Kingdom Of Men - 3. "Woodpusher"

"Hey, Bishop...woke up thinking about you. Which means it'll probably be one of those good days. That fucking fog around my head...I only see things clearly when you're around. You know...the other day, I was thinking...most people who end up dying, at some point, probably feel like they should've had more time. But I don't. And I think about death all the time. I guess I'm programmed differently... 'cause even as a child, I always knew I'd die young. Probably killed or something...I just didn't know...that I'd be the one doing it."

Pawn sat at the kitchen counter, hunched over, fingers tracing invisible patterns on the wood as he stared down at his empty mug, lost in thought. He hadn't slept. He'd tried, tossing and turning until dawn, but his mind kept picturing Rook pushing his massive cock into Knight's quivering hole as they both moaned in pleasure, an unexpected scenario that he'd accidentally stumbled upon. And he couldn't, even if he tried, wash off the remnants of his own cum strings flying all over the hay-covered barn floor.

The sound of footsteps jarred him out of his thoughts, and he looked up just as Knight brushed past Rook, who was smirking as he gave the blonde a playful slap on the ass. "Mornin', birdie," Knight greeted Pawn, his tone warm yet casual. He looked at ease, grabbing a mug from the cabinet with the relaxed grace of someone who belonged, but there was a flicker of interest in his gaze as he took in Pawn's bleary expression.

The boy mumbled a quiet "morning" but shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting down again as if the grain of the countertop were the most fascinating thing in the room. Rook's eyes narrowed as he took in the boy's reaction, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He sidled closer, leaning one elbow on the counter across from Pawn, his gaze fixed on him with a cat-like curiosity.

"What's this?" Rook teased, his voice low, almost a purr. "Our little birdie's lookin' a bit rough around the edges. Long night?" His words were relaxed, but there was something sharp underneath, a taunting edge that made Pawn shift again, his fingers curling into a fist on the countertop.

Knight shot Rook a sidelong glance, rolling his eyes as he filled his mug, but he didn't intervene. Instead, he took a long sip, watching the exchange over the rim of his cup with a quiet amusement that only seemed to egg Rook on further.

"What's the matter?" Rook continued, leaning in close enough that Pawn could smell the faint trace of coffee on his breath. "Did the big ol' barn spook ya?" His tone was mocking, a smirk pulling at his mouth as his gaze drifted over the boy with a knowing glint.

Pawn tensed, fighting the urge to roll his eyes or snap back. He clenched his jaw, his face coloring slightly, unsure how to handle the combination of teasing and scrutiny. His discomfort only seemed to fuel Rook's amusement, the man's smirk widening as he watched Pawn squirm.

"What?" Rook pressed, his voice smooth and taunting. "Can't handle a little late-night wanderin'? Or maybe..." He let the words trail off, his gaze hardening ever so slightly. "... you're just sore about somethin' you saw."

Pawn swallowed, his gaze flashing to Rook's momentarily before his eyes darted away. Knight raised an eyebrow at the subtle shift, looking between them, clearly entertained but too relaxed to step in. The air around them thickened, the silence stretching until it felt almost oppressive.

Just then, the kitchen door swung open, and Bishop entered, rubbing his eyes and yawning, his presence cutting through the taut atmosphere like a knife. He paused, his gaze sweeping over them, instantly sensing something off. His eyes settled on Pawn, noticing how he avoided everyone's gaze, then flicked to Rook, who was still watching the boy with a sly grin, and finally to Knight, who shrugged and took another long sip of his coffee.

"What's goin' on here?" Bishop asked, his voice calm but with a note of authority that immediately made Rook shift. The smirk slipped from his face as he straightened up. He opened his mouth as if to explain, but Pawn was already pushing back from the counter, muttering something under his breath as he slipped past Bishop and bolted from the kitchen, his footsteps echoing up the stairs.

Rook shrugged, seemingly unfazed, and turned to the stove, grabbing a spatula and scraping scrambled eggs from the pan onto three plates. He sauntered back to the counter, setting two plates down before sliding behind Knight and slipping an arm around his waist. Knight let out a quiet chuckle as Rook pressed a kiss to his neck, nuzzling against him with a contented hum.

Bishop folded his arms, watching them with exasperation and amusement. "Are you gonna tell me what happened?"

Rook gave a one-shouldered shrug, his gaze lifting to meet Bishop's with a glint of mischief. "Kid's got a little wanderlust, that's all," he said, but there was something sly in his tone.

Knight rolled his eyes, reaching up to ruffle Rook's hair with a sigh. "Don't mind him. He's just wound up from all that coffee."

"Uh-huh," Bishop said, his gaze lingering on the door Pawn had disappeared through. He knew Rook too well to buy the excuse. There was something more, but he let it slide for now, grabbing a plate and sitting down as Rook and Knight continued their easy, unbothered banter.

Minutes later, Bishop climbed the stairs, knocking on Pawn's door. There was no answer. He tried the handle, but the door was locked. Pressing his ear close, he listened, hearing only the quiet that filled every corner of the house, an uneasy silence that seemed to deepen the longer he stood there. With a sigh, he let go of the handle, a pang of frustration mixed with something gentler, worry, perhaps, though he wasn't sure if he was ready to admit that just yet.

As he turned back down the stairs, a familiar ache settled in his chest. He pushed open the front door, the cool daybreak air washing over him as he stepped outside, feeling the weight of the memories tugging at him. Leaning against the porch railing, he fished his phone from his pocket, pulling out his earbuds with a tense, almost robotic movement. He scrolled through the saved files, his thumb hovering over one of King's recordings. After a brief hesitation, he pressed play.

King's voice filled his ears, low and tired, but with that unmistakable timbre, a thread of warmth wrapped tightly in sorrow. "I don't know, man... It's just that feeling, you know? Like I'm sinking...and...I just...I need you here, Bishop." There was a pause, the sound of a shaky breath as if King were struggling to gather the right words. "I'm surrounded by all these people, but... you're the only one who..."

Bishop's jaw tightened, fingers clutching the edge of his phone with a desperation he hadn't felt in years. King's voice, his raw, unfiltered honesty in those quiet, vulnerable last moments, suddenly washed over Bishop. King had rarely let his guard down, but when he did, it was like something sacred, a trust he'd placed only in Bishop's hands.

