Persimmon

Despite Gilles's declaration, Stregoni was not certain he was supposed to be here. Every other time he had come to this room, there had been some silent, tacitly understood invitation between them.

He hovered in the doorway, uncertain.

François huffed and gave him a shove, then followed him inside and closed the door.

Gilles played like a man possessed, head bent over the keys as his hands moved effortlessly, drawing out a melody that expressed more clearly than words how Gilles was feeling.

How long had Stregoni wanted the cold, hard Gilles to fracture?

Now that he had, Stregoni hated it.

He slowly approached the piano, standing for a moment just behind Gilles, watching him play, letting the music strike him, drowned out the pounding of his own heart.

Finally he sat down on one corner of the wide bench, facing away from Gilles, his back just barely brushing against Gilles's back and shoulder.

If Gilles noticed, he gave no indication.

François, in typical fashion, sprawled indolently on the chaise where so many illicit moments had occurred, watching them with eyes that burned like purple flames.

How long they sat that way, Stregoni did not know. Eventually, he closed his eyes and simply listened, felt, content to be simply a presence while Gilles played relentlessly on.

He startled slightly when the music finally stopped, and sighed softly as an arm slid around his waist. Gilles nuzzled against his throat, breaths warm and still carrying a hint of laudanum and the brandy he must have decided to drink after all. "Carrot…"

Stregoni swallowed, struck hard at the way Gilles said that word now. None of the coldness or mockery remained. He reached up and back, determined to do some touching of his own—but Gilles's hand caught his forearm.

"Your hand," Gilles said quietly, but Stregoni could hear the faintest thread of amusement.

Tilting his head just so in invitation, he let his eyes fall shut as Gilles kissed him, wishing fervently the remaining problems still hovering about would stay back for just a little while longer.

Gilles abruptly pulled away, then Stregoni yelped as he was turned, lifted—and all but thrown at François, who still reclined on the chaise, although he now wore a good deal less clothing.

Stregoni met François's gaze, swallowed at the hot promise in his eyes. His blood began to heat, even as the doctor in him frowned with disapproval. "Aren't we all a little too tired and beat up for this nonsense?"

"Nonsense, Carrot?" François said, dragging Stregoni up to straddle him. "Is that what you call it? Clearly we have been doing something wrong all these years."

"I see you're recovering just fine," Stregoni muttered, yanking irritably at a strand of François's hair—then gripped it tightly as François nipped sharply at the skin just beneath his ear, making him gasp. "Bastard."

Gilles's soft chuckles washed over him as he bit on the opposite side, and Stregoni would have hated them very much for going straight for the kill, but it felt too damned good.

"We should not be doing this," he tried again. "You need rest, you mule-headed bloody bastards—stop doing that!" He let go of François's hair to thump his shoulder while also trying to squirm free of Gilles's touches, which only caused him to grind against François's cock. "As much as I hate to refuse—"

François cut him off with a toothy kiss, and Stregoni tried to thump him again, but with his good hand captured and his bad hand bandaged and useless, he could only succumb.

As François drew back, his head was turned so Gilles could have his turn. Stregoni moaned his surrender, and Gilles kissed him harder.

Still he tried one last time as they drew apart. "Why don't you two ever listen to me?"

"Defying you is more fun, Doctor," Gilles replied. "Don't bother trying to disagree."

Stregoni huffed, fighting a smile, and went easily as he was hauled up and roughly stripped. But as Gilles pushed him back to the chaise, Stregoni twisted free and stepped back.

"What's wrong?" François asked.

Stregoni hesitated.

"Carrot." Gilles watched him intently. "Whatever it is, you can say it. Ask it. Whatever. I know we… the games are over. What do you want?"

"To—to see the two of you. All these years, you've only…"

François chuckled. "Is that all? Here I was afraid you were going to make us have a long, tiresome discussion that can wait until later. You want to see us fuck, Carrot, is that it?"

Stregoni shot him a look, face burning.

"That's a simple enough request to grant." Gilles smirked and crooked his finger at François, who rolled to his feet like a cat anticipating dinner and wrapped himself around Gilles.

Stregoni swallowed. Hard. The few kisses he'd witnessed in the past had been one thing. But this… Watching them ravenous for each other, kissing like they'd done it a thousand times… The way Gilles  cupped François's ass and grinded them together…

Tearing away, Gilles panted out, "Feed, brat."

François made a sound remarkably like a soft growl, licked a strip along Gilles's throat, and bit down.

Stregoni gripped his cock to keep from coming, meeting Gilles's eyes.

"Would you like to see me fuck him while he fucks you, Carrot? Or shall we switch positions?"

Licking his lips, Stregoni replied, "I want to see you fuck him."

"You heard him, brat."

