Kingdom Of Men - 8. "Bad Bishop"

The sound of hoofbeats faintly echoed as Pawn emerged from the forest's shadows, the dark horse carrying him effortlessly across the ranch's open expanse. When the boy reached the edge of the house, he slid gracefully off the horse's back, landing softly, almost as if gravity itself hesitated to hold him down.

Bishop remained rooted in place, his towering form somehow diminished by the boy's luminous presence. Pawn turned to him, and as their eyes met, Bishop felt the weight of all his years, his regrets, guilt, and sorrow, being laid bare. Pawn's gaze was steady, unyielding, filled with something Bishop couldn't name.

"I brought him back," Pawn said, his voice floating across the air as though it belonged to the dawn itself.

Bishop's lips parted, his breath hitching as tears spilled freely down his cheeks. "Yes," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Yes, you did," he muttered as the air around them seemed to hold its breath, the stillness broken only by the faint sounds of the night.

Pawn's gaze was calm, his movements unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. "I'll be in my room," he said, his voice low but clear, with a strange authority in it.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked toward the house. His posture was effortless yet commanding, his presence like a quiet storm.

Bishop's voice rang out, halting Pawn mid-stride. "What about the horse?"

Pawn stopped and looked over his shoulder, a faint, almost teasing smile curving his lips. "He'll be back when I need him."

As if on cue, the horse snorted softly, turning toward the forest. It trotted away, its stride elegant and free, the very embodiment of wild beauty. All three men silently watched as it vanished into the dark trees, the moment feeling utterly magical.

Rook muttered something under his breath, his tone edged with awe and unease. Knight, on the other hand, seemed transfixed, his eyes following the boy's every move as though seeing Pawn for the first time.

Bishop stood silent, his face an unreadable mask, but inside, he wrestled. He wanted to say something, anything, but words felt inadequate and clumsy compared to the quiet power Pawn exuded.

Pawn disappeared through the front door, and momentarily, the tension seemed to lift. But then Bishop's legs moved on their own, carrying him inside. He followed the boy, his eyes tracing the lines of Pawn's form and the way he glided through the hallway. Something magnetic about him made Bishop feel small and clumsy, a rare and uncomfortable sensation for a man who was used to being in control.

By the time he realized where his feet had taken him, he was standing at the threshold of Pawn's room. The door was ajar, and Bishop could hear the soft hiss of water as the boy turned on the tub. His breath hitched as he leaned against the frame, unsure why he was even there. He felt a strange mix of nervousness and exhilaration as if the raven-haired beauty had cast some spell that made it impossible for him to turn away.

The sound of water stopped, and then Pawn appeared, his movements languid and assured as he crossed the room. He stopped when he noticed Bishop, his gaze softening into something almost playful. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips as he walked toward the doorway.

Bishop's pulse quickened. He couldn't move, think, or do anything but stand there as the boy drew closer, his movement slowing into motion. But just as Pawn reached him, his hand came up, not to touch Bishop, but to grasp the edge of the door.

With deliberate movement, Pawn pushed the door closed, the soft click of the latch sliced the silence.

Bishop blinked, his trance broken. A nervous chuckle escaped his lips as he stood there in the empty hallway, feeling a little foolish and utterly bewitched.

Hours later, the living room was awash in the pale pre-dawn light, the kind that hinted at morning but refused to fully commit. Bishop sat hunched in the armchair, his broad shoulders slumped as his fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on the armrest. His usually sharp gaze was distant, his thoughts a tangled mess. Pawn hadn't emerged from his room since last night, and though Bishop told himself he didn't care, his restless pacing and sleepless night begged to differ.

The creak of the stairs broke the silence, followed by the sound of muffled whispers. Bishop looked up just in time to see Rook and Knight descending, their expressions mischievous. Rook's grin widened when he caught sight of Bishop, who looked like he'd been brooding in that chair since the dawn of time.

"Well, well," Rook drawled, his tone thick with mockery. "If it isn't our leader, Bishop the Sleepless," he stepped into the room with an exaggerated swagger, plopping himself onto the couch across from Bishop.

Knight trailed behind, quieter, as usual, carrying a book. He settled at the dining table, burying his nose in the pages, but the amused quirk of his lips betrayed that he was listening.

"Morning," Bishop muttered, his voice a low rumble. He shifted in the chair but didn't meet Rook's gaze, already bracing for the verbal onslaught he knew was coming.

Rook leaned back, stretching his arms along the top of the couch like he owned the place. "So," he began, dragging out the word. "Have you been sitting there all night? Brooding and confused?"

Bishop shot him a glare. "I'm not brooding."

"Sure," Rook said, feigning innocence. "Because it's totally normal to sit in the dark and look like you've lost a chess match to a ghost."

Knight snorted softly behind his book, flipping a page but clearly enjoying the show.

Bishop's jaw tightened. "I'm just...thinking."

"About what?" Rook pressed, leaning forward with a devilish grin. "Could it be…a certain someone who arrived last night on a mystical steed, looking like he walked out of Lord Of The Rings?"

Bishop's glare sharpened. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, come on, man," Rook said, throwing up his hands. "You've been sulking since he shut that door in your face. Admit it, you're fucking livid that the kid ignored you."

