The next morning dawned bright and clear, bathing the Osborne farm in golden light.

Richard Ulrich drank his milk, ate a bagel with plentiful amounts of cream cheese and jam, then he claimed his baseball hat from a shelf by the door and pulled on his boots.

He stumbled out of the farmhouse, bleary-eyed and disheveled. His usually meticulously styled platinum hair fell in unkempt waves around his face, with dark roots starting to show after weeks of neglect.

As he leaned against a rough-hewn fence post, feeling the splintered wood beneath his palms, Richard caught sight of Thomas. The young farmhand was already hard at work, his muscular arms glistening with sweat as he hefted bales of hay with ease. Thomas glanced up, flashing Richard a smile that was equal parts warmth and amusement.

"Well, look who's finally decided to grace us with his presence," Thomas called out, his voice carrying a hint of playful mockery. "Did the rooster's crow disturb your beauty sleep, Master Richard?"

Richard felt heat rising to his cheeks. "I'll have you know, I've been up for hours," he lied, trying to sound dignified. "I was just... meditating."

Thomas's laugh rang out across the farmyard, rich and full. "Meditating, eh? Is that what they call it in the city?"

He set down the hay bale and sauntered over to Richard. "Well, now that you're done with your 'meditation,' perhaps you'd like to try some real work?"

The sheep called out to one another across the fields. Sparrows darted among the branches of nearby trees. Richard shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling the rough gravel beneath his feet.

"You'll get used to it. Now, are you just going to stand there looking pretty, or are you going to help?"

Before Richard could protest, Thomas had thrust a pitchfork into his hands. "The stables need mucking out. Think you can handle it, my Lord?"

Richard stared at the pitchfork as if it might bite him. "I... of course I can handle it," he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. "How hard can it be?"

Thomas's grin widened. "Oh, you'll see. Just try not to poke yourself with that thing, alright? I'd hate to have to explain to your father why his grown son returned home full of holes."

As Thomas walked away, whistling cheerfully, Richard glared at his retreating back. How dare he assume Richard couldn't handle a little manual labor? He'd show him. He'd muck out those stables so well they'd... Well, he wasn't quite sure what well-mucked stables looked like, but he was determined to find out.

An hour later, Richard emerged from the stables, sweaty, disheveled, and smelling distinctly of horse manure. His arms ached, his back screamed in protest, and he was fairly certain he'd managed to get more muck on himself than in the wheelbarrow. But the stables were clean – or at least, cleaner than they had been.

He found Thomas by the well, drawing up a bucket of water. The farmhand took one look at Richard and burst out laughing.

"Oh my," Thomas chuckled, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "You look like you've been wrestling with the pigs. And lost."

Richard scowled. "Yes, well, not all of us were born with a pitchfork in our hands," he retorted, lips twitching into a reluctant smile.

Thomas's expression softened slightly.

“Sun’s hot,” he said eventually. “I can see why you wear that thing on your head.

“Here," he continued, offering Richard the bucket of water. "You look like you could use this more than the horses."

Gratefully, Richard splashed the cool water on his face and arms, washing away some of the grime. As he straightened up, he caught Thomas watching him with an unreadable expression.

"What?" Richard asked, suddenly self-conscious.

Thomas shook his head, as if coming out of a daze. "Nothing," he said quickly. "I just... I'm impressed, that's all. I half expected you to give up and run back to the house screaming for a bath and a manicure."

Richard felt a strange warmth in his chest at the compliment, hidden though it was beneath the teasing. "Yes, well, I'm full of surprises," he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"That you are," Thomas murmured, almost too quietly for Richard to hear. Then, louder, "Come on, then. If you're done preening, there's plenty more work to be done."

As the sun reached its zenith, Thomas finally called a halt to their labors.

"Lunch break," he announced, wiping sweat from his brow. "Race you to the stream?"

Before Richard could respond, Thomas had taken off across the field, his long legs eating up the distance. "That's not fair!" Richard protested, stumbling after him. "You know I don't know the way!"

By the time Richard reached the stream, panting and out of breath, Thomas was already splashing in the cool water, his shirt discarded on the bank and his breeches were gone.

"Took you long enough," he teased.

As Richard waded into the stream, relishing the feel of the cool water on his overheated skin, he noticed something odd.