François pulled away and pounced on Stregoni, dragging him down to the chaise, covering him and kissing him breathless. He tasted like Gilles and fresh blood. That shouldn't have been so appealing, but Stregoni could not deny his own moans.

As much as he would have liked to drag the moment out, the music room had never been the place for long and leisurely—and none of them had the patience, not this time.

Stregoni shuddered as François slid inside him, fingers of his good hand digging into those slender shoulders. Behind François, Gilles watched him with burning eyes, and the only thing headier was the way François moaned as Gilles slid into him.

He would have loved to savor the sight, but all Stregoni could do was cling for dear life as Gilles fucked François hard, driving him even deeper into Stregoni in a fast, brutal rhythm that Gilles controlled and they could only follow.

François must have known he was on the edge, because he took Stregoni's mouth in a rough kiss just in time to muffle his screams.

He lay there panting, overwhelmed by sensation, as François fucked into him a few more times before coming with a soft moan.

As he collapsed on top of Stregoni, Gilles pulled out of François's body, gripped his cock, and came all over François's back.

Stregoni swallowed and told his twitching cock to behave. The little smirk on Gilles's too-pretty mouth said he'd noticed the reaction and would make use of it later.

Pulling away, Gilles fetched a couple of blankets draped over a nearby sofa, and threw one over them before settling on the floor with the other. François rolled off Stregoni, draping one arm over his shoulders and letting his other arm fall across Gilles's chest.

They remained that way for several minutes, and might have gone for several more—or an injudicious second round—when the door opened, making them all startle.

"What?" Gilles snapped at the maid hovering in the doorway.

"Beg pardon, my lord," said the quaking maid. "Lord Aubrey isn't here, so I thought you'd be the next best one."

Stregoni slowly sat up. "What's wrong?"

"Lord Sangre received a visitor in his study and ordered that they were not to be disturbed no matter what. We can hear them shouting something fierce, and glass and furniture breaking, but he's locked the door and no one can get in."

Gilles swore loudly. "We'll be right there."

The maid fled, and the three of them hastily dressed.

"I've a spare key to his study upstairs," Gilles said. He bolted from the room, taking the stairs two at a time and barreling down the hallway.

Stregoni and François went to the library where he'd left his medical bag, then raced to the study just in time to meet Gilles there.

Gilles unlocked the door and threw open the door—then froze.

Pushing past him, Stregoni immediately saw why he could not move. Lord Sangre's study was a wreck—there was always some measure of clutter, for Sangre was a voracious reader and writer, but this…this was chaos. Paper everywhere, covering at least half the floor. Books strewn about, broken ink bottles, broken glasses and decanters, even broken chairs and tables. The room reeked of ink and brandy—and blood.

In the farthest corner of the room, Sangre and George were locked in a brutal, ugly fight. It was eerie, to see two Lord Sangres—one well kept, elegant and refined, the other a mad mess, hurtling vile epithets as he renewed his assault.

How long had this been going on? Had they been in the music room so long? What in the hell had happened?

Dropping his medical bag, Stregoni moved across the room, grabbing up a heavy book on his way and using all the strength he could muster with one hand to slam it down on George's head.

It did not drop him, but it startled him enough to give Sangre the upper hand, and with a cry, he threw his brother off. He slumped briefly against the bookshelves which lined two of his walls, meeting at the corner where the fighting had carried them.

"You are pathetic," he said scathingly to George, wiping blood from his mouth as he motioned for Stregoni to back away.

Stregoni reluctantly moved closer to the doorway, casting a wary look at Gilles, who still had not moved, eyes on his father.

George heaved himself up—but Sangre was having none of it, and moved so quickly Stregoni barely followed the movement, fist smashing into his brother's nose, and the smell of blood grew stronger.

Sangre kicked out, knocking his brother back to his knees, then grabbed him by the front of his shirt and shook him hard. "You're pathetic," he repeated. "The only smart and brave thing you ever did was marry Ianthe, and it took my lovers to convince you to do it. You did not deserve her, but she loved you anyway, and died giving you a son—and this is how you honor her memory?"

Hurtling epithets and protests, George attempted to renew his attack—and Stregoni realized whatever sanity he'd had, it was now gone. Caused by the coca powder? Or simply the events of earlier?

Whatever the reason, Sangre granted him no pity, simply attacked until George was groaning helplessly on the floor.

Stregoni could so easily see in Sangre the man he must have been when he was younger—bold and brave enough to openly love two women, one of them a Pet, and to fight for the freedom of Pets.

"You're pathetic," Sangre snarled. "I cannot believe you would storm in here and cause so much discord—damn it." He finally looked away from his brother, raking back his disordered hair, suddenly looking every bit his age. "Gilles, you should not be here. Stregoni, François, take him away. I told the servants no one was to interfere."

