Carrot Flower

They reached George's house in the dark, gloomy hours of early morning, when the snow and the quiet made it seem like he, François, and the horses were the only living beings left in the world.

In the stable, which was smelly and dusty from disuse, they settled the horses before trudging through the hip-deep snow to the house.

Stregoni raised a hand toward the knocker, then hesitated. If he knocked, he suspected they would only be locked out. If Gilles really was in trouble…

He tried to the door, expecting to meet with resistance, but it gave easily under his hand. Swallowing, wondering what in the hell he was doing and how much trouble this would earn him, he pushed the door opened and slipped inside.

The house was warm, at least compared to the outside. They shucked their wet outdoor clothes and Stregoni set his bag on the entry table. Shivering, he looked around.

Dust was the dominant smell. It was obvious the house received only the most basic of cleaning, and even that seemed half-hearted. The few doors he could see where firmly shut, heavy layers of dust coating the handles—he would be willing to bet they were seldom, if ever, used.

Nearby he could see the room in which Gilles had locked him on his only other visit.

"So what now?" he asked quietly. "This place is like a mausoleum."

"You're not entirely wrong," François muttered.

Afraid to know what that meant, Stregoni set his shoulders and headed off into the house, taking the stairs slowly, careful to make as little noise as possible. If they did not come out of this venture arrested, injured, or dead, it would be a miracle. He never thought he'd be in a situation where 'arrest' was the most appealing option.

They wandered down a handful of hallways before at last coming to a door which was just barely ajar, and from which spilled warm orange-yellow light. Hoping it contained what they sought, Stregoni gently pushed the door open.

He stopped in the doorway, and beside him François swore softly.

Gilles was stretched out fast asleep on a chaise lounge which had been set in front of a roaring fire. The room was almost stifling. Relieved for the moment, because he was in no hurry for the inevitable arguments and anger and confusion, Stregoni crossed the carpeted room slowly and perched on the very edge of the backless chaise.

His eyes widened as he got a good look at Gilles, hidden until then by the long, loose fall of his beautiful hair.

It looked as though he'd been the one to receive a punch or two this time. One eye was swollen rather badly, and his bottom was lip split near the corner of his mouth, which also showed signs of swelling.

"Damn it," François said quietly. "Looks like father dearest had a few things to say. I'll kill the bastard this time, I swear."

Stregoni reached out to lightly touch the wounds, frowning in concern. "Why in the world would his father do this?"

"He hates Gilles, hates him so much that if Gilles hadn't moved in with Lord Sangre, he'd probably be dead."

"Why…" Stregoni whispered.

"Gilles would never say, but I think it has something to do with his mother."

Gilles's eyes fluttered, but Stregoni could see from his eyes that he wasn't really there. "Carrot…Fran…"

Stregoni said nothing, merely gently pushed back Gilles's unlaced shirt to see where else he might be hurt, but his questing fingers found nothing but smooth, unmarred skin.

"Dreaming…" Gilles said softly, the words barely audible.

Suddenly Stregoni noticed something he had missed before, too obsessed with Gilles and the harm done to him. "He's drugged. Laudanum, probably."

"There," François said, and crouched down. He reached beneath the chaise and came up with a dark brown bottle that had a cheap, tattered label on the front.

Stregoni scowled. "That stuff is little better than rat poison. I—" He broke off, jumping, as soft fingers brushed his cheek, reminding him of a touch he'd thought was a dream. "Gilles…"

"Should not be here," Gilles said, the words coming slowly, as though each weighed heavily and was ponderous to speak. "You're fools. Go home."

"Not without you," François said fiercely, kneeling and taking hold of Gilles's hand, pressing it to his own cheek. "This has to stop, Gilles. Please."

Gilles stared at François, then clumsily pulled him close and dropped an awkward kiss on his lips.

When François pulled back a moment later, he looked near to tears, sharing a desperate, terrified look with Stregoni.