But now, here he was, alone, with only fragments of a voice that had once meant everything to him.

Bishop's hands trembled as he paused the recording, the silence that followed ringing in his ears louder than the voice he'd just heard. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he forced down the raw ache that threatened to surface. This wasn't the time to break. Not now.

Pushing himself upright, he slipped the earbuds into his pocket and walked inside. Rook and Knight were still in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as Bishop entered. Both turned to look at him, sensing the change in his demeanor before he even spoke.

"Get things ready," he said, his voice low, the words like stones dropping into a dark well. "We're doing it tonight."

Knight's gaze sharpened, a subtle tension replacing his easygoing manner as he pushed off the counter. Though still wearing his usual smirk, Rook nodded, the moment's seriousness reflected in the slight narrowing of his eyes. Neither asked questions. They didn't need to.

As they gathered supplies around the room, Bishop felt a strange calm settle over him. It was as though King's voice had left something behind, a sense of purpose, a reminder of their promises to each other, which still held sway even in death. The ritual was more than a farewell.

It was a tribute.

But as he watched Rook and Knight moving around, as efficient and practiced as if they'd done this a hundred times, a pang of doubt struck him. His gaze drifted to the staircase, to the closed door behind which Pawn hid, wrestling with whatever turmoil brewed in his young, untested heart.

The hunk strode to the door of Pawn's room, his knuckles tapping firmly against the wood as he called out, his tone low but insistent. "Pawn, open up. We're heading out." There was a pause, the kind of silence that seemed to deepen as it stretched on, before a muffled voice answered sharply, fraying at the edges with defiance. "Go away. Just... leave me alone."

Bishop's expression hardened as he took a deep breath, then squared his shoulders. He didn't have time, nor was he in the mood to argue tonight. With a swift, forceful kick, the door gave way, swinging open with a sharp crack that reverberated through the silent hallway. Inside, Pawn was caught pulling the sheets around himself, his eyes wide with surprise, indignant but unsure, fumbling to cover himself. His lean frame was lit by the morning's low, gray light, streaks drawing out the softness of his features, the startling paleness of his skin, and the darkened edges of his jaw where stubble had begun to shadow his face.

Bishop's gaze fell on him, and for a split second, the years fell away. He saw the boy's ghostly resemblance to his father, King, the same razor-edged cheekbones, the unmistakable depth in his cerulean eyes. But Pawn's presence was not quite King. He was his own person, somehow more vulnerable and more stubborn than the man who had once been Bishop's most faithful friend.

Bishop cleared his throat, his voice steely, controlled. "Get dressed. We're going out."

Pawn huffed, glancing away, his voice laced with irritation. "I don't have anything to wear," he muttered, folding the sheets tighter around himself like armor.

Without a word, Bishop turned toward the closet, its hinges creaking as he pulled it open. Among the sparse belongings, he found a pair of sweatpants and an old hoodie of King's, familiar and worn from years of use, the dark fabric softened by time. He tossed them to Pawn, and as the young man caught the clothes, the sheets fell down, revealing his naked body underneath.

As the boy stood in front of him, it was then that Bishop's gaze lingered, just for a beat longer than he meant it to. He saw King in those subtle, haunting details, the thin line of dark hair tracing Pawn's chest, the angles of his bare collarbone catching the light, the sharp jut of his jaw, so reminiscent of those long-gone nights when King would laugh, a deep, throaty sound that could make the whole world feel right. Bishop forced himself to blink, to focus, the memories swirling and dissipating as he tore his gaze away.

He knew better. King was gone.

Yet something inside Bishop stirred a familiar, unspoken thread of loyalty, an obligation to guide him, to make sure he didn't stumble through this world alone. He turned away, his voice dropping to a low murmur, almost as if to himself. "Be downstairs by the van in five." He said before walking out without waiting.

The boy watched, silent for once. He nodded, pulling on the clothes, his curiosity piqued even as he fought to maintain a cool, unbothered facade. Pawn made his way to the van, hands stuffed in the pocket of King's old hoodie, its hem hanging loosely over his lean frame. The faint scent of King's essence still clung to the fabric, and with each step Pawn took, it pressed deeper, making it feel more like his father's arms around him than just some borrowed clothes. As he neared, he saw Bishop at the back of the van, a coil of fishing line slung over one shoulder, a bucket of bait dangling from his hand.

Pawn caught sight of Rook and Knight a few yards off by the barn, their movements a little too purposeful and reverent as they carried King's casket around the side of the house. A prickle of curiosity flared through him. "What are they doing?" he asked, glancing at Bishop, but Bishop's face remained unreadable, his mouth set in a thin, silent line.

"Come on," the hunk said, nodding toward the passenger seat. He slipped past Pawn with casual strength, tossing a tackle box into the van's back. His fingers wrapped around the handle, making Pawn's gaze linger longer.

In moments, they were on the road, the tires rolling over gravel and onto a long stretch of dirt path. The silence inside the van was thick, pressing down with every jolt and bump. Pawn shifted his gaze to the window, watching as dense trees closed in around them, their gnarled branches threading together overhead like old hands clasping in secrecy. The early morning mist hovered over the wild grasses, threads of it drifting across the ground like ghosts.

But the boy's eyes kept drifting back, drawn to Bishop's profile, the sharp cut of his jaw, stubble tracing his cheek, his broad shoulders shifting with the steering wheel's every subtle turn. Something about him, raw, quiet, and undeniably powerful, held Pawn in a spell of silent fascination. And he hated how much he found himself watching him. Whenever he caught his gaze lingering, he forced himself to turn back to the window, his pulse quickening with a frustration he couldn't quite shake.

Eventually, the van pulled off the main road and wound down to a narrow trail that sloped toward a riverbank. Bishop parked in the shade of an old oak tree, its branches twisted high above them, sprawling across the water. He slid out of the van, shrugging off his shirt as he pulled equipment from the back. Pawn felt his heart stumble almost immediately, his mouth going dry as he caught the sight of Bishop's bare torso, the solid lines of muscle running down his back and arms. He looked away, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie, trying to ignore the heat rising in his cheeks.

