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A serving woman stops Fitz by slamming her arm across his path into the wall he is trying to walk beside. It’s a credit to his training he doesn’t throttle his own neck on her arm. Amused, she procures a letter and waves it in front of his face, held between two fingers like you would a match. Fitz finds himself flinching back from it as if it truly is on fire.
“Oh really, Badgerlock? Do you not find this to your taste?” she teases.
“I – pardon?” Fitz says.
The serving woman slows her hand and allows Fitz to frown at a pale pink envelope carefully addressed to Lord Golden. She hesitates.
“Um, have you not carried such correspondence for your master before?”
“Of course,” Fitz lies automatically. It’s the best strategy to gain information and is carried out effortlessly and with a causal smile, well before Fitz can consider the consequences of meddling in the Fool’s private affairs.
She giggles. Giggles? And says, “I’ll bet there’s a healthy flow.”
Fitz grins back, as if in on the joke.
She leans in closer and smiles coyly before asking, “Ever have a peruse yourself, Tom?”
“I – no. I don’t read my master’s private correspondence.”
This has got to be one of the most bizarre things to ever happen to him. Fitz finds himself staring at her, a non-pulsed expression plastered over his face as he furiously considers the implications of servants, not only reading their masters’ letters, but revelling in it. “It is not correct for a servant to see private–”
Fitz is cut off by the woman shoving the letter into his chest with the palm of her hand. She sighs and says, “Well, I suppose it’s no matter, but I thought you might be interested.” She trails her eyes over his face for a moment. Her mouth hovers over words until she finally says, meaningfully, “Maybe it really isn’t to your taste.”
“No. It isn’t,” Fitz confirms for her. He’s about to say again about respecting the privacy of your employer, and is already preparing to discuss such things with Chade, but she her eyes lit up at his proclamation as if Winterfest just came early.
“Truly?” She exclaims.
Maybe now would be a good time to admit he has no idea what is going on. He doesn’t.
“Is it Lord Golden?” the woman asks eagerly. She’s leaning in so close he can see flecks of black in the brown of her eyes.
“I…” Fitz flounders. She gasps.
“I really must go,” he says with as much dignity as he can muster. He can feel his cheeks growing warm. The woman laughs delightedly.
“Yes, be on your way,” she says, sweeping up her skirts as she steps aside from blocking his path.
…
The letter stays hidden in Fitz’s breast pocket all day as he debates whether he should read it. He cannot give it to the Fool before deciding for certain that he doesn’t want to slit open the paper and shake out the letter with such strange content that it has a grown woman giggling then scandalised in the space of a few minutes. It turns out Fitz is contemplating rather too much. He’s sitting in Chade’s old chamber, turning the letter over and over in his hands, and doesn’t notice when Chade walks in on him. Fitz jumps out of his skin and Chade chuckles at the sight.
“You might want to be somewhere more private for that, Fitz. You know I come and go from this room as I please, as does Thick.”
Fitz holds up the letter, “You’ve seen such a letter before.”
Chade abruptly stops pouring over the ingredients in his potions rack and turns to stare at Fitz to say in a pitying tone, “Did I train you so poorly, son?”
That’s it. That’s enough. Fitz flicks his wrist to reveal his penknife and slides it under the unmarked wax seal with practiced efficiency, feeling Chade’s eyes digging into him. He stands and paces as he unfolds the letter, the rose-pink parchment flattening crisply over his palm, and sees –
Oh.
Fitz feels his face burn. Across the room, Chade is either having a fit or he’s laughing. Fitz tears his eyes away from the image to glare at Chade.
“You might’ve just said –”
“Where’s the fun in that? Eda and El, you look like you’ve seen a ghost Fitz. Is it a good one?”
Fitz slams his hands down on the table, definitely not to hide the way they’re shaking slightly. Definitely not to put the cursed (alluring) image out of his direct line of sight. He thinks back to the morning’s encounter. He shakes his head and says in an almost broken voice, “You should’ve told me about this before, Chade.”
The old man has recovered himself and says mildly, “Just a harmless prank for you. By El, it played itself.”
“Not a harmless prank,” Fitz grits out between his teeth, “You have no idea the conversation I had when this letter was delivered to me.”
He feels himself flush even deeper. Maybe it truly isn’t to your taste… Is it Lord Golden?
