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Once they’ve taken the pistol off him, it’s straightforward work: Jim behind him, Pat pressing them both towards the bed, one well-aimed foot kicking the pistol across the floor. Late sunlight sneaks past the closed shutters. Fraser’s teeth snap, but Pat doesn’t leave off kissing him, never does; he’s never been a quitter, really.
‘Hush, lad. Don’t fight it,’ Jim warns, arms locked around Fraser’s waist, keeping him safe. ‘Don’t fight us.’
Fraser says: ‘No, no, no.’
Pat holds the scotch out of Fraser’s reach, nudging him forward even as he reaches back to place the bottle on the dresser. They’ve done this before, but it’s never gotten this bad. Usually Paddy’s involved. Usually Fraser cries, by the end. Not Paddy’s fault, this time, and what a brave new world that opens up.
‘Fucking—’ Fraser struggles like a wildcat, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘Fucking let me go, sergeant, that’s an order!’
‘We don’t take orders from suicidal alcoholics,’ says Pat, wincing when Jim glares, ‘sorry.’
Jim kisses the side of Fraser’s neck in apology, using Fraser’s momentary soft surprise to pull him backwards onto the bed. Pat’s on top of them both before Fraser can make a break for it. He clamps a hand over Fraser’s nose and mouth; he’s gentle about it, though.
‘You going to stop?’ Pat asks, thumb stroking the bridge of Fraser’s nose. ‘You going to calm down?’
When Fraser’s limbs go still, Pat lifts his hand by a half-inch, and Fraser resumes breathing. Jim strokes his hip and makes shushing sounds, fingertips dipping under the hem of his tunic, while Fraser’s gaze slides to the pistol lying by the door.
‘None of that now,’ Jim murmurs into the shell of Fraser’s ear. ‘We can’t have you carrying on like this, pet. We’d be down a major, and then what would become of us all?’
Pat tends to take a harsher approach. ‘Jesus, if your stepfather could see you now…’
Fraser promptly bites him.
‘Yeah, fair enough.’ Shaking out his hand, Pat grimaces at Jim, who looks unsympathetic. ‘I’ll do his belt.’
Fraser thrashes beneath his weight, but Pat’s as good as his word, and he makes quick work of the belt and trousers both. ‘Stop,’ Fraser says weakly, ‘no, don’t,’ although Jim is grinding up against his arse and his body’s already responding. Pat slides down the bed onto his belly and lowers his head and takes Fraser’s cock into his mouth. ‘Don’t, stop, please.’
Jim’s big hand curves over Fraser’s thigh, holding him open. ‘Did you say “don’t” and then “stop”, or “don’t stop”?’
Mouth full, Pat looks up.
Fraser shuts his eyes. He’s getting hard on Pat’s tongue. Every inch of his skin smells like whisky.
Jim pitches his voice low; he’s always been good at animal handling. ‘Just say the word.’
Fraser stays silent. Pat’s jaw aches from not moving.
Jim’s other arm is still wrapped around Fraser’s waist, and he loosens his hold now. ‘Bill, please.’
Fraser opens his eyes, then, but raises them to the ceiling. It’s with the mouth of a tortured saint that he says at last, ‘Whatever.’
Pat sucks his cock till he’s flushed and straining, rocking up into Pat’s mouth, shuddering as Jim frees himself from his trousers one-handed and begins to rub against him from behind. In perfect silence, Fraser lets them hook his ankles over Pat’s shoulders. He only makes a sound, a single whimper, when Pat pulls off with an obscene pop and ducks down to lap at his hole.
Jim’s fingers are in Fraser’s mouth, saliva glistening on the knuckles. ‘All right?’
Fraser stares up at the ceiling and doesn’t reply.
‘You taste so good,’ Pat groans, nuzzling the crease of Fraser’s thigh, and rolls his eyes at the answering noise of disbelief. ‘So sweet.’
They flip him over when he’s dripping, arrange him on his hands and knees. Pat cups his jaw and strokes it, soothes him a little, lining up his own cock with Fraser’s lips. Pat’s so hard it hurts. He knows Fraser likes to be muffled while he’s taking it, and Jim is already settling into position behind Fraser, so Pat taps Fraser’s cheek with three fingers and asks, ‘Want it?’
Eyes glazed, Fraser hums.
‘Okay,’ says Pat, relieved beyond measure. ‘Open up then.’
The broken, defeated look on Fraser’s face when Pat slides into his mouth is almost worth the bloodshed.
Jim fucks like a gentleman, steady, reliable. Generous. Pat scrabbles for purchase in Fraser’s short hair, mourning the lost length, barely managing to get a grip. He’s babbling like he always does in bed; Jim’s less of a talker than Pat, but still croons at Fraser from time to time.
‘After the war. We’ll take you home.’ Pat’s cock is buried in Fraser’s throat, one hand on the headboard to brace himself, the other cradling the lovely shape of Fraser’s skull. ‘Jim and May have got this big house… We’d keep you in the attic, wouldn’t we?’ Across the sweat-slick slope of Fraser’s shoulderblades, Jim smiles with his eyes and nods. ‘Bring you out at parties, show you off. Pass you around. Think you’d like that?’
‘It’d be good for him,’ Jim says.
‘Yeah.’ Pat’s voice cracks. ‘Do you good, Bill. Let us look after you for a bit.’
Fraser comes quietly, after that. Jim stays tucked inside him once he’s finished, lazily thrusting, and holds eye contact with Pat because Pat needs to look at Jim as he comes, always does. He spills all over Fraser’s face and apologises afterwards, even means it, tries to clean him with his tongue until Jim tells him off for bad table manners. Jim finishes last as usual.
Later, still trembling and sniffling, Fraser curls up between them. The damp rag they’ve used for cleanup flops onto the floor. He’s trying to make himself small, and Jim lets him. Pat clicks his tongue at them both, tears springing to his own eyes for some goddamn reason. He loves them so much. Three-headed dog.
After Fraser’s fallen asleep, Jim glances at Pat with lightning-struck panic.
‘What?’ Pat says. Fraser’s soft snores are lulling him into a punch-drunk sleep of his own.
‘Where’s his pistol gone?’