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Author Intro: My name is Casual, and I'm, first and foremost, a storyteller. I write about erotic, sensual, sexual, and emotional connections between gay men. Although grounded in reality, my stories are still fantasies, not meant to promote or glorify any sexual practices. I can go from romantic, sweet, uplifting to rough and edgy. If you wish to be taken on wild, exhilarating, magical, and sensual adventures, my imagination is the place for you.
Casual Wanderer © 2024 All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and specific other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Chapter 6 "Fianchetto (Part 3)"
The car thundered along the desolate coastal road, its engine protesting under the exhilarating strain as Tanner drove it to the edge of adrenaline. His knuckles clutched the steering wheel, pale against the darkness of his mask, a mere shadow of the rage that simmered beneath. River sat tense and alert in the passenger seat, his mask perfectly concealing his anxiety as his eyes flicked nervously between the winding road and the turmoil erupting in the back seat.
Omar was hunched over Andrew, his hands slick with blood as he pressed down on the makeshift bandage covering Andrew's abdomen. The hunk's breaths came shallow and uneven. Omar's voice a low, desperate murmur, repeating, "You're going to be okay. We're almost there."
Andrew's fingers weakly curled around Omar's hand, his grip faltering. Omar's cerulean eyes glistened with unshed tears, but he refused to break, focusing wholly on keeping Andrew conscious. "Stay with me," Omar whispered, his voice trembling but firm.
From the front, Tanner's voice erupted like thunder. "We shouldn't have gone for that last crate, you greedy fuck! We ran out of time because of you!" He pounded the steering wheel, the frustration boiling over as he peeked at Andrew through the rearview mirror.
Omar didn't respond. His jaw tightened as he focused on Andrew, brushing blood-matted hair from his lover's face. His lips quivered, but he didn't let the tears fall. Instead, he whispered softly, "You're gonna be fine. I promise."
The tires screeched as Tanner slammed the brakes, the car skidding to a halt near the dock. The scorching sun gleamed off the calm water, where several speedboats bobbed silently. Tanner flung his door open and bolted out, his tall frame moving with furious precision. River followed, their movements in sync as they rushed to the trunk. Together, they hauled the heavy duffel bags filled with stolen cash and supplies into one of the boats.
Omar struggled to lift Andrew inside the car, his strength waning under the hunk's weight. Bishop groaned, his head lolling to the side. "It's okay," Omar muttered, gritting his teeth. "We're almost there."
Tanner returned, his broad shoulders looming over them as he reached in, effortlessly pulling Bishop out and carrying him like a ragdoll toward the boat. Omar followed, stumbling slightly as he wiped his bloodied hands on his pants. Behind them, River moved quickly, pouring gasoline over the car's interior and tossing the empty canister inside. He struck a match, the flame flickering briefly before catching, the fire igniting with a sudden roar.
"Move, babe!" Tanner barked as he helped Omar lower Bishop onto the speedboat's deck. River sprinted toward them, his frame cutting through the smoky haze. He leaped aboard just as the flames reached the car's gas tank, the explosion ripping through the dock. The four turned, watching fire engulfed the vehicle, sending a plume of smoke spiraling into the sky.
The boat's engine roared to life, and Tanner steered them away from the dock, the blaze fading into the distance. Omar knelt beside Bishop, cradling his head as the boat bounced over the waves. Bishop's eyes fluttered open briefly, his gaze glassy and unfocused. He smiled faintly, his voice barely a whisper. "Can't believe...we pulled that off..."
Omar's throat tightened. He gripped Bishop's hand harder, shaking his head. "Don't you fucking dare," he choked out, his voice breaking. But Bishop's eyelids fluttered shut, his body going limp. "No...no, no, no!" Omar screamed, shaking him as tears streamed down his face. "Bishop! Bishop!"
The others remained quiet, the haunting echo of Omar's desperate cries filling the air as the boat sliced through the dark waters.
(Two years later)
The sun hung low over the sprawling ranch as River guided his horse in slow circles around the pen. Tanner stood at the edge, one hand holding the rope taut, the other gripping a whip. His rugged frame leaned casually against the fence, but his eyes betrayed the intense focus locked on the blonde riding before him.
With his flawless figure and golden hair that caught the light like a halo, River moved with an effortless grace atop the horse. His form melded with the animal's movements, each trot a seamless rhythm. Tanner's lips curled into a smile, his deep voice breaking the tranquil moment.
"You're beautiful, you know that?"
River didn't miss a beat, turning his head slightly and smirking. "What do you want?"
Tanner chuckled, his grin broadening. He popped his tongue, signaling the horse to stop. The animal responded immediately, its hooves halting in the dust. The tall hunk walked forward, his large hand gliding over the horse's sleek fur before settling lightly on River's leg. The blonde raised an eyebrow, his smirk softening into something more genuine. Without hesitation, he swung down from the saddle, his arms instinctively wrapping around Tanner's neck as he slid to the ground.
Tanner's tone grew softer, though the glint in his eyes didn't fade. "I have this thing I gotta do. Work-related."
River cocked his head, a single eyebrow arching. "So?"
Tanner shrugged, his face calm but his body tense in a way River knew too well. "I thought...maybe... you'd like to come with me."
River chuckled at first, assuming Tanner was joking, but the silence that followed told him otherwise. His laughter faltered as he searched Tanner's face, realizing the seriousness behind the offer. He hesitated, the weight of the unspoken expectation settling between them.
Their relationship had always been a dance of contrasts. With his boisterous energy and larger-than-life personality, Tanner was unyielding and unapologetic about what he wanted. River, quieter but no less confident, was a steadying presence, his calm demeanor grounding Tanner's storm. Together, they created a balance that neither had ever thought they needed.
But outside the ranch, things were more complex. The world wasn't as kind to two men like them. Tanner, the hulking brute who people expected to conform to traditional masculinity, and River, whose beauty and elegance defied convention entirely. It wasn't that they were ashamed, far from it. Tanner was proud of River, and River, though quieter about his affections, found solace in Tanner's unwavering devotion. But the boundaries of their love were tested whenever they left the sanctuary of the ranch.
"Can't one of those girls you usually prance around with go?" he teased, attempting to deflect the sudden tension.
Tanner's grip on him loosened slightly, his expression hardening as he stepped back. "Fine. If you don't want to, just say it," Tanner muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. He pushed River back gently, and the blonde's boots hit the ground with a dull thud.
River's gaze followed Tanner as he turned to leave. He sighed and called out, his voice softer now. "Hey, come back here." Tanner hesitated before turning, his broad shoulders stiff. River crooked a finger, beckoning him closer. When Tanner stepped back within reach, River wrapped his arms around the taller man's neck again, leaning in until their foreheads touched.
