Chapter Nine
Robin
Robin was an asshole.
Even before he’d panicked in the library, he had kissed Zyr after the beithir said he didn’t usually ask for things. That he was making an exception. That Robin was an exception.
Robin knew better than that. Don’t be the ‘not like other girls.’ Don’t hear a guy’s obsessed with you and then make out with them.
Yeah, why not make out with the guy hardcoded into wanting you around, knowing full well what you’re into isn’t what he’s into, then go cold when you finally fucking realize the truth.
Being on par with Zyr’s counterargument against systematic genocide meant that Robin could hurt him. Hurt hurt him. Damage hurt.
At least the panic this time came with freezing up instead of going into flight mode (and what a stupid panic response for someone with abandonment issue, Jesus).
Robin had worked for a long time to be a prick only when he meant to. Not when—
He hadn’t wanted to be a shit to Zyr, was all.
Hadn’t meant to take advantage of his beithir-ness, either.
And yet here they fucking were. Zyr, leaving Robin in his library to attend to ‘business’ or so he claimed. And Robin, invading Aisling’s house on a not-poker night with Florian.
(It shouldn’t be wrong to need time to process being told you were on the same level as the dearly cared for pieces of someone’s culture. It wasn’t.)
“Florian doesn’t actually live here, dear,” Aisling said, ushering Robin inside. “He’s with his niece.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Robin replied, trying his best to not be a dick (but there they were). “Is Antonio here? Available. I need to talk to Antonio. Nothing bad.”
She gave him that quizzical look she always did when he said ‘nothing bad.’ (Tell Robin you didn’t have anxiety without telling Robin you didn’t have anxiety.) She let him in anyway, hurrah.
It was probably because she liked things that confused her.
Or because her precious hummingbird baby boy loved the human Robin was there to talk to, and Antonio liked him too.
She told him to have a good day and gestured vaguely in the direction of Antonio’s room. No muss, no fuss, no ‘have you been hitting on an electrical dragon, young man?’ He’d take what wins he could.
Wins like no Irish rasp echoing from Antonio’s room and the door ajar, which meant they probably weren’t fucking. Robin knocked twice on the doorframe.
“Fae are weird,” he announced. “Alright if I come in?”
“Sure, grab a bench,” Antonio called from inside, with a soft clink of metal on metal as he set something down. “You alright?”
This had to be the only human-style gym in all of Faerie.
Weights. Bars. Whatever you called those machines where you pulled things down or squeezed your arms together or whatever-the-hell-else Antonio got up to in here.
Robin had no idea how they managed to put the place together without iron.
The one time he’d asked, Antonio had gone all sappy on him, so he hadn’t brought it up again.
“Nothing’s exploding. I’m counting that as a win,” Robin said, perching awkwardly on the edge of a bench. “Kind of missing the days where that was hyperbole.”
Antonio snorted, running his hands through sweaty curls. “No fucking kidding.”
“At least there’s manticores and redcaps,” Robin said. “So, that’s cool.”
“Guess all revolutions need someone willing to bite off their arms before talking.” Antonio shrugged. “What’s on your mind, man? You can talk, or you can lift.”
“Someone’s arm off, anyway,” Robin muttered, earning himself a snicker. He ignored the threat of learning how to use gym equipment. Antonio could stay the sole gym bunny in Faerie. “It’s about fae.”
It was about a fae who said things like history is a palimpsest and had a library as a counterargument to a genocide that felt far too close to home for Robin. A fae that had Robin wondering if maybe he didn’t need to have a certain dynamic during sex (but he did, he really did).
An unseelie fae that filled Robin’s mind with children’s journals and the curve of silver horns under his palms and how calm Zyr had looked, backing away.
Fuck.
“Yeah, no shit.”
Robin shot Antonio a look that fell just short of irritation. It wasn’t Antonio’s fault Robin was two steps to the left of a panic attack or blue screen staring session.
Neither of which would help. This was a Robin Needed to Talk situation.
“How the hell do you deal with fae being exactly what they say they are? Like, I once heard Declan tell Bo he was toxic. I assumed he needed therapy. Then I found out he literally spits rot.” Robin tapped his fingers to his knee, to the bench, anywhere he could reach.
“That should’ve been my clue it was a literal thing, as far as aspects go. They all need therapy.”
Antonio looked about as unimpressed as Robin was when people treated interns like shit. Which, like, valid. Very valid. Here Robin was, asking about mental gymnastics after fucking off from Zyr’s storm coast to Aisling’s green hills and overcast skies without warning.
In his defense, Faerie didn’t have phones.
