A Most Personal Property (Ganymede Quartet Book 1) (34 page)

Henry wasn’t sure if he minded or not. Clearly, Timothy assumed that he’d shared a bed with Martin before, and he wasn’t eager to disabuse him of the notion. By now, they should have, and he knew it would seem odd that they hadn’t. He drank his broth and darted a sideways glance at his bedmate.

Martin slept heavily, curled on his side, with his hands in loose fists before him like the paws of a squirrel. He huffed raspy breaths through parted lips and gave off heat like a boiling kettle. His hair stuck to his skin in lank, darkened strands. When Timothy put a hand on his shoulder, he woke with a start and a grunt of surprise.

“It’s time to eat something,” Timothy said gently. Martin pushed himself to sit up, grumbling all the while. He took the mug from Timothy’s hand and drank eagerly. “You’re hungry,” Timothy noted. “That’s good.” To Henry he said, “Drink, Sir, before it gets cold.” Once he seemed satisfied that Henry would drink, he crossed into the bathroom and could be heard working the taps.

Leaning close, in a low voice Martin said, “I hope you don’t mind, Sir. That I’m in your bed, I mean.”

Henry shrugged and blushed and drank his broth. “It’s okay, I guess.”

Martin put his mug on the nightstand and flopped down against his pillow. “Ugh. I’m all sweaty.” He plucked at the front of his shirt, then remembered himself and added, “Sir.”

Timothy came back with a basin of water and a sponge. The experience of being bathed by Timothy was not even remotely sensual, which was a relief. Martin fell back to sleep while Henry was being bathed and had to be reawakened for his turn, after which Timothy dressed both of them in clean pajamas and bade them get some rest.

Later in the afternoon, Henry started awake, surprised to feel the weight of Martin’s arm across his torso, the warmth of Martin’s body close beside his own. He tensed up, unsure of how he ought to react. Should he push Martin away? Should he wake him? It felt good to have him close, the weight of him and the heat, and Henry wasn’t in a hurry to scare him away. Henry inclined his head to smell Martin’s hair and the salty warmth of his skin and gave a little involuntary shudder as his cock stirred weakly. Oblivious, Martin slept on soundly, occasionally sighing or muttering, and gradually Henry relaxed. It was Martin’s doing, after all. Eventually, Henry fell back to sleep. He was too tired and woozy to keep vigilant any longer.

He woke again as Martin twitched and murmured, “Charlie?” His fingers clutched at Henry’s pajama shirt and he called out again. “Charlie?”

“Who?” Henry asked, but Martin didn’t answer. Instead, he sniffed, smacked his lips, and fell back to deeper sleep, snuggling close to Henry’s side.

At dinnertime, Timothy woke them and again brought them broth to drink. It seemed that sometime while Henry was asleep Martin had retreated to his own side of the bed.

“Who’s Charlie?” Henry asked.

“Charlie, Sir?” Martin lowered his mug, looking puzzled.

“You asked after him while you were asleep.”

“Oh!” Martin shook his head and smiled. “No one, Sir.”

“He must be
someone
.”

“Just someone I knew before, Sir.”

“At Ganymede?”

“Yes, Sir.” Martin held his mug with both hands and lifted it to his lips.

“Was he your friend?”

Martin considered this a moment. “Yes, Sir.” Then, after another pause, added, “You met him.”

“I did?” Henry scoffed and frowned. “Not likely.”

“No, Sir, you did,” Martin insisted. “When you were at Ganymede, looking. He was the dark-haired boy, Sir. The one your father asked you to see.”

Henry remembered the boy only dimly, having been so taken with Martin at the time. “Oh,” he said. “That one.”

“He went to some people called Atherton,” Martin said. “Or so I understand, Sir.”

Henry thought about this a minute. “Do you miss him?” he asked. “Do you want to see him again?”

Martin looked slightly shocked. “Oh, no, Sir. Certainly not!”

Henry slept again, and when he woke, it was morning and Martin was already awake and smiling at him. “Mr. Tim is bringing us broth, Sir,” Martin informed him. “He was just here to check on us.”

“What day is it?” Henry asked, rubbing his eyes.

“I think it’s Wednesday, Sir, but I’m not positive. I’m a bit disoriented myself.” Martin shifted, making the mattress move beneath Henry’s back. “By the way, Sir…I apologize—I think I’ve been touching you in my sleep.”

“No, it’s fine,” Henry said, blushing.

