Work Text:
Where Charlie Tiernan, eighteen years old, sharp and bright and wild, and brittle to the point of breaking - goes to his twin and says, I'm in trouble, Killie. If you love me, help me now.
And maybe there’s a universe where Killie says: anything.
And in this slightly-sideways universe Charlie says, with courage and honesty: I’ve no way out of this one. I’ve been sleeping with - impossibly, horrifically, he names a stable lad from another training yard - and it’s all about to kick off -
Killie says instantly: Da won’t have it.
Charlie says: that’s the problem, yeah. Help me.
Killie can’t think. This is the kind of thing that Charlie's for. Charlie picks the way forward; Killie puts his strength behind it.
It’s hard to resist being carried away by Charlie’s emotions.
Charlie’s feelings are scattered, strained, his nerves stretched taut. He can’t find any way forward. He’s in no state to plan. His instincts fizzle helplessly. All he can think is: run.
It doesn’t seem like the right answer, but - well, Killie can't think of a better one.
Turn right, or turn left, or what? He’s got no idea. They’ve never been able to see paths in fate, only the shapes of deaths.
He sees the ghost over Charlie’s shoulder, the sign of a turning point, and the ghost raises his hand: bidding him goodbye?
Killie puts their heads together. He says aloud, or through their bond: I’ll come with you.
That memory is what Killie thinks about a few years later, rather drearily.
Could you help me out, please. Charlie’s kneeling in his lap, squinting ferociously and pushing Killie’s head back by the grip on his chin. Stop SCOWLING, Kills, fucksake.
Killie tries to relax his eyes. Charlie considers this good enough and pounces, painting black eyeliner along his upper eyelid and smudging it immediately with his thumb. He spends more time on the smudging than he does on the application.
How’s it looking, Killie says, without much hope.
Awful, Charlie says brightly - like a mangled baby lesbian the morning after being passed around at a party.
Killie feels despondent.
Yeah, you’ve got it, pull exactly that face, Charlie says, busily lining and artistically smudging the other eye, I’m hoping for some lovely cougars to take us home and try to fix us up. Try to look like you’ve got fixer-upper potential.
I thought, Killie said, that the whole point of being bisexual was that we had more choice?
Charlie reminds him: yeah, but the fellas we pull tend to be proper paedos.
Killie sighs. In another universe this wouldn’t bother him at all - wouldn’t even be on his radar. In another universe, he’d - rightfully - be riding racehorses for a living, and his body would be perceived as fortunate.
But without the protective explanation of jockey silks, the twins are just weirdly tiny lads. Worse: fine-boned tiny lads, with wistful faces and large eyes that still get them ID’ed in pubs, and small waists that apparently invite drunk people to try to pick them up. The attention they attract is mixed. At the worst, it’s predatory, properly nasty. At best, they get called fictional creatures, leprechauns and elves and the like, and Killie still doesn’t know how he feels about that.
Charlie thinks that slightly unflattering makeup is the way to go, rabbiting on about how it’s like posionous frogs - protective colouration - tilting them to the too-much-trouble-to-make-good-prey end of the market. Putting off the dodgy men, pulling on the equally troublesome goth girls.
Who knows. Killie doesn’t think any of that's true. But he leaves all the admin to him.
I feel like your heart's not in this, Charlie says, jumping off him and handing him the stupid pen. Do mine.
Do it yourself, Killie says.
Our mirror’s pure rubbish, Charlie says. He kneels expectantly in front of Killie and looks up.
There’s no such thing as a rubbish mirror, Killie says, leaning forward and doing his twin’s eyeliner anyway. It looks like a dog’s breakfast, but that's half the point. The twins want to look a bit older and jaded and weird. Mirrors have one job,he says, and they all do it the same way.
Charlie rolls his eyes while straining to keep the lids still and corrects himself; fine fine fine sure sure sure it’s the lighting that's rubbish. And I’ve just sprained my eyes doing that.
Killie misses horses so badly he can’t breathe sometimes. Their smell, their gaits under him, their bodies fitting with his. He’s haunted by their lack.
He has his dreams, but - needing to keep their heads down, to have the family truly believe them gone and dead - he’s cut off from their family’s unspoken dreamscape, where things are a bit more real, including the horses. He contents himself with memories, which are fading around the edges - like his sense of himself, he feels.
Killie’s fate changed, when they left. Went ragged and woolly - then blew away.