"Here," Bishop's voice broke through the boy's thoughts, snapping him back. He held out a fishing rod, one eyebrow raised as though gauging whether the blue-eyed raven would even know what to do with it. Pawn took it, feeling the rough, well-used grip against his palms.

"Now, first thing's first," Bishop said, his tone more relaxed. He leaned over, their shoulders brushing as he pointed to the reel. "You want to make sure it's properly set up. The line runs through here, loops around... see?" His voice was low, calm, and unexpectedly gentle. Pawn nodded, trying to focus on the steps, but his pulse leaped each time their hands brushed.

They spent the next hour working side-by-side, with Bishop explaining the basics of baiting and casting. He moved quickly, born from years spent in this quiet wilderness that seemed to know him well. Pawn's initial nervousness softened, replaced by an unexpected thrill, as though he was stepping into a piece of King's world, a piece Bishop was now passing to him. The process became meditative, the pull and release of the line, the weight of the rod in his hands, each moment punctuated by Bishop's murmured instructions.

Eventually, a tug jolted through Pawn's line. His heart jumped, fingers tightening as he wrestled with the sudden, lively pull beneath the water's surface.

"Easy, easy," Bishop's voice was right beside him, calm but encouraging. He placed a steady hand over Pawn's, guiding his grip. "Let him fight, don't reel too fast. Just keep a little tension on him, and when he tires out, that's when you bring him in."

Together, they worked the line, each of Pawn's nervous tugs countered by Bishop's steady hand, his voice a soft, grounding murmur in Pawn's ear. When the fish finally broke the surface, its body glinting in the sun, they both let out a laugh, Bishop's deep and warm, Pawn's breathless, exhilarated.

"You did good," Bishop said, clapping him on the back as he hauled the fish onto the grass. "Not bad for a first catch, kid."

Pawn grinned, pride warming his cheeks. But his heart sank as Bishop crouched down, reaching for his knife to gut the fish. The thought of those vast, unblinking eyes going still under Bishop's hand struck an unexpected chord.

"Wait," Pawn blurted, his hand hovering between the fish and Bishop's knife. "Don't… don't kill it."

Bishop looked up, his eyebrows knitting slightly in surprise. "That's the whole point, kid. You catch it, you eat it."

But Pawn was already reaching down, his fingers brushing the fish's scales as he lifted it gently. Before Bishop could stop him, he stepped toward the water, lowering the fish back into the river, where it darted off in a flash, disappearing into the depths.

Bishop just stared, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. He gave a short, almost amused laugh, shaking his head. "He would've said the same thing," he said, his tone softer, touched by a sudden nostalgia. "The right to live wild..." Bishop's gaze lingered on Pawn as if seeing traces of King reflected in the younger man's earnest eyes. He didn't say it, but there was something about Pawn's decision to release the fish, his reluctance to take something he'd captured, that struck Bishop as a kind of poetic defiance, a spark of individuality he couldn't help but admire.

"Guess you're more like him than you realize," Bishop said, giving Pawn a long, appraising look before turning back to their gear, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Pawn felt an unfamiliar warmth settle in his chest, a pride at Bishop's words, as he looked out over the river. Bishop began to gather the rods, motioning for Pawn to join him, and they packed up in a quiet, unhurried rhythm, side by side as the sun dove over the river.

Pawn lingered by the van, watching Bishop sit silently, his gaze fixed on the river, lost in some private world. Time elated, imperceptible, and soon, the late afternoon light stretched wide and golden across the landscape, gilding the rough angles of Bishop's face, highlighting the faint lines carved by time and perhaps sorrow. Pawn felt his heart pull, an urge drawing him closer to the hunk's quiet, magnetic solitude. Slowly, he stepped forward, tucking his hands in his pockets to mask their faint tremor, and lowered himself onto the ledge beside Bishop.

Pawn reached into his hoodie and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, offering it wordlessly to Bishop. The hunk's gaze shifted, catching the young man's eye before he nodded, accepting the cigarette with a grateful murmur and shoving it gently between his lips. Pawn struck a match, lighting his cigarette, feeling the warmth of the flame close to his fingertips. As he turned to offer the lighter, Bishop's hand shot forward, wrapping gently yet firmly around the back of his neck. The touch was unexpected, startling, and for a moment, Pawn went utterly still, his breath hostage inside his chest.

Bishop leaned in, close enough that Pawn could feel the heat of his skin. Without breaking eye contact, the hunk tilted his cigarette until it brushed the lit end of Pawn's, the tips glowing together, merging into a single, brief flame. Pawn closed his eyes, feeling Bishop's breath against his face, the scrape of calloused fingers against his neck. The moment lingered, stretching in a soft, suspended tension that left Pawn's skin humming, his heartbeat racing. When he pulled back, it was as though the space between them had suddenly shrunk.

They smoked silently, and Pawn looked down at the cigarette between his fingers, trying to steady his rambling thoughts. His voice was soft and tentative when he finally spoke, barely louder than the rustle of the oak tree's leaves above them.

"Bishop…" he started, glancing sideways. "How did you meet him? My dad, I mean."

Bishop's face turned, and for a long, unreadable moment, he simply stared at Pawn. There was a strange mist in his eyes, something distant, almost wounded as if he were sifting through memories that hurt to touch. He took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke that curled upward in a slow, melancholy spiral.

"We were kids," Bishop said at last, his voice low, wrapped in a warmth that felt like nostalgia but tinged with something darker. "Neighbors, actually. His house was next to mine. We hit it off right away, became friends..." Bishop recounted, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. "We'd talk through our bedroom windows. Saved up one summer and bought ourselves a pair of walkie-talkies." A faint, wistful smile ghosted his lips. "We wore those things out, chatting till dawn..."

"About what?" Pawn's voice questioned, suddenly eager to disrobe Bishop's memory. The hunk paused, his gaze drifting back to the lake.

"About everything...and nothing. Most times, we wouldn't even talk…we just lay in bed...listening to each other's breaths drift off." He remembered, his own voice drifting off.

Silence settled, the weight of what had been lost replacing the words. Pawn stared at the cigarette, rolling it absently between his fingers, searching for something to say and bridge the chasm.

