestrated it for their own delectation. For the first time, he wondered if a public performance with Bror might protect both of them. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, so he thrust it aside to reconsider once he was healed.
To distract Bror now, he brought his friend’s hand to his lips. With his eyes, he said Trust me. Everything will be fine.
Bror grabbed Tilrey’s free hand and squeezed it. A violent shudder shook his body, as if he were repressing sobs. He kissed Tilrey’s knuckles, then released the hand and kissed him on the forehead. “Fine. I won’t complain. But I’m coming back tomorrow, okay?”
“Every few days is safer.” Ansha hopped off the bed. “You saw how the driver is,” he added, cutting his eyes at the door. “And soon Rishka’ll be all better, and you can see him every day in the Café and Vacants with no one watching. Right?”
It took a few more minutes of coaxing to get Bror to leave. Tilrey finally managed to budge him by whispering, “Soon. I love you.”
He didn’t even care if Ansha heard. A shared glance as Ansha practically dragged Bror out the door confirmed their friend would keep their secret.
When no one else could or would help, kettle boys stuck together.