Chapter Ten
Declan
Even when turned to rot, nereids popped when bitten and left ocean between the teeth, saltwater lingering for two days despite brushing or attempts to will the taste away. Declan found little comfort in the fact that the smell didn’t permeate past the baths he took immediately on return.
Little matter. Three nereid and a pair of boots he’d owned since the seventies destroyed, but Antonio remained out of Calloway’s clutches.
Antonio, whose very presence was starting to drive Declan mad by inches.
Holed up in Declan’s home as they were, they lived in each other’s pockets.
Antonio dragged him outdoors for runs at least once a day, the sadist. Declan, in turn, pulled Antonio about the house, finding all the spaces not yet safe for a Hollow and making them so.
And through all of it, they talked. Antonio always seemed to have some new question. Not about Faerie or magic, but about Declan.
“How you know the pooka?” for instance. It turned to Declan discussing Wyte and Hyacinth, the gay clubs of the nineties. Of Hyacinth’s friends, the few seelie who weren’t tits about things. Wyte’s human lover, an old flame rekindled.
In turn, Antonio talked of his time in prison. In other facilities. Not a lot. Declan knew enough about the mortal realm that he didn’t need to. Family and what they needed to get the Council seat. Pigs and slang and nieces, nephews. What was in the library on fae-human bonds.
Each night, Antonio fell asleep with his fingers brushing Declan’s. After which Declan blinked himself to the next room and stroked himself off until the only thing on his tongue was the copper bite of rust and sun.
Antonio slept deep, unflinching, even after he’d witnessed the nightmares Declan could rain down. How had it taken bonding a human who was frightened of fae for Declan to finally feel at home with someone?
As the answer to that question would only depress him, Declan focused on things that wouldn’t. Such as finding lost mementos, bits and pieces kept through the decades.
“I found the cursed pictures,” Declan announced, leaning on the doorway to their room, and shuffling through the old photos with a critical eye. “Apparently, I decided they were best preserved as a book marker.”
Declan glanced up at Antonio’s snicker, grinning. The human sat at the desk, flipping through a magazine he’d retrieved from his garage. He leaned back in his chair, watching Declan.
“Sounds like you were trying to hide them.”
“Or drunk,” Declan suggested. “It’s a very drunk thing of me to do.”
Antonio's laughter was rough and easy, a curl of that surprise through their bond that he got whenever the two of them talked. Perhaps ‘surprise’ was the wrong word.
Wonder?
But, no. That was Declan projecting.
“Give here.” Antonio pushed his chair back, hand outstretched.
“Curious to see a pooka, sidhe, and sluagh in their human guise?”
Not waiting for an answer, Declan crossed the room, photos exchanged for a warm smile from Antonio.
Projecting.
“I’ve never seen a pooka without the ears,” Antonio murmured, his eyes on the pictures. He looked through them slowly, for all that there were only four. “Rabbit, cat, whatever. This the boyfriend?”
Declan tore his eyes from Antonio’s profile long enough to follow the path of his finger, hovering just over Tommy’s faded, slightly blurred face.
The human grinned down at Wyte, his thick arm wrapped comfortably around the pooka’s slight shoulders.
Hyacinth smirked sidelong at them from decades ago.
Only Declan, heavy-lidded and pupils blown, smiled for the camera as Orrim had instructed.
His human glamour looked much like the one he wore in Faerie. Less gaunt than his true face, flesh sitting properly on bones, his mouth still thin, but not a nightmare smile. Eyeliner instead of dark hollows.
“Aye, that’s Tommy. Wyte, there.” Declan gestured as he spoke, refusing to study Antonio.
To see how he reacted to a Declan that didn’t creep from the deepest recesses of human fear.
“Hyacinth, perhaps the worst sidhe about. His right hand, Orrim, took these. And me. I’m wearing the boots from the beach, for all you can’t see them. ”
“You call him the worst sidhe to his face, Murderpunk?” Another picture. The same night, but everyone looking at the camera. Wyte’s jumper shown to be cut off at the midriff, off the shoulder, as well as pink.
Those shorts had barely qualified as pants, let alone shorts.
“Of course. It’s a compliment. Hyacinth loves compliments.”
Third photo, Hyacinth, Wyte, and Declan doing shots. The final, and this with Declan and Wyte having swapped tops, swathed in fabric ill fit for the other.
“The three of you look like you climbed straight out of Michael’s nightmares. Ready to get into all sorts of filthy trouble.”
Declan laughed, leaning his hip on the desk. “Nightmare” on Antonio’s lips didn’t ring the same when others said it. A compliment, such as “worst sidhe” from Declan.
