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“You grow roses wherever you walk, I think the line was?”
“I will drop the entire collected romances of Marie de Pizan on your head and call it an accident, Oliver.”
They made their way down the long hall and the winding stone staircase, accompanied by the chatter of the storm.
Oliver had just got Tir tucked into bed, propped up by pillows and concerned woolly blankets, when the knock came; they shrugged at each other, and Ollie called back, “Come in.” He didn’t want his fairy to move; Tir claimed to be no worse than normal but had been leaning on him more after the stairs, and had cold hands. He’d been planning to grab the latest novel and read aloud until Tirian fell asleep.
The knock turned into Lyle; their family butler and general font of palace-related knowledge cleared his throat. “We were wondering how Tirian was feeling; Ben said you had to leave the table, upstairs. You know I can always summon the doctor if you’d like.”
“He’s—”
“He’s fine,” Tir put in, peeking around Ollie’s shoulder. “Only tired. Thank you, though.”
“Oh,” Lyle said, radiating paternal worry and pride, “of course you’d be, those big feasts would tire out anybody, all those courses and polite conversation, not to mention you’re barely up and about most days, would you like anything else, then? A tray, extra blankets, the fire lit? We’d meant to have it going but you came down so soon, not that that’s a problem, indeed not.”
“I think,” Oliver started, meaning to say no, meaning to simply close out the world and shelter Tir alone, “we—”
Those fingers in his were cold. Rain hit the cool translucent glass of their bedroom window, and poured silken ribbons over ancient castle mortar and new-grown climbing vines, and fell noisily to the ground far below. “A fire would be nice. We won’t need anything else for the night, but if you could light one, we’d be grateful.”
“No trouble at all.” Lyle vanished; Tir, Ollie discovered, was laughing silently.
“He thinks we’re still boys, doesn’t he…”
“Permanently. Sorry. He was lecturing the castle into tidiness before I was born. Are you comfortable? Want anything?”
“Only you. Come kiss me?”
They were deliciously engaged in exactly that when Lyle and two log-bearing footmen appeared, accompanied by Meadowsweet the second housemaid and young Polly, who worked in the kitchen or wherever errands sent her around the palace. They came in laden down with trays of covered dishes; Ollie dove for the closest one and made hasty space on Tir’s bedside desk, and tried not to think about what his hair and lips and shirt-collar looked like. Tir’s mouth was willing and tempting and thoroughly kissed.
He sat back down on the bed, crossed his legs, and inquired, with regard to the army of trays, “What in the name of the Great North—”
“Well, and we thought you might be hungry,” Meadow said, “having missed the dinner and all, and Tir needs strength, you know,” and added one more plate to the table: blonde, cheerful, stubborn as an older sister. “Nothing fancy or fiddly, but good ham and some cheddar biscuits and my mum’s lemongrass chicken soup. It’ll warm you up.”
“Tea?” He investigated the silver pot.
Polly beamed at him. She had mismatched eyes, some silver-streaked fairy legacy someplace in her orphan past; she’d pestered Tir, in calmer days, to examine her for any other signs of magic. “Chocolate. Nice and hot and dark and sweet. We know what he likes.”
Tir took a sip of hot chocolate, and beamed right back at her. His cheeks were pinker, flushed by kisses and steam; his hair was tucked behind one ear, because Ollie’s hand had run through it, stroking it into place. Under blankets, with pillows and soft happy eyes, he looked cuddly and cherished and very much loved. Ollie had done that.
His chest expanded with pride.
The fire leapt upwards, hearty and hot.
The collected palace staff looked at Tir, and then at Oliver, and then at each other, and rapidly vacated the room to perform unspecified other tasks. Lyle put his head back in to order, “Oliver, don’t tire that boy out!” and then closed the door definitively behind him, keeping them secluded.
“Hmm,” Tir said. “Imagine the new additions to the ballads. Ravished by a human.”
“I’ve been told not to tire you out,” Ollie pointed out, and fed him pieces of ham and cheddar biscuits for a while. He tried not to think about ravishment. He couldn’t help it now. Especially when Tir kissed his fingers after a bite, and those eyes beckoned.
He might’ve thought, if he’d had room to give it any thought, that kissing his best friend, the boy with whom he’d grown up and learned to use a telescope and gone through sword-training in the practice yard, could be awkward. It hadn’t been.
It’d been easy. It’d been another piece of who they were together, new and familiar. A homecoming after a long journey away. A rediscovery, with clearer sight.
He wanted Tirian rather desperately, he’d found out. He wanted to know it all. To kiss every inch of what he’d once taken for granted. To learn.
Tir looked up from chicken-and-lemongrass soup. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, anything you want, go ahead.” He took the bowl when his fairy appeared to be done, and set it out of the way. The fire gossiped to the rain, making friends; he let one leg dangle to the floor, sitting on the side of their bed. Tir still kept some books and clothing in his own room, mostly for storage; some of Oliver’s things had traveled that direction, making space for Tir here. His room had been larger, and had a larger bed, so it’d been a simple decision; Tir had shrugged and said he’d always liked Ollie’s bed.