No replacement. They don’t have those visions any more.
Charlie had said we can’t be having this stuff, and had sort of mentally sliced off all the nebulous not-real gifts they were born with. He didn't know the half of what he’d done, or what they'd lost - just Charlie chopping down fiercely, as bravely as he could, for both of them. Slamming it down like a machete jointing a horse carcass for dogmeat. Parting tissue from bone, severing memory and gift and all the un-real, denied, secret tendrils that connected them to the Mearing. Killie had passed out - squeamish, weaker under the blow. He’d woken up less weird, and that was that.
The family can’t find them that way now.
The twins couldn’t bear to do anything about their bond, and besides, that belongs to them - not the family. Everyone knew identical twins were allowed to be weird with it.
No more dreaming of the Mearing Grange, in that ghostly past-and-future scrambled way. No more hobelar, that strange old ghost with his ghost horse.
Probably no more kinship with horses - no more picking up on their thoughts, holding their will with his, sharing their breath. Or maybe that had been real all along. Killie didn't know. Charlie had thought they couldn’t risk going anywhere near the horse industry, where their family was so well-known. Matching ginger shortarse twins - one word dropped in the wrong place would bring Bren’n’Blaw down on them like the very wrath of God. They needed to be missing-presumed-dead. No horses.
For quite a while, they’d dyed their hair brown. Charlie had rather liked it, thought it tied in well with the rest of their colouring. But Killie hadn’t liked the maintenance, or the admin, or the stains, or the smell, and had finally put his foot down. You don't need to match me, he’d snapped, I’m not doing it, you do what you like.
Charlie couldn’t bear not-matching, and so they went back to being redheads.
But nobody’s claimed them, no wrath of God, no aunt-and-uncle pouncing on them out of a horsebox.
And no horses. Killie isn’t sure if it was because a clean break was really better.
Or if they were both secretly afraid that they would reach out to the horses, unable to stop themselves - and find that horses were only dumb animals, after all, closed-off and opaque.
The cougar Charlie wanted finds them that night. She gives the name of Nat. She’s drinking a pint, and orders pints for them: handsome, domineering, her deep voice laying down the law.
The twins are slightly disarmed by this open interest. They automatically share one pint at a time, passing it back and forth, not realising they’re doing it. The two of them have a low alcohol tolerance and have learned to support each other. Nat’s eyes flicker with unmistakable hunger.
Nat’s tall, muscular, strong, with arms that seem bigger than Killie. Older than them, and emphatically butch. Buzzed-short dark hair, handsome face set in tolerant amusement and lightened by a septum piercing; jeans belted with accompanying carabiner and wallet chain. Wide, powerful hips. Breasts and belly promise further strength. She's tall, confident, and magnificent. The twins are a little awestruck.
She takes Charlie’s hand from the bar top and compares it to her own. Charlie's a grown man, nearly thirty, and proud of himself - a bantam cockerel, vain and horny and cheeky, willingly doing all the admin of getting laid for himself and his twin brother. Charlie’s bisexual, he’s terribly charming, he’s even handsome in a good light - and he acts like nothing can surprise him.
Nat looks into Charlie's eyes. She strokes his knuckles with her big thumb, and brings them to her lips. She kisses them with clear significance. Charlie’s chatter dries up abruptly with a noise like: GUH. He looks like a fawn, struck by an arrow. Wide brown eyes blown strange and wild by a force outside himself.
Killie’s thinking, crossly; but isn't she obviously a lesbian?! But he’s learned enough to keep quiet. Charlie keeps telling him that people are complicated. He’s always coming up with labels for Killie - demisexual and so on - and then explaining that people are perfectly entitled to sleep around outside their models of attraction, which makes Killie want to shout: WHAT’S THE POINT OF HAVING THE LABELS, THEN?
He doesn’t have a conclusion. It isn’t Killie’s business. He’s mostly here to keep Charlie out of trouble. Sometimes, in the course of this, offers come his way; if Charlie’s sorted for the evening, Killie takes them up, without much fuss.
Now Nat turns to Killie. She hooks a finger under his chin and tilts his head up. He’s not attracted - desire doesn’t take him that way, not like it does for other people - but he can read her intent. She wants to top him, and is already planning to make him come. Killie could put up with that. You’ll do, princess, she says. Finish your pint.