Before Stregoni could figure out a reply, however, he was dragged into a kiss of his own. It tasted of brandy and laudanum, and he hated it because Gilles was normally so in control of himself and everything around him, and this Gilles seemed like he wanted to lose himself.

The taste of blood made Stregoni pull back, and he reached out to gently touch the split in Gilles's lip, frowning in concern. "Come on, we need to get you home."

A hand wrapped around his wrist with surprising strength, keeping him in place. "Stay," Gilles said softly, before his eyes drifted shut again.

Sighing softly, Stregoni shifted closer so Gilles's head could rest on his shoulder, and shared a look with a grim-faced François. "Why would he take laudanum—and so much of it. This isn't like him."

"I don't know, but he does it every time. I assume it makes his father easier to bear. Or perhaps he didn't have a choice." François raked hands through his hair, looking tired and angry. "We need to go before his father finds us."

"I'm not sure the two of us can drag him out of here."

"We'll have to," François said, and stooped to help Stregoni heave Gilles off the chaise. When they had him up, Stregoni leaned up to kiss him and then François, smiling when François kissed Gilles as well.

It hardly seemed real, these soft kisses. He could only hope they lasted once everything was back to normal.

The slamming of the door against the wall as it was thrown open made them jerk, causing Stregoni to let go. He winced as Gilles landed awkwardly right back on the chaise. On the other side, François swore as the sudden shift caused him to lose his grip as well.

"What is going on here?" slurred the figure in the doorway.

This was George Sangre? He looked like a rotted version of Lord Sangre: he was unkempt, a rough beard covering much of his face, and he was wearing clothes that should have been replaced a long time ago. They were stained, torn, and reeked of sweat, smoke, and urine.

But far more alarming than George's appearance was the rage that filled his face.

Next to him, Gilles suddenly swore, sounding far more lucid than he had mere moments ago. "You fools never should have come," Gilles said, but the rest of what he was going to say was lost as he abruptly shoved them out of the way and stood, tugging his shirt back into place even as his father stormed across the room and grabbed him.

"Well, well," George said, and Stregoni had never heard a voice so full of hate and rage. "Seems my selfish, backstabbing, murderous son has been keeping secrets from me. I might have known."

"No, Father. I—" Gilles's words were lost in a cry of pain as he was punched hard in the stomach, then thrown to the floor. "Stregoni, François—" Gilles gasped out, struggling to get back to his feet. "Run."

Right. Like they were really going to abandon Gilles when he needed their help. Stregoni remained where he was as George turned to him, hoping that having his attention would give François enough time to help Gilles.

"Well, well," George said again. "I recognize that hair—you are the son of that pathetic excuse for a doctor who allowed my son to kill my wife and made no effort to save her."

"What?" François said, echoing Stregoni's thoughts.

Stregoni jerked back as George made to grab him, but in the confines of the small room, there was simply nowhere to go.

"No!" Gilles said, jerking away from François and grabbing for George's arm. "They're only here because Uncle made them come. There is no reason—" He let out another cry as George shoved him off, sending him crashing into the wall.

Gilles slid slowly to the floor and did not stir once there.

"You bastard!" François snarled, and lunged for George, who only grabbed him with surprising strength, drove a knee into his gut, and threw him to join Gilles.

"My worthless son has a Pet?" George asked. "And he's taken up with the whoreson of that worthless doctor? Gilles, you've been terribly disobedient."

Tears spilled down Gilles's face as he tried to stand. "No, Father. I hardly know either of them. François belongs to Stregoni. They're only here because Uncle expected me back—"

"My brother? As much as he loves to interfere and control everyone around him, I doubt he's behind this. Not the way they're trying to protect you, not the way they were kissing you. Obviously, you have listened to nothing I've said." He stalked toward Stregoni, who stumbled away, only to collide with a chair and go tumbling to the floor.

He was snatched up by the throat, and struggle though he did, George did not appear even to notice. With the firelight behind him, Stregoni could see at a glance that George was heavily drugged on something. What, he did not know. Not laudanum, which made people dozy. Whatever he was on, it fueled his anger like wood fed a fire.