“Please Fitz,” Chade says, approaching the table and glancing down at the letter. It’s a detailed image of a woman kneeling between a man’s thighs, his hands curled in her hair, her mouth covering only part of the space between his legs, and her arm holding where one of his knees has buckled forwards. “Embarrassed as you may be, it is only the work of an artist who has been making quite a splash across all castes of Buckkeep for the last few weeks. The lords and ladies have been having quite a time sending each other such pieces, and their servants have enjoyed peering over their shoulders. Everyone – apart from you, it seems – has stumbled across such an image and most have found enjoyment from it, so there is no shame in being seen with one. Also, your status here is as a servant. It will not stir the water. I assure you.”
Fitz stares across the room at where Chade had been standing. He refuses to look down at the image. “You have no idea what was said.”
Chade takes a seat at the table. “Tell me,” he offers.
Fitz clenches his jaw. He re-lives the conversation. Oh, and if there weren’t rumours about Lord Golden and his manservant before… “Just leave,” he tells Chade. His old mentor sits next to him awhile longer before sighing and pushing out his chair. Fitz collapses forward in the renewed silence and isolation, head cradled in his hands and breathing shaky.
That is how Chade finds him, hours later, when he helps Fitz into the room’s unused bed. He is strangely silent and gentle with Fitz. He murmurs a few things but it isn’t loud enough for Fitz to hear over the voice in his head. The voice now screaming: Is it Lord Golden?
…
Morning comes all too early. Or, Fitz assumes it’s morning in the dank, windowless chamber. Maybe he should decorate it as Chade suggested. Then he could hide in here forever and never face another human again. He groans and rolls out of bed, then thinks better of it and slumps back down into the layer of tussled blankets.
A few hours pass until Fitz bothers to stand and pace to the scroll rack. Nothing piques his interest. In a series of laps around the room, pacing like a caged dog, Fitz finds himself circling back to the table. He taps along the table surface, playing at nonchalance or letting out nerves – he can’t tell. The image is… yes, it’s still there. He gives it a very damning side-eye. He’s never heard of such an act. Yet, there it is, drawn as if… as if… Is it something that… No. Don’t think of that. Fitz strides back over to the scroll rack and tries to immerse himself in one about cultivating carris seed.
Chade brings him a tray of food at some point in the day. “Fitz? It’s really not that bad. Lord Golden is used to being shrouded in a certain… level of… otherness when it comes to such matters. It is something that has long been speculated, and people have had their imaginations stoked. Yes, it is being spoken of, but you are well protected by the intrigue and uncertainty of the case.”
Fitz feels himself swallow loudly.
“Fitz, my boy,” Chade admonishes. He comes to rest a steady hand of Fitz’s shoulder.
“I can’t ever go back,” Fitz tells him hopelessly.
The grip on his shoulder tightens, “You can and you will, if I have to drag you myself. This is not worth disappearing over. Trust me Fitz, a life hidden in walls is no life. And this is not the deal breaker you seem to think it is.”
They stand in silence. Fitz can think of nothing to say. After a while, Chade sighs and changes tact. He uses his grip on Fitz’s shoulder to spin and shove him towards the stairway that leads to Tom Badgerlock’s quarters. Caught off guard, Fitz finds his body complying.
“Stop being so dramatic. Look, just go, speak to Lord Golden. He’s concerned for you and I am sure you’ll feel better afterwards. I don’t have the right words to help you with this.”
Something in Chade’s tone is wrong. Fitz catches himself in the stairway entrance and demands “What do you mean, you don’t have the right words to help me. You’ve been involved in plenty of scandals.”
“Fitz, I just told you not to be dramatic. This is not a scandal.”
“But what did you mean, Chade?” Fitz insists. He’s sure there’s something there. Something that makes his stomach clench and panic rise like bile.
“Nothing! I meant nothing by it.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Fitz finds himself almost shouting. He’s breathing heavily. “Tell me what you meant, what you thought – think. Tell me.”
Chade holds his hands up placatingly, “Please, son. I have never been accused of certain, frowned upon, attractions, so I do not have experience of the right words for this, and clearly none of what I’ve said has been useful to you.”
“You said it because you thought it was true,” Fitz says. He doesn’t quite believe the statement. He doesn’t want to believe it. But there’s something cathartic about pressing on a bruise after the pain has been droning on for so long, and he wants to be angry again, rather than scared. “You thought there was something between the Fool and I. And you think he will know what to say because we are in it together. You – you thought… that’s what you thought.” Fitz’s shaking voice has been reduced to a whisper.