Stregoni shook his head. "They were afraid for you and came to find us."

Sangre grimaced. "I have been dealing with my brother all my life. I know each and every one of his nasty little tricks. There was no need for anyone else to get dragged into this shameful debacle. I will deal with him. Take Gilles away."

Nodding, Stregoni turned to do just that—but Gilles chose that moment to shrug off François and walk slowly toward George.

"Father—"

George looked up, hate and madness in his face. "You took her away," he said. "She wanted you so badly, and you killed her, and now you have taken everyone else as well."

Gilles flinched back, as though physically struck.

François yanked Gilles back and then stepped forward to stand between them. "Go to hell," he snarled. "Why couldn't you just stay in your own bloody house? It's not Gilles's fault you're a fucking bastard. He didn't kill anyone, and he's not responsible for everyone abandoning you either. Aren't you overlooking that you're the one who got your wife pregnant in the first place? That you're the one who traded your son for coca powder?"

George snarled and lobbed a fallen brass book end at him.

François held his arm up to block it, even as he tried to move out of the way, but it wound up striking him hard on the shoulder, making him falter.

Gilles's hand wrapped around his arm, pulling him back—but it was too late. George began to move at a feverish pace, picking up whatever he could get his hands on, throwing it all, chasing the projectiles with cruel and nasty words.

Stregoni was reminded suddenly of his own loss of temper, in Gilles's room only a couple of days ago, and felt immediately ashamed. It must have upset Gilles more than he would ever admit, and not knowing was no excuse.

"I've had enough," Sangre said, and Stregoni saw his mouth move more than he actually heard the words, nearly everything drowned out by the screams and shouts coming from George, who continued toward Gilles and François.

Stregoni grabbed up the poker from the rack by the fireplace and made for them. From the corner of his eye he saw Sangre pull something from a desk drawer—and at the last moment, saw what it was he held.

"François!"

At hearing his name, François followed his gaze—then shoved Gilles down and covered him so he wouldn't see what Sangre was about to do.

The sound of the gun shot was deafening in the small room, the sharp odor of gunpowder mixing unpleasantly with the tang of blood.

Gilles looked up, horrified, first at Sangre, then at George, who lay unmoving by the fire. Blood spread out beneath him in a growing pool, lurid red against the tile of the fireplace and the deep jewel tones of the costly rugs, staining loose sheaves of paper and ruined books.

Swallowing, tears spilling down his cheeks, Gilles turned back to Sangre. "Uncle Jonathan…"

"I should have done it a long time ago," Sangre said tiredly, sitting down heavily in his chair, covering his eyes with his hand. "Time and again, I fail to protect the people who mean the most to me."

Stregoni dropped the poker. "Your children love you, and they're still alive."

Sangre laughed bitterly. "Indeed. Bloody hell, what a mess this has all become."

"Let me go!" Gilles snarled, and finally succeeded in breaking free of François's hold. He strode over to George and stared down at his body, face pale, hands trembling.

"I am sorry, Gilles," Sangre said gently. "I had to choose—his life or yours. There was no contest."

Gilles did not look away from the body as he spoke. "He was your brother."

"Not by our choosing, believe me," Sangre said wearily. "Anyway, I consider you my son. I would do far worse than this to protect you. But I did not want you to have to see it. That is why my damned staff was told that no one was to interfere." He slammed his hand down and then bellowed for the butler.

When the man appeared, Sangre proceeded to tear him apart.

Stregoni barely heard the words, far more interested in Gilles. Twining their hands together, he reached up with his burned one and gently turned Gilles's head away from the grisly sight by the fireplace. "Gilles."

Gilles shuddered, turning his face into Stregoni's hand—then seemed to realize which hand it was and immediately pulled away. "Carrot, I think I'm ready to rest now." He looked at the body again, as though unable to help it. "He really did hate me, didn't he?" he asked softly.

"No," Stregoni said.

Joining them, François added, "He hated himself, but could not face that."

Gilles nodded, though it was clear he did not believe the words. It would likely be many years before Gilles was capable of believing them, but at least he was listening, and allowed Stregoni and François to lead him up to his room.

Pushing Gilles back on the bed, Stregoni started to kneel to remove his boots—but François grabbed him and dumped him on the bed with Gilles, then set to removing boots and clothes himself. "You can't do this sort of thing with that hand. When are you going to remember it's injured?"

Rolling his eyes, too bemused by the fact he was in their bed, and this time they had put him there, Stregoni settled for lying back against the pillows and pulling Gilles down to lie alongside him as François closed the door before joining them. "Go to sleep, idiot."

For once, Gilles did as he was told.