Er - just to be clear, which one of us do you fancy? Charlie puts his head on one side.
Reckon I can manage both, she says with lazy confidence.
The thing is, Charlie says, entering negotiations - my brother and I don’t do each other. That is, we don’t mind sharing most things - but we don't touch each other. It’s a hard boundary.
That’s quite all right. Nat’s smile is predatory, crocodilian. Twin princesses, one at a time. Which one’s older?
Me, Killie says flatly. He may be easy to pull, but his desire is his own, and Nat has no hold on him.
The little one first, Nat says, and then I’ll show you something, Miss Ice Princess. Get your coat.
Killie waits outside Nat’s bedroom while Charlie gets fucked to pieces. He guards Charlie on their escapades, naturally and instinctively, Killie being less likely to be carried away by lust or blinded by attraction; but during the act, the doors between their minds are kept discreetly shut.
Nat is well-off, and her house is very good. There is art on the walls. Smudgy sketches of vulvas. Killie looks at them thoughtfully, without surprise.
It isn’t very long before the bedroom door opens and a massive, satisfied, smirking, handsome older woman crooks her finger to call him in. Nat is naked, but more powerful naked than many people are when dressed. An older woman, with a little grey in her hair - above and below. Her breasts are small in proportion, but still seem bigger than Killie’s head.
The look in her eyes is like a half-sated lion.
Your turn, she says.
Killie looks up at her, calculating, and steps inside. He’s on high alert. The bed is large. More art on the dark green walls. Dark brown leather armchair. Nat’s a woman of gentlemanly tastes. Through the door at the end comes the faint sound of a shower.
Your silly little sister is in the shower, Nat says over her shoulder, rummaging in a drawer. She didn’t last very long at all. Disappointing, but terribly sweet.
So it’s to be a fem kink of some kind, as well as everything else.
Well, he’s had weirder.
It all comes out the same in the end.
Killie looks down and notices a towel on the floor, upon which is laid a discarded strap-on harness, a nice black leather one. There's a presumably-used dildo alongside - set aside for cleaning. The dildo’s small, abstract, and sugar-pink. He feels a certain premonition.
Do you think you’ll do better?
Possibly, Killie says curtly.
Nat turns around; she has a double-ended dildo in her hands. It’s a lot more serious-looking than the basic little strap on the floor. Bracing a leg on the bed, she slides the pony end up into herself, frowning and taking it in, bending and flexing the toy so that the penetrating end sticks out between her legs like a realistic erection. She bends the flexible shaft into the shape of an upward-curving cock - Killie clenches instinctively. She flexes, thrusts, and it bobs in place.
Killie thinks: Yes, Nat, all very immersive and unnecessarily large.
Certainly larger than the little strap-on Charlie had gotten. Disquietingly large. And a strapless strap is foreboding - anyone can fool around with a harness and a toy, but this feels more professional. Killie’s so fucked.
Let’s see if you can impress me, Nat says. Do yourself a favour, princess - warm it up.
Chrissake. It’ll need it. Killie kneels and laps at the cool dry silicone. He licks it all over first - he absolutely hates the feel of dry things going into his mouth. He tries taking it into his mouth, and has to tilt his head back - Nat’s really tall. She puts her big hand on the back of his head, and pushes her hips forward, and takes possession of his mouth.
Ugh, all right. Fine. The things Killie puts up with. He chokes, gathers himself, sucks the dildo.
She grips his hair, his stupid thick hair that makes a nice handful, and tilts his head even further back. Time to get fucked, Nat says. Clothes off.
Turning his back in an illogical bid for privacy, Killie wriggles out of his clothes, the black jeans and vest top. His socks and pants. He hears a faint hiss of appreciation, and her big hands come from behind him and close around his waist, gripping, sliding appreciatively down his hipbones. Her fingers almost meet each other, spanning his waist. His apparent delicacy seems to ignite something in her. She tugs him backwards so that the stupid hard dildo presses against his back. Bigger and harder than a natural penis. She splays one hand across his lower stomach, pulling him even closer, encouraging him to press his arse against the shaft. The other cups his arse, and she stifles a groan as she shapes the curve of one cheek with her hand, then digs her fingers in for a pinch. He’s getting interested, hardening up at her groping, but he knows his cock won't be touched.