"I never... thought of my dad as someone who would kill himself," Pawn murmured, the words barely a whisper as if he were afraid to speak them into reality. He glanced at Bishop, whose face had gone rigid, his eyes darkening, a brief tremor passing through him. But he said nothing. His mouth tightened, and his gaze grew distant, shut off.

The hunk stood up without a word, his movements slow, deliberate. He turned away, his hands slipping down to the hem of his shirt, tugging it off in a single, fluid motion before he bent down, unlacing his boots. Piece by piece, he stripped down, his movements unhurried, as if he were shedding something heavier than clothes. Left in his briefs, Bishop strode toward the water's edge, his silhouette framed against the deepening blue of the lake.

Pawn watched, transfixed, as Bishop waded in, the water swallowing his legs and torso until he finally disappeared beneath the surface. For a long, still moment, Pawn waited, thrumming with a nervous, inexplicable urgency as the seconds dragged on, gaze fixed on the place where Bishop had submerged.

A flicker of panic sparked in his chest.

But just as he was about to stand, the silence shattered with a wild, echoing scream that split the quiet valley like a thunderclap. Bishop's head erupted from the water, face lifted toward the sky, water streaming down his hair, beard, chest, and arms. His shout rang through the air, raw and defiant, vibrating with something primal that stirred in Pawn's chest, a challenge, a release, a fury that defied words.

Pawn was frozen, staring in awe as Bishop floated in the water, his breath heavy, his eyes closed, lost in the moment. The wildness in Bishop's gaze as he met Pawn's was unmistakable, and for the first time, the boy felt as though he'd glimpsed something vulnerable beneath Bishop's calm, guarded exterior.

A small smile broke across Pawn's face, hesitant yet exhilarated. His eyes lingered on Bishop, who was waving with a grin, his skin glistening like drops of melted gold under the sun. Something about the sight of Bishop's broad, bare chest, his easy confidence, terrified and thrilled Pawn. Slowly, he yanked his hoodie off and slowly pulled his pants down, feeling the crisp air bite against his skin as he stood in nothing but his white briefs, the fabric already clinging to him and a half-transparent precum spot where the fabric brushed the tip of his cock.

Bishop's eyes traveled over the boy, observing without shame, and Pawn felt each gaze like a touch, his pale skin prickling slightly. He walked to the shore and shifted from foot to foot, stalling as he dipped a toe in. The cold jolted through him, and he released a soft curse, which only seemed to amuse Bishop more. There was patience in the hunk's eyes, an invitation that was calm, unhurried, understanding. Pawn took a breath and stepped forward, immersing his legs, his body growing numb as the water rose higher.

When he finally waded to where Bishop floated, breath shallow from the cold, he was rewarded with a smile. "That wasn't so bad, now was it?" Bishop asked, his voice as steady and smooth as the current.

Pawn chuckled and shook his head. But before he could react, Bishop's hand shot out, fingers closing around the back of his neck, firm but playful, and with a smooth yank, he pushed Pawn's head under the water. The shock of cold hit him like a punch. Everything was a rush of bubbles and dark water. When he surfaced, sputtering and half-blinded, he caught Bishop laughing, a sound so open and unguarded Pawn's lips couldn't help but struggle to keep from stretching outwards.

"Dude, really? That's how you want to play it?" Pawn questioned, his voice a blend of laughter and challenge, as he launched himself toward Bishop with a gleeful grin. He thrust his arms forward, trying to shove Bishop backward, but Bishop was solid, his body unmoving and firm against Pawn's efforts. His hands came down, catching the boy's arms effortlessly, holding him at bay with the ease of someone who knew exactly how much power he had.

But Pawn didn't relent. He lunged forward, trying every angle he could think of, and each time, Bishop deflected his efforts, moving with the slow, confident grace of someone entirely in control. Their giggles rose, the water around them churning with their playful struggle. Bishop tossed the boy backward with a triumphant grin at one point, holding his hands high in a silent claim of victory.

But then, just as Bishop turned, ready to wade back toward the shore, Pawn lunged forward again, throwing himself against Bishop's back. Their bodies pressed together, the warmth of Bishop's back sinking into Pawn's chest, skin against skin. For a moment, neither of them moved, frozen in the electric charge of that sudden closeness. Their breaths were heavy and synchronized, a heartbeat's pause where the world seemed to hold its breath with them.

In that pause, Bishop felt Pawn's body slowly melt into him, the boy's chest and stomach merging with his thick skin. But as the blue-eyed raven began to slide down, Bishop noticed it. Pawn was hard. His 7-inch cock rubbed against the hunk's lower back. Bishop tried to move, his hands coming around his waist, attempting to seize the boy's legs, but as he did, he felt Pawn's arms clutch harder around his neck, almost suffocating him. He knew. The boy was mortified.

"I'm sorry..." Pawn murmured, digging his lips into Bishop's neck.

And that's when it happened. In a swift move, Bishop dove his body into the water, taking Pawn with him, deep enough to allow the weight of their bodies to subside. Then, with ease and effortlessness, he swirled around between the boy's legs and pulled him in again. There they were, closer than they had ever been. Inches apart. Bishop's dark brown eyes came up, locking on Pawn, forcing the boy's cerulean gaze to raise his head and face him. Their eye colors merged, suddenly flaring everything around them, creating the most magnificent deep green hex.

"It's okay..." Bishop whispered, his tone soft yet deep.

Pawn let his head fall, their foreheads bumping gently as they exhaled. Pawn's lips released a soft gasp, inebriated by Bishop's warm breath as his nose rubbed against the hunk's face. He could feel Bishop's cock growing under him, its hard tip nudging his crack, rubbing against his soaked underwear. His slim fingers dug deeper into Bishop's back, almost teasing the hunk's monster to push further.

But Bishop's attention seemed elsewhere, his massive cock merely a side effect for the true pleasure that coursed through his eyes. Inside them, endless stories. An entire life of longing, understated touches, and endless hours of sexual pleasure. They lurked at the surface yet seemed deeply buried, like a pain too hard to bear.