"I'm not..." Bishop snapped, sitting up straighter.

"Uh-huh," Rook said, his grin widening. "You're just 'thinking' really hard about why he hasn't graced you with his presence yet."

Bishop opened his mouth to retort but then closed it again, his lips pressing into a thin line. He hated how easily Rook could get under his skin.

"I don't know...maybe he's just not that into you," Rook continued, his tone mockingly sympathetic. "I mean, who could blame him? You're not exactly the warm and fuzzy type, Bishop."

Bishop slammed his hand on the armrest, his voice rising. "He can stay in his room. Like I give a fuck."

Knight chuckled softly from behind his book, finally speaking up. "You seem awfully ruffled about someone you claim not to care about."

Bishop shot him a look, but Knight smiled serenely, his eyes never leaving the page.

Rook clapped his hands together, laughing. "See? Even Knight agrees! Face it, man. That kid got your knickers in a twist."

Bishop stood, towering over Rook, his fists clenched. "Drop it, Rook."

"Fine, fine," Rook said, unbothered by the display of fury. "You're just emotionally...displaced."

"Displaced?" Bishop repeated, incredulous.

"It's a fancy word for jealous," Knight supplied helpfully, still grinning behind his book.

Bishop threw up his hands and stormed toward the kitchen. "You two deserve each other...Jesus Christ!"

Rook called after him, unable to resist a parting shot. "Don't forget to add extra sugar to your coffee! Maybe it'll sweeten that sour mood of yours!"

Bishop's growl was the only response as he disappeared into the next room. Rook leaned back, satisfied, while Knight shook his head, chuckling softly as he turned another page.

For a while, the house was steeped in a silence so thick it was as though even the walls held their breath. Rook and Knight sat close at the chessboard, their fingers grazing in what seemed to be careless touches but betrayed an intimacy too soft for the quiet tension. Their smiles came easily, their connection unbroken, even as they moved their pieces with practiced precision.

In contrast, Bishop stood alone in the kitchen, his broad frame leaning against the counter, both hands clutching a steaming mug of coffee. His chestnut eyes stared into the cup, unfocused, as though the dark liquid might offer answers to his growing restlessness.

Then suddenly, the sound of a door opening shattered the quiet.

All three men froze.

Bishop was the first to react, jerking upright and moving to the kitchen doorway. His eyes locked onto the staircase, waiting, tense. Slowly, the sound of bare feet pushing against the floorboard echoed through the house. Pawn appeared, descending one step at a time, a vision of effortless grace and power.

He was bare-chested, the faint sheen of morning light catching on his smooth, pale skin. His raven hair fell in wild, tangled waves, and his cerulean eyes were brighter than anyone remembered them, almost glowing. One of King's old loose black sweatpants hung low on his hips, completing the ethereal yet grounded image.

The room seemed to inhale, captivated.

Rook was the first to break the spell. "Morning, kid," he said, his voice casual, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper. Admiration, perhaps.

Pawn's gaze flicked to him, a slight smile curving his lips. "I could use some coffee," he said, his voice low and calm.

Bishop straightened, his response immediate. "I just made a fresh pot. I'll pour you a cup." His voice, though steady, carried an uncharacteristic nervousness that made both Rook and Knight glance at him in surprise.

Bishop moved toward the kitchen, but Pawn's voice stopped him. "No need."

The boy crossed the room with unhurried steps, heading straight for Rook. Without asking, he reached for the cup in Rook's hand, lifting it to his lips and taking a long sip. Rook didn't protest, his green eyes wide as they stayed fixed on Pawn's mouth.

The raven beauty set the cup back on the table, his movements slow, deliberate. He stretched his arms, his muscles rippling, skin brushing mere inches from Rook's face. His tongue darted out, tasting the coffee on his lips languidly.

Bishop, however, was anything but still. His chestnut eyes followed every movement, drilling into Pawn's skin with an intensity that felt like a physical presence.

Pawn didn't seem to notice or care. He moved toward the couch, plucking a forgotten joint from the table. He rolled it between his fingers, every movement fluid and hypnotic.

Rook finally found his voice, though it came out a bit strained. "You okay?"

Pawn's cerulean gaze lifted to meet his, cool and calm. "Fine."

Without warning, Pawn moved back to Rook, lowering himself onto the man's lap with the ease of someone who knew the effect they had. His arm slid around Rook's shoulders, causing the tall hunk to freeze, his body rigid under Pawn's weight.

"Got a light?" Pawn asked, his voice smooth.

Rook fumbled in his pocket, pulling out a lighter and offering it. His hands were unsteady, his gaze locked on Pawn's lips as the boy lit the joint and took a slow drag. Smoke curled from Pawn's mouth as he leaned back slightly, exhaling.

"I want to go for a ride," the boy said, his tone leaving no room for debate.

Rook nodded automatically, his voice failing him. Pawn took one more drag before leaning forward and pressing the joint against Rook's lips, his fingers lingering a moment too long. Rook accepted it, stunned. Then he stood, his movements commanding attention as he walked toward the stairs. His presence lingered even as he disappeared back to his room.

The silence that followed was broken by Rook muttering, "Jesus Christ, he smelled so good..."