There, on Thomas's back, was a strange symbol, almost like a tattoo but... different. It seemed to shimmer and move in the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees.

"Thomas," Richard said hesitantly, "what's that on your back?"

Thomas stiffened. "It's nothing," he said quickly, too quickly. "Just a birthmark."

Thomas had dunked himself under the water, resurfacing with a forced grin.

"Last one back to the farm is a rotten egg!" he called out, scrambling for the bank.

The sweet scent of fresh-baked bread wafted from the open kitchen window as they made their way back to the farmhouse. Inside, they found Mr. Osborne pulling a golden-brown loaf from the oven.

"Ah, boys, perfect timing," the older man said with a warm smile. "Martha's left us some cold cuts and cheese. Why don't you get cleaned up, and we'll have ourselves a nice lunch?"

As they sat around the worn wooden table, steam rising from bowls of hearty vegetable soup to accompany the bread and cold meats, Richard found himself studying Thomas. The young man was laughing at something Mr. Osborne had said, his whole face lighting up with mirth.

As they finished their hearty lunch of stew and crusty bread, Thomas stood up, brushing crumbs from his flour-dusted apron. "Well, I'd better get back to it," he said. "Those loaves won't bake themselves."

"I'll be out in the yard for the rest of the break," Richard said, tearing his gaze away from Thomas. "Thought I might get some exercise in before the afternoon chores."

Mr. Osborne nodded approvingly.

Outside, in a secluded corner of the farmyard, Richard set about his own routine. He started with push-ups, his arms straining as he lowered himself to the ground and pushed back up.

After working up a sweat with bodyweight exercises, Richard retrieved a wooden practice sword from a nearby shed. He moved through the basic forms he'd learned in his youth.

Glancing around to ensure he was alone, Richard focused on a small pebble lying in the dust. His eyes flashed red for a brief moment as he whispered, "Hover." The pebble quivered and then rose slowly into the air, hovering at eye level.

A sudden noise made Richard start, breaking his concentration. The pebble dropped back to the ground as he whirled around, wooden sword at the ready.

But it was only Thomas watching him with an unreadable expression. "Impressive footwork," he said, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Though I doubt a real opponent would stand still for so long."

Richard felt his face flush, hoping Thomas hadn't noticed anything unusual. "Yes, well, it's been a while since I've had a proper sparring partner," he said, trying to keep his voice light.

Thomas's eyes sparkled with challenge. "Perhaps we'll have to remedy that sometime. But for now, I could use a hand with the bread if you're done playing soldier."

Richard nodded and followed him back into the kitchen. The air was thick with the yeasty smell of rising dough.

"Here," Thomas said, kneading dough with those strong and capable hands of his. He cut off a portion of the dough and pushed it towards Richard. "Make yourself useful."

Richard approached the counter, acutely aware of Thomas's proximity. He began to knead the dough.

"No, no," Thomas said, moving to stand behind Richard. "Like this." He placed his hands over Richard's, guiding them in the proper kneading motion. Richard felt the warmth of Thomas's chest against his back, the strength in those big hands as they moved together.

For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them, hands working in unison, the steady rhythm of their breathing syncing up. Richard felt a familiar tingling in his fingertips, the magic within him responding to the intensity of the moment. He quickly stamped it down, hoping Thomas hadn't noticed the brief golden glow that had begun to emanate from their joined hands.

If Thomas had seen anything unusual, he gave no sign. He simply stepped back, leaving Richard feeling oddly bereft.

"You're not useless after all," Thomas called out, his voice gruff but lacking its usual edge. "Might make a decent baker of you yet."

Richard grinned, recognizing the backhanded compliment for what it was. "High praise indeed, coming from you," he shot back.

Thomas snorted, a sound that might have been mistaken for derision if Richard hadn't caught the slight upward quirk of his lips. "Don't let it go to your head. You've still got a long way to go before you're worth your salt around here."

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Richard opened his mouth to respond, but a sudden crash from outside interrupted him.

Both men rushed to the window. In the farmyard, a group of village children had knocked over a stack of empty crates. They stood frozen, wide-eyed with fear as they stared at the imposing figure of Martha Osborne striding towards them.

"Damn it," Thomas muttered, already moving towards the door. "That'll be trouble."