"Yes," River murmured, his lips brushing Tanner's ear. "I'll go."
The words barely left his mouth before Tanner's entire face lit up, his piercing green eyes widening with a boyish glee. He let out a whoop and hoisted River effortlessly over his shoulder like a grain sack.
"Now that's what I'm talking about!" Tanner hollered, his baritone laughter echoing across the ranch as he gave a playful slap on the blonde's peach.
River wriggled, half-laughing and half-mortified. "Keep it down! They're still sleeping, you idiot."
Tanner just laughed louder, spinning them both in a wide circle. "They're not sleeping. Have you ever seen those two sleep when they're around each other?"
River groaned, his face burying in Tanner's broad back as he gave up struggling. Despite the theatrics, a warmth bloomed in his chest. Tanner's enthusiasm was infectious, even if River sometimes needed help understanding how his lover's mind worked.
Meanwhile, inside the house, the sound of Omar's ass slapping against Bishop's pelvis echoed proudly. Bishop's groans of pleasure were being cut short, his body sinking into the mattress as Omar rode his massive 11-inch cock. The blue-eyed raven's feet stood planted, his hands pushing Bishop's massive chest down as he pumped his ass up and down the hunk's cock.
"Fuckin'...hell..." Bishop stuttered, his neck arched back in pleasure.
Long gone were the days when Omar struggled to take Bishop's cock. By now, he had mastered every inch of it. He knew how to please his man and owned Bishop's body, wearing it like a second skin.
"You're...close... aren't you?" Omar questioned as he bounced on Bishop's shaft, his trained hole swallowing every inch of his man's meat with precision. Bishop nodded, eyes trying to stay locked on Omar. "Do you wanna come on my mouth?" he asked, the words salacious. Bishop shook his head, overwhelmed by just how amazing Omar felt, squeezed around his cock. "Do you want to come inside me?" Omar provoked, knowing full well that each sound that came out of his mouth only pushed Bishop closer to the edge. Bishop nodded, his movements fusing with his whole body as he jerked up and down. Omar smiled and let his knees fall on the bed, drilling Bishop's cock thoroughly in him. Then, expertly, he clenched his muscles, squeezing around the hunk's dick, and began shifting his hips back and forth slowly. "You like that, don't you?" he questioned. Bishop nodded, biting his lips. "Jesus Christ, your cock is perfect," Omar moaned, his hands traveling across his smooth, pale skin before plunging back down and punching Bishop's chest. "Feels so good inside me...so fucking good," he added, ushering their orgasm like a prayer. "Almost...almost there..." he announced.
"Fuuuuuuuck!" Bishop roared, feeling his load explode inside Omar's ass, his chest splattered by the raven beauty's own cum as it fired from his stiff cock. Bishop rose, his arms enveloping Omar's as he pulled his face towards his lover's chest, nestling inside it as they both shot their loads. "Holy shit," the hunk whispered, his voice shaking slightly. He then fell back, bringing Omar with him, their bodies still perfectly fused together. They lingered there until their breaths steadied and their cocks softened. They loved to stay there, hearing the sound of Bishop's cum oozing out of Omar's insides. It was a ritual at this point.
Omar's body curled protectively around Bishop's, their skin warm and sweaty against each other, bare and vulnerable in the intimacy they rarely allowed themselves outside the ranch's boundaries. Omar's head rested against Bishop's chest, his ear pressed close enough to hear the rhythm of his lover's heartbeat. A rhythm that matched his own. Inside this room, they were untouchable, shielded from the world's chaos.
"I wish it could always be like this," Omar murmured, his voice soft and almost wistful. His fingers traced lazy patterns along Bishop's chest, his touch featherlight. "Just us, you know?" Bishop didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on the window, his chestnut eyes distant, their usual warmth muted by a shadow Omar hadn't noticed before. The silence stretched until Omar shifted, propping himself up on his elbow.
"What's wrong?" Omar asked, his voice low but laced with concern.
Bishop's jaw tightened as he looked away, his chest rising and falling with a deep sigh. "Have you been to see him?"
The question hit Omar like a sharp squall, unexpected and unsettling. His fingers stilled against Bishop's skin, and his lips parted as if to respond, but no words came.
Bishop's eyes snapped to him, narrowing at the pause. He shifted, sliding out from under Omar with a suddenness that made the bed creak. Omar sat up, his hands resting on his knees as Bishop began to pace with frustration.
"You haven't," Bishop said, his tone edged with disbelief and anger. "You haven't been to see your own son."
Omar's eyes followed Bishop's every movement, his expression unreadable. "I told you he's being taken care of," he said finally, his voice calm but defensive. "He's probably better off without me hovering around, messing him up."
Bishop stopped mid-stride, turning to face Omar. His disappointment was palpable, his eyes dark with anger and sorrow. "That's your excuse? That you'll 'mess him up'? He's your fucking kid!"
Omar shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tightening. "What do you want me to say? That I'll be a great dad? I won't, Bishop. I'm barely holding myself together most days."
Bishop ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply as he leaned against the window frame, the cool glass pressing against his back. He stared outside for a moment before speaking again, his voice quieter this time. "I fucked someone."
Omar blinked, his brow furrowing. "Who?"
Bishop nodded, his gaze distant. "Just some girl. It... didn't mean anything. But it did feel...easy. She's easy," the hunk hesitated, unsure whether to continue. "I want to have a child someday."
Omar's lips quirked into a lopsided smile, his instinctive reaction to deflect. "You can have mine. Seems like a good trade-off," he joked.
But Bishop didn't laugh. His gaze snapped back to Omar, steady and unwavering. "This is not a joke."
Omar's smile faltered, and he looked down at his hands, knowing what was coming but unwilling to face it. Bishop pushed off the window frame and approached the bed, kneeling before Omar and taking his hands. His grip was firm and grounding, but his expression showed an unmistakable vulnerability.
"I'm tired," Bishop said softly, his voice breaking slightly. "Tired of being scared all the time. Scared that one day, you'll do something rash, something that'll get you killed. Scared that I won't be there when you need me. I can't...I can't live like this."
Omar's throat tightened, his usual quick wit and easy charm failing him. He opened his mouth to respond but found himself unable to. Instead, he reached out, fingers brushing against Bishop's cheek, his touch gentle but firm. The silence between them stretched, but it wasn't empty.
It was filled with the hard truth they'd carried for years, the understanding that they were both each other's greatest strength and most crippling weakness.
Finally, Omar's lips twitched into a faint smile. "I think we need to get drunk," he said, his tone light but his eyes glistening.
Bishop blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. Then, to Omar's relief, he burst into laughter. A deep, genuine laugh echoed through the room, loosening the knot in Omar's chest.