Bishop's feet began to move, and their bodies glided across the cold water in a sensual dance of longing. Pawn could feel the hunk's hands sliding along his body, tracing every inch of his smooth back like he knew it. A path traveled countless times before. But how could he know, the boy thought? How could this man he had just met know every curve of his by heart? Bishop's hands swirled languidly yet with purpose, along Pawn's waist, finally coasting near his asscheeks, his fingers gripping the fabric. Then, with a weightless move that sliced the heaviness of the water, he ripped them. There was no sound except the sudden gasp that broke from the boy's lips. But underwater, all Pawn could feel was a sudden wave of cold liquid glide through his soft sphincter.

"Fuck..." Pawn moaned, chuckling slightly and causing a gush of breath to evade his mouth. By then, he could feel Bishop's fingers sliding down the crack of his ass, gently teasing his puckering, virgin hole. Pawn's eyes closed, his head dunking deeper into Bishop's muscular neck.

He had never felt anything like it before. No jerk-off session, porn video, or even the couple of blowjobs he had received from those girls back home could even compare. This was different.

Pawn suddenly felt seen, desired, and utterly protected.

He could feel his body changing, becoming less constrained. Less worried about projecting confidence but actually embodying it. His hips began to grind Bishop's cock, the boy's slow movements causing small waves to form around them, pushing circular ripples outwards, creating an almost magical barrier around them. Pawn's eyes widened in shock as his movements forced his awareness. He could now feel just how massive Bishop's cock was. It was like his whole ass sat suspended on a log, hovering effortlessly in mid-air.

"Don't worry," Bishop whispered reassuringly, almost as if he had read the boy's mind. "We're not gonna do anything... unless you're ready to."

Pawn's head nodded, his smooth features brushing against the hunk's neck. But then he felt Bishop's fingers slide inside his wet hair and pull his head back, forcing his mouth to open slightly.

"Breathe on me," the hunk ordered, his tone commanding. An utterly impossible request to deny, Pawn thought. The boy inhaled, his lungs filling with air before he blew his breath gently into Bishop's nostrils, its corners flaring as they took it all in. The hunk's eyes closed slowly, relishing in quiet certainty. "Exactly the same," he whispered, with a soft smirk on his lips.

Seconds later, they lunged at each other. Pawn could barely think as he felt the roughness of Bishop's beard engulf his mouth like a snake. The hunk's tongue laced into the boy's, his lips sucking on Pawn's with a ravished hunger. Bishop grunted, holding the boy's neck and forcing his tongue deeper into his throat while his other hand slid deeper down the boy's crack, his finger gently nudging Pawn's sensitive hole.

At the first push of his middle finger, Bishop felt the boy retract immediately, the tight sphincter closing around it. This made the hunk smile into the boy's mouth. "Shhh...okay, I see..." he groaned, words muffled by their locked mouths.

By now, Pawn's nails crawled up the hunk's back, his entire body climbing the Bishop's towering figure. It was a strange dance. One part of his body recoiling, and the other seemingly willing to allow Bishop to take him. Pawn held Bishop's hair, moaning into the stud's mouth as he sucked on his lips, eager to savor the hunk's intoxicating taste.

And that's when something unexpected happens.

Without warning, a surge of overwhelming emotion took hold of Pawn's chest like a truck at high speed crashing through it. He pulled back, his body quivering.

"Hey," Bishop whispered, his voice morphing from lustful to gentle in seconds. "You're shaking. Are you cold?" he questioned.

But Pawn was already sliding down to the ground, their hard cocks rubbing against each other before pulling apart. The boy walked to the shore with Bishop trailing behind him.

As they emerged from the lake, Pawn's body shivered violently. His damp skin blanched beneath the chilled air and streaked with trails of cold lake water. Each step felt like walking through frost as he stumbled up the bank. Bishop had gone ahead, and when Pawn looked up, he saw him already at the van, tearing open the door with swift, urgent movements. Within seconds, Bishop was back at his side, a thick, worn blanket in his hands.

Without a word, the hunk unfurled the blanket and wrapped it around the boy, his arms strong as they enclosed the young man, securing the blanket over his trembling shoulders. The warmth of Bishop's hands seeped through, sinking into Pawn's skin, grounding him. Pawn felt the breath escape his lips in a single, broken exhale as he let himself sink into Bishop's chest.

A long moment passed, the silence settling like the calm after a storm. Pawn's breathing slowed as the heat began to seep into his bones. The faint smell of the blanket, something unmistakably Bishop, pulled him further into the embrace. When he finally found his voice, he managed a shaky laugh. "Well…that was embarrassing," he murmured, the words half-jest, half-truth. His eyes flicked up to meet Bishop's, searching for reassurance, something to bridge the vulnerability he couldn't shake.

Bishop's gaze softened, and he gave a small, understanding smile. "You don't need to feel embarrassed," he replied quietly, his voice low and steady but without judgment. The words settled between them, warm and full of quiet acceptance. Slowly, instinctively, Pawn's hands slid around Bishop's back, hugging him in return, his grip tentative at first, then firmer as he felt the strength of Bishop's muscles against his own.

But as they lingered, Bishop's own eyes seemed to darken, his expression shifting from the tender reassurance he'd offered moments ago to something distant, guarded. Pawn noticed the hunk's gaze turned inward, almost as if looking past him, seeing something, someone else. There was pain there, a shadow cast by memories Pawn couldn't reach. King's name was never spoken aloud, but his presence hovered like a ghost. Bishop's grip on Pawn loosened, and he stepped back, pulling himself out of the embrace with a cold dismissal that left Pawn aching.

"We should head back," Bishop said, his voice suddenly curt, practical, shutting down any lingering warmth that had woven between them.

Pawn felt disappointment churning, but he masked it with a slight, nonchalant nod. "Right," he replied, his tone as casual as he could manage, masking Bishop's sudden distance sting. He turned and pulled on his clothes quietly, biting back the dismay. Once dressed, he climbed into the van, settling into the passenger seat, gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside.

The drive back was dead silent. Bishop gripped the steering wheel with his jaw set and eyes fixed on the road. Every so often, Pawn would steal a glance at Bishop, hoping for some sign of warmth, a look that might reach back to him. But the hunk remained impassive, walls firmly back in place, his expression unreadable. The boy's shoulders slumped as the ranch loomed into view, resigned to the distance that had settled, a gap he didn't know how to bridge.

As the van pulled to a halt, Bishop turned to him, his gaze as cold as steel, and said simply, "Meet us out the back in fifteen."

