Catch up on chapter 2 before reading on…
Chapter 3: Caught in the garden
The tomatoes were overripe. Again.
Tony stood in the middle of the hothouse, his thick fingers dripping with pulp, juice running down his wrists, and a guilty grin splitting his gray beard.
“Oops,” he said.
“You squished another one?” Gus called from the far end, bent over a crate of compost.
Tony lifted his hands in mock surrender. “They’re too soft! I swear!”
“You’re too soft,” Gus muttered, grinning as he stood.
Tony waddled over, his coveralls bursting at the seams. The months had filled him out even more: belly rounder, arms thicker, and a visible sweat line darkening the collar of his tan undershirt. His beard was full now, a proud, scratchy, gray thicket that hugged his jowls and curled slightly at the chin. It framed his dumb grin like a crown.
Gus stepped in and wiped a smear of tomato off Tony’s cheek with his thumb. Then, almost casually, he leaned in and kissed him. Just a little peck, a bristly brush of beard on beard.
Tony giggled and poked Gus in the belly. “Can’t wait until we get home?”
“I can’t.”
Behind the hedges, emboldened by solitude, they played rougher.
It was always during breaks, always when no one else was around, or at least, when they thought no one else was. The grounds were vast and winding, full of perfectly green blind spots where two thick laborers could get away with a bit of panting and fumbling. This time, Gus had Tony pressed against the base of a mulberry tree, leaves tickling the top of his bald scalp, thick hands squeezing his sides.
Tony moaned into Gus’ neck. “Don’t stop,” he growled.
“I won’t,” Gus said, one hand pulling down the zipper of Tony’s coveralls.
The scent of sweat and earth filled the space between them. Gus lifted Tony’s undershirt, then hooked one thumb into the waistband of his underwear while the other hand tugged gently at his beard.
“You’ve gotten awfully hairy,” Gus murmured.
“Uh huh.”
“It suits you.”
Tony tried to respond, but Gus kissed him, open mouthed and messy, silencing him with a jolt of pleasure. Gus pulled back, just long enough to catch his breath and drop to his knees—
Then he froze.
A shadow had fallen over them. They both turned at the same time.
King Christian stood just on the path, half hidden by lavender bushes. No guards. No entourage. He wore a slim navy blazer over a pale shirt, his hands lightly clasped behind his back. A pair of sunglasses hid his eyes, but not the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The burly gardeners were stunned into silence. Gus’ hand was still down the front of Tony’s underwear.
“Your Majesty,” Tony finally said.
Gus’ hand shot out of Tony’s briefs like it had been burned. The men snapped to attention, standing ramrod still. Leaves rustled faintly in the summer breeze. Sweat trickled down Tony’s hairy thighs.
The King said nothing. His gaze, unreadable behind the sunglasses, moved slowly from Gus’ flushed face to Tony’s bare, jiggling belly, to the ample bulge straining at the front of his underwear.
“Good thing the French ambassador won’t be here until tomorrow,” Christian said finally.
Gus started to say something. A stammer, a breath, something resembling an apology. But the King raised one hand, silencing him.
“Carry on, gentlemen.” His voice was flat and measured, as if he were acknowledging a passing cloud. “Don’t stop on my account.”
With that, he stepped back onto the path, turned smoothly, and disappeared down the gravel walkway, his shoes crunching lightly against stone, bees buzzing in the lavender behind him.
Gus stared at the King until he was out of sight. Tony, meanwhile, scratched the side of his beard. “That was nice of him.”
Gus turned to Tony, still pale. “You—you don’t… that was—he just—”
Tony shrugged. “He probably just likes seeing happy workers.”
Then he leaned in and planted another big, sloppy kiss right on Gus’ lips. Their bellies bumped. Gus let out a stunned, helpless laugh into the kiss.
“You’re impossible.”
Tony grinned. “Yuh huh.”
They kissed again. This time, neither of them looked around first.
King Christian’s official reception room was still and cool. Late afternoon light filtered through tall windows dressed in pale silk, casting long shadows across the polished floor. Behind the King, a pair of white double doors stood closed, flanked by two silent guards.
Dr. Vale arrived precisely on time.
“Your Majesty,” she said with an officious curtsy.
Christian didn’t turn to face her right away.
“I saw them,” he said. “Groping each other behind a hedge.”
Vale raised a brow. “Tony and… ?”
“The other one. Gus.”
He let the name hang in the air for a moment. Still not turning, he added, “Your process seems to have turned my brother queer.”
Dr. Vale cleared her throat. “That has been known to happen, on occasion. There’s no deliberate cause, but we’ve observed… patterns.”
“What kind of patterns?”
“Certain rewiring protocols redirect affective bonding and sexual impulse toward non-reproductive outlets. The working theory is that the mind, freed from class-based constraints, seeks simpler and more tactile connections. It’s not uncommon among subjects with high compliance rates.”
The King finally turned. “So he was straight before?”
Vale hesitated. “I don’t think he was anything before. Or perhaps, he was always this way, and now he’s simply free to be.”
Christian studied her for a long moment, then nodded once.
“No harm done, I suppose,” he said. “At least we don’t have to worry about him fathering a bastard.”
A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. Then he turned back to the window, hands still clasped, as the scent of lavender drifted in on the breeze. “That will be all, Doctor.”
Dr. Vale waited a beat, then curtsied and left the room.
The King remained, staring out at the perfect hedges below.
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