"You're such a fucking idiot," Bishop said, his voice warm again. He tackled Omar onto the bed, their bodies tumbling together in a tangle of limbs and laughter. They wrestled, neither holding back until they were both breathless, their faces inches apart.
"I love you," Bishop said, his voice steady and sure as he leaned down. His lips embraced Omar's in a fierce and tender kiss.
"I love you more," Omar replied, kissing the hunk passionately. His hands gripped Bishop's arms as if letting go wasn't an option. Nothing else mattered then, not the past, future, or fears looming over them.
Only this was the love that held them together, even as it threatened to break them apart.
Later that evening, the living room was layered with smoke, weed, and whiskey. River sat cross-legged on the floor, glaring at the chessboard with a furrowed brow. Across from him, Andrew leaned back in his chair, a smug grin on his face.
"You always do that!" River huffed, his hands brushing through his blonde hair in exasperation. "You wait until the very last move and completely screw me over."
Andrew shrugged nonchalantly, lifting his glass of whiskey to his lips. "It's not my fault you're predictable."
A low chuckle emerged from the couch, where Omar reclined with his legs stretched lazily across Tanner's lap, his cerulean eyes glinting with amusement. He took the joint Tanner passed him and inhaled deeply, his body sinking further into the cushions. Andrew glanced at Omar, their eyes locking for a moment in a shared, knowing smile.
Always the quiet observer, Tanner began massaging Omar's feet, his large hands firm but careful. Omar groaned in satisfaction, his head tipping back as he exhaled a plume of smoke. "Fuck, that feels good," he murmured.
Tanner smirked and asked, "By the way, where did 'Bishop' even come from? I'm pretty sure it's not your real name, right?"
Andrew leaned back further, his gaze drifting thoughtfully to the ceiling. "It's a long story," he said.
Still sulking over his loss, River muttered from the table, "We should have special names too." His arms crossed tightly over his chest, his chin sinking into them as he stared moodily at the chessboard.
Omar's attention snapped to River, his sharp instincts catching the seed of an idea. His lips curled into a mischievous grin, and he shot to his feet. "I agree," he declared the sudden movement startling the group.
Tanner looked up, puzzled. "Agree with what? What are you doing now?"
Omar strode toward the door and gestured for them to follow. "All of you. Come on."
The men exchanged wary glances, but as always, they followed. Omar's magnetism had that effect. It was just downright impossible to say no. They trailed after him as he led them out into the cool night, where the bonfire still crackled in the center of the ranch yard.
"Alright," Omar said, spinning to face them with an intensity that commanded their attention. "Shirts off."
"What?" River blinked, his arms still crossed.
"You heard me. Shirts off." Omar's voice brooked no argument, and one by one, they complied, their bare chests catching the fire's flickering light.
"What is this about?" Tanner asked, his brow furrowed in suspicion. Omar reached behind the log bench and pulled out a branding iron, its tip glowing faintly in the firelight. Tanner's eyes widened. "What the fuck are you..."
"Relax," Omar said, holding a hand to quiet him. "Trust me."
Tanner hesitated, his instincts flaring, but River and Andrew knelt by the fire without protest, their trust in Omar absolute at this point. Tanner sighed and followed suit, dropping to one knee beside them. Omar stood over them like a preacher preparing to deliver a sermon, the firelight licking at his features as his eyes roamed over the men he called his family.
"You've all followed me...through hell and back, it seems," Omar began, his voice low but steady. "Through mud, through blood, through the goddamn worst of this world. And you've always been at my back and side, carrying me when I couldn't." His gaze softened, though his voice remained firm. "We're not just friends. We're not just brothers. We're something more."
The men exchanged quiet glances, their expressions sober, touched by Omar's words.
The blue-eyed raven continued, his hand gesturing toward the fire. "I want to give us something. A symbol of who we are. A reminder of what we stand for...honor, reliance, love, and truth. As of this night, we'll baptize ourselves with new names. Names that'll mean something. Names that'll be ours and ours alone."
River's lips curved into a soft smile, his golden eyes glistening as he leaned forward slightly. Tanner looked down at the ground, his jaw clenching briefly before nodding in agreement. Andrew, ever composed, raised an eyebrow at Omar but smiled knowingly.
Omar raised the branding iron above the flames, letting the glow intensify before pulling it back.
"One by one," Omar said, "we'll choose. No pasts, no fucking ghosts. Just who we are...right now."
The fire crackled, the night growing impossibly still, as the men sat in reverence for the ritual Omar had created. Though no words were spoken for several moments, their bond strengthened in the quiet, their brotherhood transcending mere friendship. They watched silently, their breaths held as if they understood that something sacred was about to occur. Omar turned the iron in his hand, a solemn weapon, and walked to Tanner first.
"Close your eyes," he said, his voice steady but weighted with emotion.
Tanner hesitated, his piercing green gaze darting to the others. River and Andrew bowed their heads, eyes shut in a quiet, almost reverent prayer. It was a moment of trust, raw and unspoken, and Tanner, though skeptical, nodded and followed suit.
Omar's tall frame loomed over Tanner. He held the branding iron across his chest like a knight's blade, the firelight glinting in his eyes.
"Henceforth," Omar declared, his voice strong and commanding, "you shall be known as Rook. You are our shield, our protector, the wall we lean on when the world tries to tear us down." His eyes softened for a fleeting moment. "And I'm sorry... but this is really going to hurt."
Tanner's brows furrowed, his lips parting to protest, but before he could, Omar pressed the glowing tip of the brand against Tanner's chest, just inches below his heart. The sizzling sound was sharp and visceral.
"Mother fucker!" Tanner roared in pain, his body convulsing for a moment, but as his head lifted, his expression shifted. Through the agony, a profound sense of belonging ignited in his eyes, a light that hadn't been there before.
Omar stepped back, giving Tanner a moment to compose himself, and turned to River. The blonde looked at him, his golden eyes reflecting the fire. He was calm. Omar stood before him.
"From now on, you will be Knight," Omar began, his voice softer. "You are our healer, the one who mends us when we break, who reminds us that even in pain, there is hope," he paused, the branding iron glowing menacingly in his hand.
River closed his eyes, his fair face serene, and tilted his head slightly as though readying himself. Omar pressed the brand into his chest, and a sharp hiss of burning flesh followed. River moaned quietly, his hands clenching into fists, but he didn't pull back. When it was done, his head bowed further, his breaths heavy but even. He looked up at Omar, a flicker of pride in his gaze, and nodded.
Finally, Omar turned to Bishop, and for a moment, he faltered. He swallowed dry, his usual charisma dimmed by the moment's intimacy. He hesitated before continuing, "This was done long ago..." Omar stammered. "You've always been my Bishop. But now... you'll be ours. You are the heart of us, our soul."