“When me and Declan started hanging out, I tried to treat him like a person. Doesn’t take long, knowing him, to realize he doesn’t get enough of that, being a sluagh.”
“Which is stupid, because he’s way more interesting than at least three-quarters of the people I know.”
That earned him another quick smile. Besotted idiot.
Respectfully.
“Yeah, well, I still fucked it up, some. I was treating him like a human. Like, somehow, that was better, you know?”
Robin did not know.
“Not really,” he admitted. Tap tap tap, fingers to knee. “Declan’s still a person.”
“A fae person, and I was pretending all the shit that makes him fae didn’t matter.”
“Loving the sinner, blocking out the sin.” Robin knew that line far too well. “Like that?”
“Yeah.” Antonio scowled at some spot in the room that didn’t do anything to deserve it. “He’s an embodiment of the inevitability of death. You ignore that, you ignore Declan. What he’s made of to the bone. That matters.”
It shouldn’t have made sense. Maybe it wouldn’t have, if Robin weren’t who he was, gay and brown and full of atypical brain chemistry.
Tap tap tap.
“I… Okay. I mean this in the least ‘rich cishet white guy’ way possible. Just, how do you address it without going all … new straight ally at a Pride parade on him? ‘You’re a sluagh! Wow, that’s nifty. You see death, huh? Gosh. How scary.’”
Antonio laughed. Instead of answering Robin like a normal person might, he stood, going over to grab a cantaloupe sized round thing with thick handles on it. Two of them. He carried them to Robin’s bench and sat down next to him.
“I always forget I’m like half a foot taller than you,” Robin said, eyeing the round ball lever thing.
“You also weigh almost half as much, soaking wet. Maybe. Here.” Here, and Antonio offered Robin one of the things until he took it. Which he did. Grudgingly. “It’s a kettlebell. Like this.”
Antonio’s demonstration would have been super hot, coming from anyone else. Muscular, sweaty, tattooed guy with some workout gear? Count Robin in. But it was Antonio, squarely in the Unfuckable Folder of Robin’s mind, being both a friend and taken.
Only his friend status kept Robin from dropping the kettlebell onto the floor. He did as Antonio showed instead, curling his arm up from knee to chest, elbow on his leg. Ish. Antonio didn’t correct him, so it probably wasn’t wrong.
“I might have actually gone all cishet white guy at a Pride parade at Declan. In my defense, he made a crack at a hockey game after a guy got his ass kicked.” Curl, and Robin was not made for this kind of physical exertion. “Pretty sure I turned it into a sex joke.”
Another laugh from Antonio, as he joined Robin with the curls.
Because somehow people could laugh when doing this.
Gave him something to do, though. Which was the point.
Couldn’t exactly tap his fingers if he was trying to not fuck up form and listen to Antonio hopefully lay down some facts that would help.
“We are the straight dudes at this Pride parade. But we’re not talking Pride here. This isn’t love is love. Everil drowns and eats people. It’s alright to find that fucked up. Shit, it’s alright to say screw the fae and not come back here.”
Damn facts.
“But?” Robin asked, trying and failing to not think about how little his arm would thank him in the morning for curls that Antonio made look easy. Mainly because it probably was for him, the jacked bastard.
“But if you’re here, you’re in it. You still get to draw your lines. I’m not grabbing steaks with the redcap. But I might grab a beer. Because they’re an asshole, and I’m good with that. Maybe some of it’s their aspect. It’s still them.”
The silence sat for a second. Antonio’s voice when he spoke next was deceptively casual.
“You know how to treat someone who’s been formed by the shit they’re born with.”
Fuck Antonio for that. Because, yeah. Robin did know how. Robin—a person formed by that shit he was born with—freaking out when he was medicated vs when he wasn’t were very different creatures. But they were both parts of him. And he wouldn’t be who he was without who he’d been.
“I may have unknowingly been viewing a dragon obsessed with me through a human lens and kissed him.” A beat. “I think I fucked up.”
“The library dragon?” Antonio grinned. “Can’t blame you. Not my type, but the horns are hot. And he uses that tail like it’s another fucking hand.”
“He has a fantastic library,” Robin said, ducking his head to hide his brief, self-satisfied smirk. “Luckily for us all, you and I have very different tastes. You can keep the bones, I’ll play with the horns.”
“Deal. Switch arms. And tell me what you mean by fucked up. He get weird on you? Or did you get weird on him?”
Robin switched hands with a grimace, flexing his now free, aching fingers. Still, he started the same curl with the other arm, to keep Antonio from bitching.