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Will’s been polishing the same spoon for five minutes past sanity. Does Mike notice? No, no, he does not.
Lord Wheeler has been explaining, in unfortunate, exquisite, detail, his costume for the masquerade. Then, Will’s costume for the masquerade.
“You know, I’m not going?” Byers says, finally.
Mike laughs, as if they’re still playing. As if they’re still children. “Alright.” Takes the spoon, their fingers touch, so brief. Mike is cold. His nail is hard. Pieces of information, stolen. Wheeler stares at himself in the back of it. “You’re taking this so seriously.”
“Hmm?”
“Polishing. My mother would never notice if you didn’t do half your chores. Besides, I would cover for you.”
Will shrugs. Lady Wheeler would notice. Mike would cover for him, but how? No one would believe him. Byers stands to poke the fire in the grate. It’s smoking, can smell the birch. It’s a little green, wet, harvested too soon.
“Are you really not going?” Wheeler’s voice has shifted, softer; concerned now his back is to him.
The charcoaled wood crumbles under his stick. “I work for you.”
“You work for my mother.”
“Same thing.”
Mike makes a little noise, as if he disagrees, but he’s too much of a coward to say it. The sound is high, humming through his nose. Will wants to look at him, but keeps his back turned, shoulders straight. The knees of his britches are black from shovelling coal this morning. The kitchens run on coal. More efficient, but it’s a dirty, stupid job. The fireplaces in the manor house are older, still wood. He says, “I can’t dance.”
“I’ll teach you.”
Jabs the poker into the heart of the log. It wedges, and he’s see-sawing it to get it out. “The masquerade is for you to find a wife.”
A higher, stupid-er sound from Mike’s nose.
Will spins. “You have to get married.”
Lord Wheeler waves his hand. “I know, I know. Mother tells me every day with a thousand disapproving looks.” Leans, no longer tipping back the dining chair, “Have you heard, there’s some politicking to expand inheritance to female alphas?”
“So women, but only if they’re alphas?” snorts.
“And landed. Gentry.” Polishes the spoon Will has already polished. “But, maybe I’m off the hook, if Nancy…?” Lets the sentence hang. Taps the spoon on the table. The grandfather clock ticks, the air in the room is stuffy, stale.
Byers is not going to pick up the hint. That is Mike’s world. Inheritance, gentry, male heirs. His world: shovelling coal, polishing silverware, magic tricks. The only way he’s going to the masque is as entertainment. “I have to take water upstairs for the baths later.”
Mike’s in front of the door, scrabbled out of his chair, long limbs. “I can teach you to dance.”
“That’s the not the biggest hurdle, Lord Wheeler.”
Holds out his palm, waltz-position. “May I, teach you to dance?”
Will stares, wonders how much it’s going to hurt later. Is Mike going to dance with his future wife? Is he going to dance with her tomorrow? Maybe Wheeler sees something in his expression. Lowers his outstretched hand, slow. Eyebrows wiggle into a divot. Mike’s eyebrows always move more than Will expects, and he’s staring at those dark lines as Mike steps forward.
“I don’t want to go to the party,” the male heir whispers.
He’s close enough Byers smells the scent gland on his neck. Lemon drops. Tart and sweet, scraped new out of the oven. Hot, and not set, melting, spreading on the pan. Can feel the tingle of his tongue burning: the smell, sensation, is so strong. Mike raises his thumb, hovers over Will’s cheek. “Your eyes.”
“Huh?” Will breathes.
“Your pupils are really big.”
“Oh.” Blinks, as if that’s going to help. Wheeler puts a hand on the back of his own neck. Looks sheepish? Does he know? Does he know it’s his scent, making Will melt? Rubs the skin, releasing more. Byers swallows. Says, “If you teach me to dance, can we stop talking about the masquerade?”
“Oh, yeah.” Mike’s too happy. Palm up. Will presses his hand into Wheeler’s; his friend’s fingers are cold. He holds tighter, wanting to warm him up. “It’s not a grip,” Mike says. Pressure against Will’s palm. “It’s a connection, not a grip. Not holding, touching.”
Will licks his lips. “Sure.”