Gilles groaned, and Stregoni could just see from the corner of his eye as Gilles slowly stood up again, one hand braced against the wall for support.

"Why were you kissing these men, my child?" George asked in a voice of deceptive softness that made Stregoni truly scared.

"I was dreaming," Gilles said, obviously trying for cold and uncaring, but in too much pain to manage it. "It was nothing, Father. I always dream strangely when I drink laudanum. You know I love no one but you."

George shook Stregoni hard, and smiled in a way that made him think of the wolves. "Well, then you will not care if I have a bit of fun with the good little doctor's son."

"Leave him alone!" François snarled, and tried to climb to his feet, but his face went white and he collapsed again.

Stregoni continued to twist and kick and struggle, but George seemed oblivious to whatever pain Stregoni was causing. He had a sneaking suspicion that George was so heavily doped, he would not notice if someone cut off a limb.

George spun him around, his grip painfully tight, so that Stregoni was facing the fire—then abruptly grabbed his arm and thrust his hand into the fire.

Stregoni screamed.

Gilles screamed louder, and François roared with anger. The whole world dissolved into chaos as father and son and Pet struggled, and Stregoni continued to scream and sob from the pain.

His bag, he needed his bag—

Then Gilles was on the floor again, whimpering in pain as a pale, trembling François held him. Stregoni was grabbed by George again, barely able to see through the tears.

"Quite the reaction," George said idly, as though discussing a painting. "I think, my child, that you are a liar. Are you in love with these two, son?"

"No," Gilles gasped out, face white. "Why would I ever love a common doctor and a Pet? I'm a lord's son; they're beneath me. You're the only one I love, Father."

Gilles was lying, but Stregoni and François were not the only ones who realized it. Stregoni tried in vain to struggle free, but the pain in his hand was agonizing, and without it, he was even more useless than he'd already been.

Tears spilled down Gilles's cheek. Stregoni had never seen Gilles so shaken and defeated. He never wanted to see it again.

"What did I say, my child, about you loving anyone?" George asked.

"That I'm not allowed," Gilles said hollowly.

"Why?" George asked, voice silky and lazy, but full of so much menace that Stregoni felt cold.

"Because I killed my mother and took from you the person you loved most, and the woman who loved us both. I do not deserve anyone of my own," Gilles said quietly, looking at the carpet as he spoke.

Stregoni stared in shock.

François swore and cast George a look full of so much hate, Stregoni was almost surprised George didn't die where he stood.

If only it were that easy.

Was that really what all this was about? Gilles's mother? She'd died in childbirth. That wasn't anyone's fault. It was simply a great tragedy. Did George really have Gilles convinced that he'd murdered his own mother? How could anyone be that cruel to their own child?

"And what did I say would happen if you were stupid enough to love someone?" George dropped Stregoni to the floor and walked over to where François was holding Gilles protectively.

Stregoni struggled to his feet and picked up a heavy vase that had fallen on the floor. He nearly screamed at the agony of his wounded hand, but bit it back, his lip bleeding from the effort.

"That you would kill them," Gilles whispered, then finally looked up. "I do not love anyone but you, Father. Please, stop this. They are not worth all this trouble. Just let them go, and you can punish me for disturbing your day."

George laughed cruelly. "I'm tired of your lies. I'm going to kill your pathetic Pet first, and then I will finally have my revenge on that worthless doctor—"

Stregoni slammed the vase into the back of George's head, and took more than a little satisfaction in the way the bastard dropped like a rock.

"Let's go," he said, even as François struggled to his feet and pulled Gilles with him.

"What in the hell did you do?" Gilles demanded. "Why the hell are you two even here? Damn it, I told you to stay out of it!"

"Shut up," François snapped. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"I can't just leave him," Gilles said, fear slipping into his voice. "You don't understand—"

Stregoni blocked his path. "I understand the man is an insane bastard, and I wish we could kill him the way he was going to kill us, but we're in no shape to do anything right now. We're leaving before he wakes and finally succeeds in killing at least one of us."