Knight chuckled softly but said nothing, his expression a mix of amusement and intrigue.

Rook finally glanced at Bishop, who hadn't moved from his spot by the kitchen doorway. The man's chestnut eyes were dark, his jaw tight.

"Guess we better do what he says," Rook said, standing and motioning for Knight to follow him.

Bishop turned back to the kitchen as the two left to prepare the horses. He dumped his untouched coffee into the sink, but his movements were sharp and almost mechanical. His fingers gripped the counter's edge, his knuckles white, as the unbearable sound of the running water filled the room.

Outside, the stables hummed with quiet energy as Knight and Rook tightened their saddles, their horses shifting restlessly in anticipation. Bishop emerged from the house, his face set in a scowl that only deepened when he spotted the two already prepared. His usual gruffness was dialed up, but his expression softened when his gaze fell on his own horse, a muscular steed with a sleek coat glistening under the early light.

The animal whinnied softly, stepping forward to greet him, his eyes locking with his in a way that spoke of years of trust. Bishop reached out a hand, running his calloused fingers down the length of his muzzle. His breathing slowed, his grip on tension easing as the stallion nudged his shoulder with his head. "You're the only one who gets me," he muttered, a rare trace of affection coloring his tone.

Rook caught the moment and grinned, leaning toward Knight. "Look at him. Softer than butter with that horse. If only you were like that with people."

"Shut the fuck up," Bishop barked, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He mounted his horse, adjusting his reins as the stallion shifted beneath him, attuned to his every movement. The three lined up, waiting in the still morning air, the faint smell of dew and leather fusing around them.

The creak of the porch steps drew their attention. Pawn appeared, his figure emerging with a languid grace that made him seem untouchable. He moved easily, like someone who carried the world on their back yet never stumbled under its weight.

Bishop arched an eyebrow, his sarcasm a shield for his unease. "What now? Should we carry you on our backs?"

Pawn didn't acknowledge him. He didn't need to. Instead, he smiled faintly, stepping off the porch toward the dying embers of the previous night's bonfire. The three men watched, their gazes sharp with curiosity, as Pawn raised his fingers to his lips and let out a whistle.

The sound was unlike anything they'd heard before. It pierced the quiet ranch, an eerie, melodic call stretching far beyond the open field, reaching deep into the woods. The whistle reverberated, its vibration resonating in their chests, and it wasn't long before the forest responded.

From the shadows of the tree line, the black stallion emerged.

It moved like a liquid shadow, its coat shimmering with an otherworldly sheen as it entered the light. The stallion's eyes burned with an intelligent, almost human intensity, its breath visible in the cool morning air. It trotted across the field with a measured elegance, a creature unbound by the rules of men or nature.

"That's...not a normal horse," Knight murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"No kidding," Rook replied, his tone caught between awe and disbelief.

The stallion came to a halt just inches from Pawn, its powerful frame towering over the boy. Pawn reached out, his fingers brushing the stallion's neck tenderly, almost reverently. He leaned in, pressing his lips to the animal's warm hide. "I'm going to need your help today," he murmured, his voice low but carried by the stillness.

The horse snorted, its massive head pulling back in protest. Pawn chuckled softly, the sound warm and unguarded. "You're right. You're right. I'm sorry."

The men leaned forward, straining to catch the exchange, but before they could make sense of it, Pawn stepped back and, without hesitation, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants.

Bishop's sharp intake of breath broke from his mouth as Pawn slid the pants down, baring his body to the morning light. His skin gleamed ethereal, his beautiful, soft, pink uncut cock caressed by the morning breeze. Bishop's throat tightened, a low, almost imperceptible noise escaping him as Pawn kicked the pants aside, utterly unfazed by the stares he drew.

Pawn grabbed the stallion's neck with practiced ease, and the massive creature bent slightly, lowering itself just enough to let him mount. He swung up with a fluidity that made it seem like he and the horse had done this a thousand times before.

"Fuckin' unbelievable," Rook muttered, his green eyes wide with astonishment. "So... we follow you?" he asked, his voice hesitant, almost boyish.

Pawn's gaze turned to him, a glimmer of mischief lighting his cerulean eyes. He leaned forward, his voice carrying over the still air. "No," he smiled faintly. "You follow him," he added, nudging his chin towards his steed.

The stallion reared back, pawing at the air before launching into a gallop, its hooves tearing across the open field with thunderous power. Pawn's body moved with the horse, an extension of its wild, untamed spirit.

Rook and Knight exchanged a glance, laughter bubbling from their throats as they kicked their heels into their mounts. "Well, you heard him!" Rook shouted, spurring his horse forward.

But Bishop lingered. He sat motionless, his horse snorting impatiently beneath him. His chestnut eyes followed the black stallion and its enigmatic rider, a storm of emotions flickering across his face: frustration, awe, and longing.

The spell broke as Bishop clicked his tongue, urging his horse forward. "Show off," he muttered, but the words carried no malice. He leaned low over his horse's neck, chasing after the others, his heart pounding in time with the thunder of hooves.