Nat had said upfront that she won’t be touching any penises - she dislikes them - and that they're not allowed to touch her parts at all. That should have been a warning about the territory. Nat is going to have absolutely terrifying strap skills. Damn Charlie for getting him into this.
How long did Charlie hold out for, Killie asks steadily.
Five minutes.
Have you got a timer or a clock or something?
I’ll set a stopwatch, she says, amused, while you get wet for me.
Ugh, he hates that part - but actually, it’s fine as long as she doesn’t want to watch…
Good girl, she says deeply in his ear. Nice and wet for me. Oh, you’re soaking, she chuckles, you know what’s coming, don’t you?
That thing’s massive, he says shortly.
Clever girl, she says, let's see how you get on. Dropping the act a bit, she says quietly: Do you want to start smaller?
Killie grimaces, and says, also quietly: yes please.
She takes a small dildo in her hand, and gently offers a little grace in the way of warmup, pulling him into her lap. You’re all bark and no bite, she says into his ear, forcing him to feel small: a silly little girl just like your sister.
Killie's not particularly into all this girly stuff, but then again, he's not particularly into much, beyond the mechanics. Sure, the roleplay’s weird, but - as she finally sinks the shaft of the big dildo into him and he scrabbles helplessly at the sheets - sure, he’ll give her that - Nat’s very good at the mechanics. No fucking about and fussing, no prodding about, no sudden jab into his intestines - just in, wham, she’s seated already, and her intentions are very clear.
Balls deep in you, she purrs, you take it so well.
Get a move on, Killie says tightly.
Like this? Nat rocks against him, evilly. Killie chokes.
Her thrusts are good, and he pushes back to meet her, moving with her body. This is good; he’ll come from this. Can do ten minutes, easy, better than Charlie.
And then Nat reaches between them and -
Fucksake. It’s a vibrator as well.
Killie almost whites out. Bites down on a cry, and pulls his body up defensively, instead of melting into the sensation. Nat thrusts, his nerves sizzle, and he focuses hard on moving with her, while not letting her pound against the spot.
Hanging in there, little one? You're properly competitive.
I’m used to winning.
Oh, you think you're fierce, do you? Can you take more?
I can take what you give me.
Stubborn little thing.
She reaches between them again. Then the stupid fucking vibration function changes - Nat’s fighting dirty. The thing inside him - well, inside them both - is seized with a rolling pulse. Nat matches it with her thrusts. Killie, badly tried, lets out his embarrassing warble.
That's a pretty sound, princess, Nat pants, her own voice thick with arousal. Do it again.
Fuck off! Killie thinks. He can't speak. She wrings it out of him again - a throaty little song. He can't help making it. Fuck you, he thinks, raggedly.
That’s so good, little one.
Killie wants to reach back and scratch her, slashing with his nails, but he’s braced nicely, and if he shifts too much she'll work out exactly where to pound him.
Then Nat realises that he’s holding back. She puts a big, heavy hand on the small of his back. She presses down, to arch his back, to press him down mercilessly against her thrusts.
No, no, no! She’s bigger and heavier but Killie’s strong as hell, and it’s over when he says it's over -
And it sure as fuck hasn’t been five minutes yet.
Killie fights back, resists, braces himself strong on hands and knees. It’s hard, though - hard to fight her bearing down, forcing him to show her the right place. His own body suggests going along with it. The unstoppable pulsing of the cock makes it hard to think. But she said five minutes -
Ah, bugger, Nat wins the battle. Some combination of pressing down on him and thrusting up into him, her strength and size overcoming his, undoes him completely. She thrusts into the right place. Killie jolts and warbles helplessly, a pretty little bottom doing a pretty little coo.
Now Nat knows exactly where to stroke.
You come apart for me so well, princess.
Fuck it. Yes he does. So Killie comes apart like cheap IKEA furniture. A man still has his dignity.
Can I make you beg?
Please don’t, he squeaks, half-broken, please don’t, please don’t -
She snorts, you’re begging right now, little one -
Ah for fucksake, he says, and warbles again, helplessly, arching prettily against her thrusts. He’s lost. It’s happening.
That's it, she says, give in to it, baby, good girl, let me have you. Let me have all of you. Show me how good you are.
Killie claws the bedsheets, resisting, but Nat’s too experienced and she knows what he needs now. Her thrusts are firm and commanding, stroking his spot like a precision engineer. He transforms, against his will, into the princess she wants. He trills, begging, the pretty liquid notes hanging in the air like shafts of golden light. It’s a noise that says, in some basic primal way, yes please more.