“And you want your back muscles to be strong, I know you have them. Tight.”
“What?”
“I mean, I’ve seen you.” Hesitates, “Shirtless.”
“When?” Hand on his hand. Like his friend said, not gripping, touching.
Flush on Mike’s cheekbones, under his eyes. “Uh, when you’re shovelling, um, I don’t have to. Now I’m saying it, really sounds like I’m peeping, but you’re outside, by the coal chute, and shovelling, uh, coal, shirtless. You’re outside.”
Will pushes at their raised arms, pressure into their touching hands. “You’re a terrible teacher.” Smiling, barely. Watches Mike get redder. Loves it.
“Uh, elbows higher,” Wheeler mumbles.
Will raises his elbow.
“And I’ll count us. One, two, three. One, two, three. Mmm, yeah.” Continues the count.
Will’s looking at his feet, stumbling, trying to follow, mimic. But then it clicks. Mike’s wrist brushes a little too close to Will’s wrist, and the scent gland there. Rubs. And Wheeler’s smell, and, it just clicks. Byers stops. “I should lead,” he says. Thinks Mike’s going to object. But, wordlessly, slowly, Lord Wheeler changes his hand position. Drags his fingers off of Byers. Will scoops into his friend’s shoulder blade. Mike places his hand on Will’s shoulder.
Mike counts, soft. And Byers leads. Digs his fingers into Mike’s vest. Closer. Mike’s face tipping down.
“You smell like fireplace,” Wheeler murmurs.
Will freezes, they stumble. “I haven’t washed, since-”
“No. No, that’s not what I mean.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you smell, your smell, is like, I don’t know, smoke.” Offers his wrist, upturned. That’s a dangerous offer. An omega offering their wrist has a lot of meanings, code, society rules. But, here, now: Will’s not sure if Mike knows what he’s doing.
Byers stands, stiff. “Put it away.”
“My wrist?”
“Put it away.” Mike’s wrist is for his partner. His future dance partner. Not William Byers.
Mike drops it. “Sorry. I overstepped.” He stares. Eyes look black.
“You did.”
Wheeler’s mouth bunches. Looks down. Bows. “Thank you for the waltz. I won’t mention, the masquerade, again.”
“Good.”
Mike peers up from under his brows. “I’m sorry?”
But Will’s not ready. He’s mad at his friend, but he’s mad at, also, everything. Leaves; spoons and knives criss-crossed on the table, unpolished. Maybe Wheeler will cover for him. Maybe he won’t. Can’t imagine the young lord actually polishing the rest of the silverware.
———————————————————————
Eddie slams down a tray of mincemeat tarts; it rattles. “Those are hot.” Stares extra long at Byers.
“So you’re saying I can have one?” Peeps up from crossed arms on the work table.
“I’m saying you’re going to burn yourself, you little shit.” Fingers the little crust, inspects. Stuffing it in his own mouth, speaks through the tart, “Molten.”
Will makes a face. “Have you ever used magic to do something, bad?”
“Oooh.” Eddie lights up. Squeals over a stool. Afternoon sun catches motes, lazy and warm through the window; hits Munson’s fluffy hair as he passes the rectangle, suddenly bright and muted gold. “I need to check the bread soon, I’m going to forget. You’re going to remind me.” Points at Byers with a squinted intensity. “Right. Magic to do something bad? Fuck-ity fuck yes, loads of times, loved every second of it, but I’m reformed.” Twists a ring on his finger.
“Like, to go to a party?”
Delight spilling upwards over his lips. “Hmm, like to a masquerade? Maybe? Perchance? Also, in terms of badness, that’s hardly a dent. I was hoping we were going kill someone.” Sees Will’s expression. “Steal something? Heist? Could we do a heist? A small crime? Petty, petty crime?”
“You can’t say stuff like that.”
Frowns, rubs his nose.
“That’s not funny. We’re not stealing anything.” Sighs, grabs a tart. “Have you ever snuck into a ball?”
“Mmm? Who’s to say?” Spins in a circle on his stool.
“You have.” Tries to read Eddie. But the cook’s expressions are performative, big, it’s hard to tell what’s true. “Did you cast a disguise spell?”