The meadow stretched endlessly, a rolling expanse of emerald and gold. Wildflowers bloomed in vivid bursts, yellows, purples, and whites that swayed gently in the wind. The sun climbed higher, its warmth kissing their skin as their horses galloped, their manes rippling like streams of silk. In the distance, the faint outline of the forest beckoned, its trees guarding the secrets within.

Pawn's stallion moved like a shadow given life, its speed unparalleled. Bishop's, though strong and sure-footed, struggled to keep up. His breath came in sharp bursts, her muscles straining as Bishop leaned low, his face set in determination.

"You're going to wear him out," Rook called out from behind, his voice laced with amusement. His own horse galloped steadily, its pace measured, while Knight rode beside him, gaze flickering between the path ahead and Pawn's disappearing figure.

Bishop ignored him, his focus locked on Pawn. The boy was untouchable, his connection with the stallion so seamless that it seemed they moved as one. Bishop's frustration bubbled at the horse's speed and the effortless grace with which Pawn commanded it.

The meadow gave way to the forest, the transition marked by the sudden hush of the world. The air grew cooler, the sunlight filtering through the canopy in golden shafts that danced across the forest floor. The scent of pine and damp moss filled their lungs, and the sound of rushing water in the distance hinted at the familiar river beyond.

Here, the terrain was more challenging. Roots jutted out from the earth, hidden beneath a carpet of fallen leaves, while low-hanging branches threatened to snag at their clothes. Yet Pawn's stallion navigated it all with ease, its powerful legs carrying it over obstacles without breaking stride.

Bishop's horse stumbled slightly over a root, and he cursed under his breath, pulling his back into rhythm. Sweat glistened on his brow, and his jaw tightened as he urged him forward.

"You're not going to catch him," Knight softly said as he rode past, his voice calm but teasing.

Bishop shot him a glare but said nothing, his frustration only deepening as he watched Pawn disappear deeper into the forest.

Eventually, the group emerged from the trees into a clearing where the river snaked through the landscape like a silver thread. The water sparkled under the sun, its surface rippling as if alive. The bank was soft with sand, and the current a soothing melody.

Pawn had already dismounted, the dark stallion standing beside him, its head lowered as it drank from the river. The boy's bare feet pressed into the darkened sand, his gaze lost in thought.

Rook and Knight were the first to reach the clearing, their horses slowing to a trot before stopping. They dismounted, their eyes darting between the serene beauty of the river and Pawn's still figure.

Bishop was the last to arrive, his horse heaving for breath. He swung off his back, his boots sinking into the sand as he approached Pawn.

"You're gonna run that horse into the ground one day," Bishop said, his tone sharper than intended.

Pawn turned slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "He's stronger than he looks," he replied, his voice layered with meaning. He patted the stallion's neck, and the animal brayed softly in response.

Bishop opened his mouth to retort, but Rook cut him off, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Let it go, Bishop."

Pawn stepped closer to the water, his toes sinking into the cool sand. He crouched, dipping his hands into the river and splashing his face. The water trickled down his skin, catching the sunlight and making him appear almost otherworldly.

The others watched silently, their usual banter absent as the moment stretched. The beauty of the surroundings, combined with Pawn's ethereal presence, cast a spell over them all. And hex of wonderment.

Bishop glanced away, his hand brushing against his horse's mane. The familiar touch grounded him, pulling him back from the strange tension that hung in the air.

Pawn stood, the droplets on his skin catching the light. He turned to face them, his eyes glimmering like the river itself before he began walking forward, slowly submerging his pale body.

The river glistened like molten silver under the sun, its surface rippling softly as Pawn's body slowly disappeared into its depths. The men on the shore stood frozen, their gazes fixed on the spot where he had vanished. Seconds stretched painfully long, and unease suddenly settled.

Bishop was the first to break. His hands tightened into fists, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths as he stepped forward, his boots crunching against the dirt. He opened his mouth to call out, but the water broke in a glorious spray before he could speak.

Pawn's head emerged like some creature born of the river itself. His hair, black as night, clung to his face and neck, glistening. His lips parted, and his low, unrestrained gasp echoed across the clearing. He tossed his head back, sending water cascading like a shimmering curtain, his movements almost too graceful, too deliberate.

The raven-haired beauty turned, his cerulean eyes locking briefly with the men on the shore, and smiled, a playful, devil-may-care grin that stirred something primal in them all. "What the fuck are you waiting for?" he called, his voice lilting and inviting.

Rook was the first to react. He looked at Knight, his brows raising in challenge. Knight answered with a grin, and within seconds, they were stripping off their shirts, boots, and trousers, their laughter breaking the lingering tension.

"Last one in smells like Bishop's horse!" Rook shouted as he sprinted toward the water.

Knight was hot on his heels, their bare bodies splashing into the river. The cold hit them first, sharp but exhilarating, and they gasped before sinking beneath the surface.

Pawn was waiting for them. As Rook surfaced, shaking water from his hair, he felt a strong hand push down on his shoulder. "Gotcha!" Pawn declared, his voice teasing as he tried to wrestle Rook under.

Rook roared in laughter, retaliating as he grabbed Pawn's waist and spun him around. "Come here, you little cheat!"