“Well, maybe a part of me suspected that, yes,” Chade says quietly, looking at Fitz as though maybe he’s just confessed a truth. Fitz wishes he could punch that stupid, imploring face until he reached bone. He wants to tear chunks out of Chade, pull and bite and destroy him for his assumption. Instead, he lets out a sound akin to a snarl and stumbles away down the stairs, feeling like he’s drowning.
…
There’s a tentative knock on the door. Fitz ignores it and it disappears again. He thinks that the Fool has been periodically knocking for a few days now. Every so often, Fitz has snuck upstairs to Chade’s old room to relieve himself and have some food and water from a tray that stays suspiciously well stocked. On one such trip, he stood holding Lord Golden’s cursed letter in front of the fire. However, he could not bring himself to submit the work to flames. It’s now stuffed under a pile of clothes in his servant’s room. Constantly taunting. Paired with the Fool’s damn knocking constantly tempting. No. That’s not right. The Fool does not tempt Fitzchivalry Farseer. He squeezes his eyes closed and groans.
The Fool. Lord Golden. A slim waist and narrow shoulders, sharp jawline and coy smile. Long golden hair floating down his back, catching against Fitz as the Fool brushes past. He wishes he could grab the Fool’s hair at the roots, use it to direct him against a wall and pin him there. Fitz would lean in closer and closer, until there’s nothing left to do but close his eyes and press his lips to the Fools. Would the kiss be gentle or rough? Which would he prefer? He imagines biting into the Fool’s soft lower lip and running his tongue over the hurt. He imagines using his grip twisted in the Fool’s hair to tilt back his head and expose his neck. He imagines the sounds the Fool would make. He imagines the Fool being impatient and rutting his hips against Fitz’s upper thigh.
Fitz trails his hand down his stomach. He lets his fingers slip under the waistband of his breeches and into the curled hair there. He should stop. He doesn’t. But he has an idea.
Fitz rolls over, gasping as he brushes against the mattress. He stretches a hand over to the chest of clothes and gropes frantically for Lord Golden’s letter. He stares at the man in the image. He’s well-built and muscular. His dark eyebrows are drawn together. It’s not what Fitz is after and he tries to focus on the woman but she’s too feminine. He throws the drawing aside and settles back to his imagination. It was worth a shot.
Maybe the Fool heard the clatter. Maybe he was finally fed up with Fitz’s self-imposed solitude. Either way, this time after he knocks he enters.
Fitz freezes.
“F-Fool,” he stammers.
The Fool takes a deep breath, “Yes. It would seem so.” He turns to go and Fitz makes an undignified sound of protest. Warily, the Fool slows and spins on his heel back to face the room. His eyes drift over the floor, settling for a moment on the letter. He does not glance towards Fitz.
Fitz lies there, panting, gazing at him. In the silence, the Fool turns once more to leave and this time Fitz lets him. He finishes himself quickly, with little satisfaction, and lies there in shame for a bit.
…
The next day, Fitz feels idiotic and cooped up and decides he must leave his room. He goes back up to Chade’s workroom and washes himself in the cool, but thankfully clean, bathwater left out. He shrugs on his shirt and jerkin. He toes into his boots. He takes a deep, stabilising breath and enters Lord Golden’s chambers. The man is sat cupping tea in one hand and a small scroll in another. He goes very still when Fitz enters.
“Lord Golden,” Fitz acknowledges, “I see you already have breakfast.”
Lord Golden clears his throat, “Yes. Take the day for yourself, Badgerlock. I know you have been unwell.”
Fitz grunts in agreement and leaves.
He doesn’t last long in the real world. There are too many looks and whispers and stopped conversations as he rounds a corner. Fitz is gone less than an hour before he’s back in Lord Golden’s rooms, throwing himself into an armchair. He waits for the Fool to ask him what is wrong, but the Fool does not.
It is well into the evening when Fitz needs to let some thoughts out to his closest friend.
“I have made a mess,” he confesses abruptly.
The Fool looks up from where he is curled on the sofa. “In your bed or at court?” he asks mildly.
Fitz near chokes. He had thought they would never speak of that incident again. “Court,” he says curtly.
The Fool nods, “Well, I have been cleaning that up.”
“Thank you,” Fitz says, “Um.... how?”
