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The items consisted of the gold jewelry that he had been wearing when he had first arrived in Diagor, a muff Jareth knew had once belonged to his daughter, and a Diagorian book that the girl had dropped off a few days ago. The other items had been given to him by the young Susconian Lio, who Jareth had come to learn was Salas’ friend.
Salas used to hide the items beneath a wardrobe, but when Jareth suggested he could use a drawer, he’d simply glared and relocated his items beneath the bed.
He was an odd one, selfish and silly, and Jareth doted on him.
“Come eat,” Jareth commanded again, always making sure to use simple Diagorian with Salas, though never condescending.
Salas wobbled over, still favoring his right leg though no longer, according to his own diagnosis of himself, in need of a crutch. Jareth had given up on tucking the thing under the boy’s arm before he raced out the door. Palace staff would always find the crutch in odd places throughout the palace (behind curtains, hanging from iron chandeliers) and then the staff would return the abandoned crutch to his chambers with fond, if somewhat exasperated, explanations.
Salas sat down picking up a cherry tart, ignoring the cod soup pot that centered the spread.
“You should try the soup. Beatrice will be seeing you today. You should build up your strength,” Jareth said pointedly in Susconian as Salas ignored him and bit into the treat, the bright gooey sweetness sticking to his already-nearly-obscenely bright lips.
“She comes. Says healthy. All okay,” Salas replied with dramatic nonchalance in his fresh language as he licked up his sticky fingers and eyed the soup warily, as though it were a common enemy.
Another odd cultural difference was that, strangely, most of the cuisine down south consisted of fresh vegetables, neatly chopped cured meats, and other bite-sized eats. Finger food. The heavy, hot food of the North was not something the Southerners were used to, and seemed to be wary of.
Jareth saw this reflected now—how the little creature before him was in every way Susconian—and he ground his teeth because of it. Yet any type of detest toward that fact only resulted in irrational, anger-manifested desire for Salas. It was as though every time Jareth detected a loathsome behavior from the other man (behaviors that Jareth had been told time and time again, by the stern voice of his father, were the horrible conduct of Southern scum) his mind would twist it. Watching Salas, the bad would be filtered out, leaving only the passion that came with hate and twisting it, again, towards angrywant.
As though sensing being watched, Salas blinked, looking over to him under a brim of thick lashes lining his doe-eyes. He must have had a sense about Jareth’s darker, inner turmoil. Or maybe it was just the tenseness in Jareth’s body he saw, for he picked up the soup ladle and began serving himself, giving Jareth a tentative smile.
And Jareth immediately thawed, admonishing himself for his silly thoughts about enemies and hate. And lust.
For although Salas was selfish and arrogant, more prevalent in him was the need to serve others, and Jareth could do nothing to stop the warmth that spread through him of this fact. It went beyond his inner beast, waiting to pounce and claim Salas.
It was in the way that, when Salas was with his fellow Susconians in the mess hall, the boy drank up their attention like sipping aged wine, yet when he sensed a bird out of place, he would gather them into the fold. The way he led these birds away from guards, as though protecting them from an evil he had discovered, yet no one else saw but him.
It was the way, once given the chance, he could befriend everyone and anyone. It was the extra bit of energy he threw into the day. How he insisted napkins be folded a certain way. It was how, after every dinner there was dessert, as though every day was a cause for celebration.
It was because of the stories Jareth had heard of Salas back in Suscon. How he had freed the other birds of a life in imprisonment and had insisted to the Emperor that they should be paid for their time in service. He knew why the other birds thought so highly of Salas; he’d brought light to the South, the same way he was bringing it to the North.
That was how Jareth knew his affections were more than a smell, or his beast wanting to lay claim, or even a stir of emotion stemming from simple lust.
It was also why Salas deserved better than to waste his concerns on thinking of ways to please Jareth. He deserved far better than waiting for his beast to finally snap and give into that offer.
With a clang of utensils being dropped into a waiting bowl, Jareth realized that Salas had finished his meal. Sometime during Jareth’s thinking, he had also placed the last tart onto Jareth’s plate, as though making an offering to lighten his mood.
“You’re very broody this morning,” Salas commented, crossing his arms and staring at Jareth accusingly.
All it would take would be a single command, and you’d be on my lap, obeying my every selfish word,Jareth thought.
Jareth dropped a butter knife he’d been clenching in an iron fist and it rattled where it fell. “Salas, there is something I need to inform you of. You’ll be leaving my quarters and taking up a room in the wing we have placed the other Susconians. You’ll find independence there.”
In the hair of a second, Salas was on his feet. “I’m not going anywhere,” he started immediately, his eyes widening in fear.
“It would be inappropriate, and you know it. There’s already been talk about how I’ve taken a bir…a Susconian into my bed as though you’re a spoil of war. The gossip is good for neither of us.”
At first, Jareth expected a nonsensical objection or outburst, but a silence fell between them and Salas sat back down. He seemed to be thinking very hard, his eyes glaring as he studied the table, before shutting them. His head dropped a bit, and then he opened them again, slowly, resigned.
“Please?” he said softly, not meeting Jareth’s eye.
Jareth found his breath catching in his chest. It had not been the reaction he had expected.
Before he could respond, there was a knock on the door and Beatrice was announced.
After throwing Salas a look, the fae boy rolled his eyes and rushed to dress.
After he was fashioned, Beatrice was allowed entrance and Jareth stood to greet her, throwing over his shoulder a command to Salas to take a seat on the bed.
