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“Good.”
“Tir?”
“Hmm?”
“Would you ever…I mean, I have my painting, the studio, I love that, it’s who I’d be, if I weren’t, y’know…”
“Yes?”
“You love stories. You love telling me about them. You always joke about writing a novel.” Oliver paused. “If you did, I’d read it.”
“That’s not serious, I’ve never tried to write anything—”
“Something for you,” Ollie said. “You don’t have to publish it. Or share it, not even with me, not if you don’t want. I just thought…something you like. That isn’t work, or destiny, or anything. Just because you want to.”
Tir stared at him more.
“Whatever you write can’t be worse than the one about the enchanted moonstone and the sleepwalking murder and the five secret husbands.”
“I like that novel!”
“I know you do,” Oliver said. “You read bits to me. Unrequested. Speaking of bad dreams. Murder and sleepwalking…”
Tir swatted his arm, lightly. “It’s not meant to be realistic.”
“Obviously not. I love you, I’m very glad you’re not planning somnambulant murder, and also that you don’t have five husbands.”
“One,” Tir said dryly, “is enough. I love you, go and finish up for the day, I’ll meet you when I’m done.”
Oliver’s smile lingered, even after the door closed. Tir had a sip of tea. It tasted like being loved: like someone remembering his favorite flavors.
* * * *
The morning after that came cloud-puffed and sunrise-hued, ribbons of fuchsia, amber, shell-pink, sea-teal. Tir woke, as usual, to Oliver kissing him; he kissed back, easy and yielding and taking a quiet delight in the yielding; and let Oliver adore him, caress him, open him up and push into him, a thick velvet glide.
They came together, laughing, a tangle of arms and legs and morning light and stickiness. Oliver kissed his shoulder; the beard left pink marks. The sensation was real and wonderful. Tir, reveling in it, practically purred.
Something new, he thought. Oliver’s facial hair. Himself in Oliver’s bed. Married. He’d never imagined it; he hadn’t let himself imagine it, back when he’d thought he knew the ending of his future.
He had a future. He had a life. He had the whole world—two worlds, even. With Oliver at his side. Helping him weave them together.
Oliver rumbled, “You’re smiling.”
“Am I? I’m happy.” He wrapped every limb he could around his husband, glorying in the feeling. “The morning feels happy. With you.”
* * * *
He rescheduled the treasury meeting for the following day, though he did not tell Oliver about that. He did, however, go and find his cousin Istrael, who was busy trying to talk to Bellemare’s rose gardens. She said, “It’s not even a proper maze; they all behave themselves.”
“They’re meant to. They don’t move.”
“Will they learn to?”
“They might,” Tir agreed, feeling the smile, letting it escape. The sun fell through his hair, across his skin. He held out a hand. He could, he thought, feel the light, the shape and name of it, of fire and of air. He knew that much, even if he couldn’t speak loudly enough to answer just now. “They might be a good case study for your school.”
Rae’s glance was quick, and sad, and speaking; she stopped herself, turned to touch one of the new cerise-and-cerulean blooms with one fairy finger. Her hair was fair as moonbeams, long and loose against her bare shoulders, brown skin, ribboned dress in shades of green and violet. She had the same inhuman grace he recalled once wearing himself, ingrained. “I shouldn’t’ve asked.”
“No, you should.” He stepped closer, saw her eyes lift, finding his. “You still have that land-sense. And if it told you to ask me…”