Bishop smiled faintly, his dark eyes glinting as he looked up at Omar. "About time," he said simply.
Omar exhaled, his hand trembling slightly as he brought the branding iron close. He held the glowing tip just above Andrew's heart and said, quietly but clearly, "I love you," then he pressed it against Andrew's chest. Unlike Tanner and River, Andrew didn't flinch. His gaze remained steady, fixed on Omar, his eyes holding nothing but trust and quiet love.
When it was over, the group stood silently for a moment, the significance of the ritual sinking into their bones and flesh. Rook was the first to break the silence. "What about you?" he asked, his voice rough but curious.
Omar blinked, caught off guard. Before he could respond, Bishop stepped forward and took the branding iron from his hand.
"Your turn," he said, his voice filled with resolve. Omar hesitated, but Knight and Rook were already moving. They grabbed Omar by the arms, gently pulling him to his knees before the fire.
Andrew stood tall, the iron a ceremony torch in his hand. "You are our King," he proclaimed, his voice deep and resonant. "Our strength, our guidance, our horizon, and our dawn. Without you, we fall."
Omar's lips parted as though to speak, but Bishop didn't wait. He pressed the iron to Omar's chest, the sizzling sound piercing the night as he clenched his teeth, his body jerking against the pain. Knight and Rook held him firm, their grips steady. When Bishop pulled the brand away, Omar's head tipped forward, sweat dripping from his brow, his breaths ragged.
There was a long, heavy silence as the four men knelt around the fire, their bodies heaving, their shared pain transforming into something almost holy.
Then Rook broke it. "Give me the bottle," he muttered, pointing at the whiskey beside Knight. He snatched it, pouring the liquor over the fresh burn on his chest. He flinched, a sharp hiss escaping through gritted teeth, but as he looked down at the mark, a bold "K" encircled by a perfect ring, he chuckled.
"Damn, that's one hell of a tattoo," Rook said, grinning.
Knight burst out laughing, his head tilting back as the tension dissolved. Bishop joined in, his rich baritone laughter infectious. Even King chuckled softly, still catching his breath, shaking his head slowly.
Before long, the four men were sprawled around the fire, their laughter echoing into the vast, open night. It was raw, authentic, and unapologetically theirs, a moment they would undoubtedly carry inside their hearts forever.
(4 years later)
Bishop sat motionless at his desk, his gaze fixed on the window. The ranch stretched before him, its boundaries blurring into the vast nothingness beyond. But the view, once something dear, was beginning to feel suffocating to Bishop. His hands rested on a series of papers and diagrams, but his mind wasn't on the project. It churned instead with a restlessness he couldn't quiet, an aching sense of being stuck.
The soft creak of the door behind him broke the silence. Bishop didn't turn, but he knew it was King. His lover's presence was impossible to miss. The scent King's skin exuded, the weight of his footsteps, the warmth that seemed to radiate from him like a fire. The blue-eyed raven crossed the room quietly and wrapped his strong arms around Bishop from behind, resting his chin on Bishop's shoulder.
"What're you working on?" he asked, almost teasingly.
Bishop stiffened under the touch, his hands tensing over the papers. "Just something," he said curtly.
King's brows furrowed, sensing the frost in Bishop's tone. He leaned closer, kissing the side of Bishop's neck gently. "You've been like this for days. What's going on?"
Bishop shrugged him off, his jaw tightening. "I'm fine."
King didn't move away. Instead, he pulled up a chair and sat beside Bishop, his cerulean gaze searching his lover's face. "Don't do that. Don't shut me out," he said. "If something's wrong, tell me."
"I said I'm fine," Bishop snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut.
But King wasn't deterred. His love for Bishop lacked any pridefulness. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his tone firm. "No, you're not. I know you...Talk to me."
Bishop's hands slammed down on the desk as he turned to face King, his voice erupting like a dam breaking. "You want to know what's wrong? Fine. I need more. More than this, more than this ranch, this life we've been pretending is enough."
King blinked, taken aback by the outburst. "What do you mean? We've built something here."
"The money's running out," Bishop continued, his voice raw with frustration. "I've been handling it, and it's barely enough to keep us afloat. Meanwhile, you're living in your own little world, oblivious."
"That's not fair," King said, his voice rising, defensive. "How was I supposed to know if you don't talk to me?"
"I stopped talking to you because you never fucking listen," Bishop said, his eyes blazing. "You're always too wrapped up in yourself to notice."
King's face fell, his defenses crumbling under the weight of Bishop's words. He sat back, the hurt visible in his eyes. "That's not true," he said quietly. "I've always been here for you."
"No, you haven't," Bishop said, his voice trembling now, softer but no less cutting. "Not really."
The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. King finally broke it, his voice barely above a whisper. "So, what do you...?"
Bishop hesitated before drawing a shaky breath. "I applied for a job," he said. "At that biotech company I talked to you about. In Florida."
King stared at him, his expression unreadable. "Florida?" he echoed, the word like a stone dropped into a still pond.
"It's only for a year," Bishop explained, though the words immediately felt like a lie. "I need this. I just...need to figure out who I am. Without you."
King stumbled back a step, his legs hitting the edge of the bed. He sat down heavily, his head hanging low. Bishop saw the light in his lover's gaze dim, the vibrant cerulean now dulled with pain. The sight twisted something inside him, but he knew this conversation had been inevitable.
"It feels like you're walking away from us," Omar said, his voice breaking.
Bishop's heart ached at the raw vulnerability in King's words. He knelt beside the bed, placing his hands on his lover's knees. "I'm not walking away from us," he said softly. "I love you. You know I do. But...my whole life has revolved around you and this ranch. I need to know...who I am outside of that."
King's hand found Bishop's, gripping them tightly. For a long moment, he said nothing, his gaze fixed on the floor. Then he nodded, his voice struggling to keep steady. "I get it," he said. "I'd...never stand in the way of your happiness. If this is what you need... I'll support you."
Tears welled in Bishop's eyes as he pressed his forehead against King's knee.
For a while, they stayed like that, their love and pain binding them even as the future threatened to pull them apart.
(5 years later)
The auditorium had emptied, but the echo of applause still faintly clung to the walls. Standing at the lectern, Bishop carefully gathered his notes and laptop, his movements slow and deliberate. He had delivered countless presentations before, but this one had felt different. A sense of accomplishment but also isolation brewed within him.
A sudden sound startled him as he slid the last folder into his bag. A slow, deliberate, and mocking clap rang from the back of the room. Bishop froze for a moment, then smirked to himself without turning around.
"I thought you hated these things," he said, his voice tinged with playful reproach.
The clapping stopped, replaced by steady, deliberate footsteps approaching. Bishop turned, and there he was.
