Olaf brought Mikolaj back to his room. The journey seemed over too quickly, he'd already drifted to the comfortable space between sleep and consciousness, where his eyelids were heavy and the crook of Olaf's arm pressed to his cheek. Where he could smell him, slightly salty with hints of floral perfume and the cleanliness of his clothes.

It was gone the moment Mikolaj's back slumped to his mattress. He groaned, hands reaching blindly to grip Olaf by the collar while he still leaned over his body. His eyes were half-closed, but even through his eyelids, he could see how dark the room was. Tiny Teresa likely too busy in Madame Kubas' shadow to leave a few candles flickering and the moonlight hit the room at an odd angle, only leaving pools of silver on the floor and barely touching the glint in Olaf's dark eyes. 

Olaf slipped when he tugged him, hand coming to rest beside Mikolaj's head to catch his fall as he chuckled under his breath. 

"It stinks."

His mind still spun. He still tasted acrid acidity in the back of his throat. It burned him. Burned like the harshest cold when he sank bare fingers into hard-packed snow, like the hiss of a bite from a wild animal, like the look in his father's eyes when he met him for the first time. Vermin. 

"Where are you from, Highlander?"

Mikolaj gave Olaf another tug and he slid body onto the bed. The sheets rustled and Mikolaj inhaled deeply once he could smell him again. His tongue felt so heavy in his mouth and he squeezed his eyes shut because he couldn't bear to see Olaf's face so close in the dark. To see the shadows the long strands of his hair made on his forehead, the curve of his top lip, the shape of his cheeks, those marvelously slender fingers of his. 

Did he think of Olaf because his stomach swirled and his mind slowly crawled back from its fog? Or had he always thought of him? 

His breath caught in his throat, he almost choked on it, as Olaf rubbed his thumb to his jaw and chin. "What's wrong, Miko?" His breath brushed his ear and Mikolaj tried not to snicker. "You know I can't stay. The Madame would be furious." 

Yes. Madame Kubas. Perhaps she wouldn't notice Mikolaj missing from the party, or perhaps she could excuse it because he at least had gotten paid once for the night, but Olaf? Their Duke? Their most popular attraction? He had to be there, whips and all. 

Mikolaj knew it and yet when his mouth opened he croaked, "Don't go."

Another chuckle, Olaf tilted his chin towards him. Their noses touched. "I wouldn't fret over a little puke. It happens to all of us."

Right. He vomited. His very spit still tasted sour. Mikolaj couldn't imagine how his breath must smell, how Olaf could stand to be so close to him. 

"It's not..." His words slurred. "I don't want to move in with the Wiechs." 

Olaf hummed thoughtfully. But what did he know of this confusing space Mikolaj occupied? It was every courtesan's goal to find a Keeper, to find someone willing to fund the rest of their life. No more wages given to a Madame, he'd have his own room in the Wiech estate, he could spend his days as he pleased, no more of Madame Kubas' parties, no more sharing meals with the others, no more Justyna and her tickling laughter, the warmth of Hugo's hugs when they told scary stories on the coldest winter nights, no more Stefan and his antics, no more Olaf.

No more Olaf. 

To think he wanted out of The Night Court the moment he stepped foot in Jelberok. To think he wanted this. To be cherished by someone else for the rest of his days so he wouldn't have to lift a finger and would still have more than enough money. And yet now when he closed his eyes and thought of living with the Wiechs his whole body shivered as if he was going to puke again. 

"You have to speak up then," Olaf said finally. "You sell your body, not your soul. Not your freedom."

But he'd sold them all, hadn't he? Perhaps it was different for Olaf. It was different for Marian too. But they hadn't been given an ultimatum. They hadn't left the Highlands with a cursed whisper of what they were sticking to their backs. 

"Madame Kubas will hate me." She likely already did after he embarrassed her at the auction. Just because she hadn't punished him yet didn't mean she would forget about it. Madame Kubas could hold a grudge. She collected them like she did her jewelry and the little baubles that shined in her tall hair. 

Fingers pressed to his cheek and Mikolaj felt a shudder that radiated from his hips, up his spine, until it tingled at the base of his neck. He thought of Olaf's hands in the daylight, long and slender as they wrapped around the base of his whip handle, how they flirted over the edge of his mask, eased back strands of black hair.

But in a flash, he was elsewhere. Mikolaj closed his eyes, felt the air shift around him until it was several degrees colder and the wind howled as it pressed to the walls of the shelter. He inhaled sweet-smelling smoke with every breath. Another hand brushed the sweaty hair from his forehead, another soothing voice in his ear.

"Where are you from, Highlander?"

"No one will ever take you away from me, Mircea."

Mikolaj opened his eyes. His sight adjusted to the dark. He saw Olaf staring back at him through the shade of his long eyelashes. 

"She'll only hate you if you stop making her rich." 

Mikolaj tried to scoff but his throat clenched. And what if he did? What if he told Lord Wiech he didn't want to belong to him anymore? Told Lady Wiech he was tired of throwing away her fortune because she was unlucky enough to marry a man who was a patron to the very industry she loathed? And what if he didn't have to? A world must exist where he faded from prominence because Marian Zych was everything people hoped he was.