Knight joined in, his laughter melding with theirs as he lunged for Pawn, the three becoming a blur of splashes and limbs. Pawn moved with a grace that was almost maddening, ducking and weaving through their attempts to catch him, only to strike back when they least expected it.

"Dude, hold him still!" Rook shouted to Knight, his arms reaching for Pawn, who twisted away with a laugh.

"Try harder, old man," Pawn shot back, his voice dripping with mischief.

From the shore, Bishop watched it all unfold. His horse stood behind him, nudging his arm as if sensing his unease, but he barely noticed. His chestnut eyes were locked on the scene in the water, on Pawn. The raven beauty's every movement, every smile, every sound.

The boy's skin gleamed, and water slid down the curve of his neck, tracing his collarbone and disappearing against his chest. His unguarded and rich presence sent a pang through Bishop's chest.

But suddenly, it wasn't just Pawn. It was the way Rook's hands lingered too long on the boy's waist as they wrestled. The way Knight's body pressed against Pawn's side when he tried to dunk him under. The way their faces drew a tad too close in their play, their breath mingling, their touches casual but intimate. And their cocks, out of Bishop's sight but surely brushing against each other under the water's surface.

Bishop's jaw tightened. His grip on the reins of his horse was so fierce that his knuckles whitened. Jealousy flared hot and sharp in his chest, but it wasn't just that. It was confusion, anger, longing, all tangled together in a knot he couldn't unravel.

Why was he angry? Was it the way they touched Pawn so freely? Or the fact that Pawn had looked right past him hadn't extended that smile, that invitation, to him?

His thoughts spiraled. He hated how the boy had made him feel, small, ignored, unwanted. But he hated, even more, the heat that pooled in his stomach when he watched Pawn's lithe body move, the effortless grace in every gesture, the confidence that shone through every action. Bishop acknowledged the resemblance. It was impossible not to. But there, beneath the obvious, there was more.

Something new that wasn't King's.

The laughter from the river rose again as Knight managed to catch Pawn in a headlock, only for the boy to twist out of it with a sharp flick of his hips.

"You two are hopeless!" Pawn teased, flicking water at Knight's face.

Bishop's breath hitched, his fingers loosening from the reins. What was this feeling? Lust? Anger? Was he envious of their ease, their sudden closeness?

Rook's voice broke through his thoughts. "Bishop! Get that fuckin' ass in here before you turn into a fossil!"

Pawn glanced toward the shore, and then his eyes found Bishop's momentarily. There was no challenge, no demand, just a soft, knowing look. But the moment passed as quickly as it came, and Pawn turned back to the others, diving under the water again. Bishop stood there, rooted to the spot.

Behind him, his horse nudged him again, and he sighed, running a hand over his mane. "What do you think?" he murmured. "Am I losing it?"

The horse neighed softly, his large eyes calm and understanding. Bishop sighed again, gaze flicking back to the water, to Pawn's figure as it broke the surface once more. He wanted to look away, to shake this feeling, but he couldn't. He was caught, trapped by the boy who had stirred something he couldn't name or control.

And it terrified him. Beyond measure.

A few moments later, Knight, dripping wet, emerged from the river. His body's every line and contour accentuated as he tip-toed to his horse. Reaching into his saddlebags, he pulled out a large, woven blanket, its edges frayed but soft. He spread it over the soft dirt near the riverbank, letting his body fall onto it with a contented sigh. He nestled his body, his smooth, perfectly smooth blonde peach jiggling as he adjusted into a comfortable position.

But the stillness was short-lived.

From the water came a loud splash, followed by a raucous laugh as Rook hoisted Pawn over his shoulder like a prize. The boy thrashed, water dripping from his raven hair and sliding down his toned frame, but his protests were drowned out by Rook's booming voice.

"Hey, Bishop!" Rook called, his green eyes glinting with mischief. "This is what I call a real catch!"

Bishop, standing a few paces away, his chestnut eyes still locked on the trio, visibly stiffened. The grip of his fingers on the horse's reins tightened against the dark leather.

Knight, sprawled on the blanket, chuckled softly, his head tilting toward Rook. "He's one minute away from punching you in the face," he murmured, his voice low but carrying just enough amusement to stoke the fire.

Rook grinned, unbothered, as he carefully laid Pawn onto the blanket beside Knight. For a brief moment, their bodies were inches apart, Rook leaning over him as the sunlight traced the broad planes of his chest. Pawn's cerulean eyes flicked up to meet Rook's green ones, and the air between them seemed to hum.

Bishop could barely stop his eyes from darting to Rook's waist, locking on the tall hunk's hardening shaft, the tip brushing Pawn's smooth thigh.

Then, with a quick, fluid motion, Pawn slid out from under Rook, twisting his body until he lay on his stomach. His arms folded under his head, hair curling over his cheeks, and his body glistening as if carved from some shimmering stone.

Rook grinned, unbothered by Pawn's escape, and dropped down beside him, his hand reaching for a twig to lazily spin between his fingers.

But Bishop couldn't take it anymore. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck straining as he stormed toward his horse. Without a word, he reached into his saddlebags, pulling out a well-worn fishing rod.

"I'm going to find a spot to catch some lunch," he announced, his voice clipped, betraying his irritation. His boots stirred the dirt as he left, each step a declaration of his growing frustration.