King stood at the edge of the dim lighting, his silhouette tall and commanding. His face emerged from the shadows, his features sharper and more mature, his beard and mustache sculpted into a look that somehow made him even more devastatingly handsome. His cerulean eyes, those windows of passion and mischief, locked on Bishop.
The hunk's breath hitched despite himself, his gaze lingering on the man who had once been his everything and still was, though he had tried so hard to bury that truth. The connection between them was immediate and electric, almost unbearable in its pull.
King stopped a few paces away, his lips curving into a small smile. "I've been calling you," he said. His voice was low and warm but with a bite of irritation. "You wouldn't answer, so...I had to come."
Bishop sighed, his hands still clutching the lectern. "I've been busy," he replied evenly, though his tone lacked conviction.
"Busy," King repeated, his brow lifting slightly as he took another step forward. "You're avoiding me."
Bishop shook his head, waving a hand dismissively. "Don't be ridiculous. We're meeting at the ranch at the end of the month. You know that."
But King didn't buy it. His eyes narrowed, searching Bishop's face like a hunter tracking prey. Bishop felt the weight of that gaze, the way it easily peeled back his carefully constructed defenses.
"Things have just been...complicated," Bishop admitted, his voice quieter now. He looked away, unable to meet King's piercing stare.
King didn't move for a long moment, then closed the distance between them with a calm but purposeful stride. Bishop barely had time to react before King's hand brushed against his cheek, the touch achingly familiar. His thumb swept over Bishop's skin, and his scent, warm, musky, with a hint of cedar, enveloped him. Bishop closed his eyes for a brief second, hating himself for leaning into the touch even as his body betrayed him.
"Have you been seeing her?" King asked softly, though his tone was laced with pain.
Bishop opened his eyes, guilt flashing across his face. "Yeah," he answered truthfully, his voice almost a whisper.
King nodded, his jaw tightening. "Why?"
Bishop hesitated, struggling to speak to the gnawing void he had tried to fill. "I told you. It's...easy."
King chuckled, a bitter sound that cut through the room. "Of course, it's easy," he said, his voice quieter now. "Because you don't love her."
Bishop flinched, his hands curling into fists. He wanted to argue, to push Omar away, but he couldn't. So, he looked away, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
"Why do you keep doing this to me?" Bishop whispered, every single word layered in pain.
King stepped closer, and before Bishop could react, he grabbed the hunk's hand and pressed it against his chest. The heat of King's skin was startling, his heartbeat wild and erratic beneath Bishop's palm.
"Feel that?" King whispered, his voice rough and urgent. "That's what you do to me, Bishop."
Bishop tried to pull his hand away, but Omar held it there, unrelenting. Bishop's resistance crumbled. Slowly, he lifted his other hand and guided King's hand to his chest. The blue-eyed raven's eyes twinkled slightly as he felt Bishop's soothing rhythm.
They stood there, connected by nothing but their heartbeats and the crushing weight of absence. King leaned in, his forehead brushing against Bishop's, their breaths mingling.
"Stop trying to run away from me," King murmured, his voice breaking.
The dam inside Bishop shattered. He grabbed King by the collar, pulling him down into a kiss so fierce and desperate it felt like it could consume them both. King responded instantly, his arms wrapping around Bishop's waist, pulling the hunk against him. The kiss deepened, their mouths moving with a frantic and familiar passion as their tongues swirled together in a tight dance, delighted to be reminded of each other's taste.
When they finally broke apart, their foreheads remained pressed together, their breaths ragged. Bishop opened his mouth to say something, but King silenced him.
"So," Omar whispered. "Are we getting a room, or what?"
Bishop nodded, his eyes shimmering. For the first time in a long time, he felt the weight of his love for King and the overwhelming relief of not having to suppress it anymore.
Hours later, King lay sprawled across the bed, naked, the sheets tangled around his legs. His chest rose and fell slowly, his cerulean eyes half-lidded but still watching Bishop, who sat nude on the floor, his back against the wall, cock still bloated and wet, resting between his legs. Smoke curled lazily from the joint between Bishop's fingers, drifting up to the ceiling in ghostly tendrils. Their bodies glistened with the aftermath of the most mindblowing sex, their breaths still catching in uneven intervals.
Bishop's gaze was fixed on King, his expression contemplative. "You look different," he said finally, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, but there was a weight behind it.
King smirked faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "What, you mean older?" he teased, his Southern drawl thicker now, a habit he fell back into when he was tired.
"No," Bishop said, taking a slow drag from the joint. "Not older. Just...different."
King sighed and propped himself up on an elbow. "Life has a way of doing that..." he ran a hand through his hair, his eyes distant. "Went back to New Orleans, you know. Mara's dad...well, let's just say he saw potential in me. Pulled a few strings, opened a few doors," he hesitated.
Bishop raised an eyebrow, his lips curving in a small, incredulous smile. "Politics? Never thought I'd see the day."
King let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, well, neither did I. Can you imagine...me, a Republican?" the last two words came out heavy, laden with shame. He glanced at Bishop, expecting a reaction.
Bishop tilted his head, exhaling smoke. "You loathe it," he said, not as a question but as a statement.
"I do," King admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked away, his fingers tracing the pattern of the sheets. "Somedays...I look in the mirror and don't even recognize myself," he admitted before pausing. "But the kid seems to enjoy having me around."
The mention of his son made Bishop lean forward, resting his forearm on his knee. "How is he?" he asked cautiously.
King's jaw tightened, and he didn't respond right away. When he did, his tone was clipped. "He's fine."
"King..." Bishop pressed gently.
"I said he's fine," King snapped, the sharpness in his voice a reflex. He immediately sighed, running his hand over his face. "I just... it's complicated."
Bishop nodded, letting the subject drop. Instead, he leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. "I do miss the old days," he murmured.
King's laugh was soft but bitter. "Yeah, well..."
Bishop flicked the ash from the joint into a nearby tray. "We still gather once a year," he pointed out, though his tone lacked conviction.
"It's not the same," King uttered, his voice cracking. He sat up, his broad shoulders slumping. "Lately, I've been feeling...like I'm losing myself."
Bishop stared at him, his chest tightening at King's vulnerability. For a long moment, he said nothing, his mind racing with emotions he didn't know how to name. Finally, he moved, crawling forward on his knees until he reached the bed. He sat at the edge, their knees brushing.
King looked up at him, eyes shimmering. Bishop reached out, placing his hand over King's chest. King mirrored the gesture, his palm resting over Bishop's heart. Their breaths slowed, their gazes locked as they attuned to each other, as they had done many times before.