Oh Jesus what the hell is that, she says, thickly, so fucking hot, and her thrusts become ragged as orgasm shakes through her. She’s merciless and well-controlled, though, thrusting like a gentleman, the perfect butch top, seeing him through. Killie cries out, shimmering, sweet.
You’re my little angel, Nat says, possessively, on the other side of her own orgasm. You did it, you sweet girl, you did it, you made me come - you’re so good for me.
Has it been, Killie tries to say.
You're coming now, she says.
No, he tries, no, I’m -
Come for me, Princess - and she presses some button on the toy that goes impossibly harder and faster, long thrumming pulses of vibration coupled with her strong, determined thrusts. It’s all far too much.
Killie’s consciousness breaks into golden bubbles that turn white and float apart. He comes, violently, wet and hard, forced out of him; but that’s not even the point; the point is being sent to that mysterious place, beyond time and space and pleasure, where his sense of being Killie ends.
White and endless, beyond himself, a wild tangle of energy that has no edges and no name.
I should have shut the door, Charlie says in his ear, you caught me on the backswing.
Killie winces, returning to himself: some half-dreamed bastard, sometimes called Cillian Worthington, the twin of the man who is curled up next to him on a stranger’s bed. He must have dragged Charlie along with his orgasm. Rude of him.
They try very hard not to do that, because it is Too Weird.
He says: sorry.
No, no, don’t worry, Charlie says, exhaustedly, you couldn’t help it - it’s not every day you get strap so good you meet God.
YOU got strap, Killie says, distantly, I had strapless. AND it was a vibrator.
No wonder, Charlie says, that we met the whole feckin’ Trinity.
Did she say, Killie says, how long I held out?
No.
The twins curl into each other on Nat’s bed, on her dark and tasteful sheets, wrung out and weak, like they’re reforming into one person, until their hearts stabilise together. They breathe together. Killie floats.
I don't like men, Nat says abruptly, standing over them. Killie jolts, realising that they’d fallen asleep.
Okay, Charlie says politely. We’ll be going, then -
No. Stay, she says. You can even come back.
She leans down, traces the outline of Charlie’s surprised mouth. Trailing fingers through Killie’s hair, she adds: Seven minutes, little one, if you want to know.
It’s some time later, and Nat’s very kindly shepherding the twins to some kind of fancy discreet members-only sex dungeon.
They’ve seen her a few more times, and each time, she seems to find them more amusing. Charlie's a bit infatuated; Killie just appreciates the reduction in admin. Nat’s quite reliable, straightforward and pragmatic - even if she does call him little one and treats him like a girl. He made ten minutes, the other day.
She’d told them to wear masks. Anonymity’s important at this club, apparently. They don't really have anything fancy, so they each wear a simple black mask from a party shop, covering their faces. Killie’s in nondescript black trousers and shirt, with a white capelet - Charlie chose it. Charlie’s in a silky white dress under a black wool coat.
Nat, in a double-breasted suit like a crime lord, has a twin on each arm - and seems fairly pleased with herself.
Are you sure these are old enough, Mistress? The doorman asks.
They're nearly thirty, she says dryly, and ancient in sin.
Inside, it’s some sort of BDSM club. The twins may be ancient in sin, but they've never really dealt in this stuff.
They’re distinctly wide-eyed about it, which makes Nat practically purr with satisfaction. She likes to pretend that she’s corrupting them. Charlie leans into it, playing it up, while Killie resists and rolls his eyes; Nat enjoys both reactions.
There's a demonstration that Nat wants to watch. It consists of a man in an animal mask, hitting a series of volunteers with clinical precision, for their education and that of the audience.
The man with the crop isn’t wearing much, and what he’s wearing is all skimpy stuff in black leather - some sort of tight leather shorts, long black boots, a collar, and a menacing pointy-eared black leather mask that's apparently supposed to resemble a dog. Killie thinks it looks stupid, but he doesn’t have to wear it.
That’s the Dog, Nat says, he'll be an education for you little ones.
The Dog’s small, strong hands wield a short, stark implement like a riding crop, striking the punters on buttocks and backs with a variety of blows. He turns and addresses the audience at regular intervals, explaining the technical details of how he applies force and delivers pain, where he lands it and where he avoids - outlining areas of people’s bodies in shapes of meat, impassively, like a butcher or a vet - describing exactly how he pulls back when people can’t be bruised, and how he raises welts when the situation calls for welts.