“Fuck, the bread! Jesus, you’re letting me down, Byers.” Half the sentence mumbled towards the bake oven. Grinding the wooden slats out the front, rolling his shoulders in delight at the hot air. Sticks in his hand, fingers twirling, checking the temperature.
The first time Will clocked Munson was when he saw him stick his palm into the oven (normal), then lower it into the embers (not normal), a look of blissed-out relief. Eddie’s some kind of sorcerer; could be a warlock if he has a patron (no sign of one); his blood drawn to fire.
Will is different. Still magic, but different. He chose it. Wizard. Studied. Grinded it out, late nights, candles guttering. Yearned.
Eddie slots back in the bake oven’s cover. It’s shielded on one side with tin: reflects the heat. “Not ready.”
“Did you cast Disguise Self? To sneak in?”
Flicks his brown eyes to the side, back agin, then grins. “Just changed my clothes. Suckers. Looked exactly the freakin’ same.”
“But, was it-? Wouldn’t they, recognize, you work for-?”
“Ages ago. It was - fun.” Steeples his fingers. “Do you want my help?”
“No. No, no, no.”
Slaps his hand over his heart. “Ow my feelings. Are you going to ask Buckley?”
“Maybe?”
Eddie lifts the tray of tarts to slam it, the mincemeat bounces. “Fuck, really? I’m twice the spellcaster.”
“She’s nicer.”
Munson breathes through his nose.
“Can I have another tart?”
“Nope. You going to kiss Wheeler? Don’t look at me like you’re offended.”
Byers grabs a flakey shell, bites into the filling. “This is why Robin’s helping.”
———————————————————————
Will has underestimated his coworker’s enthusiasm. Buckley watches, bitten lip, as he kneels, spellbook flopped in front of him. Reads the incantation, runes spidery, wanting to come alive, crawl off the page; rolls his R’s (magic is mostly pronunciation). His stomach heaves as the magic draws from him. Closes his eyes, picturing, giving the spell more instructions. Glances to his hands, arms. Did it work? His gloved fingers look, delicate?
Raises his face to Robin. She claps her hands. “You’re so pretty.”
“Don’t.”
“Handsome?”
“Uh, pretty’s fine.” He’s already changed into a dress. It doesn’t matter what it looks like, the illusion covers him. But, the spell-craft does not extend to touch. Anyone who grabs will feel the real him. He’s hoping by wearing women’s gloves, a woman’s dress, the sensations will pass better. “Can you just, uh, let me know how it looks from the back?”
“Spin. There we go, yes, Byers. Yes. You have no idea how happy this makes me. Maybe that’s weird, I don’t know. Is it weird? You know, I don’t care, you know? I don’t. You deserve to see this spectacular party. And drink some spectacular champagne, if you want. Not too much. And give your guy a twirl. I know, I know, you’re just going to watch. Sure. Of course, sure.” Takes his shoulders. “I’m rooting for you.”
“Are you seeing Vickie tonight?”
Her mouth wiggles. False lightness. “Dunno. We’ll see.”
“Well, I’m rooting for you.”
She waggles her head, rolls her eyes. “Thanks.”
Knock on Byers’ door, the knuckles tapping from the floor all the way around the frame. Eddie’s voice. “Stole a mirror for you.”
“He’s not ready!” Robin screams, so loud. Then, to Will, sweet, “I have something for you.” Gropes inside her bag. “Perfume. Cover your scent. I know Wheeler’s going to recognize you if you don’t.” Holds it away as he grabs. “But, do you want to be incognito, or do you, kinda, sorta, want him to know it’s you?”
Will shakes his head. “No one can find out. I want to watch, and no pressure.”
“Ok,” she says, high, doubtful. Spritzes his wrists. Hand on the door, and swings it open, revealing Will to Eddie.
Munson’s standing behind a hand mirror, smiling ghoulishly. Expression drops when he sees Will. “Oh, shit. You really look like a girl.” Will takes the mirror, gentle. He looks a little like Jane, and it breaks his heart: glass-like. Also a little like his mom, maybe when she was younger. Eddie eases the mirror, steps back, “Here’s the full picture.”
