Vana isn’t drunk now. There’s no chance he’ll lean forward and close the distance. That would be absurd. Imagining it is bad enough.
“Messengers or drasgard, I don’t care. Just delegate,” Daromir says. “Assign literally anyone to look up moth facts. You already have someone looking into Petir Bernek. So, concentrate on what’s in front of you.”
What’s in front of Vana right now is Daromir, smelling like sweat and sword oil and the clearest mountain water. It feels real. More real than anything else in this cursed country. Vana’s supposed to be fighting for the crown, but for a moment, all he wants to do is run away with Daromir.
“As for Naoko, just keep showing her around like you’re supposed to. I don’t like her, but she hasn’t actually done anything evil yet,” Daromir says.
“What about Kazia?” Vana asks.
Daromir shrugs. “You’re worried because he hasn’t spoken to you since that cryptic prod about Rakos. So, invite Kazia over for a game of aerie or cards, or whatever else he likes to do in his spare time. Throwing rocks at commoners?”
Vana can’t help laughing. “You’re a terrible man.”
“Yes, but I’m your terrible man,” Daromir agrees, and takes Vana’s coat off.
Vana tries not to think about how his skin comes alive with every brush of fabric. Daromir is right. Vana has people to rely on. And of course, he can go after Kazia himself. He’s been too timid the past few years, afraid every action will have unintended consequences. But inaction has consequences as well.
“Is there a reason you’ve taken my coat?” Vana asks.
Daromir grins, his green eyes bright. “You’re far too tense. Cuddling won’t be enough. You have to spar with me.”
Consequences. Vana can only obey his bloodguard’s command.
Daromir pulls a pair of wooden swords from the rack and tosses one over. Vana catches it on a reflex hammered into him long ago by Daromir.
Adjusting his grip on the hilt, Vana tests the sword’s weight. He and Daromir don’t need to go over the rules. When they practice magic, they work together, coordinating with each other’s spells. If they’re using wooden swords, they face each other, and the game ends when Vana scores a hit. He’s never going to be as physically powerful as Daromir. Never as quick, never as strong. So Daromir never attacks, only defends.
A few games have lasted hours without Vana scoring a single touch on Daromir. But Vana doesn’t flinch from it anymore, even though hitting Daromir will hurt him too.
Vana takes a few practice swings, loosening his joints. Daromir’s eyes are heavy on his body, tracking every movement. Frustration makes Vana sharper and quicker. It’s easier than ever to settle into the rhythm of combat. Rightness flows through his veins with one particular sweep and spin.
“Let’s go,” Daromir says.
Vana rolls his shoulders, adjusts both his hands on the hilt, and rushes forward. Daromir parries his first slash and the next, moving with each rough blow like an expert dancer. The accompanying music is the quickening of Vana’s breath, the pounding of blood in his ears.
Daromir is right. Vana needs this. He needs to let go. To think about nothing except Daromir’s body in front of him. Vana is frustrated, and Daromir is the only one he can lash out with. He trusts Daromir to meet his every movement, each impact stinging through both their bones.
The wooden swords crack together so loudly Vana would worry about them splintering if they weren’t enchanted and reinforced. Impact aches through his shoulders. He’s out of practice. His breath grows harsh too quickly.
“You’re sloppy today.” Daromir spins around Vana, easily evading the next lunge. He taps Vana’s cheek with his fingertips, a teasing touch. “We’ll be here all day like this.”
“Doesn’t sound too bad, does it?” Vana says, breathless.
Daromir grins back. “Not bad at all.”
Right here, Vana can forget everything. He’s happy. Everything is normal. Nothing has changed between him and his closest friend, even as the world disintegrates into chaos around them.
Vana rocks back a few steps, tugging the hem of his loose shirt up to wipe the sweat from his face. When he moves forward again, Daromir is surprisingly slow to react. Reflex carries Vana forward, and the edge of his wooden sword scores against Daromir’s upper arm. Pain sparks along Vana’s arm too, a sweet, victorious pain.
Daromir bares his teeth in delight and disarms Vana in a single fluid move.
Their game is never about Daromir letting Vana win. Vana’s hit only decides the timing of his surrender.
Daromir’s next movement is a blur. Palms stinging with the loss of his sword, Vana can’t resist as Daromir’s momentum spins him around. Vana’s chest slams into the stone wall, but Daromir’s hand in Vana’s hair controls his head, keeping him from hitting too hard. Muted pain blooms as Daromir twists Vana’s right arm behind his back.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” Daromir says into Vana’s hair. Each word is warm against Vana’s neck. “You needed that.”
He presses behind Vana, trapping him against the wall with overpowering, controlling devotion. The fondness in Daromir’s voice melts through Vana’s entire body, transmuted into desire.
