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“You were gone, and I was hurting, so badly I thought I might die too, and I couldn’t reach out and find you, because you were dead, and you’d known all along that would happen, and you hadn’t told me. And I was so damn furious with you, because you’d known and you’d left me alone with it.” Ollie picked up Tir’s pen, put it down: a painter needing to fiddle with the universe, hands in motion. “I mean, I knew it wasn’t fair. I know you couldn’t tell me. But, stars, I wanted to scream at you. Or maybe the world.”
The pain raked claws along his spine. Or fire, perhaps. A memory. Dragon’s heat. Dull and red. Tir pressed fingertips between his eyes, a spot also dull and red, for a second. “How many more times do you want me to apologize? I will.”
“No, I’m doing this all wrong.” Ollie made a small annoyed face, self-directed, and reached over to gather up both of Tir’s hands. “My point was, I was hurting. And it was ugly. I’m not perfect. I’m not flawless. I’m not someone you need to keep safe from everything. It was awful, and it was messy, and I had to try to go on, to be okay, because everyone needed me to be. And, y’know, I did. Some days I hated everything, but I got up in the morning, because I had an audience or a guild meeting or just because you would’ve told me to get up.”
“Yes, thank you, you were always a good prince. Stronger than you realized. I knew that about you.” Stronger than me, he didn’t say. In the aftermath. With this.
“I love you.” Oliver squeezed his hands, with love, with force. “It’s okay to be hurt. It’s okay to want to scream about it. It’s not fair. You’re an actual hero, the kind we used to read about in books, and you gave up so fucking much—don’t think I don’t know when you have bad dreams—and you’re allowed to be angry about it.”
That was kind, and warm, and understanding, and all those big-hearted golden qualities Oliver was made of, held out for the taking. Tir let his hands be held. Let Oliver come around and tug him up from the chair, into the circle of broad shoulders and blue velvet.
The rain poured down across old glass and stone, melody washing the windows of his office, cleansing the panes.
He said, “It’s not that. Or not exactly. It’s unfair. But I’m not angry as much as just…tired, I think. Of being…not the same as I was. Of recovering—I know I am, Mother says I am and Fadi says I am and I can feel it, a little—but not being recovered, yet. Years. And I used to know who I was. I was a Prince of Fairy, I was in love with you, I would protect you, for my prophecy and just because I’d always choose you. I knew what I was doing. My purpose. And then I came back, and I didn’t know everything, not anymore. I didn’t have a plan. But then we were busy getting married and planning unification and everything all at once, and that was good, because I didn’t have time to stop and breathe and think about it, who I am now, whoever that is, and now it’s now, and I still don’t know, and I don’t know…anything.”
That speech had ended up almost worthy of one of his novels, the dramatic scenes Oliver liked to mock. Tir shut his eyes, let his forehead thump wearily against Oliver’s broad shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I’m in an operatic mood. Blame the treasury committee reports. Such melodrama about exchange equivalents and the pricing of violet hay.”
“Is the violet hay important?”
“It’s ordinary hay, only purple. It won’t do anything to your cows, except possibly make them smell nicer. As far as I can tell, at least. There’s a lot I don’t know.”
“Making cows smell nicer might be important.” Oliver’s hand traced wordless tiny circles over his back. “And you like solving problems.”
“I’ve always done that.”
“No, I mean…” Oliver leaned back, put a hand under Tir’s chin, got him to look up. “As far as who you are. I don’t know how to help more—I don’t know if I can—but I do know you. You’re the person who loves terrible novels and organizing my schedule. You’re the person who stepped in front of a dragon for me, not because you had to, because you chose to. You like blueberry pies and you try to solve problems on your own, until you can’t anymore, because you’re too damn used to not being able to talk to anyone. You tell me when you have bad dreams, but you don’t tell me what they’re about, and I wish you thought you could. You’re my best friend. You’re my husband. You’re the man I love.”
Tir stared at him. Oliver’s fingers were warm against his skin. Rain pattered happily down from castle overhangs and arches, falling to the ground.
He managed, “I’ve always liked blueberries…”
Oliver tipped his head toward the untouched tea. “Blueberry chamomile.”
“Oh, Oliver,” Tir said, “oh, I love you, can you—please hold me,” and practically threw himself into Oliver’s arms, needing the feeling, needing the safety, needing the reality. Oliver steadied him, made comforting noises, eventually took a step back and eased them both down to the floor under the window, Tir scooped awkwardly into his lap, legs too long.
He whispered, after a few uncounted minutes, “I dream about dying.”
Oliver’s arms tightened around him, sharp, shocked.
“Not as if I plan to! Not because I want to! It’s the memory. The fire. The dragon. That was really all I…” He stumbled over words. He’d never planned to say this aloud. “I didn’t have time to know more. You were in danger, and I stepped in front of you, and I knew I’d made that choice, and it was…it was pure heat. White. It hurt but it was over fast. Everything just stopped. But sometimes I—I dream about it. That split second in between.”
“Oh, no. Tir…” Oliver’s eyes, that rich summer hue, filled up with anguish. “I didn’t know. I should’ve realized.”
“I didn’t want you to.”
“I can’t even imagine.” Oliver’s voice shook. “I can’t…I don’t know how you do it. You fall asleep with me and you wake up and you smile and you kiss me…if I was feeling that, every night, I’d end up out of my mind.”
“It’s hardly every night. Some nights. Not even most. And I told you once it was worth the price. You were worth the price. You asked how I lived with it—knowing what I knew. I told you the truth. It wasn’t hard. It’s the choice I’d always make.”
“You decided to tell me,” Oliver said after a second of visible struggle, picking out and discarding words and trying again, “now. About—about those dreams.”
“You brought me tea and you told me you know who I am.” He pressed his lips to the spot under the line of Oliver’s jaw, lightly, a kiss. “I think…I want you to know. Even if I’m not sure about all the pieces yet.”
“No rush,” Oliver said. “I mean, you were there for so many years. While I figured myself out. I think it’s my turn, being here.”
“You were always you. Love and art and worrying about public audiences and being kind.” He found Oliver’s mouth with his, this time. The beard was still sometimes a surprise; he liked it, though, deliciously human and softly scratchy and warm. “Do you need to get back to…meetings with the transportation committee, was it, right now? Roads, bridges, expansion?”
“I do.” Oliver kissed him again, though. “And you’ve got violet hay to deal with. I’ve got a couple minutes, I said we needed a break, I can stay another minute or two.”