Pawn frowned, an uncomfortable knot forming in his chest. "Why?" he asked, but Bishop had already slipped out of the van, leaving the question hanging.

Pawn lingered for a moment, his thoughts spinning in that silence, then slipped out of the van himself. He moved through the house, went upstairs, and took a quick, scalding shower, hoping the heat would wash away the strange feeling tightening in his chest. But as he dressed, sporting a fresh hoodie and another pair of his father's comfortable sweatpants, he couldn't shake the sense of dread hammering at his spirit.

When he made his way out the door and around the house, he saw a gathering under the vast, dark sky lit by the raw flicker of a bonfire that crackled and hissed. A circle of roughly hewn logs arranged like silent sentries lay around the flames. A couple of feet further, facing the depth of the untamed forest, lay his father's body, draped over a simple, wooden structure, surrounded by pine boughs and hay, woven into the bier like a sacred altar.

The sight left Pawn frozen, his heart slamming against his ribcage as a song, a mournful ballad, drifted, echoing from Bishop's room, rich with memory and loss.

(Music playing in the background)
Hey, mister Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy, and there ain't no place I'm going to.
Hey, mister Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy, and there ain't no place I'm going to.
Hey, mister Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In that jingle jangle morning, I'll come following you.

Rook and Knight were already there, dressed in military uniforms, standing shoulder to shoulder with a solemn, disciplined stillness. Their faces, usually marked by grins and mischievous glints, were now shadows, their eyes cast downward. They looked not only somber but haunted. By the weight of a life shared, a life lost.

(Music playing in the background)
Take me for a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship,
When my hands can't feel the grip, and my toes too numb to step,
Wait only for my boot heels to be wandering.
I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for today,
Until my own parade cast your dancing spell my way,
I promise to go under it.

Pawn's gaze flicked to the house, where the glow from Bishop's window spilled out, flickering. The song grew louder, flooding the night air, and soon, Bishop appeared. He strode forward, wearing military pants but no shirt. His torso was bare, every muscle outlined in the firelight, making him look like some mournful, mythic figure summoned to witness an old grief. As he approached, Knight reached for him, and Bishop pulled him close, cradling his friend's face with surprising tenderness as the blonde pressed into his chest, his body wracked with silent sobs.

Rook was next, who stepped forward with reverence and kissed Bishop. A deep, lingering kiss filled with longing and sorrow that Pawn couldn't understand. Rook pulled back, his face struggling to hold his tears at bay.

Pawn stood to the side, watching, feeling like an intruder in this private universe of shared loss and love. And that's when the truth hit him: he was a stranger at his own father's funeral.

Bishop's gaze never turned to Pawn. His cold indifference stung, leaving Pawn feeling like an outsider in a world that belonged more to the men before him than to him, his own father's son.

(Music playing in the background)
Though you might hear laughin’, spinnin’, swingin’ madly across the sun
It's not aimed at anyone, it's just escapin' on the run
And but for the sky, there are no fences facin'
And if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme
To your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind
I wouldn't pay it any mind
It's just a shadow you're seein' that he's chasing

Then Bishop stepped forward, his eyes fixed on King's lifeless form, his face raw with pain and longing. He took a slow, shuddering breath, steadying himself before speaking.

"I met you when we were four," Bishop said, his voice breaking the night's silence, low but vibrant with emotion. "Even back then, you were already like a giant storm in a small body. This wild, reckless energy that just... couldn't be contained. I remember everyone being scared of you. 'That crazy kid,' they'd say. But I didn't...not me. From the moment I felt it...that thing inside you...fuck, I was hooked."

The words trembled as they left his mouth, but he continued, each syllable laced with years of friendship, heartache, and the most profound adoration. "We grew close, so close...until it felt our souls had twisted together, like vines around each other, pressing so fucking tight it physically hurt."

He paused, voice dropping to a whisper, his face contorted with a quiet agony. "And we shared everything...music, girls, dreams, all those wild things boys say in the dark when they think no one else can hear them. You were…everything to me."

The words fell from his lips like a confession, heavy and raw, laced with the agony of every unsaid thought, every buried emotion. The firelight brushed across his face as he turned toward King's body, his gaze filled with a love so profound that its intensity seemed overwhelming. "You were my world, King. My brother, my lover, my heart. And now, there's nothing but this fucking emptiness."

Bishop's voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that crawled their way out of his eyes. He took another breath, steadied his shaking hands, and picked up a torch. He lit it against the fire, the flame catching with a hiss, casting his face in a fierce, unyielding glow as he moved to the bier where King's body lay. Gently, almost reverently, he touched the torch to the pine and hay, watching the flames slick upward, embracing King's form in a golden blaze.

(Music playing in the background)
Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves
Let me forget about today until tomorrow

The fire grew, climbing and crackling, consuming the bier with fierce, unrestrained hunger. Rook, Knight, and Bishop stood silently, their eyes fixed on the flames, each marked by the love they shared with the man now returning to ash.

Then, as the fire roared, Bishop's control crumbled. His knees buckled, and he fell, the torch slipping from his grasp as he hit the earth, his face turned to the blaze, helpless against the tears that tore from him. He sobbed openly, his entire body wracked with grief as his hands clawed at the earth, clutching handfuls of dirt and pine needles in his fingers. The sound that escaped him was guttural, raw, a pain so deep it was almost unbearable to witness.

At that moment, Pawn felt something shift inside him, a profound understanding unfurling as he gazed at Bishop's broken form. This man, this fierce, unbreakable soul, had loved his father with a passion and intensity beyond anything he could have imagined. He finally understood that Bishop's coldness toward him wasn't indifference but a shield, a way to keep the memory of King whole, undisturbed.

Even as his heart broke.

As the fire burned low, leaving only embers and ash, Pawn felt his own tears spill over, tracing silent paths down his face. He would never truly know his father, but he could feel the weight of the love King had left behind standing there, bathed in the glow of his dying flames.

But a resounding scream suddenly shattered the mourning. One filled with the most insidious rage.

Bishop's body shot from the ground, pushing Rook and Knight back with a force none could counter. Rook stumbled back, and Knight quickly steadied him, his voice low but firm as he called out to Bishop, pleading for him to stop. But it was no use. The hunk was already slipping into a darkness none of them could touch, his every step carrying him further from reason, driven by a wild, haunted energy.