Richard followed close behind. Martha Osborne loomed over the children, her face red with anger. "You little miscreants!" she bellowed. "Always causing trouble! I've half a mind to--"

"Mum," Thomas called out. "It was an accident, I'm sure. No harm done."

"No harm? Those crates cost money, Thomas! And the mess--"

"We'll clean it up," Richard interjected. He felt Thomas's eyes on him but pressed on. "The children can help. It'll be set right in no time."

Mrs. Osborne deflated, waving a hand dismissively. "Fine. But see that it's done properly. And you lot," she turned to the children, "stay out of trouble, or I'll have words with your parents."

As Mrs. Osborne stomped away, Richard and Thomas exchanged a look of shared relief. The children, sensing the danger had passed, began to relax.

"Right then," Thomas said, clapping his hands together. "Let's get this sorted. You there," he pointed to the oldest boy, "fetch some brooms from the shed. The rest of you start gathering up these crates."

As they worked to clean up the mess, Richard found himself drawn into their orbit. He listened to the children's chatter, learning snippets about village life and the farm's place in their community. Thomas, too, seemed more at ease, occasionally chuckling at a child's joke or offering a word of praise for a job well done.

"You're good with them," Richard said quietly as they stacked the last of the crates.

Thomas shrugged, but there was a hint of pride in his eyes. "Known most of them since they were babies in arms. Someone's got to keep them in line."

"And out of trouble with Mrs. Osborne, it seems."

"Aye, well. Mum’s not as bad as she seems. Just set in her ways, is all."

One of the younger girls tugged at Thomas's sleeve.

"Mr. Thomas," she said, her eyes wide and serious. "Can you show us the magic trick again? Please?"

Richard paused. Magic? But Thomas had shown no signs of...

To his surprise, Thomas laughed. "Magic trick, is it? Well, I suppose you've earned it, helping us clean up and all."

With a flourish that spoke of much practice, Thomas produced a coin from behind the girl's ear, then made it dance across his knuckles before vanishing it away again. The children squealed with delight, clamoring for more.

Richard watched, mesmerized. It wasn't real magic, of course – just sleight of hand and misdirection.

As Thomas moved away, Mr. Osborne appeared in the doorway. "Ah, Richard, there you are. Ready for that tour I promised you?"

Richard nodded. He wiped his flour-covered hands on a nearby towel and followed Mr. Osborne out into the bright afternoon sun. The farmyard stretched out before them, a patchwork of buildings, fences, and well-worn paths.

"We'll start with the barn," Mr. Osborne said, gesturing to a large red structure that dominated the nearby landscape. "It's the heart of any farm, you might say."

As they approached, Richard was struck by the sheer size of the building. Its weathered red paint spoke of years of service, while the fresh white trim around the windows and doors hinted at regular maintenance.

They stepped inside, and Richard's eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimmer light. The scent of hay and leather filled his nostrils, along with the earthy smell of livestock. Shafts of sunlight streamed through gaps in the wooden walls, illuminating motes of dust that danced in the air.

As Mr. Osborne launched into an explanation of the barn's various features, Richard's attention was caught by a rusty nail protruding dangerously from one of the support beams.

Without thinking, he muttered under his breath, "Mend." His eyes flashed red for a split second, and the nail slowly worked its way back into the wood.

"Did you say something, lad?" Mr. Osborne asked, turning to look at him.

Richard quickly shook his head. "No, sir. Just... admiring the scene."

Mr. Osborne beamed. "Aye, that it is. But a barn is more than just wood and nails, Richard. It's our entire life. Birth, growth, harvest, and renewal – it all happens here, year after year."

As they exited the barn, Richard's gaze was drawn to a smaller structure set apart from the other buildings. Its walls were painted a deep green, and unlike the other structures on the farm, it bore no signs of wear or age.

"What's that building over there?" Richard asked curiously.

Mr. Osborne's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. "Ah, that's Thomas's shed. He likes his privacy there, so we don't generally go inside. Now, let me show you the orchard. The apples should be ripening nicely by now."

As they walked towards the orchard, Richard couldn't help but cast one last glance at the green building. There was something about it. But he pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on Mr. Osborne's words as they entered the dappled shade of the apple trees.

The orchard was a world unto itself, rows of gnarled trees stretching out in neat lines. The air was heavy with the sweet scent of ripening fruit, and bees buzzed lazily from blossom to blossom.