The Fool had gone back to staring at his book and now he idly turns a page as he explains, “Lord Golden is a foreign and promiscuous gentleman, with many strange customs and habits. No one is quite sure what his serving man meant to imply with what the rumours suggest he said, of which no one is willing to come forward and confirm as a true witness. There is much mystery around it – I am sure there are those who are quite enjoying themselves – but overall this seems to be a case of erroneous reporting and the classic wildfire spread of gossip. Nothing more.”
“I.. thank you, Fool. I don’t know how to thank you enough.”
The Fool looks up at him quickly, then back down. He nods once in acknowledgement and thumbs a page of his book. Fitz stares at the slender fingers gripping the book’s spine. His mouth is dry.
“And I’m sorry, for all the trouble it’s caused.”
The book has gained the majority of his friend’s attention at this point. He does not look up to say, “I have had no particular trouble. I deal with rumours such as these on a near constant basis. Just… maybe not involving you so explicitly. It does not bother me, because I am not ashamed of such a thing being true.”
Fitz finds himself looking down self-consciously, “I’m not ashamed.” He tries so say, but his voice drops off halfway through the sentence.
“Of course not,” the Fool says. He slams his book closed and sets it on the low table in front of the sofa. He starts to walk towards his room.
“Fool, wait.”
“For what, Fitz?”
Fitz stares at him, lost and bewildered, until the Fool walks out.
…
Fitz can’t stop thinking about it. He holds the drawing again, close to his face, inspecting it. He has never heard of such an act, never partaken in it, never thought of it. It’s late at night and his candle has burnt low. He can see a soft glow of light under his door that signifies Lord Golden is also holding a nighttime vigil. His presence renders Fitz too cowardly to do anything about the arousal stirring within. He will not have the Fool see him in such a state again. But… now that is an act that Fitz understands could happen between two men.
The night stretches on; it seems the Fool no longer requires sleep. Fitz is growing frustrated. And he already had a lot of frustration to let out. Eventually, he stands and marches to the door. It is with a flinch he remembers that his physical state needs a loose-fitting shirt and trousers to conceal. Then, the door can be slammed open.
Lord Golden acknowledges him with a nod.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” Fitz asks.
“Yes, yourself?”
Fitz crosses his arms over his chest.
The Fool grins and says, “Now what’s got your knickers in a twist?”
Fitz suddenly feels very foolish. The Fool raises an eyebrow.
“Why are you staying up so late?” He asks.
The Fool waves at some papers he was looking over. Fitz walks over and picks one at random from the middle of the stack.
“Lets see,” he mutters, and nearly drops the letter. The pale pink paper is molten in his hand. It’s… it’s the same act as before, but both individuals are laying down, head to toe, and – Fitz fumbles – pleasuring each other at the same time.
There is a stifled noise muffled behind a hand at about the height of Fitz’s chest. He stares wide-eyed at the Fool, who begins laughing in earnest. Like a dam released, Fitz finds himself joining in. It feels good.
The Fool stands up. He’s very close. “I think I’ll take that back before you pop a vein in your temple,” he says loftily.
Fitz shakes his head, still smiling, “I’d never imagined such an act before seeing these –” he gestures helplessly.
The Fool tilts his head at him, “Really?”
“I – well, when a man and woman… they don’t need to… to…”
The Fool lets Fitz trail off.
Fitz feels himself blush. He’s still eyeing the picture. He imagines Tom Bagerlock on his knees before Lord Golden, like the woman in first the drawing. The fool was always stronger than he looked. He imagines Lord Golden pushing him backwards and down, into the carpet. He'd press a chaste kiss to Fitz's lips and smile sweetly. And then he'd run those slender fingers down Fitz's chest and then all the way, until he was gripping Fitz in his hand. One stroke, two. Then he’d lower his mouth over Fitz and… no, first he’d turn and arrange himself, graceful as always, so he was lying over Fitz. Fitz’s head would be bracketed between the Fool’s knees, who would lower himself slowly into Fitz. And Fitz would let him. Lord Golden would take him right there on the carpet and Fitz would pant and moan beneath him and around him like he was enjoying it. And-
"Everything alright?" The Fool asks quietly.
Fitz fidgets and comes back to the present. He's waiting, he realises. Waiting for the Fool to ask because he cannot.