Pawn watched a few paces behind, his heart pounding with a strange mixture of awe and fear as Bishop's figure stormed into the barn. Then, seconds later, a piercing scream, a sharp and distressed horse's cry, sliced through the silence.

The barn doors burst open, and King's dark horse, the last remaining piece of his spirit, came charging out, hooves thundering across the ground. Bishop was right behind him, his tall, robust frame silhouetted in the moonlight, moving with the horse's wild energy like the two were locked in some primal dance of man and beast. The horse reared and kicked, muscles rippling under its sleek, dark coat, its eyes wide and frantic, mirroring the ferocity that gripped Bishop. Rook and Knight shouted warnings, voices trembling with urgency, but Bishop seemed deaf to them. He held his hands up, almost as if in reverence, circling the horse with a gaze so intense it was like he was trying to see straight into its soul.

Pawn stood transfixed, watching the hunk with a raw, growing admiration. Bishop wasn't trying to tame the horse; he was letting it go and surrendering the last tether to the man he'd lost.

The horse stilled, and for a breathless moment, it met Bishop's gaze, dark eyes glistening as they locked on each other. Bishop approached the paddock's gate, swinging it open slowly, deliberately, and whispered something. A low murmur, a whisper of goodbye. The horse stood, poised between worlds, then broke forward in a burst of muscle and speed, galloping out into the wilderness, its hooves pounding over the earth, fading into the distance.

Pawn looked at Bishop, silhouetted in the night, his body a stark outline of strength and vulnerability, his breath clouding the air. The sight pulled the boy deeper into an obsession he could barely understand. Somehow, he thought, if he could just stay close, he might be able to pull Bishop back from this darkness, to be the one to heal the raw wounds left open by King's death.

But then, as if sensing his gaze, Bishop turned, his face hardening. He stormed past Pawn, his eyes shadowed and cold, hand gripping a half-empty bottle of scotch from Rook's hands. He paused long enough to give the boy a once-over, a bitter, assessing look that cut through him like a blade. "Rook was right," Bishop muttered, his words laced with contempt. "It was a mistake bringing you here."

The words hit Pawn like a punch, the force of them sinking deep into his chest, the rejection so absolute it left him breathless. He could only stare wide-eyed as the hunk's gaze bore into him, stringent. "Stay away from me," Bishop commanded, his voice harsh and final, a cold dismissal that shattered any illusions Pawn might have had.

With a slight turn of his head, Bishop addressed the others. "Let's finish this in my room." Without a glance back, he walked toward the house, shoulders taut, carrying his misery and wrath like armor. Rook and Knight hesitated, their eyes darting to Pawn with brief flickers of pity before following Bishop inside, disappearing into the hulking shadow the house was now covered in.

Pawn stood frozen, the sting of Bishop's words still raw. He watched the lights flicker in the hunk's room, then dim to a softer glow. Somewhere beyond the walls, he heard the scratch of a record, the smooth, whispery sound of vinyl against the needle. Soon, music drifted into the night again, its haunting melody curling like smoke.

(Music playing loudly in the background)
You threw away your heart
And you got back a stone
You saw a strong man crying
But it left you cold

And yeah, my love
I wonder how you could
The memory of our love
Is still misunderstood

When I was your every man
A mirror to yourself
You woke up in my eyes
And you slept as someone else

Pawn lingered there, his young heart bruised, mind tangled with frustration and yearning. As the melody from Bishop's record floated out into the night, Pawn felt himself being drawn deeper into the mystery of this man, his infatuation tinged now with a strange, reckless willpower.

The blue-eyed raven's feet moved as if they belonged to someone else, each step into the house and the stairs pulling him further into its visceral heartbeat. The music throbbed through the walls, a low, pulsing rhythm that seemed to seep into his bones, vibrating with a dark allure that beckoned him closer. When he reached the landing, the scents grew stronger, intensifying the closer he got to Bishop's room. The smell was thick, sweat, musk, cum, the acrid tang of alcohol, and it filled the air like a fever. It wrapped around him, clinging to his skin, drawing him into its intoxicating heat, into this strange and twisted intimacy.

He paused outside the door, his hand hovering over the handle, an invisible force daring him to go through. Behind the door, the low, rhythmic moans interwoven with the music. The walls seemed to pulse with it, their weight bearing down, every breath and sigh melding with the bassline that thrummed through the floorboards. The house felt alive, as though it had become a creature in its own right.

Pawn finally pressed the door open.

Bishop was there, kneeling on the bed, his broad, bare back to the door, his skin slick with sweat, each movement of his muscles an implicit language, a rhythm that seemed to meld with the music's thrumming pulse. Rook and Knight were behind him, their faces pressed close to Bishop's pelvis, slurping sounds echoing from both their mouths, which seemed entertained worshipping Bishop's cock.

Each one was lost in this strange, almost sacred ritual. Their eyes were closed, expressions soft, full of grief and solace. But it was the tenderness in their movements that first surprised Pawn. This was not some reckless release but a communion, an expression of pain and comfort, a raw, aching need to hold onto something, someone, in the darkness.

"That's it, suck that fucking dick," Bishop groaned, his voice commanding as he threw his head back. Knight seemed his usual submissive powerful self, whining as he licked and slurped, but it was Rook's moaning that jolted Pawn's cock from his slumber. The bull's massive body was arched on the bed, his knees carving a dent in the mattress, his ass sticking up as Bishop shoved his fingers inside his hole. Rook moaned as Bishop's arm slid further down his back, fingers drilling deeper. "That's right...you better get that hole ready for me," Bishop teased.

Pawn couldn't move, enthralled, his heart pounding as he watched. There was a beauty, an unexpected grace in how they clung to one another, bound by something more profound than friendship, far more complicated than love. A pang of longing flared up in him, an almost envious urge to be a part of whatever this was, understand it, and feel it in his own flesh. But alas, there he stood, yet again, an outsider.