Gradually, King's heartbeat steadied under Bishop's touch. The storm inside him seemed to calm, and his eyes softened. "I love you, Bishop," he whispered, his voice trembling with raw emotion. He waited for Bishop's voice to echo his own.
But this time, Bishop didn't respond.
His hand lingered over King's heart, but the words dwelled trapped in his throat.
(5 years later)
King stood at the edge of the dock, a cigarette between his fingers. He watched as a large fishing boat drew closer, its weathered hull battered by countless days at sea. The men aboard moved with practice, hoisting crates filled with shrimp and lobster onto the dock as the vessel stopped.
King exhaled a plume of smoke, his sharp gaze scanning the crew until it landed on the tallest aboard.
Rook.
Even from a distance, King could see the familiar swagger in his step, the easy way he carried himself despite the hard work. Rook was laughing with the other fishermen, his sunburnt face splitting into a grin that faltered slightly when his eyes landed on King.
There it was: the nostalgia, plain as day, in Rook's smile. The tall hunk excused himself from the others, wiping his hands on his jeans as he approached. Without hesitation, he pulled King into a bear hug, his smell of fish and saltwater clinging to the embrace. King stiffened slightly, unused to the unpolished warmth, but allowed it.
"Still wearing these fucking ugly suits, huh?" Rook teased as he pulled back, his smile broad.
King smirked, brushing off the lapel of his tailored jacket as though it could erase the smell. "And you've gone full pirate now, haven't you?"
Rook laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Not much else I'm good at. Bishop's the one with the brains," he quipped. "Me? I'm just a handsome mother fucker who's good with his hands," he teased, winking and rubbing his calloused hand discreetly over King's crotch before motioning to the crates on the dock with pride in his voice. "Pays the bills, though."
King tilted his head, studying his old friend. Rook looked weathered but happy in a way that King envied. "So, you're doing good?" he asked, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.
Tanner nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah, I am. But what about you? What brings you all the way out here? Don't tell me you're looking for premium seafood for one of those fundraisers you keep throwing."
King chuckled, shaking his head. "No, I came to see an old friend," he said, the words laced with implication.
Tanner raised an eyebrow. "An old friend, huh?" his tone was teasing, but his smile faded when he saw the look in King's eyes. "You're not talking about me, are you?"
King hesitated, then exhaled, the weight of his admission falling between them. "I'm looking for Bishop. He won't answer my calls."
Rook stiffened, his smile vanishing entirely. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah," he said, his voice low. "Yeah, about that..."
"He asked you not to tell me, didn't he?" King pressed, his voice sharpening.
Rook shrugged, but the guilt was plain on his face. "Something like that."
King took a step closer, his expression hardening. "I need to see him, Rook."
Rook held his ground, though he wouldn't meet King's gaze. "After the shit you pulled last time? Can you blame him for wanting space?" The words were harsh, but there was no malice in his tone, just a blunt honesty that stung all the same.
King's composure cracked, his eyes glistening as he stared at Rook. "I didn't...mean for it to go like that," he said, his voice trembling. "You know I didn't."
Rook sighed, his stance softening. He reached out, gripping King's shoulder. "I know, man. I do. But Bishop...he needs to feel like he's in control of his own life. And you..." he trailed off, shaking his head.
King stepped back, wiping his eyes quickly as though ashamed to show any vulnerability. "I just...need to talk to him, Rook. Just talk."
Rook studied him for a long moment, his brow furrowed in thought. "Fuck...all right. But please, please, don't pull one of your stunts."
King nodded, his resolve steady. "I won't."
Rook searched his face, then gave a slight nod of his own. "Got a pen?"
(Florida, 2 days later)
The cab rumbled away, its tires crunching the gravel road, leaving King alone before the gate. The property beyond it was pristine, almost too perfect, with manicured grass that rolled out like a carpet, palm trees swaying gently in the breeze, and a stately white house that exuded quiet luxury. Yet it seemed like a distant blur to King as he saw the scene unfolding beyond it.
Bishop knelt on the lawn, his hands spread wide as a giggling little girl, no more than three years old, toddled toward him. Her curly dark-brown hair caught the sunlight like a halo, and her laughter was pure, piercing King's chest like a knife. Bishop scooped her up, spinning her around as she shrieked with joy. He looked radiant, the hard edges of his face softened by a broad smile that seemed to reshape him entirely.
The man King had once known, who had been his anchor, solace, and undoing, now existed in a world King wasn't part of.
King stumbled forward, his hand gripping the gate for support. His breath hitched, and his fingers trembled against the iron bars. He felt his soul being sucked out of him, the sight before him both devastating and beautiful. His heart, so accustomed to its bruised and hardened state, ached with a rawness he hadn't felt in years.
This was what Bishop had become without him: a man who laughed freely, who spun his daughter in the air without a trace of the fear he had once described all those years ago. And what was King now? A shell. A man wrapped in suits and lies, clutching at a life he despised because it was the only thing that didn't slip through his fingers. He had been reckless and selfish. So consumed by a pain that had ultimately pushed Bishop away.
And now, the love that had once been their lifeline, their gravity, had withered into something unrecognizable.
King's vision blurred, and he blinked furiously to clear the tears threatening to spill. The child's laughter struck him like a cruel echo of the life they could have had. He imagined himself kneeling beside Bishop, their hands entwined as they watched their child play. But that was a dream, a fantasy erased by his mistakes. His fire, his fears, but ultimately, the darkness that had always festered inside him, costing them everything.
He was too late.
The thought whispered through him, haunting and unrelenting. Bishop had moved on, and what was left for King was the shadow of what could have been. And yet, despite the agony tearing at his chest, he couldn't bring himself to look away. He clung to the gate like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him.
Bishop turned as if sensing the weight of King's gaze and presence. His laughter quieted, his body stilling as his eyes locked onto the gate. Recognition flickered across his face, followed by something more complicated: surprise, apprehension, and a guarded tenderness that cut King deeper than any outright rejection could have. Bishop's smile faded, and he spoke softly to the woman nearby, his wife. She looked up, curious, before Bishop gestured toward the house.
The woman nodded, her features unreadable as she gently took the little girl from Bishop's arms. The child protested, reaching for her father, but he kissed her forehead and murmured something that made her giggle again. She tucked her head against her mother's shoulder as they disappeared inside the house, leaving Bishop alone on the lawn.
King's breath quickened as Bishop began to walk toward him. Each step was measured and deliberate, and the way Bishop permanently moved was when he was unsure of his footing. The distance between them felt like an eternity, and King wanted to speak, to say something, anything, to bridge the chasm between them. But his voice was trapped, tangled in regret and longing that choked him.
