who shot the gazelle ?

for @eiriniko

There’s thunder rumbling in the distance. Lightning flashes over the road, once, then twice before the car shakes along with the incoming storm. Sihtric wonders if this all could have been avoided if they had stopped in that gas station three or four miles ago, when the sky was still clear and Finan kept jabbering about how full the tank was, and how they would only stop for ice-cream before Essex came into view. Golden hills extend as far as his eyes can see, the dark clouds muting their glow.

Finan ducks to peek through the window, his arm surely slung over the roof of Father Beocca’s beat up Ford Fiesta. “We ain’t gonna make it to see the baby monk graduate, are we?”

“He forgot to replace the spare tire, didn’t he?”

“Yup.”

“And you still have no reception?”

“Nope.” Finan pops the p in that characteristic way that oscillates in between comical and desperate which makes Sihtric unable to be mad at him. Laughing about the whole situation is the best thing they can do before they start getting wet.

The sun nips against his skin when he leaves the car, his eyes adjusting to the light before he puts his sunglasses on and tries to catch a glint of some car of other that could be coming down the snaking country road—to no avail. “We could wait out the storm inside the car,” Sihtric offers half-heartedly, his dead phone in one pocket, the sliotar that was rolling over the dashboard ten minutes ago getting passed from one of his hands to another. Something to busy his hands with, his mind.

Finan furrows his brow. “That gas station cannot be more than an hour away.”

“Think that we can outrun the rain?”

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” Finan replies with one of those smirks that always mean trouble. One of those smirks that could lead Sihtric anywhere.

The keys get stuck in his back pocket along with his wallet, the ball they pass down as they walk by the side of the road, both of them oddly quiet, listening to the rumbling of thunder following them along with the rustling of wheat, the hissing of the wind against the trees.

“D’you think he’ll be very angry about it?” Finan asks, throwing the ball high before he tosses it back to Sihtric.

“If we tell him that Uhtred forgot about the tire…” And off to Finan it goes.

“He’ll probably blame us for not having checked the trunk before we left.”

The sliotar flies back to him. Sihtric doesn’t catch it in time, too entranced with how the sun shines in between the thick strands of Finan’s hair, turning dark brown into syrupy gold.

“You look good.”

Bill shakes his head, fails to not to turn his neck in an effort to hide from Jock’s attentive gaze.

“Should get your hair shorn more often,” he insists, something equally hungry shining behind his sunglasses.

“It was necessary,” Bill deflects, “For the heat.”

There is little to no distance between them, the pink bubble-gum Jock’s been chewing peeking in between two sets of blunt pearly teeth. Teeth that had been pressed against his neck two nights ago, teeth that had been hungry to mark, to search for a pulse. Bill cannot keep himself from looking at them, the same way he cannot keep himself from staring at Jock’s fingers, watching him roll a cigarette he will carefully place behind his ear and not smoke until things are done between them, at least for the day. He has never tasted tobacco on his tongue, there is always mint on top, or strawberry, or whatever drink they’ve shared before Jock was three fingers deep inside his cunt, kissing him as if there was no tomorrow. Which, in Bill’s defence, has only happened twice—thrice if he allows today to go on like this, which he won’t.

“Are you still up for tonight?”

Tonight means grabbing something to eat at the pub Jock keeps yapping about every time they hang out. Tonight means that once he is behind Jock riding that, frankly, quite intimidating looking bike, all bets will be off—and he could find himself getting lost to another bubble-gum flavoured kiss.

Bill nods. He’s never been one to waste other people’s time.

“Promise it’ll be worth it,” Jock says, making Bill wonder if he is capable of reading his mind.

When Jock hands him a helmet his head snaps back up, eyeing Jock warily before he inspects it up close. It looks new, practical, still smells like how new cars do when you or your wet dog have barely had the chance to step into them. Jock is looking at him when he looks back up, something giddy in his posture, his smile unrelenting.

“Thank you,” Bill says, he could probably offer more but it would feel insincere, unlike him, and something tells him Jock would know.

He gets a self-satisfied smirk for his trouble, one of Jock’s big hands patting the bike with a fondness that borders on the sexual. An invitation then, one last time for him to say no. “Promised I would take care of you,” is all Jock offers before he puts on his own helmet, visor up, hopping on top of the vehicle without any more fanfare.

Axe head, Scandinavia, 11th-12th century

"Welcome home."

"Welcome home."