“I can doze upright,” came Arthur’s voice from the desk. “You’re injured, you need the bed.”
“But I thought we were gonna share.”
“No, I apologize, that was thoughtless of me.”
Rory frowned. “Why would I make you sleep in a chair?”
“You’re Catholic.”
Rory scrunched his nose.
“You’re not not Catholic,” Arthur corrected, which was fair. “And I’m your first—well.” There was a soft exhale. “I’ve had years to come to terms with liking men, despite what religion says it means for my soul. But this is all new to you, and I shouldn’t have made assumptions about your religion or your feelings. I certainly shouldn’t have thought we’d share a bed in a monastery, even just to sleep.”
Oh.
Rory looked up at the ceiling. The monastery was still, nothing to hear but the soft howl of the wind outside the window. His emotions were a stormy mess, but one phrase kept coming up from his memories, stronger than everything else. “Tu non sei il frutto del peccato, ma il mio tesoro.”
Arthur seemed to still. He stayed quiet, probably waiting for Rory to translate.
Rory bit his lip and tried to explain. “We went to church when I was little, my mom and I,” he started awkwardly, keeping his voice low. “Mostly with Irish folks and some French Canadians, ’cause there weren’t enough Italians in town for our own. The priest was one of those real people of faith, like Mrs. B., nothing but love in his heart for everyone. Then he died, and our church got a new priest.”
Rory licked his lips nervously. “It was pretty obvious that my dad wasn’t Italian and hadn’t married my mom. And the first day we met the new priest, he quoted the Book of Wisdom at me and said a bastard had no hope on Judgment Day.”
Arthur drew a breath but didn’t interrupt.
Rory swallowed. Being unwanted still hurt, fifteen years later. “I cried,” he admitted quietly, “and asked my mom if I was going to hell. And she hugged me and said, ‘Tu non sei il frutto del peccato, ma il mio tesoro.’” He blew out a shaky breath. “‘You’re not the fruit of sin, you’re my treasure.’”
“Oh,” Arthur said, voice thick.
Tesoro. Luce dei miei occhi. Cucchiolo. Angelo. Her Italian had been so full of love. “I must’ve made her life so hard. She shouldn’t’ve had to raise me by herself. But she said I was as innocent as any other kid and God knew that.” Rory’s eyes stung hot in the cold room, and he wiped at them with the back of his hand. “So yeah, Ace, I’ve thought about my soul plenty.”
“Teddy—”
“And maybe I hadn’t ever slept with a man, but I knew what I liked before I met you. If my birth didn’t make me a sin, I think my heart shouldn’t either, and you, Ace, someone good like you could never be any kind of sin. Now shut up and get in the bed.”
Arthur made a half laugh, a bit choked up. And then he was sliding under the blanket behind Rory, who had to bite back a groan at the soft warmth against his skin. “What the heck were you wearing under your clothes?” he whispered.
“Silk. It’s the most appropriate for the weather.” Arthur’s matching whisper sounded like it came through clenched teeth as one of his legs brushed Rory’s. “But I should have left my suit on. This bed means no chance of space.”
“You can put your—”
“Hush. Don’t you dare. You’re going to lie there and not make any offers so I don’t do anything untoward in your precious House of the Lord.”
The corner of Rory’s lips curled up. “I was gonna say that you can put your arm around me if you keep it innocent.”
Arthur snorted. “You have a high opinion of my self-control.” But his arms were already moving, one threading under Rory’s pillow, the other draping over Rory’s waist, welcomingly heavy. “Three days I’ve had to keep my hands to myself and when I finally get you in my arms, we’re cloistered with monks.”
Arthur’s closeness was seeping through him like a warm drink, melting the tense exhaustion and leaving him pleasantly sleepy in its wake. Rory’s eyes were closing on their own. “I’ll take it.”
“I said not to be sweet.” Arthur’s hand found Rory’s, their fingers intertwining. Then he brushed Rory’s fourth finger and stilled. “Why are you wearing the ring?”
“Um...” Rory made a face. “I can’t get it off.”
“You can’t remove a terrifying piece of tempest-starting fifteenth-century Spanish magic and you’re only telling me now?”
Rory hid his face against the pillow. “I’m not real proud of a lotta my decisions today.”
Behind Rory, Arthur thudded his head against the pillow. “Christ, you’re trouble.”
“Arthur James.”
“What? No, uppity twenty-year-old who broke the Hudson River, no sir. You do not get to say my full name in that tone of voice.”
“Stop swearing, then.”
“You have a relic stuck on your finger—”
“In a church, so you don’t get to swear about it.”
Arthur made a loud huff. “Are the wind and snow still your doing?”
“... I hope not?”
“You hope not.”
Rory winced. “Is this the part where you’re gonna get apocalyptically cross?”
Arthur sighed and pulled Rory a little closer. “I’d have to unwrap myself from around your pinky finger first.”
Rory bit back a smile. “I’m not sure that’s church talk either,” he said primly.
“Keep it up, darling,” Arthur said, dangerously sweet. “And just hope I don’t remember your teasing the next time we’re alone and monk-free.”
An electric shiver went through Rory, the best kind of anticipation, and geez, he had to cut this off before he was the one who got untoward in a church. “So Harry’s getting us a morning ride?” he asked, quickly changing the subject.
“He said he’d handle it. He’s very steady, you know, very kind.”
“Yeah, he’s swell,” Rory said sincerely.
Arthur sighed, so softly Rory wouldn’t have caught it if Arthur hadn’t been pressed against his back.
He frowned. “Hey,” he said gently. “I just told you about my mom. If you want to talk about your brother, I can listen.”