“Have you ever shared a bed before, Sir?” Martin asked. He lay on his side, hands drawn up and tucked beneath his pillow.

“No,” Henry admitted. “I haven’t.” He had been lying on his back but turned to face Martin. “You?”

“I shared a bed all my life until I came to you, Sir.” He bit his lip, as if considering what he might say next, then added, “It’s nice, sharing with you. I’m sorry that it’s not to your liking.”

“I never said that,” Henry pointed out. “I’m just not used to it, is all.”

“Lots of people sleep with their slaves, Sir,” Martin remarked. “Most everyone at school, I should think.”

“How would you know that?” Henry asked, pulling the blankets up close to his chin.

“There’s talk, Sir.”

“Amongst the slaves?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do you talk about me?”

“Of course not, Sir. I know better than to talk about my master’s business. I do respect your privacy.” Then, in a faintly aggrieved tone, Martin added, “Besides, there’s nothing to talk about.”

Henry did not really like the way that sounded but let it go, unable to articulate exactly why it bothered him.

On Thursday, Henry’s fever broke. Martin was relieved by this news of Henry’s improvement, but he was still feverish, so Timothy moved him to his own bed. Although it had seemed so awkward to have Martin beside him, now Henry found that he missed the company. He sat up in the bed and swung his legs over the side, fumbling for his slippers with his toes. Although he shivered, he did not bother with his dressing gown, but went straight to Martin’s room, wanting to see that he was all right, wanting to see his face.

Martin lay on his back, one arm thrown up above his head, his pajama top open, exposing his smooth white chest. His face looked drawn and wan, but his bones were still lovely. Finally, after a prolonged hesitation, and cursing himself for a coward, Henry pushed a strand of sweat-darkened hair back from Martin’s forehead. He was hot to the touch and stirred at the contact. At first, Henry thought he would not wake but merely toss in his sleep as he had done while they’d shared a bed, but he opened his eyes and smiled weakly.

“Henry, Sir.”

“You’re awake.” Henry hastily withdrew his hand. Martin had called him by name, he noted. Had he done that since the day they’d met at Ganymede? Henry didn’t think he had.

Martin stifled a yawn and stretched. “Thank you for looking after me, Sir.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Henry protested. “It’s all been Timothy.”

“Well, you’re here now, Sir.” Martin’s smile broadened and he reached for Henry’s hand. Surprised, Henry let him take it, then stared stupidly at their clasped hands. “I’m sorry to have taken ill.”

“You’re getting better.” Henry gave Martin’s fingers a tentative squeeze, hoping it would seem encouraging.

Martin looked up at him and squeezed back. Earnestly, he said, “I want to be well so that I might serve you, Sir. I’m no good to you sick.”

Flustered by this bold statement, Henry pulled his hand back and Martin let him go, though with seeming reluctance.

“I know it doesn’t matter what I want, Sir, but…I want to be of
use
.” In a voice full of yearning, he made himself clear. “Any way you might want to use me, Sir,
please
.”

Henry was rendered speechless for a long moment, floundering. “Just—just get better,” he muttered, whirling and leaving the room at speed.

Henry stayed in bed for the rest of the day, keeping his distance from Martin and his startling pronouncements. He didn’t know how to interpret Martin’s words. The more he thought about it, the less certain he became. It sounded like Martin was asking for something
physical.
It sounded like he
wanted
it. Since coming to understand that all the companion slaves in all the Houses were given actual, formal, physical training in sex, Henry had often wondered if any of them enjoyed it or if they merely put up with it. Well, here was Martin at least implying that he liked it. Did that mean that Martin was a fairy, though, or was he some other category of creature that took into account a slave’s circumstances, something Henry didn’t have the vocabulary for? He couldn’t assume anything.

And Martin had used his name. Was that meaningful, or was it merely a slip of the tongue, fevered words? He’d liked hearing Martin say it, his dreamy voice sounding so fond. He’d seemed like he was genuinely glad to see Henry. And then he’d held Henry’s hand!

Henry cautioned himself about reading too much into anything Martin had said or done. He was sick, feverish. And Henry might be misunderstanding him entirely besides.

Henry felt much better on Friday morning. Timothy brought him oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar instead of chicken broth, along with a cup of coffee that was mostly cream.

“How’s Martin?” He kept his voice low, not wanting Martin to know he asked, though he had no idea why he felt the need to be discreet about his interest.