The quivering young man in a dog collar currently at the Dog’s feet certainly seems to be enjoying it, his eyes blank and blissed with arousal, sporting a massive erection. Eventually someone collects him, and replaces him with a more giggly and un-serious girl, who squeaks irritatingly under every blow. The Dog deals with her far more kindly and patiently than Killie thinks she deserves. Holding up a handful of her plump blue-white bottom, the man delivers a brief commentary on the type of bruise he can raise, precisely and with subject knowledge, as if describing a tattoo. The girl squeaks excitedly for a bruise, and the Dog - like a kindly uncle - delivers the right sort of blow on her skin. You’ll do nicely, he says. A familiar sort of accent.
Killie’s not at all into this - finds it embarrassing, really - but it seems like a fair number of the audience aren’t aroused either. Some are nodding, fingers on chins, as if it’s a professional lecture. They ask technical questions.
The Dog is a nicely sized, compact man, clearly older but in fighting-fit condition, with a trim figure stripped down neatly to working muscles. Shorter than most, with strength in the shoulders and a very specifically toned arse. Good posture. At the back of the head, which the mask doesn’t cover, the hair is grey.
Killie notices all of this, but isn’t interested in him as an object. Killie studies the tall black boots ferociously, and thinks he knows what's going on here.
When the Dog starts an extremely professional and precise demonstration of an act that requires a person dressed as an unconvincing horse, Killie is fascinated. From a purely technical standpoint. He glances over at Charlie.
They've walled themselves off politely, closed the connecting doors between them. He can tell from his brother’s mildly into it, but that Charlie’s into it for different reasons. Perhaps not entirely sexual ones. He’s half-grinning, amused. Charlie’s sensitive to moods - he’s enjoying the spirit of the room very much.
Killie reckons it isn’t people getting slapped around that he likes - Charlie doesn't like pain himself - but - ah yes. Charlie likes people kneeling, giving and exchanging vulnerability. And he loves people-watching. He loves how much the people here enjoy doing this. He’s soaking that in. It’s less personal arousal than a comfortable pleasure: being around people in an intensified state.
And he likes people kneeling in little outfits.
Killie rolls his eyes. He sort of knocks on the closed door - Charlie alerts and opens it a little, listening - and Killie sends him a cutting message: choirboy.
Rude?? Charlie thinks. And then thinks about his choirboy days. And then ponders, thoughtfully: might be something in that...
Killie retreats instantly and slams the connecting doors between them. He’s a bit melodramatic about it, and feels Charlie laughing.
Charlie is invited to go with some young women to fetch drinks. He looks politely to Nat for permission first. Killie stays behind, watching a new punter kneel before The Dog.
Are you enjoying our Dog? Nat asks dryly.
The technical bits, Killie says.
What do you see in the technique? It’s a polite way to point out that Killie knows fuckall about BDSM. Which is true. He’s not even sure what the letters stand for.
He rides horses, Killie says, and probably professionally. The right build for it. It's a jockey’s whip, look. Look at the backhand strike, nobody else is doing that - who else learns to do a backhand strike with a whip? You’d hit people forwards, surely, if you learned on people. And those are actually quite good riding boots, he says prosaically.
Ah, says Nat. An equestrian yourself? Any good with a riding crop?
Technically, of course, the stick is a riding crop, but it’s called a whip for historical reasons, Killie says, grateful for a topic of proper conversation.
I do like the way you talk when you're paying attention, little one, Nat tells him, deadpan. You completely forget to stammer.
Sorry, says Killie.
There's a break in the demonstration; people drift away; the Dog packs away his tools in an un-sexy plastic crate. Nat stands up and holds her arm out commandingly. Killie bristles. He’s not a girl. But he is a gentleman, who oughtn’t leave a lady hanging. He puts his hand in the crook of her elbow and allows himself to be towed.
Dog, Nat says, this is a silly little stray of mine. Can we borrow your flogger?
Which one? says the Dog, inclining his masked head with dignity. Killie feels the man’s curiosity, dancing like fingers over his skin, and dismisses it.
There's a handful of sticks to hit people with - some of them are just stupid. Some would be beyond cruel to use on a horse. Two are jockey’s sticks for flat racing, and there’s a longer one for jump.
