The woman leaves quickly. The bell over the door chimes with frantic cheer, and Aven leans heavily on the counter, head hanging between his shoulders. He looks like he might be sick. The cold patch lingers a second longer than it should, then thins, leaving wet earth and a metallic bite behind.
I move closer, stepping into his space until the heat of my body has to be making a dent in the residual chill. I don't ask him who he saw. I don't ask whether the chains were visible this time. I only put my hand on the small of his back, broad and steady, and wait. He leans into me for less than a second, a sharp collapse of weight he corrects almost immediately. He's always correcting. Always trying to stand on his own feet when the floor beneath him is water.
"I'm fine," he mutters to the floorboards. "Just a very talkative register. It has opinions on fiscal policy."
"Sit down for five minutes," I say. "Drink water. Then you can decide if you're done."
His mouth opens, probably to argue, which is almost reassuring. "That your official medical opinion?"
"No. That's me giving you the chance to make the smart choice before I become irritating."
"You're always irritating," he says, but he takes the glass of water Soren slides toward him without looking. His fingers close around it too tightly. The water trembles against the rim.
Cain is off the couch before Aven has taken a full breath. Aven lifts one hand without looking at him, palm out, a silent hold. "I'm not dying. I'm sitting."
By dinner, the house feels like it's holding its breath. The wood creaks as if under heavy footfalls, but the hallways are empty. We eat pasta at the small table near the kitchen because Soren can't be trusted not to forget food exists, and Cain tends to consider blood a complete meal, which isn't useful for the living people in the room. Aven picks at his bowl like the noodles might start whispering secrets. He avoids looking at me. He avoids looking at Cain. He does look at Soren, but only because Soren keeps threatening to garnish his plate with cursed basil if he doesn't eat.
"I'm going to sleep in my own room tonight," Aven says after dinner, standing and taking his plate to the sink. He doesn't look at any of us. "Independent adulthood. It's a thing. I should try it. I can't live in your pocket forever, Ira."
Soren snorts into his wine. "You can barely handle a sandwich without supervision, darling. You want to handle a dark room by yourself? Very brave. Very stupid. Historically a popular combination."
"I'm twenty-six, Soren. Not a toddler." Aven's shoulders are tight, the circles under his eyes dark enough to look bruised. "I just need quiet. Real quiet. My own space. My own head. Is that too much to ask for?"
Cain tilts his head, dark curls slipping over his forehead. "Silence isn't the same thing as solitude, Aven."
"No, but I'd like to try one without being wrapped in the other for a night." His jaw sets in the stubborn line I've come to recognize. "I'm fine. Goodnight."
I let him go. I don't say a word as he climbs the stairs, his footsteps retreating into the upper hallway. I know that look. It's the same look a soldier gets right before doing something brave and stupid because they're tired of being afraid. They want to prove they're not a coward even when the enemy has no face. I understand the impulse. I also know it doesn't make the enemy less real.
I sit in the living room and tune myself to the frequency of the house, mentally counting the time. Thirty minutes later, the floorboards above me creak too often for sleep. At thirty-six, the plumbing knocks once, and Aven swears at it like it personally wronged him. At forty, the house goes still in a way I don't trust. Cain pauses in the kitchen, one hand on a clean glass. Soren's magic flickers in the library. I keep my eyes on the staircase and wait.
At forty-two, my door opens.
Aven stands in the threshold wrapped in the wool blanket he keeps pretending he doesn't use. He looks furious, embarrassed, and half-dead from the noise, his hair a wreck, his eyes tracking things in the hallway I can't see. The blanket is clenched around his shoulders like armor. His mouth twists when he sees me awake, because apparently my being prepared is another personal attack.
"The independent adulthood trial period has ended," he says, voice thin. "It was poorly reviewed by management."
I say nothing. That's the right answer. I only shift back the covers and give him the bed without making him ask for it again.
He exhales like he hates me for understanding and crawls in, dragging the blanket with him. He curls on the far side at first, close to the wall, knees drawn up, shoulders locked. He looks like a man who's run out of places to stand inside his own head. The room changes around him, enough that the air tightens. The dead have followed him to the threshold. Not inside. Not yet. But close enough to press.
I lie down beside him without touching him at first. The protective field settles over the bed by inches, not a wall slammed into place but density, weight, my will anchored through the iron in the walls and the salt in the floorboards. I feel the pressure at the door, cold and oily, trying to find a gap in my resolve. I don't know what it is. That bothers me more than the pressure itself. A threat with no body is still a threat, but it gives me nothing to break.
Aven exhales, a long shuddering sound that ends almost like a sigh. He shifts until his back is against my chest. I put my hand on the back of his neck, palm broad and heavy over hot skin, and feel the static in him jump. He's too open, too bright, carrying more grief than one body was ever built to hold. My touch doesn't make it vanish. It gives it somewhere to ground.
"I hate how smug you are when you're right," he mutters into the pillow. "It's a character flaw, Ira. You should work on it. Very unbecoming for a man of your stature."
"I'm not smug." My voice is a low rumble against his back as I pull him closer, arm draped over his waist, anchoring him to the mattress so he doesn't float away into the grey. "I'm observant. There's a difference between being right and being prepared. I was prepared for you to be right. You happened to be wrong."
"Your entire body is smug," Aven says, but he's relaxing now. The tension drains out of him by degrees, replaced by the heavy, boneless weight of exhaustion. He leans back into me, his breathing beginning to sync with mine. "I can feel it. It'sradiating off your pectorals. Smugness as a secondary sexual characteristic. Very annoying superpower."
"Sleep, Aven."
He grumbles something else, a final half-hearted protest that dissolves before it becomes words. Within minutes, his breathing slows, the jagged edges of him smoothing as sleep takes hold. He doesn't look peaceful exactly. Peace may be asking too much. But he looks held, and the difference matters.
22
Cain