Bishop stopped on the other side of the gate, his hands resting lightly on the bars. For a moment, neither spoke. King opened his mouth, but the words refused to come. Instead, he stared into Bishop's chestnut eyes, eyes he had once known better than his own, and saw the man he had loved, the man he still loved, standing just out of reach.
A soft, almost ethereal fog began to roll in, curling around them like a shroud. The world seemed to shrink, leaving only them suspended in this bittersweet limbo.
"Bishop...Bishop," a voice called in the distance.
(Present time)
Bishop groaned, his head pounding like the steady thrum of hooves on packed dirt. The empty whiskey bottle at his side glinted accusingly in the light, and the air reeked of stale alcohol. His dreams, fragmented and cruel, dissolved as the voice shouting his name grew louder and more persistent.
"Bishop! Get up!" Rook's voice boomed, accompanied by the heavy pacing of boots against the creaking wooden floor.
Bishop muttered something unintelligible and shifted, burying his face deeper into the pillow, but the sharp slap against his feet startled him upright.
"Goddamn it, Rook, what the fuck..." Bishop began, his voice raspy, but Rook cut him off, his usually calm demeanor replaced with barely concealed panic.
"Pawn is missing," Rook snapped, his brow furrowed as he ran a hand through his unkempt hair.
Bishop blinked slowly, his mind struggling to catch up. "He's probably asleep in the barn."
"No, he's not," Rook growled, his frustration bubbling over. "He's been gone since last night, and Knight's been out searching for hours. Do you even care, man?"
The accusation landed heavily, finally jolting Bishop to some semblance of alertness. He stumbled to the bathroom, gripping the edges of the sink as he splashed cold water onto his face. The chill did little to temper the haze but sharpened his senses enough to meet Rook's glare in the mirror.
"You'll need more than that," Rook barked from the doorway, arms crossed. "Take a shower. I'll make coffee. And when you're done waking up, you're going to fix this."
Bishop sighed, Rook's words pressing into him like a stone. The boy's wide-eyed face flashed briefly in his mind, along with the guilt that came with it.
By the time he descended the stairs, showered, and marginally more awake, the tension in the kitchen was palpable. Knight sat at the table, a book in his hands, but his golden eyes flicked up sharply as Bishop entered. The judgment was there.
"Don't even..." Bishop started, grabbing the coffee pot and pouring himself a mug.
Knight didn't respond, raising his book to cover his face, though his eyes continued to watch from the edge of the page. The sound of the screen door slamming announced Rook's return.
"You're the one who wanted to bring the kid along, Bishop," Rook said, his voice hard and unyielding. "This is on you."
"Jesus Christ, fine," Bishop muttered, sipping his coffee as though it might fortify him for what was to come. "Knight, saddle my horse."
Knight sighed dramatically, snapping his book shut and tossing it onto the table before screeching and pushing his chair back. He didn't say a word, but his eyes rolled as he left the kitchen.
Rook lingered, his jaw tight, the frustration in his stance barely contained. Finally, he exploded, his voice rising. "What the hell did you expect? The kid clearly idolizes you, and you treated him like a piece of shit!"
The words hit their mark, and for a moment, Bishop stood frozen, his mug halfway to his lips. He set it down carefully, his face unreadable. "I said... I'll take care of it," he said quietly.
"You better," Rook shot back, his voice thick with anger and disappointment, before storming out, the screen door slamming behind him.
Bishop remained in the kitchen, staring at his coffee. The silence that followed felt suffocating, broken only by the distant sound of Knight's horse saddling in the yard. Bishop ran a hand through his damp hair, inhaled deeply, and squared his shoulders.
He had to sort out the mess he had made.
The dusk sky landed over the property in strokes of orange and violet as Bishop rode his horse along the outer rim of the dense forest east of the ranch. The hooves crunched against brittle leaves and broken branches, but his mind was elsewhere, drifting through a gale of memories. The images felt like shards of glass slicing through Bishop's chest.
And as night fell, the memories darkened. Bishop wandered deeper into the trees, the chill of evening creeping in. The forest loomed, its shadows twisting into cruel shapes. His thoughts turned to Pawn. Where the fuck was the kid, Bishop thought. He had told himself the boy would turn up, but as the hours stretched on, doubt began to creep in. What if something happened?
With a reluctant sigh, Bishop turned back toward the ranch. His horse's heavy breaths matched his own growing anxiety. By the time he reached the house, the world was cloaked in darkness, the only light coming from the glow of the windows. He dismounted, his boots thudding against the ground, and pushed open the door.
Inside, Rook and Knight were waiting, their expressions accusing. Knight leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his golden eyes sharp with disappointment. Rook stood by the fireplace, his shoulders tense, fists clenched.
"Well?" Rook demanded, his voice taut.
"Nothing," Bishop said, his tone clipped. "I'll look again in the morning."
"That's it?" Rook's voice rose. "The kid's been missing all day, and you're ready to call it quits for the night?"
Bishop's jaw tightened. "I'm doing what I can."
"Are you?" Knight interjected, his words slicing through the room. "Because it doesn't seem like it. You've been a fucking asshole to that boy from the start. He didn't ask to be here, Bishop."
"That's enough," Bishop snapped, his eyes narrowing.
"The fuck it is," Rook countered, stepping closer. "You brought him here, Bishop. You promised to take care of him. Instead, you treated him like a burden. Just like you did with King."
The name struck Bishop like a blow. His fists clenched, his breath hitching. "Don't," he warned, his voice low and dangerous.
Rook's face twisted with anger and grief. "You pushed the boy away, Bishop. Just like you did with King..." the tall hunk uttered, his voice dropping slightly.
"Watch it, Rook..." Bishop warned.
"You broke him..." Rook uttered, a crack in his usually strong tone. "He put that gun in his mouth...but you're the one who pulled the fucking trigger."
For a moment, Bishop stood frozen, his face pale and his body trembling. Then, with a roar, he lunged at Rook, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him back against the wall.
Rook didn't fight back, not at first. He held his ground as Bishop's fists curled into the fabric of his shirt, his eyes brimming with guilt and fury. "You don't get to say that!" Bishop yelled, his voice cracking.
Rook finally pushed back, wrestling Bishop's arms away. They grappled with sheer force, not with fists but in a desperate, clumsy battle of grief and rage. The table was overturned, chairs scraping against the floor as they collided with furniture. Knight leaped in, trying to pull them apart.
"Enough!" Knight shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos as he shoved himself between them. "Both of you, stop!"
They broke apart, breathing heavily, each retreating to opposite corners of the room. Bishop leaned against the wall, his shoulders heaving, his head bowed. Rook stood near the fireplace, face flushed with anger and regret.
"What you said," Bishop began, his voice a broken whisper, "was fucking cruel," his knees buckled, and he slid to the floor, his hands covering his face as he began to sob.