Go on then, Nat says, which one?
Uh, Killie says, looking sideways at her, I don’t want to be touched -
From a technical standpoint, she says, I am simply supporting your interests, little stray. Dog, he likes the jockey’s whip.
I don’t, Killie starts, but then it’s in his hand and he slips the loop over his wrist, twirls it to remind himself - moving through the transition from forehand to backhand. The forehand grip is like a tennis racket; it’s a quick spin to the ski-pole grip of backhand, in which the blow is delivered by wrist flick. Yes, he decides, the tennis racket action is absolutely the natural one to reach for if you're only ever thinking of hitting human people; the backhand is only logical to someone used to reaching behind themselves, to strike the flank of a horse.
Makes sense, he says, satisfied. Thank you. He tries to hand it back. The man doesn’t take it.
Irish, the Dog says, gruffly. Where from?
Mea-ai-ayo, Killie says, seamlessly deceptive.
What, says the Dog.
Mayo.
No you're not.
Why not?
Even people from Mayo can usually pronounce ‘Mayo’ first go.
I’ve a stammer. Need a bit of a run-up to it.
You had your run-up and sailed straight past the hurdle. The Dog’s put his head to one side, listening carefully. His attention seems very focused, strangely so, but not unkind.
Laois, Killie says quickly, because nobody’s ever from there and can’t pull him up.
Yeah? You sure? What town?
…Arderin.
That’s - that’s a mountain, lad.
Fucksake, Killie says. I give up then. You choose.
The Dog strokes the side of his finger under Killie’s chin, and Killie's suddenly a bit worried that this is one of his uncles or something.
He seems far too interested in Killie.
Killie as a person, that is, not a sex object.
Behind the eyeholes of the dog mask, black paint entirely surrounds the human eyes, so that they are shadowed and anonymous. The colour of the irises is pale. They look a weird sort of silver-grey. Killie’s family were all brown-eyed, last he knew of it, barring Mum, who married in. He remembered Dad saying that he fancied blue eyes, but Killie can’t see the appeal.
His mind is wandering a bit.
It doesn’t matter, the Dog says, gently: I’m very pleased to meet you. Do you ride much anymore?
Must be obvious, somehow. No, Killie says curtly, still trying to hand the whip back to him. The Dog somehow catches his hand instead and holds it. Killie stares at him and finishes, No, I don't ride. Anything. Horses, I mean, mostly. I mostly don’t ride horses.
You should.
Er, says Killie.
Lend me your stray for a moment, Mistress, the Dog says, strangely intense, wrapping both of his warm hands around Killie's.
Erm. This is really very odd.
I would, gladly, but he’s not really here to play, Nat says, which is a polite way of putting it. A bit of an ice princess, my little one. Unless you're thinking of taking an apprentice, Dog?
Killie had thought he had long ago lost the ability to blush. It had used to be a problem; his skin would just fluoresce with red. He’d fancied himself jaded and hardened, now. But now the old hot feeling is creeping up his neck at all this.
I might be, at that, the Dog says, wryly, as if self-conscious, but not letting up. And not letting go. Lend me the pup.
The two older people are having some sort of silent conversation over his head. Killie doesn't know what he thinks about it. He wonders how long they have to be at this place - will Charlie want to stay another hour? The whole night? Can they just leave without Nat? - and he wonders if whatever-the-fuck-is-happening will be better than trailing around in awkwardness and boredom. These people are so weird. It’s probably all very fun for them, but Killie just doesn’t lock in like that…
Why? Killie asks.
Just want to talk to you, lad.
Er, all right then.
The Dog holds his hand firmly, but not sexily, and tows Killie towards the back of the scene, behind a sort of curtain. The lights are normal and there are bathrooms and sort of dressing rooms back there.
This pings a bell of concern with Killie. He doesn't like moving to secondary locations. On the other hand, there is an old woman sitting in the corner, perched on a folding stool. She’s wearing black shiny latex and stiletto heels and tremendous false lashes, and her teased-up white hair has plastic spiders in. She’s got a little table, with a prominently displayed first aid kit and a bundle of knitting, and a sort of cardboard traffic light, and a barrel filled with bottles of water, with the apparent intention of handing them out.
Allright luv? She asks the Dog. That’s a right little one, he old enough to be here?