The dress is his best illusionist work. Fine details, impossibly perfect needlework (sixteen stitches per inch). Empire waist, square neckline, Watteau train. Draped dark blue muslin, almost translucent. Silver embroidery, and metallic beaded stars. He looks like the night sky. Light blush on his cheeks, dark smudges over his eyes. Flicks his gaze up.
“Twirl,” Robin breathes.
He twirls. Robin and Eddie grin at each other.
Eddie whisks his wrist. “Go! Go, go, go.” Stuffs the mirror down the waistband of his pants, and grabs Robin in an impromptu waltz. She shrieks. Stomps on his foot.
Will leaves them as they race into the kitchens, Eddie swearing something, and Robin yelling something. Gathers his skirts, uses the servant’s back staircase, brushing against tight curving walls. He doesn’t think to bring a candle and it’s pitch black. No point in wasting money on sconces, burning wax, back here.
Shouldering open the door, sneaks around the hall. Takes a moment, ties on his mask, can hear the thrum of people, a string quartet. Music, 3/4 time. He’s near the entrance to the ballroom. He’s been in a thousand times, but not like this.
———————————————————————
The masquerade is perfumes, scents, swirling dancers. He’s in a menagerie of feathers, waistcoats; rabbits and foxes coupled, swans and pirates, chainmail, princesses, he can’t keep track. A footman, Carl, he’s masked, but of course Will recognizes him, sees him when they have dinner duty together. In fact, Will could have been there, holding a silver tray: instead of here, pretending to be gentry.
Snags a flute, sips. Feels his pulse in his wrist. The bubbles fizz on his top palette, his tongue. Not sure what to do with the glass: settles it on the floor, that’s wrong. That’s definitely wrong. Wanders away from the abandoned champagne, maybe no one saw.
Then, sees him. He forgot the costume Mike told him, told him he’d be wearing. The effect jellies his legs. Mike’s in full plate. A heart enamelled over his chest, on his bracers. His visor’s flicked up, and Will sees curls of dark hair, his sharp nose, black-brown eyes. Almost calls his name.
Lord Wheeler looks at him, and stops. Will thinks his illusion must have failed. No, don’t come here. Don’t come over here, Mike, you can’t, you’ll know, you’ll know. He just wants this one thing, one evening (not even one evening, an hour, the illusion lasts an hour) for himself.
Mike is here. Tall and gangly; and a hint, doesn’t know if can really smell it, or imagines, lemons. Citrus, sour and juicy. With sugar, something sweet, caramel, underneath. The plate mail fills him out. Offers his hand, “My lady.”
“No,” he doesn’t mean to say it.
Mike falters.
“I’m feeling ill, the heat, can’t dance. I can’t dance. Sorry.”
“Then let me get you a refreshment.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” he laughs. “Really. And, if I may be so bold, the pleasure of your name?”
“No.”
Mike laughs again. “My lady, I beg your pardon.”
“I mean, it’s a masque. I can’t, we can’t ruin the illusion.”
Mike squints. “If I leave to get you a refreshment, will you be here when I get back? Or will I have lost you? Because, I have a sneaking suspicion you are a difficult woman to track down, and I may return to an empty wall.”
“You may. Uh, return to an empty wall.”
“Then I won’t leave your side.”
Will flips down the visor, temporarily blinding the young man.
“Shit,” Mike fumbles. Up again. “Still here, good.”
Byers smiles, nearly laughs. “Are you sure you want to spend your night, like this?”
Tongue between his lips, sticking out just a little. “No. No, I don’t think I want to spend it like this.” Gauntleted palm out again. “I’d like to spend it on the balcony.”
———————————————————————
They can hear the strings, but faint. Well, he’s not sure if Mike can. He’s wearing his knight’s helmet, and Will’s fighting the urge to knock on it. Splays his fingers on either side, pulls it off. Wheeler’s hair flops, to his shoulders, loose, curly, as he lifts the armour. It’s intensely satisfying. Mike bends his head a little as he does. With the hair comes a whiff of his scent. Byers covers his nose with hand, nearly drops the helmet.
