Page 95 of The Square

But fokken taking control back when control needs to be taken is.

I work to extract myself quietly from their shared touch without waking them. My ribs, they argue with me, owing to the workout they got last night. But I ask them, politely, to kindly fokof as I slide free and stand at the edge of the bed.

I look at them. I look at us.

Alec, Christine, and Danny.

This is how you say our names.

It has been ever thus, and if I have anything to say about it, it is how it ever shall be.

This will not be the last time the three of us hold each other throughout the night. And the next time, the dreams I have will not be violated by uninvited guests.

I need answers. I need to know how Lars and I survived. I need to know why he brought me to that place and why he kept me in the dark. I am supposing it was to draw Christine and Danny out. To me. Or perhaps it was to draw Eliza and her brothers out and to me. But that presumes that he somehow knew Christine and Danny would seek them. And, to be quite honest, I don’t even know if Lars ever knew about the Watsons. He wasn’t around during that time. I don’t know if we ever talked about them in front of him. I…

Ach. Again… deductive logic is not where I excel.

All I do know is that he is alive and if he tried to kill me once, he will try again. That requires no deduction on my part. I know it’s what he’ll do, because it is what I would do. I don’t know my baby bru well, but I do know his heart. If there’s any part of it left that isn’t blackened beyond repair, maybe there’s a chance we can work through whatever it is between us that maddens him so and avoid more bloodshed.

And maybe Eliza and Christine will become best friends and we’ll all go on trips to fokken Disneyland together, and perhaps someone will anoint me father of the year.

Onosel fokken etter you are, van den Berg. Face reality.

I make my way quietly to the valet closet and open it. In the night, little elves have procured some new finery for me. The garment bag with my new suit hangs next to a clear plastic drapery, underneath which is a pair of brand-new sweatpants. I cannot help but smile. I take the garment bag out, unzip it, and feel the fabric. While not made explicitly for me, it has come from Savile Row, and there is still magic woven into its form. If one has never had the good fortune to adorn oneself in a handmade, fully canvassed suit jacket, one cannot understand why it matters. But once one has worn such a piece, one will never be content to wear anything less than.

Unless one’s name is Danny Fortnight. In which case one could give a flying fok.

And, as if summoned by the thought… “What’re you doing?” comes from behind.

I turn to find Danny standing there in the semi-illuminated entryway to the suite. Still naked. I’m also still naked, of course, so I don’t feel in any way self-conscious about staring at his cock. Because he’s doing the same thing to me. It’s a lovely way to wake up, frankly.

“Go back to sleep, bru.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m just—”

“Or, actually, where do you think you’re going?”

“Daniel Fortnight, are you getting all alpha on me, man?”

“Dude,” he says, with a hushed intensity, taking a step in, “things are super fucking chill right now. We’re all good. Everybody’s good. So maybe it would be best if you don’t tip the fucking apple cart right the fuck now by doing whatever you think you’re about to do.”

“The apples have already tipped, man. I’m just—”

“I don’t care. It’s fucking selfish. Read me? You’re here. You’re with us. It’s us now. So it’s not just about you anymore. You feel me? This shit is not negotiable.”

He’s so close to me now, our cocks are almost touching. I have to be honest, I find it terribly distracting.

“Listen, man,” I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. He looks at it. “There’s an incredibly good chance that he’s gone. I certainly would be. But Lars is still alive, Lars brought me here for a reason, and only Lars can answer what that reason is. I have to go talk with him.”

“No fucking way.”

“It’s not a request, Danny.”

“Good, Alec,” he says my name with a sneer, “because if it was, you still wouldn’t have permission.”

My mind rifles through the various responses I can give. Some of them involve words, some involve striking, and a couple involve me wrestling him to the floor and having someone’s dick wind up in someone’s mouth. But before I can implement any of these responses, a whirring sound and a sudden explosion of light into the room—an all-encompassing light that seems to swallow us whole—breaks my concentration.