As he disappeared into the trees, a hush fell over the riverbank. Rook's loud voice softened, and Knight leaned back on his elbows, his sharp eyes settling on the still water.

But this time, Pawn's face, buried against his arms on the blanket, cautiously and discreetly punctured the sudden stillness. His bright, sharp, and curious eyes peeked out just enough to follow Bishop's retreating figure.

He watched the man's tense shoulders and how his back curved with barely concealed agitation before a sly smile tugged at the corner of the boy's lips.

Bishop eventually found himself in a small clearing, the dense forest parting just enough to reveal a towering tree whose roots plunged into the stream's waters. Its gnarled, ancient branches stretched overhead, shielding him from the sun's relentless glare. He lowered himself onto one of the broad, mossy roots, his boots scraping against the bark. From here, he could still see the blanket far in the distance, the trio's bodies moving in fluid, playful motions that the sunlight barely pierced through.

He sighed deeply, pulling his fishing rod free and casting the line into the water. The hook dipped below the surface with a soft plunk, and the ripples it created spread outward, small and insistent, like his obsessive thoughts. His chestnut eyes drifted back toward the blanket. The movement there was hard to decipher, faint and distant as the sun's glare bounced off the water. He caught just enough to see Pawn leaning toward Rook, his lips brushing close to the man's ear. A murmur passed between them, too faint to hear, followed by Rook's loud, rumbling laughter.

Bishop's shoulders tensed. He forced his gaze away, back to the water, but the image lingered: Pawn's dark hair curling against his neck, his bare skin glowing under the sun, his lips forming some secret joke meant for someone else.

He groaned softly, the sound escaping without permission. His fingers tightened around the rod as if gripping it harder could keep his thoughts in check.

It didn't.

Pawn was different.

Different in ways that made Bishop's chest ache with confusion.

He loved King. But King had been a storm: relentless, overpowering, consuming. King was power, dominance, and raw, unbridled intensity. Bishop had matched that energy. At times, to a breaking point. His love for King was born out of a need to meet fire with fire and to feel the adrenaline of being scorched.

But Pawn…

Pawn was neither storm nor fire. He was something entirely unfamiliar. A strange blend of gentleness and strength, quiet and commanding all at once. There was no storm in Pawn, but there was gravity, an irresistible pull that Bishop didn't know how to resist. Where King had demanded devotion, Pawn seemed to invite it, not with words but with an unspoken ease, a natural confidence that unsettled Bishop more than he cared to admit.

It wasn't lust, not entirely. Nor was it admiration or envy. It was something deeper, a feeling that scraped against the edges of his understanding and demanded recognition.

Bishop's swirling thoughts fractured as the rod in his hands suddenly tugged hard, the line whipping taut. He blinked, startled, and braced himself, his boots digging into the tree's roots as he gripped the rod with both hands.

The struggle was immediate and fierce. Whatever had taken the bait was strong, its power thrumming through the line as it thrashed and darted beneath the water's surface. Bishop leaned back, muscles straining as he fought to reel it in, the sound of the line whirring filling the clearing.

After a long, grueling moment, the water broke, and the fish breached the surface. It was enormous, its scales shimmering like liquid silver. Bishop's chest heaved as he pulled it closer, his eyes widening at its sheer size. It was one of the largest he'd ever caught. For a moment, he just stared, his reflection wavering in the fish's dark, glossy eyes. And then, unbidden, a memory surfaced.

"Wait," Pawn exclaimed, 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 smiled faintly at the memory, his lips curving despite himself. He looked down at the fish now, its powerful body thrashing weakly against his grip, its gills flaring as it fought for air. With a deep breath, he loosened his hold. Slowly, gently, he lowered the fish back into the water, watching as it regained its strength and darted away, its silver form disappearing into the depths.

He sat back on the root, the weight in his chest easing just a fraction as the water settled. His lips parted in a soft chuckle for the first time that day, and his head shook at the absurdity of it all.

"You're a fucking idiot..." he murmured to himself before he leaned his back against the large root, closing his eyes, trying to cage his thoughts inside the lake's tranquility.

Bishop's heart thudded in his chest as he emerged from his thoughts, realizing hours had slipped away. He had fallen asleep. The warmth of the afternoon had given way to an eerie stillness. His fishing rod lay abandoned at his feet, the line tangled and limp in the water.

With a frustrated sigh, Bishop stood, brushing the dirt from his jeans as he glanced toward the riverbank where the others had been. His brow furrowed. The blanket, the laughter, the playful splashes.

All gone.

Only his horse stood patiently, its dark coat shimmering faintly in the dwindling light.

"What the fuck?" he muttered, his voice carrying no small amount of irritation.

Bishop stormed to the riverbank, his boots kicking up pebbles as his eyes scanned the area. There were no footprints leading back into the woods, no scattered clothes or belongings to suggest where the men had gone. His gaze darted to the blanket, now slightly rumpled and damp from the earlier romp. He stepped closer, his trained eyes looking for evidence. But there were none. Not a cum stain in sight.

But the discovery brought not relief but an even sharper pang of wrath.