Mike takes it from him, as if he’s trying to touch his fingers. “Careful.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
“No, I should be apologizing. A lady, on the private terrace.” He says it playful, wiggling his eyebrows. “Your reputation?”
“That depends, are you the sort to ruin a lady’s reputation?”
“Yes. A cad.”
Will snorts.
“I’ll prove it.” And he takes Will’s hand. One by one yanks the fingers of Will’s glove. The gloves are elbow-length, silk (magicked to be silk, but the actual is a cheaper cotton) and Mike takes his time easing the fabric, pulling. Will watches, eyes from their hands to Mike’s bent face. He’s concentrating, but he can see Mike’s nostrils flare, breath stuttering as the glove comes off.
Wheeler drops his own gauntlet. Takes Will’s wrist, raises to his lips. Kisses the pulse point, presses hard into the vein. Should only smell the perfume, not his own scent, not his own.
The young lord looks at him, needy. “I can’t smell you.” It’s hard to tell, moonlight, Mike’s skin bluish, cold: but his pupils look wide. Blown open.
“You could, smell my neck?” Doesn’t know if should have offered. Scrambles for Mike’s wrist. “Wait. I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Mike looks at him, heartbreakingly gentle. Slowly, pushes Will’s hair behind his ear. “What do you want?”
All he’s wanted for years is Mike’s mouth on him. His lips on Mike. Just, feels he shouldn’t. He can’t. Looks at Wheeler, helpless.
“How about I ask, this or that?” the lord smiles. “Do you want to go inside, or stay out here?”
“Here.” Swallows.
“Do you want me to touch you, or stay separate?”
“I, um, want to touch you.”
“Where? I mean, that’s not a this or that. Um, on my neck, or on my mouth? That sounds crude. I don’t mean to offend, if you take offence, or if I’m being presumptuous, I’m actually not really a cad, a rake, I mean you might have figured that out, in fact, I have no clue what I’m doing-”
“Mike,” he interrupts.
Mike stops. Lowers his chin.
“Lord Wheeler,” corrects. And places his hand on his shoulder, where it sat when he learned to waltz. Leans, brushes his lips, not a kiss, not yet, just touching. Connection.
Mike breathes into him, sighs. Tugs at his hips. Kisses Will. Moans into him. Slides his wet mouth to his neck. Smells him, breathes in like drinking. Byers has pushed the knight into the stone railing. They’re not high, but it feels perilous. Everything feels like falling. Mike’s crumbling, sliding against the stone, loose, almost drugged.
Brings his face back to Will; Byers’ neck suddenly cold where the spit dries. “I know you,” his friend murmurs.
“Tonight, you don’t.” Kisses him again. It’s Will’s turn to push his lips to Mike’s scent glad. Scrapes his teeth, delicate over the slightly raised skin. Sucks, very lightly. The smell goes to his core. He’s hot. Burning. Drops to his knees. Fumbles with Mike’s costume. There’s greaves, straps, leather. Leather has never felt so good. Finds trousers underneath, buttons. Mike’s trying to help, but his fingers keep getting in the way, tangling.
A fortnight ago, he asked Eddie the mortifying question of how to give head. The cook stared at Byers, in the frozen way he gets sometimes, then his eyes narrow: Wheeler behaving himself? And Will says: yes, yes, it’s not that. He just wants to know. Eddie plays with his rings, squirming a little, finally: kissing, suction, (pauses) licking, no teeth! No teeth. If a cucumber goes missing from the produce pile I won’t say anything.
Will took a cucumber. He practiced. Felt impossibly dirty. But pictured Mike, of course he did. Got hot, tingling in his groin, lips, numbness.
Feels for Mike’s dick. Hard, but he can make him harder. Leans to kiss the shaft. Fingers on Wheeler’s thighs, thumbs rubbing circles. Catches the scent glad on his left leg, softer, almost crepe, wetter skin. Releases into his already close face. Will nuzzles, whining, into Mike’s hips. Sugared lemon. Puckering, the citrus pulling at his mouth, making him salivate. Raises himself enough to kiss the tip. Lips over, suction. Sucking.
Mike’s hands in his hair, tighter. He’s muttering he can’t believe, can’t believe this, then the words slur into sounds.
