“You know what I mean.”
Briar scratched a fingernail down his glass. “I guzzle about two liters of revolting potion a day just to stay standing. Takes me ages just to get out of bed. Other than that, all right.” Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe the gentle look on Rowan’s face, but the rest came out. “Actually, not really. I’m tired. Then I get angry that I’m tired and push myself to work, which only makes me more tired. Sometimes I think—”
He swallowed the rest. He couldn’t tell Rowan how, sometimes, he thought about putting it all aside to live out what little time he had left here. In Coill Darragh. By Rowan’s side. He sometimes questioned if his dreams had been the right ones, or if it was all a waste of precious time. Despite Niamh’s prophecies, his faith that a cure could be found faltered daily.
That option felt a lot like surrender, though, and it would still hurt to die, even in the comfort of Rowan’s arms. Gretchen had pretended her death didn’t matter, but that night on the roof, he’d seen her grief, her regret.
He changed the subject. “What about you?”
“Surviving. Helping Sorcha best I can while she recovers. Sometimes still get…” He shook his head. “Ah, we’ll be grand, won’t we? No need to bring down your celebrations.”
“You mean a countdown to calamityisn’tlifting your spirits? Where’s your medieval humor?”
Rowan snorted. “That would call for more drink or more games.”
Inspired, Briar shoved his glass so that it slid to the other end of the table. He fished in the pocket of his skirt for a coin.
Rowan chuckled. “It has pockets?”
“Yes, I’m not an animal.”
Briar put the coin in Rowan’s hand. “For every one you get in the cup, you’ll add a year to my life, and for every one you miss, you shave off a week—”
Rowan scowled playfully. “Games are meant to be fun.”
“You wanted medieval games. I made one up. Give it a go, at least.”
Rowan humored him and flicked the coin. It spun end over end, flashing. The sloppy clink of it hitting the dregs of Briar’s cider announced his success. Briar cheered and pulled out another coin so he could try. He’d had more to drink and found it difficult to look away from Rowan smiling brightly at him. He tossed the coin.
In retrospect, Briar’s first mistake had been accepting the drink. Drinking more after he’d already had whiskey was the second.
The third mistake was sitting in a semicircle booth. They sat, at first, a small distance apart, but Briar swayed against the curved back as he launched his coin. He lost balance and slid, coming to rest against Rowan’s shoulder, whose aura swaddled Briar in a feeling whiskey could not match. His arm, once along the back of the booth, settled over Briar’s shoulder instead. His hand dangled, loose and relaxed, but it tensed when Briar reached up to thread his fingers with Rowan’s own.
The final mistake was to look up. Rowan’s gaze was steady, curious, assessing. Possibly wondering if Briar had drunk too much. Fuzzy as he felt, Briar knew it was nothing to do with alcohol. He wanted this. He wanted it so badly he ached just looking at Rowan’s soft eyes. Stubble grew on his jaw, but it was far from the magnificent scruff Briar had once loved running his fingers through while kissing.
He hadn’t checked to see if his coin had made it.
“I miss your beard,” Briar said. The ache worsened. “I miss you.”
“I’m here,” said Rowan.
Briar sucked his lips between his teeth. He was so caught in memory, he almost thought he could taste Rowan on them. The gesture affected Rowan. Briar could feel the corded tension in the muscles cushioning his head. If he didn’t sit up now, he was going to reach up and drag Rowan by his unbearded face into a kiss and suffer all the guilt and regret that would cause.
Vatii flicked her tail and said, low in warning, “Briar…”
With arduous willpower, he sat forward. By some miracle, his coin was in the cup alongside Rowan’s. “I’ll get the next round,” he said.
Rowan took a while to speak. “Ah, sure you shouldn’t be heading home?”
“You bought the last. Just one. I’ll be back.” Really, he just needed space. He walked a remarkably straight line to the bar, proving to himself that his actions were his own stupidity and not a result of impairment.
Aisling smiled tightly, still not entirely herself after all the terrible news of Kenneth, though she put on a brave front. “Sure look who it is. What can I get you, Briar?”
“Stout and a cider?”
As she went to fetch glasses, Briar scanned the rows of drinks behind the bar, Éibhear’s old potions still lining the topmost shelf. His eyes caught on the one he’d noticed when he first came to the Swan and Cygnet—a steely brew in a twisted bottle. Liquid courage. Only when he’d last seen it, it had been full.
He remembered Rowan, snow in his hair, standing on Briar’s doorstep, breathlessly come to tell him something important.