Just a shortarse, the Dog says, this is Lady Hana, pup, and you’re to come back here if you get spooked.
We’ll have a proper natter, the old granny says comfortably.
Killie thinks he’d take a lot of spooking before it became preferable to share a proper natter with Lady Hana, up to and including an unwanted fist up his arse from a ghost. But he's learned, begrudgingly, to be tolerant. He bares his teeth in a noise that might even be polite.
A brush against his mind as Charlie checks in on his flash of concern. Killie confusedly pictures the Dog, the backrooms, the weird old lady.
Should be all right, they agree, doubtfully. Call if you need me, Charlie adds.
The Dog pulls him into a dressing room. Holding both of Killie’s hands, he stares at him, searchingly, deeply, as if he can see right through Killie’s mask.
Then he grips Killie’s shoulders and falls on his shoulders in a hug.
It's weird.
The Dog made it weird. He’s holding Killie tightly, his arms wrapped round him. Killie stands awkwardly under the weight, not knowing what to do with his hands, or indeed any other part of himself. He can feel the other fella’s heart racing from where he’s pressed against his bare chest - it's going fast. There’s good homely smell about the man - leather, cigarettes. Killie doesn’t really like touch from strangers. He doesn't mind this hug as much as he should. He’s worried that the Dog is crying.
Er, Killie says, ah, hey, listen.
Christ, the Dog says shakily, pulling back a little and touching his face again, Christ, but you're alive, you're alive, lad - let me just. He pulls Killie close again, pressing Killie’s face into his bare shoulder, and makes a weird wordless keening noise. It’s yourself, he says. It’s yourself alive.
Killie thinks: hang on, hang the fuck on, he knows me even with a mask on, and he knows that we’re meant to be dead. Who the hell is he?
Killie, lad, the Dog says, the shakiness turning to laughter, oh, I’m glad to be seeing ya and cannot believe you are HERE, and seeing you try to lie has nearly burst my sides. In front of NAT and all. You're the same - you’re the same lad - in a fuckin’ sex dungeon - and he starts in on a weird cry-laughing thing. Christ but I’m glad you're alive, and what the hell was that about Mayo? Oh Killie.
Killie thinks: hang on!! He can tell I’m Killie?! The Dog must know him well indeed, as few people do.
The embrace feels quite loving, and Killie doesn’t entirely mind that, but he hasn’t prepared for this, and he’s sure that he should be having a completely different reaction. Charlie would surely want him to have a different reaction. Shouldn’t he be more afraid of discovery? Of confrontation? Seven years, believed dead, all that hiding, and now a random man crying on him in apparent gratitude - it's a bit much.
Charlie bursts into the room at that point, and brings a reaction with him.
Oi, Charlie yelps, in a sort of London accent for some reason, is that consensual?
Sort of, but it’s weird, Killie says over the Dog’s shoulder. His feelings must have been fizzing about more loudly than he expected.
You heard the lad, Charlie says, it’s weird - put him down and move on.
Jesus, the Dog says, turning and catching Charlie and pulling him in. Charlie stumbles and ends up wrapped in the same hug. Oh thank Christ, it’s both of you. Of course you are - of course - Charlie, lad, ah look at the state of ya - Killie could fall down a drain and come out tidy, and YOU - and, surreally, the Dog puts his thumb under the muzzle of his mask to lick it, and attempts to remove the lipstick smear on Charlie's face. Look at this, he says, all over yourself.
It’s not mine, Charlie says automatically, pitched headlong into the absurdity.
No, I’m not blind, I can see that, the Dog says dryly. You shouldn't be letting people lick your face - get diseases and all sorts.
Hey now, Charlie says, finally twigging and pulling away: what the hell's going on?
You’re alive, the pair of ya, thank God, says the Dog, holding them both regardless, you wouldn’t believe the way I cried over you pair. It was some amount anyway.
Who the hell are you, Killie says.
Ah, right, the Dog says. He pulls off his mask, embarrassed. The slash of black makeup across the eyes is puzzling, but the rest of the features leap forward to form an inherently familiar face, clicking into place. A man in his early fifties, with a dry, witty face; sharp-carved over the bones, with wry drooping mischievous eyes, the mouth and brow set in humorous lines. Of course. Dad’s best friend.
Oh, Killie says, and his heart feels like it’s taken a punch.
It's Jonjo, Charlie says grimly, and the gig is up.