"These trees have been in my family for generations," Mr. Osborne said, reaching up to pluck a ripe apple from a low-hanging branch. He polished it on his shirt before offering it to Richard. "Go on, give it a try."

Richard took a bite, the crisp flesh of the apple bursting with flavor in his mouth. It was unlike anything he'd tasted in the city – fresh, crispy and juicy.

"It's incredible," he said, wiping juice from his chin.

Mr. Osborne smiled. "That's the taste of the richness of this land, Master Richard. You won't find quality like this in any market in the city."

They visited the chicken coops, where hens clucked and scratched in the dirt, and the vegetable gardens, bursting with ripe tomatoes, peppers, and squash.

Richard learned of the great storm that had nearly toppled the old oak tree by the pond, and how Thomas, just a boy then, had stayed up all night with his father to shore up its roots.

"Mr. Osborne," Richard said, pausing at the farmhouse door, "I hope you know how much I appreciate your discretion. My presence here... it's more than just a whim or an escape."

The older man's eyes crinkled with understanding. "We're honored to have you, Master Richard. And if I may be so bold, I think you'll find that sometimes, the greatest treasures are found in the simplest of places."

Richard nodded, trying to keep his expression neutral. "Yes, very lucky," he agreed.

As they stepped into the cool shade of the farmhouse, Richard caught sight of Thomas by the hearth, his muscular arms dusted with flour, a streak of it across one cheek.

"Good day, Master Richard," Thomas said. He wiped his flour-covered hands on his apron, leaving white streaks across the worn fabric. "I hope you're hungry. The bread will be ready soon, and I've made some fresh cheese to go with it."

Richard's stomach rumbled in response, eliciting a chuckle from both Thomas and Mr. Osborne.

"I suppose that answers that question," Richard said. "I never knew I could be so ravenous. In the city, I barely touched my breakfast most days."

Mr. Osborne nodded approvingly. "Hard work builds an appetite, Master Richard. Speaking of which, I believe it's time to check on the sheep. Would you care to join me?"

Richard hesitated briefly before he nodded. "Of course, Mr. Osborne. Lead the way."

As they left the warmth of the kitchen, Richard couldn't help but cast one last glance over his shoulder. Thomas had returned to his baking, strong hands working the dough with practiced ease. Richard swallowed hard and followed Mr. Osborne out into the sunlight.

The sheep pasture lay beyond a gently sloping hill, the path lined with wildflowers in a riot of colors. Bees buzzed lazily from blossom to blossom, their gentle hum a counterpoint to the crunch of gravel beneath their feet. As they crested the hill, the vista opened up before them – rolling green fields dotted with fluffy white shapes, the distant treeline a dark smudge against the horizon.

"Mr. Osborne," Richard said as they reached the flock, "may I ask you something?"

The older man nodded, his attention split between Richard and a nearby ewe that seemed to be limping slightly. "Of course, Master Richard."

"How did you come to work for my family? You seem... different from the other staff I've known."

Mr. Osborne chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to come from his very core. "Ah, now that's a story, Master Richard. You see, I wasn't always a simple farmhand. Many years ago, I served in the Royal Army, alongside your father."

Richard's eyes widened in surprise. "You knew my father? He's never mentioned..."

"I'm not surprised," Mr. Osborne said, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "We were close once, your father and I. Fought side by side in the Citrus Wars. But war... war changes a man, Master Richard. When it was over, your father threw himself into politics and business, building the Ulrich empire."

"Did you ever consider following him into that world?" Richard asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Mr. Osborne chuckled, a dry sound that held little humor. "Politics? No, Master Richard. I've seen enough scheming and backstabbing to last a lifetime. The land is honest. It doesn't lie or make false promises. You put in the work, and it gives back. Simple as that."

Mr. Osborne straightened up, patting a nearby ewe gently before letting her rejoin the flock.

"Your father chose his path, and I chose mine. Can't say I regret it, even on the hardest days."

As they walked, Richard noticed how Mr. Osborne's hand occasionally brushed against the rough bark of the apple trees they passed.

The scent of freshly baked bread greeted them as they approached the cottage, along with the rich aroma of stew bubbling on the hearth.

Thomas stood in the doorway, his broad frame silhouetted against the warm light spilling out from inside.

