Page 63 of The Wicker King

Jack’s laughter was hollow. He ran a skeletal hand through his hair and looked upset. August had never seen Jack’s hair before. It had always been shorn so short that you couldn’t quite tell what color it was. It was blond and brittle, like he hadn’t had water in years.

“I don’t know what to say now,” August admitted. Every molecule in August’s body was hungry and demanding. But he couldn’t just take what he wanted. That wasn’t how this worked. He needed permission.

“Wow. You’re, like, shaking. And I can still see you as you! I didn’t expect that. Everything else is just—” Jack waved his hand around to describe the crazy, and August tracked the movement with his eyes.

It got quiet again. August gathered his courage and reached out. Then he paused.

Jack smiled and it cut him to the core.

PULP

August gasped as Jack pulled his hair fiercely. “We don’t have much time. They’ll find you soon,” he said.

August was barely listening. He scrambled to get closer, pulling up the back of Jack’s shirt so he could brush his thumb against the crosshatch on Jack’s ribs. The wicker that he’d unwittingly etched into Jack’s skin.

“I miss the way you fucking smell,” Jack admitted, his voice thick. August hummed his agreement into Jack’s chest as he curled close to him.

“Christ, you’re completely mad.”

“I don’t care. You’re the most precious thing in the world to me. They’re trying to make you forget that. Don’t let them make you forget it.” August sighed.

It hurt to say. Like someone had reached down his throat, pulled his organs out through his mouth, and deposited them in Jack’s lap.

“August.” With a single word, the Wicker King accepted his sentiment and wore it proudly.

“I can hear them looking for me,” August whispered.

“We didn’t have enough time. This isn’t enough.”

“Will it ever be?”

“They’re coming down the hall. They’ll be here soon.” Jack pulled him so hard, so close, that his bones protested, but his heart? It sang, keening at the feeling.

Then they drew back, stepping out from under the ropes of obligation and sentiment. The Wicker King and his Champion sat next to each other on Jack’s bed. Close, but not touching. And waited for the guards to open the door.

FRACTAL

August was confined to his room for three weeks. The first day he got out of solitary, he had an appointment with his psychologist.

“Why were you in Jack’s room?” she asked.

“Because he invited me. He literally opened the door and asked me to come in.” August’s voice cracked from disuse.

“You know as well as I do that that doesn’t matter. You should be more responsib—”

“WHY?” August shouted, pushing away from the table and standing up. “Why do I have to always be the responsible one?”

The psychologist raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, mostly because you’re not actually dealing with a serious mental illness. You’re a bit obsessive, codependent, and clearly possess a terrible sense of judgment. But regardless of what happened at court, you’re not criminally insane. Jack? Jack is actually ill. Instead of letting him lead you, why don’t you step up and lead him?”

August sat back down. He put his head in his hands. “I don’t want to,” he said quietly.

“Excuse me? I didn’t hear you.”

“I don’t want to,” August said a little louder. “I like following him. Following orders. Doing whatever he wants. It feels good. It feels so fucking good.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I just … I know what to do with myself when he tells me what to do. He’s my king. When you lock him away from me, lock me away from him—it hurts us. It hurts me.” August was crying now. He couldn’t stop.