Beeswax
First posted in 2016
Set after The Wolf in the Garden / The Firebird and Other Stories
Summary: Miki doesn’t grieve alone. Gen.
Tags: Grief, mourning rituals
Miki carefully set the beeswax candle in the windowsill and stared down through the glass to the garden below.
The garden seemed well and peaceful, although Miki hadn’t spent much time at work today.
He’d gone in shortly after dawn to set things in order and write out instructions for the other employees on how to approach the plants themselves—but only if necessary.
The Dead Man’s Garden was to be entered by Cassandra alone if Miki wasn’t there.
He felt strange about it, cut off and far away.
It might have been because he’d never taken a day off before.
He could go down to the garden if he wanted, but he didn’t move except to pull out the box of matches from his pocket to light the candle.
Kaz had not been religious that Miki was aware of, but when he had gone—not died, because someone like Kaz would never do something as ordinary as dying—when he had gone , Miki had whistled for a cab the way Kazimir always did and let it take him downtown to the Russian shops and the small Orthodox church.
They lit beeswax candles there, so Miki had asked Cassandra for one when he’d returned.
She understood ritual and hadn’t asked any questions.
They had mourned together the first night, but not since then.
Rennet had appeared the next day, aware of the loss, somehow, but though Kaz had once had a name known the world over, they didn’t arrange a public memorial.
They put a notice in the paper, if anyone even read that anymore, and Rennet brought vodka with a label Miki couldn’t translate, and he and Miki and Cassandra drank it as they went through the boxes Kaz had stacked up in his bedroom.
When Rennet and Cassandra finally left, Miki had been alone on his couch, surrounded by boxes of things he didn’t want and a small bag of golden feathers.
Alone again.
For an hour, he was alone and it was worse than it had been before, because Kaz was gone, and Miki loved him and he was gone, and he had been happy to go and that hurt in ways Miki wasn’t used to feeling.
Then Cassandra let herself in, shepherding Diego in front of her before closing the door again, and Miki had curled up with him for hours.
Diego put a hand in Miki’s hair, and exhaled when Miki buried his face in his neck, and held him so close that all Miki could hear was his heartbeat.
Then he’d picked Miki up and carried him downstairs, and put him in his car, and taken him home so Miki wouldn’t be alone anymore.
Miki had already spent so many nights in Diego’s apartment, this one shouldn’t have been any different.
Except this time, he hadn’t felt guilty for leaving Kaz behind.
That was supposed to be good.
Kaz hadn’t wanted him to feel guilty; he’d wanted Miki to feel love, and be in love, and be happy without him.
Miki stared at the candle and the bright orange flame, nearly as bright as Kazimir himself.
He missed his voice.
But he couldn’t play a record.
Rennet had taken those, and rightfully so.
Cassandra had the artwork, probably worth millions, all told, although she wouldn’t sell it.
Miki had the rest: books and clothing and feathered fans and discarded costumes, all of it probably also worth quite a bit.
It had been placed in boxes, slowly, over the course of weeks, and now it was all downstairs in the moving van Diego had rented.
They would drive it across town to Diego’s apartment, where it would all stay in storage until Miki decided what to do with it.
They would buy a house too, in the future.
Kazimir had told him to, and given him feathers to sell for a garden of his own, so Miki would do it.
And he would be happy there.
He was happy.
He was in love, and was loved, and Diego made him feel shaken up and on fire from the inside out.
Miki had experienced dark tendrils of jealousy at the realization that others found Diego attractive, and bubbly embarrassment when Diego had looked at him and known he was jealous.
He’d seduced Diego in Diego’s bedroom, using his eyes and then his hands and then his mouth, and come back here the next morning radiant, according to Kaz.
Diego listened to him and touched him, light and gentle, and said nothing about the rows of plants already taking over his kitchen and living room.
To be honest, Diego had barely used the kitchen before Miki.
Miki stared at the candle and hummed to himself as he considered which of Kaz’s dishes he would unpack to use in what was really his kitchen, now.
Diego came up the inside stairs, then through from Kaz’s now empty apartment.
He stopped, probably in the doorway, probably to stare at the tea set.
The couch and all the chairs were gone.
But Miki had pulled out the silver antique tea set and placed it on the floor on top of a towel.
“The tea should still be hot,”
he remarked as he turned around.
Diego was handsome and starkly serious as he considered the display, and the candle, and Miki. But then he nodded and went to the kitchen to wash up—as was proper for a real tea, even if he was a wolf who didn’t mind dirty hands.
Miki’s smile as he returned seemed to surprise him, but he kneeled down when Miki did, and allowed Miki to pour him a cup and to hand him a slice of thick bread slathered in butter. He didn’t comment when Miki leaned against him or put down his cup in order to wrap his arms around him and hide his face. He kissed the crown of Miki’s head and gazed at him with dark eyes when Miki finally looked up.
“You didn’t have any,”
Diego chided him, and placed a hot cup in Miki’s hands. He pushed them up until Miki had to drink. “Now the bread too, my Miklós. Please.”
Diego knew what grief was. He held out a piece of the bread Kazimir had preferred, and unwrapped a sugar cube before dropping it into Miki’s tea, and stared, insistent, until Miki took a bite. Then he wiped the smudge of butter from Miki’s lips and licked it from his thumb. His wolfish grin took Miki by surprise, enough to make him roll his eyes and huff.
But Miki took a bite, and then another, until the bread was gone, and he drank his tea, and poured them both another cup while the candle burned down. He might have cried, which would have pleased vain Kaz, but he smiled too, and wrapped himself around Diego, and that would have pleased Kaz more. And when the candle began to gutter, they cleaned up, and packed the tea things away, and carried the last of it all downstairs.
The End