“He’s doing better, Sir,” Timothy assured him. “You’re both strong, healthy boys. You’ll be fine.”

“I’m glad.” Henry was relieved to hear it. Every year or two, some boy at school—usually one of the little ones—would die of a fever, so it seemed it really could happen to anyone. The prospect of losing Martin to this illness hadn’t even occurred to him in the grip of his own fever, but it was of great comfort to have Timothy say now that they were both in the clear.

Timothy stood watching him eat, wearing a fond smile.

“What is it?” Henry asked, spooning oatmeal into his mouth.

“You’ve grown up so much, Sir. You’re nearly a man now.” He took a step forward and brushed Henry’s hair back off his forehead. “You’ll always be my little boy, though, no matter how tall you get.” He then ruffled the hair he’d just smoothed as Henry blushed, pleased. “Please eat everything, Sir. Billy will be up for the tray in a bit.”

Henry slept again, and when he woke, he wanted to go in to look at Martin, but he was afraid that Martin would be awake, and that he’d say something else arousing and confusing, something too ambiguous for Henry, who desperately needed everything to be spelled out very clearly.

He read his book for awhile, adventurers searching for a cave of jewels in Africa, then dozed, and then woke again when he heard the toilet flush. He sat in bed, waiting, hopeful, holding his breath.

Martin shuffled out of the little hallway connecting their rooms. “Sir?” He was in rumpled pajamas, without his glasses. He blinked at Henry and rubbed his eyes. His hair was a wild tangle.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, Sir, thank you.” He smiled, and Henry had missed that smile, and he blushed for the first time in days. “And you, Sir? Are you better?”

“Much better. Timothy says we’ll be fine.”

“I’m tired of sleeping, Sir,” Martin told him. “And I don’t feel up to playing my violin. Do you want to play cards?”

Henry was pleasantly surprised. “Are you sure you feel well enough?”

“Yes, Sir,” Martin said firmly. “I’ll just get the cards.” They were on the mantelpiece along with the cigar boxes that held their respective stores of pennies. Henry was down to twenty-six cents. Standing with a box in each hand, Martin looked at Henry, head cocked, and asked, “Should I get on the bed with you, or shall we sit on the floor?”

“You can sit up here.” Henry sat up straighter, crossing his legs beneath the blankets.

Martin climbed up on the bed and sat near the foot, facing Henry. “Here are your pennies, Sir.” He pushed the box across the coverlet.

They played a few hands, Henry not really paying attention to his cards. He badly wanted to ask Martin to clarify what he’d meant, exactly what it was
he
was after. If he wanted the sorts of things that Henry wanted… But how could he ask Martin without revealing too much of himself? What if he confessed his desires to Martin only to find out Martin meant nothing of the kind with his offer to be of use? He didn’t want to risk it.

Sick, Martin looked disheveled and somehow blurry, but he was still so pretty, pink and white and tawny in blue-striped pajamas. He had a faint growth of beard, and looking at it made Henry reflexively touch his own prickly face. He wanted to rub his cheek against Martin’s, an embarrassing, puppyish desire. Martin sat cross-legged and his bare feet looked to Henry like the very ideal of feet, toes graduated in size with perfect nails, a dusting of light brown hair on his bony ankles. Even with his hair a bird’s nest and his nose red from blowing, he was like a faun, or Ganymede himself. Everything about him seemed perfect, so utterly suited to Henry’s desires. Henry guessed that Martin couldn’t be attracted to him, not the way he was to Martin, or surely something would happen between them, spontaneous and necessary. He felt a little sick, not leftover flu but a sour combination of longing and self-loathing.

He came to himself with a jerk. Martin was saying, “I have a straight, Sir,” and laying his cards on the bed. Henry had a handful of garbage, five unrelated cards.

Henry did win a couple of hands more or less by accident, but he was down to twelve cents when Paul and Billy came up with trays for both of them. Martin moved to sit with his back against the headboard at Henry’s side and Billy placed the tray on his lap.

After the twins had left, Martin turned to him and, smiling, said, “I’m sorry, Sir. It seems I won’t leave your bed.”

Henry felt his face grow hot. “It’s fine,” he muttered gruffly, keeping his eyes fixed on his bowl of soup. Was Martin teasing him? And if he was, what of it? What did it mean, and what on earth could Henry do about it? He was growing more and more disgusted with himself.
Coward
, he thought.