For a moment, Bishop turned, his eyes meeting Pawn's under the low light of the candles surrounding the room. A flash of something, anger, grief, tenderness, passed across his face before his gaze cooled, distancing himself. He held Pawn's gaze unwavering as if daring him to come closer, to understand the depth of this pain and the fractured love they were trying to piece together. But then, just as quickly, Bishop's attention shifted, and he faced the door, plunging his massive back against the bed's headboard, falling on a cloud of pillows, his hands reaching for Rook and Knight, hauling them closer, deeper into that shared, unspoken agony.

And that's when Pawn saw it for the first time. Bishop's cock, fully erect. It stood vertically, proud and glistening in Rook and Knight's spit. Its massive crown pulsed with life atop its impressive eleven inches of raw, untamed, thick, veiny meat. At the base, a large sack covered in a dark fluff trailed into his crack as he spread his legs apart. Knight swooped in almost immediately, seizing the beast with his mouth, his lips stretching inhumanly as they tried to satisfy every inch of the monstrous shaft. Meanwhile, Rook's body crawled up Bishop's body like an enchanted serpent, his tongue tracing circles along the hunk's chest before stationing near Bishop's nipple where it lingered, the bull's mouth closing around it.

Pawn couldn't believe it. He could barely breathe, his legs trembling slightly. His left hand clutched the doorframe, trying to prevent his body from falling over. By now, his cock practically ripped the fabric of his sweatpants. His hands trembled, and he stepped back, feeling as if he'd witnessed something sacred he had no right to intrude upon.

But it was too late.

These men, this house, and the land they stood on had swallowed him, holding a piece of him hostage as he slowly retreated into the shadows beyond the door.

(Music playing loudly in the background)
And yeah, how I tried
I tried to do you good
Yeah, but the memory of our love, yeah
Is still misunderstood

And that's when it happened.

Bishop's voice broke from under the mass of muscular bodies, striking like thunder, tearing through the sultry atmosphere and silencing everything. "I thought I told you to stay the fuck away from me." The words were cold, each syllable laced with a venom that made Pawn's chest clench. Rook and Knight fell back, clearing a space around Bishop that felt as much like an open wound as it did a reprieve, exposing Pawn to the full weight of Bishop's bitterness.

The boy stammered, his voice barely more than a whisper as the last remnants of his daring nature pushed through. "I just...wanted…" but his words were drowned by Bishop's following command, loud and unyielding.

"Get out!" Bishop bellowed, his fury so raw that the air itself seemed to crackle under its force. His movements were sudden and violent as he surged from the bed, his hand latching onto Pawn's arm in an unforgiving grip. Pawn's body jolted as he was dragged through the hallway, stumbling over his own feet. He labored to keep up, to find his footing amid Bishop's relentless, searing fury.

"Bishop," he cried, his voice breaking as the hunk's grip tightened, pain coursing through his arm. "Dude, stop... You're hurting me!"

But Bishop was unreachable, possessed by a demon so twisted, so all-consuming that there was no softness left in him, no trace of the man Pawn had glimpsed by the lake, no tenderness or warmth, only a bitter, merciless grieving wrath. They reached the front door, and Bishop's foot crashed against it, sending it swinging open. Without warning, he released Pawn, shoving him forward so hard that the boy tumbled, falling over the steps and into the hard dirt. The ground scraped against his palms and knees, but the physical pain paled against the ache that spread through his chest as he looked up, meeting Bishop's gaze one last time.

"You're not him," Bishop spat, his words laden with bitterness and something even darker, almost guttural. "You'll never be him." The statement tore through Pawn's heart, piercing every delusion, every glimmer of hope he'd held onto that he could somehow mean something to Bishop, that he could be the anchor in this place of haunted souls.

Tears burned in his eyes, blurring his vision as he tried to stand, to hold onto something, anything that would keep him from collapsing under the weight of Bishop's rejection. He gasped, a choked sound wrenching from deep within him, but Bishop barely seemed to register it.

He stared down at Pawn, his eyes dark and distant, somewhere else entirely, as if looking through Pawn.

To the ghost, he'd conjured in his rage.

"He's dead," Bishop's voice dropped, low and hoarse, the words landing with even greater cruelty, crushing any remnants of solace Pawn had held onto. "Dead. And nothing you do will ever bring him back. You're just a ghost..." Bishop chuckled out. "A fucking shadow."

Pawn sat there, his chest heaving, tears flowing down his face as he curled into himself, the reality sinking into his bones. Every part of him wanted to scream, to fight back, to make Bishop see him.

But Bishop's rejection had drained his luminous spirit to its last drop.

For a brief moment, the hunk's gaze softened, his anger flickering as if he realized the enormity of his words. He looked at Pawn, lips parting as if he might say something to undo the damage, but instead, he shook his head. He turned, retreating back into the house without another word, slamming the door shut behind him. Pawn listened as Bishop's footsteps faded, a hollow finality vanishing with them.

The boy sat there, alone under the vast, empty sky. The house loomed behind him, a fortress he now felt he'd never be able to breach. He looked up at Bishop's window, where the faintest glow still pushed through the glass. The music inside swelled, louder and louder, as if mocking Pawn's sadness, a reminder that he would never belong and would forever be on the outside looking in.

(Music playing loudly in the background)
Let me tell you one more time
And now you're acting strange
I get to know the third of you
Controlling heart and soul
With a mind that's full of blues
Yeah, but baby
When the blues gets in your soul, mmh
You better take a look

And then you see
That the memory of our love
Will still be misunderstood

Slowly, the blue-eyed raven rose to his feet, pulling his hoodie over his head, seeking some semblance of comfort as he wrapped his arms around himself. The night felt vast and oppressive as he turned away from the house, each step pulling him deeper into the forest that edged the property. The trees closed around him, their branches stretching like skeletal fingers toward the sky, the darkness welcoming him, a quiet embrace he was too numb to resist.

And then, the world fell silent, indifferent, as Pawn wandered deeper, letting the weight of Bishop's words sink into his heart, a jagged, unrelenting ache that left him feeling more alone than he'd ever thought possible.

And as he vanished into the trees, the music from the house kept playing in the distance.

(Music playing loudly in the background)
"Yeah!
Now listen, baby

I wrote this song for you
I wrote those words for me
Because you're so damn blind
This part of you I couldn't see
Yeah, but baby
I love you anyway

Yeah
'Cause the memory of our love
In my soul is here to stay."

(To be continued...)