Rook's hardened expression melted, the sight of his friend's pain cutting through his anger. He stepped forward, reaching out, but Knight stopped him, touching his shoulder. "Let him be," Knight said softly.
Bishop couldn't stay in the room. He stumbled to his feet and pushed through the door, the cold night air hitting him like a wave. He staggered toward the fire pit, vision blurred by tears. His chest tightened, each breath coming faster and shallower. The panic clawed at him, the weight of everything, King, Pawn, his failures.
He collapsed near the unlit fire, clutching the ground as though it might steady him. The world spun, his heart pounding erratically. Bishop gasped for air, his mind a whirlwind of anguish and regret. The stars above blurred into streaks of light, and for a moment, he thought he might be swallowed by the darkness.
But then, somewhere deep inside, a gentle and familiar fragment of King's voice echoed in his mind. It steadied him just enough to take one trembling breath, then another. Still, as he lay under the vast, uncaring sky, his guilt weighed heavier than ever.
For what felt like an agonizing eternity, Bishop lay sprawled in the dirt, his chest heaving. The crackling remnants of the fire's embers faintly glowed nearby, but they offered no warmth, only a reminder of how small the world felt without King. He turned over, his back pressing against the uneven ground as his eyes found the stars. They were countless, eternal, indifferent to the storms raging in his chest.
His trembling hand slid into his pocket, pulling out his phone. The screen lit up, harsh against the surrounding darkness, and he thumbed through the familiar King folder. Each recording was a relic, a piece of a love now fractured and haunted. His finger paused over one file, shaking slightly as his chestnut eyes stared at it. Then, with a sharp inhale, Bishop tapped play.
"Hey, it's me," King began, his tone laced with an almost childlike vulnerability. "I don't even know why I'm recording this, but...I just...I need to tell you something."
Bishop's breath caught in his throat. He could hear the weariness in King's voice, the heaviness that had shadowed him for years.
"I've been trying with Patrick," King continued, his voice breaking slightly on the name. "Caught him climbing the roof again. He always thinks I won't catch him, but I do. Every time. He's got this...this look in his eyes, Bishop. Like he's daring me to stop him but hoping I won't," a faint chuckle rippled through the recording, bitter and tinged with pain. "He reminds me of me. Hell, he reminds me of us. That reckless, stupid kind of hope we used to have. Do you remember that?"
Bishop's chest tightened. The stars above blurred as fresh tears welled in his eyes. He could hear the ache in King's words, the love buried beneath layers of longing and unspoken apologies.
There was a pause, and the recording fell silent except for the faint sound of King's breathing. Bishop recognized the rhythm and cadence immediately. It was the same breath he used to fall asleep to, the same breath that whispered promises of forever.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," King said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "You have to believe that, Bishop. Nothing, nothing, has ever hurt me more than knowing I hurt you. That you suffered because of me," he added, pausing. "I'd choose death...a hundred times...if that meant your happiness."
There was another pause, longer this time. Bishop could almost see King sitting in a dark room, his hands restless, his heart heavy.
"I..." King began again, but a door creaking open interrupted him.
"Dad?" a young voice called, tentative and soft.
The recording ended abruptly, leaving Bishop in a suffocating silence. He stared at the phone in his hands, the screen now black, as if the words had never been there. Slowly, he let the device fall onto his chest, his body trembling with the monumental weight of everything he'd lost.
The sobs came then, unbidden and uncontrollable. They ripped through him, raw and primal, echoing into the vast, uncaring night.
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." Bishop wailed, his arms cradling his own body.
And there, alone, he cried. Not just for King. Not just for Pawn.
But for himself, too. For the man he once was and that he had renounced.
The tears eventually ebbed, leaving him hollow and exhausted. He lay there, the cold seeping into his bones, until the weight of his grief pulled him under. As sleep claimed him, King's voice lingered in his mind, weaving through his dreams like a ghost.
"I'd choose death...a hundred times...if that meant your happiness."
(Hours later)
The world around Bishop stirred, trembling on the cusp of what felt like a waking dream. A distant horse's high and familiar neigh echoed through the twilight, pulling him from his slumber. His eyelids fluttered open, the dirt cold beneath him. The stars were fading now, smudged by the edges of dawn's light. Above him, the sky seemed otherworldly, deep purples blending into soft blues.
His body ached as he pushed himself upright, but the sound called to him again. It was impossible to ignore. He stumbled to his feet, his mind sluggish with confusion, breath misting in the cold air. The horse's cry rang out again, this time closer, carrying the resonance of something long lost. He turned toward the forest's edge, and there, amidst the shifting fog, he saw it.
At first, it was only a shadow, moving slowly through the mist. But as the shape drew nearer, it became clear. A tall, ebony-skinned horse, its coat so sleek it seemed to absorb the light around it. It trotted forward with a measured grace, its hooves silent on the frost-kissed ground.
Bishop squinted, his breath catching, for the horse was not alone.
A figure sat astride it, pale as snow and stark against the creature's dark frame. The rider's presence was almost too much to comprehend, an ethereal vision so luminous it felt untouchable. Bishop rubbed his eyes, trying to banish the dreamlike haze clouding his senses. But the vision remained resolute and drawing nearer.
As the figure broke through the fog, the details crystallized. It was Pawn. Bare naked and impossibly serene, the boy's snow-white skin seemed to glow faintly in the soft light of pre-dawn. He rode the horse without saddle or reins, his hands resting lightly on its mane as though the two were one, bound by some unseen thread.
"It can't be," Bishop muttered, his voice cracking in disbelief, a wild and frantic beat inside his chest as he staggered a step forward.
The creak of the porch door behind him startled him. He turned slightly, just enough to see Rook and Knight emerge, their expressions as stunned as his own. Knight's golden eyes widened, his voice a breathless whisper. "King?"
"No," Bishop said. He turned back to the scene before him, tears blurring his vision. "That's not King."
The horse slowed, its movements regal and deliberate, its proud head dipping low as Pawn slid from its back. The boy's bare feet touched the ground soundlessly, his every movement suffused with a grace that felt ancient and otherworldly. He leaned against the horse, pressing a tender kiss to its neck, and the animal responded with a soft whinny, bowing as though it recognized him as its master.
Bishop remained rooted in place, his towering form somehow diminished by the boy's luminous presence. Pawn turned to him, and as their eyes met, Bishop felt the weight of all his years, his regrets, guilt, and sorrow, being laid bare. Pawn's gaze was steady, unyielding, filled with something Bishop couldn't name.
"I brought him back," Pawn said simply, his voice floating across the air as though it belonged to the dawn itself.
Bishop's lips parted, his breath hitching as tears spilled freely down his cheeks. "Yes," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Yes, you did."
(To be continued...)