The Fool considers him patiently. Alas he reverts to mockery, and holds up the letter as if teaching a lesson, “So this is a man, and this a woman, and although they ‘don’t need to’ they seem to be enjoying –”
“Yes, yes, I understand it Fool.”
“Excellent,” the Fool agrees. He pauses as if regretting his jest, expression suddenly tender. Then he grins. “Fitzchivalry Farseer now knows two ways to have sex… would he care to learn any more?”
Fitz’s heart skips a beat. He stutters and gapes.
Cautiously, like taming a wild animal, the Fool puts a cool hand to one of Fitz’s burning cheeks. “Beautiful,” he murmurs.
Fitz wants to jerk back from the touch. There’s a part of him desperate to recoil. But the other part is twisting gleefully at the way the Fool said ‘beautiful’, like he was enraptured. He waits for the Fool to say something else.
The Fool strokes a thumb over Fitz’s cheekbone and says, “I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you.”
Fitz lets out a very undignified whimper. The Fool smiles and takes Fitz’s face in both hands, stepping forward into the space and tilting Fitz’s head to his liking. He presses their lips together and Fitz lets him take the lead and set a slow, almost tender, pace. When he deepens the kiss, asking permission with a flick of his tongue against Fitz’s mouth, and Fitz parts his lips and moans into the Fool’s open mouth.
At some point, the Fool’s hands slide down from framing his face and trace the lines of his abdomen, settling at his hips. The Fool slips a single finger under the waistband and pulls it slightly away. Fitz remembers he has hands. He sets them heavily on the Fool’s waist and pulls his hips greedily against his own. His arousal presses against the Fool, who lets out a delighted sound.
The Fool kisses slowly along Fitz’s jawline and whispers in his ear. “I think it’s time you tried out that thing you ‘never even imagined’.” Then, he drops to his knees.
“Eda and El,” Fitz swears. The Fool pauses and – “Gods don’t stop. Please.”
The Fool smirks, “I didn’t know you were inclined to beg, Fitz.” He finishes drawing Fitz’s trousers down around his ankles and the only response Fitz can give him is a groan. Carefully, the Fool licks a long stripe up the base of his arousal and mouths around the head. Fitz twines his fingers through the Fool’s thick golden hair and loses himself as the Fool engulfs him completely and begins bobbing his head. Already, Fitz is near the edge.
Fitz hears himself moan lewdly and starts to keel forward. An incredible pressure is pooling and swirling in his abdomen. The Fool stares up at him, pale golden eyes running over his burning face and hands gripping and kneading the flesh around his hips.
“I – Fool I – I’m close – I,” Fitz gasps. The Fool takes Fitz impossibly deeper, swallowing around him and Fitz loses all ability to speak. He doubles over as he reaches his climax, hands clutching at the Fools shoulders for stability, fingers tangled in his golden locks. He sees white.
When it’s over, Fitz all but collapses over the Fool, who catches him around the chest and pulls him forward into his lap. Fitz pants and lets himself be held. His face is in the crook of the Fool’s neck, his ear over his chest, so the Fool’s voice sounds like a much deeper rumble when he observes softly, “Well that was fun.”
Fitz huffs a laugh.
“If a bit quick,” the Fool continues.
Fitz has the sudden, compulsive desire to render the Fool to a whimpering mess himself. He tries to rise but when his own knees take his weight they start shaking and the Fool has to catch him again. He groans. The Fool strokes his hair tenderly, “I know,” he murmurs, “I know.”
Somehow, the action brings a lump to his throat. He buries his face back into the Fool’s chest.
“I was stupid, before,” Fitz hears himself slurring into the Fool’s shirt.
“You’ve always been stupid,” the Fool whispers. He plants a kiss on Fitz’s brow.
“I’m not normally like this after… after I’ve...” Fitz says.
The Fool chuckles. “It’s ok, Fitz. I promise.”
“I plan to return the favour.”
“And I plan to let you. But please, do not think of it as a favour. I have enjoyed myself thoroughly, more than I know how to express to you.”
Fitz lies boneless in the Fool’s arms. At some point, the Fool lowers them both down onto the plush carpet. He tucks his chin over the top of Fitz’s head, which rests across his chest. If Fitz had any decency left, he’d probably pull his damn trousers up. Instead, he kicks one foot out of their confines and tosses that leg over the Fool.
“You’re so warm,” the Fool murmurs, sounding on the verge of sleep. Fitz clutches him tighter.