Prettier.

Better.

Worth more visech than him. 

"What if I told her I'm Ulra?"

Mountain people. Savages. Wolves. Dancing around fires and praising old gods, traveling ancient routes throughout the Highlands, living in villages so remote they weren't on maps, a dying breed of people ever since the Saints and Santivism came to Gegra, ever since Gegraens called themselves Gegraens and the Ulra were "others". 

And Olaf stalled, as he should, fingers tensed on Mikolaj's damp cheek. Lowlanders hurt the worst of the Ulra tales. They would hear of the dark things Highland lords liked to tell their children on heinously dark nights, of people dressed in furs and sleeping with their dogs. Women who killed children for sport, men who pounded their chests and attacked from the trees, snapping curses from bloody mouths and kidnapping lost wanderers. 

"Are you?" 

"No." He'd seen wolves and he'd seen people dressed like them. He'd seen the dances around fires and the worship rituals. He'd seen the remote villages and the people who occupied them. He'd seen their caravans and their tents, the shelters they dug deep into the snow and how they huddled in their temporary ovens for warmth. And he'd seen one of their leaders, a woman with weathered tan hands with a missing finger that reared its ugly head whenever she braided her hair. 

Mikolaj rolled onto his back, slinging his arm over his eyes. "I'm a Highlander."

Were they not all the same?

***

He didn't remember falling asleep. He only knew one second he felt Olaf's nose pressed to his cheek, his warmth sinking into the sheets beside him as the waves of darkness washed over Mikolaj's body. The next he felt colder, slightly naked. His eyelids turned orange from sunlight and the air smelled of wood instead of perfume. 

Olaf's absence beside him stung like a slap but worst of all the moment he palmed the bed that he wasn't in The Night Court. 

A groan left his lips and he pulled his body into an upright position. At least he was in a bed. The shape of which was odd, round and wide as if to accommodate multiple people. The headboard was curved and it dug into his shoulder blades as he leaned against it for support. 

The sheets were red and white, irresistibly soft, but stiff with newness. There were too few pillows and the room was bare of most other decor and notably smaller than his apartments back at Madame Kubas'.

Mikolaj rubbed his eyes. One look ahead and he couldn't help but swallow a chuckle.

On the wall opposite of him, a large portrait eclipsed most of the floral wall panels. 

A portrait of him.

Naked. 

Lounging on a chaise, his head hanging off the end, his genitalia artistically covered by a large flower the same yellow used for his hair. 

He couldn't see the door until it opened. It blended perfectly with the wall but opened with a creak and he flinched as Lord Wiech appeared. He held a tray in both hands, smiling widely.

Sunlight streamed in from a row of windows and Mikolaj turned his attention to the outdoors so he wouldn't have to greet Lord Wiech with a grin and morning breath. 

The Wiechs had several estates. Lady Wiech was rich. Mikolaj never pinned down the cause of such wealth. They didn't have a notable family history, weren't high on the list of noble families of worth, and were not known outside of Gegra. But Lady Wiech had inherited an insurmountable fortune when her parents died, and upon marriage, all her funds were transferred into Lord Wiech's pockets. 

He spent it frivolously. On manors and glorious estates on the outskirts of Jelberok so he could hunt the surrounding forests dry. On commissioning naked portraits of his favorite courtesan. 

The bed dipped towards him as he sat down, balancing the tray on his knee. "Do you like your room, Little Bird?" 

"I don't remember how I got here." Mikolaj looked down. Or how he ended up without even the very little articles of clothing he tended to wear. 

"Why, I wanted to show you your room! And Madame Kubas helped us carry you into the carriage at the end of the night. It was a delightful little party. I'm sorry you missed it." 

Mikolaj pressed his lips together, humming absently as the wind outside made the branches scratch the glass windows. 

"I felt ill, My Lord." And now he was naked in a room that wasn't his in an estate too far from The Night Court than he expected to be when he closed his eyes. He wondered how he hadn't stirred when they pulled him from his bed and undressed him so he could sleep more comfortably. 

Had the pills sent him into such a deep slumber? Or had he truly been exhausted after his encounter with Marian? 

"And I'm sorry to hear it. You were such a wonder on stage. I've never felt luckier to take you home."

A wonder? Mikolaj almost snorted. He might have been if he hadn't run away. If Marian hadn't whispered venom in his ear and pushed all sense from him. 

His eyes finally flickered to the tray. Lord Wiech shifted so he could set it down on the newly polished dark wood of the bedside table. A steaming mug and a jar. The jar didn't surprise him. The cap was slightly undone, the mucusy, thick liquid inside sticking to the sides. Lord Wiech still sat with his legs hanging off the edge of the bed. He kicked off his slippers and Mikolaj crawled up from behind him, slinging his arms over his shoulders.

His muscles were sore, whole body heavy and aching, and Saints forbid his thoughts lingered too long on his head. Free of its haze, it pounded between the ears and his face felt full as if all the blood in his body gathered beneath the surface. 