He threw the fishing rod against the ground, the brittle wood splintering under his frustration. "Un-fucking-believable," he hissed, running a hand through his messy hair.

And then his thoughts turned dark, spiraling into worst-case scenarios with alarming speed. They wouldn't have gone far. Rook and Knight, those grinning fools, wouldn't have dared to leave without him, unless.

Unless Pawn was with them.

The possibility hit him like a punch to the gut, the image forming unbidden in his mind: Pawn back at the ranch, sprawled across that godforsaken couch, legs open as Rook shoved his cock inside the boy's hole. And Knight, smiling beside them, pushing his tongue inside Pawn's mouth as he waited his turn. The sound of their laughter turned to gasps, playful teasing becoming something far more intimate. Bishop's chest burned with jealousy and fury, his imagination running wild as he pictured the two men betraying him. And all the while, Pawn's calm, knowing smile lingering to mock him.

Without another thought, he stalked toward his horse. The animal, sensing his agitation, pawed the ground nervously. "Let's go," Bishop barked, swinging himself onto the saddle. He gripped the reins tightly, his knuckles whitening as he clicked his tongue and kicked his heels.

The horse bolted forward, galloping through the forest with an urgency that mirrored its rider's mood. Branches whipped past, their shadows stretching like skeletal fingers across the path. Bishop's chestnut eyes narrowed as he leaned into the motion, his thoughts galloping as fast as the horse.

How could Rook betray him like this? And Knight? Knight was supposed to be the voice of reason, keeping Rook in line. Instead, he was complicit, silently allowing this treachery to unfold.

And Pawn. That fucking brat, messing with his head from the very beginning, Bishop thought.

The hunk clenched his jaw, his heart racing as the thought of Pawn's serene face filled his mind. That enigmatic smile, those piercing cerulean eyes that seemed to see straight through him. Had Pawn known what he was doing all along? Inviting this chaos with his whispers and teasing glances, playing the men against each other like pieces on a chessboard?

Soon, the ranch came into view, the sprawling house glowing faintly in the distance. Bishop's horse galloped hard, its hooves pounding against the earth as they broke free from the forest. Dust rose in clouds around them as they approached the house.

Bishop's chest heaved, his rage simmering as his mind twisted into knots. He would find them. He would drag Rook's cock out of Pawn's hole with his bare hands if he had to and demand answers. He would...

No, he stopped himself. He wouldn't demand. He would fucking take. Whatever smug little game Pawn thought he was playing, whatever betrayal Rook and Knight thought they could hide, it would end tonight.

The horse slowed as it reached the ranch's main yard, its breathing heavy but steady. Bishop swung himself down, his boots hitting the dirt with a solid thud. His eyes burned as he scanned the windows and doors, searching for any sign of movement, any moaning, whimpering, or the inviting sound of wet bodies slamming against each other.

But the house stood silent.

Ominously so, he thought.

Bishop stormed into the house, the front door slamming against the wall with a resounding crack. The noise startled Rook just enough for him to lift his joint lazily from his lips, his green eyes barely acknowledging Bishop's fiery entrance. Knight, however, didn't so much as flinch. His head remained nestled in Rook's lap, one hand holding a worn book while the other traced idle circles against Rook's thigh.

"Where the fuck is he?" Bishop barked, his chest heaving.

Rook raised an eyebrow, exhaling a long stream of smoke that curled upward like a question mark. "Good to see you too, Bishop. Care for a hit? You look tense."

"Don't fucking start with me." Bishop's voice was a low growl, his boots thudding against the hardwood floor as he advanced. "Where. Is. He?"

Knight sighed dramatically, his fingers pausing mid-gesture as he tipped his head back to look at Rook. "Told you this would happen," he muttered.

Rook smirked, flicking the ash from his joint into an empty glass on the coffee table. "You're gonna have to be more specific, partner. Who's got you frothing at the mouth?"

"You know fucking damn well who I mean!" Bishop's hands curled into fists at his sides. "Pawn. Where is he? And don't play dumb, Rook..." he warned, pausing as if the question he was about to ask came ready to detonate. "Did you fuck him?"

Rook leaned back, his free hand lazily stroking Knight's hair as he looked up at Bishop with mock innocence. "Did I fuck him? Hmm...let me think…" He tapped his chin theatrically, his lips curling into a devilish grin.

Knight groaned, sitting up slightly to glare at Rook. "Dude, stop. You're going to give him an aneurysm."

"Stay out of this, Knight," Bishop snapped, his eyes locked on Rook. "Talk."

"Well," Rook began, stretching the word out like it was something to savor. "First, there was the river. Lots of water, skinny dipping, very cinematic. Then there was the blanket. Soft, cozy, perfect for…you know…"

"Rook..." Bishop's tone was a warning, his chestnut eyes blazing.

Rook grinned wider, sitting up straight and leaning forward. "Oh, don't get your spurs in a twist. It's not what you think…or maybe it is. Who's to say? Honestly, I don't remember 'everything'."

Knight, clearly exasperated, closed his book with a snap and pushed himself off Rook's lap. "Enough." He turned to Bishop, his face calm but firm. "Nothing happened. At all. Rook's just being an ass."

"You're ruining all my fun, you know that?" Rook said, feigning offense as he returned the joint to his lips.