Will slides as deep as he practiced. Mike’s cock nudging the back of his mouth. Full. Holds; the beginning of a gag, shoves the sensation away, noise. Slips him out again. Kisses. Will’s fingers are playing with the scent gland on Mike’s thigh. His one gloved hand rubbing until Mike’s skin is pink. There’s caramel, sweet, mixing with the soft smell of skin; and, Will grabs Mike’s shaft, lower.
One of the lord’s hands in his hair, the other searching down his neck, forefinger finding his scent. Mike is looking down at Will, then tips his head back, breathing ragged, hard. Hand lets go of Will’s hair, just finds the bannister behind him.
Touching Mike’s balls, feeling a little out of his depth. The cucumber did not have balls. Knows what he likes when he’s alone, and feels further back. It’s wet. This is different. Folds of sensitive skin Will doesn’t have. Mike is an omega. Behind his cock, is another kind of genital. Wet with slick. That should be good. That should be good? Oh god, he doesn’t know what to do with this.
Fingers pause on Mike’s labia. That sounds very technical. He’s touching it as if it’s technical, a physician giving an inspection. Glances up at his friend. Not sure if he should, keep going? Push in? Finger inside?
Wheeler’s hand on the back of his head. The man looks destroyed. Barely upright. Will is doing this to him. Will is wrecking him. Stares up at the boy, as he kisses the scent gland on his thigh again. Back to something he’s familiar with. Takes a finger covered in Mike’s slick, slides it over his erect cock. Then down his legs.
Kisses the scent glad harder. The slick is in his mouth. The slick is Mike’s scent, but more. Sweeter, but a funky aftertaste like sweat. Like shovelling coal for hours and the smell of his armpits. Like wanting something that’s wrong, but better, crazier, more dangerous for its wrongness. Slurps at his thigh. Teeth nibbling the skin.
“Yes,” Mike says. Then, chirps, a high, ridiculous sound. From his throat, from his chest.
The noise clicks into Will. Like their waltz. Taking Mike’s hands and leading. It clicks into the animal part of his mind. He wants him. He wants him. Mike is his. Make him, his. He bites. Sinks canines into Wheeler’s inner thigh.
Jerks back. He’s fucked up. Oh, he’s fucked up. It’s not exactly a mating bond, a mating mark, but Jesus, it’s going to have a similar effect. Maybe not as strong, but freakin’ similar. Stands, mouth smeared with slick, blood. Tastes blood. Rust, tang. Hand on Mike’s cheek. The boy is looking at him, not understanding. Drops his own hand to his thigh, and rests it there, touching. His irises are only pupil, reflecting Will’s own scared face back at him.
Byers pushes away. Stumbles, starts to run. Mike’s struggling with his pants, getting dressed, yelling at him to wait, stop.
Looks at his hands: one gloved, one bare. They’re shifting, larger now, the calluses he recognizes. Through the ballroom, pushing people. Mike after him, but too slow. And he’s down a side hall. Knows the Wheeler’s house maybe better than its owners, because he has been in every place, serving them, working for them; down the servant’s staircase. To the kitchen. At last, the kitchen. Panting, as Eddie looks up from a tray of tiny pastries. Carl is there, taking another plate of refreshments to the guests.
Munson ushers the footman away, walks towards Will, slow. “What happened?”
Will’s shaking his head, tears stinging.
Voice through his teeth, “What happened?” Hands on Byers’ shoulders. “Do I need to kill that brat?”
“Huh? What, no, no,” pulling at his other glove, twisting it.
Something bright: a candle? No, flames. Little flames flitting across Eddie’s palm. Then he closes his fist, snuffs it. “What did Wheeler do?”
“Nothing! It was me, it was me, me. I’m so stupid.”
Eddie pulls him into a hug. “You’re not stupid.” Pats his hair. “Whatever you did, we’ll get through it. You. Me. Even Buckley.”
“Don’t joke about killing people,” he chokes. Trying not to press his forehead into Eddie’s shoulder and just sob.
Patting his back, rubbing circles. “I’m not joking.” Lets his hand rest on the top of Byers’ head. “Not even a little bit.”