The Wiechs. Something about them left a sour taste in Mikolaj's mouth. But this? This was easy. This was not the part he dreaded about his job. 

He glided his tongue along Lord Wiech's pointed ear and grinned as he gasped and leaned into his touch. "Did you come here for an early morning fuck, my Lord?" He kissed his earlobe, trailing down his neck, sucking the slackening skin before pressing it between his teeth. 

"Oh, Mikolaj," Lord Wiech purred. He turned around, lifting himself onto his knees as he engulfed Mikolaj in his arms and smashed his lips to his cheek. Mikolaj slipped his hands between their bodies, fingers making quick work of his shirt as he eased it overhead. His back tingled as Lord Wiech traced his nails along his skin.

No. He did not hate this. Perhaps he wasn't like Olaf or Marian. Perhaps he was more like Justyna. He might not have chosen this if circumstances were different but he did not feel entirely caged either, not like whores who stalked street corners and did not have the comforts of a constant bed and Madame. He may not like the obtorzys and their snide remarks or inspecting Justyna for imperfections, but he relished in the fact that as he popped open the buttons of Lord Wiech's trousers, one touch of his famous hand on his cock earned him four hundred visech. 

And when he was on his back and Lord Wiech panted over him, as his hands clawed into his bare back and he moaned loudly, he allowed his head to float. To lose himself in the pinprick of pleasure swelling his gut and to hold onto it tight until Lord Wiech gave his final grunt. 

He rolled over beside him, grabbing Mikolaj's face and both hands and planting kisses between his fingers while he mused about how perfect he was. 

Lord Wiech huffed, face sweating and boiling red as he caught his breaths. Mikolaj drummed his fingers on his chest, counting the seconds before he opened his mouth. "I'm hungry." His stomach growled for emphasis. 

"My dear, you shall have a feast. Give me a moment and I'll see if Róża is ready for breakfast."

Saying nothing, Mikolaj rolled onto his side instead. He propped his face on his fist and watched Lord Wiech's chest rise and fall as he closed his eyes and tried to find momentary peace as his body still rattled. 

Lady Wiech's given name made her seem more real. It was easy to push her into the back corner of his mind as an elusive, angry figure. A scorned wife. An adversary more likely to give silent glares than to speak her mind. But she was a person and she loathed him. 

So he traced a finger on Lord Wiech's bare chest, snuggling closer to rub his head between his shoulder and neck, hoping he got a whiff of his hair and felt the tendrils tickle him. "My lord, may we eat alone?" 

"Perish at the thought, Little Bird. My two pleasures in life are you and meals with my family." 

Mikolaj pouted, allowing a shrill whine to leave his lips. "Please? I want to be alone with you." He usually prepared himself to see her. Usually had time to gather composure or to slip something underneath his tongue and fill the powder fill his jaw and ease him into calm when she opened her mouth. 

He wasn't ready now. He hadn't even known he would be here. Mikolaj couldn't handle her quips and her stares without an advance warning. 

But Lord Wiech shook him off and began sitting up to gather his clothes. "Do not ask again." 

He wiggled himself back into his trousers as Mikolaj huffed. "I'd like to go home."

"You are home."

"I have to agree. I have not consented to any move." 

Lord Wiech was in the middle of tucking his shirt into his pants. He froze and when he lifted his head to catch Mikolaj's gaze, his expression fell to despair. When he frowned so deeply, the age lines stood out starkly, the skin around his long nose wrinkled, the grey-brown hair of his mustache seemed to droop. 

"You don't wish to live with me?" he croaked as if his heart broke. 

"I don't want to see her." 

"Please, don't be like this. You were so generous this morning." 

"If I have to much as talk to your wife I will run naked out into the snow and it will be you I haunt when the cold takes my last breath." 

He sat back up against the headboard and folded his arms over his chest. A part of him wondered if Lady Wiech stood in the hall, listening to them argue with a sense of irritating pride. Or was she too disgusted to even have someone like Mikolaj in her home?

Lord Wiech threw up his hands, an exasperated groan leaving his thin lips. "I cannot deal with you like this!" He said nothing more and stomped out of the room, all while Mikolaj crawled to the edge of the bed and inhaled noisily for the last word.

"Bring me my clothes!"

He would not be so difficult if he had to be the companion to anyone else. Or if he could spend his days without a Keeper and live like the others. They had fewer responsibilities and fewer stressors. Olaf seemed to practically schedule his appointments as if he was some sort of medic waiting to see patients. Stefan worked when he pleased, always buzzing down the halls and trying to woo whoever walked by. And Justyna? She was learning.

Mikolaj gulped. Justyna was likely in Olaf's shadow this very instant. Had she spent the night watching him in his element? She seemed so shy. He imagined her in a fit of nervous giggles as Olaf tied blindfolds and bound lovers. Did the crack of the whip ever make her flinch? Did she notice he had beautiful hands?

Mikolaj shook himself free of the thoughts but allowed one to linger.

He wanted to be there with them.