As they drew closer, Martha Osborne appeared beside Thomas, wiping her hands on her apron. Her kind face broke into a warm smile at the sight of them.

"There you are!" she called out. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost out there in the fields."

Mr. Osborne chuckled. "Just giving the lad a proper tour, dear. Can't expect him to work the land if he doesn't know it."

As they reached the porch, Martha's expression turned slightly apologetic. "I'm afraid we won't be able to eat together. Ode and I have our hands full taking care of the children – Billy's got a fever, and Sarah won't stop fussing."

"No worries, Mum," Thomas said. "Richard and I will make dinner for ourselves."

"Oh, would you? I know you don't usually bother with proper meals when left to your own devices."

Thomas rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "I think I can manage to serve up some stew without burning the place down."

Martha laughed, reaching up to pat Thomas's cheek affectionately. "I'm sure you can, dear."

Richard felt a flutter of nervousness at the prospect of dining alone with Thomas.

"Are you sure you don't need any help with the children?" Richard offered.

"That's kind of you, dear," Martha said, "but we'll manage. You boys enjoy your dinner. And it'll be good for you two to have some time to get to know each other better. Richard's going to be here for a while, after all."

With that, Martha and Ode bid them goodnight and went towards a path that led away from the cottage to the main farmhouse to tend to the children.

As Thomas opened the door, the aroma of Martha's stew wafted out, making Richard's stomach growl audibly.

Thomas chuckled. "Come on in. Let's get some food in you before you waste away."

They settled around the worn wooden table, steam rising from bowls of hearty stew and thick slices of crusty bread waiting to be slathered with fresh butter.

Thomas took a seat beside him, their shoulders brushing slightly in the intimate space.

"How was your day, Master Richard?" he asked, passing a basket of bread.

Richard’s hand brushed against Thomas's as he took a piece. "It was... enlightening," he replied, meeting Thomas's warm brown eyes. "And please, just call me Richard. There's no need for formalities here."

Thomas's smile widened, a dimple appearing in his cheek. "As you wish... Richard."

Thomas's eyes then wandered, drawn to the tome peeking out from the satchel resting at the foot of the chair. His gaze lingered on the spine of one particularly ancient-looking tome before he straightened up.

"I saw you in the orchard today," Thomas said suddenly, breaking the silence. "With old Mrs. Hawthorne's cat stuck up in the apple tree."

Richard froze, his spoon halfway to his mouth. He remembered the incident vividly – the cat had been too frightened to come down, and in a moment of weakness, he'd used a touch of magic to coax it into his arms. He'd thought no one was watching. "Oh?" he managed, trying to keep his voice steady. "I hope you didn't see me make a fool of myself trying to climb up there."

Thomas chuckled. "On the contrary. I've never seen anyone get that ornery beast down so quickly. You've got quite a way with animals, it seems."

Richard relaxed slightly, offering a self-deprecating smile. "Just got lucky, I suppose. The poor thing was more scared than anything."

"Lucky, eh? Seems you've got a knack for more than just farm work." His hand came to rest on Richard's forearm.

Richard felt a flush creep up his neck under Thomas's intense gaze. He reached for his glass of water.

The glass slipped from his grasp, tipping precariously.

Without thinking, Richard's hand shot out, his reflexes unnaturally quick. The glass froze mid-air, suspended for a fraction of a second before he snatched it back. Water sloshed over the rim, spattering the table.

Thomas blinked, his brow furrowing. "How did you...?"

"Just quick reflexes," Richard said hastily, mopping up the spill with his napkin. His heart pounded in his chest, aware of how close he'd come to exposing himself.

Thomas leaned in, his voice low and husky. "You know, Richard, I can't help but feel there's more to you than meets the eye.” He reached to put his hand on Richard's thigh. “And I'd very much like to uncover all your... talents."

Richard licked his lips nervously.

"Perhaps," Richard murmured, "you'd like a private demonstration?"

Thomas’s grip on Richard's arm tightening slightly. He stood up slowly, never breaking eye contact, and pulled Richard to his feet. They stood chest to chest, the heat of their bodies mingling.

"I think," Thomas said, his breath hot against Richard's ear, "that it's time we moved this conversation somewhere more... private."

... And they had very explicit sex.