Bishop's shoulders relaxed slightly, but the tension in his jaw remained. "Then why did you bring him back here alone? Why did you..." he pressed, turning to Rook.

"Because," Rook interrupted, his voice steady, "He asked us to come back. That's all. Nothing happened you cocky piece of shit. Well…” He added, blowing a perfect ring of smoke into the air. "Not for lack of trying."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Bishop snapped, his irritation flaring again.

Rook chuckled, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied sigh. "Oh, you know. That kid's got a way of drawing attention. Hard to resist, wouldn't you say? But, alas…" He spread his arms in a mock gesture of defeat. "Seems our little Pawn is saving himself."

Bishop froze, his breath catching in his throat. "What...?"

Knight rolled his eyes. "Here we go."

"Yeah," Rook said, his tone teasing but laced with a hint of seriousness. "Said he wasn't interested. Not in me, anyway. Not in Knight either, poor guy." He ruffled Knight's hair, earning an unimpressed swat. "But if I were you…" Rook's voice dropped, his green eyes twinkling. "I'd check upstairs."

Bishop blinked, his anger faltering for the first time as uncertainty crept in.

"Mm-hmm." Rook nodded, reading his friend's thoughts with surgical accuracy before taking another long drag and pushing the smoke directly into Knight's mouth. The other man leaned in without hesitation, their shared breath turning the room thick with smoke and intimacy.

"Fuck me..." Bishop muttered, shaking his head as he turned toward the staircase.

Rook's laugh followed, soft and meaningful, but Bishop didn't look back. His heart thudded in his chest as he ascended, each step bringing him closer to Pawn's doorway. And to a confrontation he wasn't sure he was ready for.

The door creaked open under Bishop's touch, revealing a scene that froze him in place. Pawn stood by the record player, his back to the door, his head tilted slightly as his fingers drifted over the cracked leather case of King's vinyl collection. The room was bathed in the golden haze, the curtains shifting gently in the breeze, and a melody came from the player. A deep, velvety blues tune clawed at Bishop's heart with its raw emotion.

It was one of King's favorites.

(Music playing in the background)
"Since I met you baby my whole life has changed
Since I met you baby my whole life has changed
And everybody tells me that I am not the same."

Pawn's voice broke the moment, soft and almost melodic itself. "I didn't know what to pick. So…" His hand hovered over the records before resting lightly on the edge of the case. "I just went with whatever felt right."

Bishop's throat tightened as he stood frozen in the doorway, the words catching somewhere deep in his chest. There was something so simple yet utterly magnetic about how Pawn spoke.

It was as if the boy had found a way to reach inside and quiet every storm Bishop carried.

As Bishop himself had done to King.

Pawn turned then, his cerulean eyes meeting Bishop's. The corners of his lips curved into a small, teasing smile. "Are you just going to stand there?"

Bishop's breath left him in a rush, and his hands fumbled against his sides, uncertain of what to do or say. Something in Pawn's gaze held him still, a weightless power that rooted him to the floor while making him feel like he might float away simultaneously. Then, as Pawn's smile softened, something broke in Bishop.

(Music playing in the background)
"I don't need nobody to tell my troubles to
I don't need nobody to tell my troubles to
Cause since I met you, baby all I need is you"

"I'm sorry." The words spilled from Bishop's lips, hoarse and unsteady. His chest heaved as he spoke again. "I was an idiot. I didn't mean to hurt you. I..."

Pawn said nothing, simply watching him. His gaze wasn't harsh or unforgiving, but it was heavy and probing, and it made Bishop feel as though every layer of armor he'd built over the years was being stripped away. The silence stretched, unbearable, until Bishop's voice cracked again.

"What are you thinking?" His words were pleading now, his vulnerability raw. "Please...say something."

Pawn tilted his head, his gaze steady. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his tone gentle yet deliberate. "Do you remember the other day when you took me fishing?"

Bishop blinked, startled by the question. He nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

Pawn continued, his voice calm, his words unfolding like poetry. "I've been thinking about that. And it hit me today." He turned fully to face Bishop now, his bare feet soundless against the floor as he stepped closer. "You're like that fish we caught."

Bishop furrowed his brow, confusion mingling with the strange ache that Pawn's words stirred in him. "What do you mean?"

Pawn's smile was faint, but his eyes shimmered with something deeper. "You can't be reeled in too quickly. Not like the others. You've got to struggle first. Thrash, burn off that endless energy," the boy continued. "And then, once you tire...only then...can someone reel you in."

The room seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with the weight of Pawn's words.

(Music playing in the background)
"Since I met you, baby I'm a happy man
Since I met you baby I'm a happy man
I'm gonna try to please you in every way I can."

Bishop's eyes stung, tears welling at the edges. For a moment, he looked away, ashamed of the emotion rising in him, but then Pawn stepped closer, close enough that Bishop could feel his warmth and breath. They both smelled of lavender.

Rook was right. It was glorious.

"And you think you can reel me in?" Bishop whispered, his voice trembling as Pawn's mouth neared his.

The boy tilted his head, his lips curving into the faintest smirk. "I don't think." His voice dropped, low and sure.

"I know."

(To be continued...)