“Dead on. Hyacinth takes it as a personal offense if he goes out and doesn’t end with a wee bit of filthy trouble. Wyte and I were not opposed to enabling him terribly, especially when it came with expensive drinks.”
“Gotta admit, that’s a lot tamer than Michael probably conjures up,” Antonio admitted. Declan, weak, pathetic Declan, gave in and looked at him. Studied the strong planes of his face while the man kept his own gaze on Hyacinth. Flashy, sculpted from marble Hyacinth, warmth and vibrant.
Better to focus on the photos and the light touch of Antonio’s fingers along the edges, careful to not damage Declan’s memories.
“For all the things men like him call us, they never seem to realize they think about our cocks far more than we do.” Declan shrugged, pleased to see Antonio still grinning.
“At least, I typically don’t look at people and think, ‘ah, yes, you must have done these very specific sex acts’ without any sort of introduction. ”
“He’s a prick, and he knows that’s the button he can get away with pushing.”
“Ah. But bring up your mental health or criminal history…”
“Angela gets up in arms, yeah. She’s still half convinced I’m gay only because I’m crazy. Or only crazy because I’m gay. She tries, but, old habits, you know?”
Declan didn’t know, no.
Even Colm at his prickliest wouldn’t let someone speak of Declan the way Angela allowed Michael. Certainly not in front of Liam or Eithne.
They were not fae. Human mores were odd and not his own. If only reminders of such things soothed the prickling of indignation.
“Even if one created the other, that doesn’t make them any less a part of you,” Declan groused.
He reached out, damn him, fingers as light on Antonio’s shoulder as Antonio’s were on the photo.
Sun beat down on shadow-cooled skin through the bond, marred only by Antonio’s tangled, conflicting emotions.
Regret, love, loyalty. “And on today’s very special episode… ”
Antonio huffed his amusement, still watching Declan with a faint ghost of a smile. Then, he sighed, a flicker of irritation shivering up the bond. Frustration like a bite of metal ran alongside it, enough for Declan to still.
He’d overstepped. Touched, when touch wasn’t wanted, or spoken too ill of Antonio’s family.
“Speaking of special episodes, there’s something I’ve been meaning to bug you about. You mind?” Antonio hesitated, but before Declan could respond, he added, “My own shit. Just could use your help sorting it.”
Declan felt no lie. Antonio’s own shit, whatever it was, and not Declan having crossed a line.
“Of course. I will do what I can.”
Antonio nodded, his eyes on Declan’s hand when it dropped away.
“Thanks,” he said. “Just, I’m not asking you for anything. I’m about to sound like an asshole, but I’m not trying to change anything. Want to say that upfront.”
“Alright?”
“I’m the one who’s fucked up,” Antonio continued on as if he hadn’t heard, looking away, to the desk where Declan’s image grinned up at them, dressed in Wyte’s jumper. “You– You’re incredible.”
Confusion had a lovely side effect of eating away at Declan’s apprehension. This all felt like the talk by the pond, Antonio halfway through a conversation Declan hadn’t heard the start of.
“May I ask if that was the preamble?” Declan asked after a few seconds watching Antonio’s fingers tap the desk. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to help sort ‘I’m fucked up and you’re great.’ ”
Antonio nearly choked, somewhere between a sigh and a slightly wild laugh, tense and embarrassed. Gratitude in there, shining through.
“My opinion is rather biased,” Declan added, just to hear Antonio’s breath catch on that laugh again.
“That’s the preamble,” he promised, laugh faded, determination quiet in its wake. “Right. Okay. I’m– It’s … this.” He gestured vaguely between them. This. “Not the bond. Just. Us.”
Oh.
“Anything in particular about us?” Somehow, he kept the drop in his stomach from his voice. “If you dislike my fashion, that’s a non-negotiable.”
“I can’t– You’re so … everything.” Not even said with a chuckle, the way someone might if rightly calling Declan out on his dramatics. “Patient and clever and fucking hilarious. Incredibly, unimaginably hot.”
That…
That was not a conversation started halfway through.
“I… Pardon?”
“I know. Okay? I know it’s not mutual. I’m not asking you for anything.
But I sleep in your room. I drag you after me like a security blanket.
It’s all the time and it’s always and I can’t get away from it.
” Antonio kept his eyes on his hands, wrists without adornment, fingers flexing once, then still.
“I can’t even think about it too much or, fuck, jerk off in the shower because you know what I’m feeling. ”
What was Declan to say to that?
“We don’t feel through the bond when one of us is sleeping,” apparently.
A truth he’d tested and retested on a nightly basis.
Antonio shook his head and exhaled a near-soundless, joyless laugh. “Good to know.”