"But—"

"Damn it, Gilles!" Stregoni bellowed. "My hand hurts, you are badly beaten, and François is moments from passing out. I am not leaving here without you, even if that means we must knock you out and drag you home." He reached out with his good hand to grip Gilles's shirt, looking up at him pleadingly. "Please."

Gilles looked at his father, then at Stregoni and François, pale eyes full of so much pain. "He'll stop at nothing to kill the two of you now. Unless I convince him not to do it. You have to leave me behind."

"Your father is demented," François replied. "There is nothing you can do for him. But you can do something for us, and that's leave."

Gilles stared at them, so much like a wounded animal that Stregoni's eyes stung anew. He despised this version of Gilles, and hated George for causing it. He wished he could just kill the bastard for being so goddamn cruel to his own son.

Stregoni urged him toward the door. "You didn't kill your mother, and right now we're still alive. I fully intend for us to stay that way. We're leaving."

"I can't—"

"Do not refuse me!" Stregoni shouted, fisting his hand tightly in the linen of Gilles's shirt. Moving without thought, he stepped in close and stood on his toes to mash his mouth against Gilles's, tasting blood and laudanum and cloves.

Gilles was still a moment, clearly surprised, then slowly began to return the kiss.

Hands landed in his hair, cradling his head gently, and then Gilles was dominating the kiss, and it was as sweet as the ones Stregoni had stolen earlier, but a thousand times better because Gilles was lucid now.

"Gilles…"

"Stupid Carrot," Gilles whispered. "I told you to stay out of it. Both of you, and I expect you to have more sense, François." He turned to François and kissed him just as ardently. "You're such an intractable Pet."

François gave a shaky laugh. "You should have trained me better."

Stregoni clung to them, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks.

When they finally stopped exchanging kisses, Stregoni stared into Gilles's eyes. "You were lying before."

Gilles was silent at first, emotions flickering ever so briefly across his face as he looked between them. Then he sighed softly, as though he were accepting some terrible defeat. "Yes."

Stregoni wanted to ask a million questions, and beat Gilles's foolish, stupid, stubborn head in—but he had not forgotten George, who could wake at any moment. "We're leaving. Do we need to knock you unconscious, or will you come with us?"

"I shouldn't. He'll need to be placated. You don't understand what he's really like. All of this… he can be so much worse, and will be, if I don't calm him down."

"Oh, we understand," Stregoni said. "We understand your father is crazy, and we understand it's not your fault your mother died."

"We understand you deserve love the same as anyone else," François added, cupping Gilles's face. "We understand that if we stay here much longer, he probably will kill us—but if we leave, he likely will not. So let's go home, already."

Gilles frowned but did not protest as they settled on either side of him, and together helped each other walk away.

In the hallway, Gilles gently grasped Stregoni's arm, holding up his burned hand for closer examination. "Will it heal?" he asked quietly.

"It'll be fine," Stregoni said. "I have what I need to treat it in my bag, downstairs."

"Enough talking!" François snapped. "We've already taken too long. We need to hurry."

Reaching the stable almost proved to be too difficult. Stregoni had never been so tired, or in so much pain. He managed a hasty treatment on his hand, and François helped him mount, but the hard traveling they had to do would not help matters.

He could not bring himself to be bothered by it. He would endure pain a thousand times greater for the knowledge he now carried.

Gilles had said he loved them. He loved François, and he loved Stregoni. A burned hand was a paltry thing when he had that knowledge to hold close.

And when they returned to Sangre manor, he had a few choice things to say to Lord Sangre about his contemptuous brother.

"Promise us that when we get home, you'll stay there," he said.

Gilles hesitated.

"Gilles," François said softly. "Please. You'd ask the same of us in our place."

The barest smile twitched at Gilles's. "Let us be honest: I would ask no such thing. I would fuck you to exhaustion and then lock you in the bedroom."

François sighed, and Stregoni rolled his eyes, but all three were smiling as they rode off.