Chapter 2 #5
“You want it in black? With your coloring, pink might look nice.”
He shook his head. “If black’s possible…”
“Yeah, alright. You can pick it up in a day or two.”
“Thank you.”
Angel said nothing as they departed, but Hawk could feel his eyes following him as they joined the others for dinner.
In the loungeroom with the iron fireplace, Hawk sat across from March on several cushions, and tried to stay awake. “Come now. It’s been five days,” said March. “Surely you can stay awake past two in the morning.”
Hawk shot him a glare, and meant to argue, but he yawned instead. March laughed, and patted the pillow at his side. “Then, rest here. I’ll wake you if anyone comes by.”
“I could just go back to, ah.” He blushed as he said, “Your room.” The room where he slept. It wasn’t his, but…
“Let us try, at least for a little while, to keep you awake, hm?” March gestured to his side, where Hawk could slot in nicely, comfortably.
Hawk didn’t need much convincing and settled against March with a repeat of that tender, swelling affection blooming beneath his ribs.
March was nearly as warm as the fireplace at Hawk’s side, and he would purr like a cat if he could as he relaxed between them both.
It was unbelievable that he’d nearly slept without a roof less than a week before.
It was unbelievable that he’d nearly spent his entire life without curling up at the side of a lover like this—
No. March wasn’t a lover. Hawk went stiff, teeth gritting against the thought. This was work.
Wasn’t it?
March idly stroked Hawk’s hair off his face, and then combed a thumb over one short, thin blond eyebrow.
“You should socialize some more with the others. People who aren’t me.
” Because they weren’t lovers. Hawk pushed away, only for March to grab at him, and pull him back down, and laugh.
“Not now. Right now… Stay with me here.” He inhaled a breath of Hawk’s hair, and his hands began to wander, idle, as they often did in bed.
The fire crackled and Hawk stared into March’s face, because he could.
March eventually broke the silence as he said, “There’ll probably be a bidding war for your first patron.” Hawk scoffed and March tapped the tip of his small nose. “It’s true. You’ve not done this before; that’s a marketable trait. You’re untouched by a paying hand.”
“I was married. And I did it with you, didn’t I?
” He chewed his lip for a moment before he said, “That counts.” Hawk stared at March’s mouth, to catch a glimpse of his pink tongue, and found his mouth filling with saliva as if he planned to eat a meal.
“I have done things with you I’ve never done with anyone else. ”
“Do you think we should save some of it, then? For someone else?” March tilted his head, debating his own question.
Hawk’s heart ached as he said, “Elys above, no. I need you to show me everything, I think.” It had to be him.
March sat up, pulling away, and for a moment, Hawk thought he’d said the wrong thing; overstepped some boundary. But instead March turned the handle upon the fireplace, closing the flames off from air, and plunging them into darkness.
He remained crouched before the hearth, unmoving, and Hawk nearly asked what thoughts passed through his mind. Was something wrong? Before he could gather his courage, March returned to him, to his side. And instead, the only question Hawk could ask was: “May I kiss you again?”
March held Hawk’s chin, and placed a thumb upon his lower lip, guiding him to open his mouth. When Hawk did, March slid his thumb inside, and stroked Hawk’s tongue.
Hawk licked the smooth, soft feeling of the finger, and his heart skipped a beat within his chest before falling all the way down his ribs, into his belly, and between his legs. He closed his lips around March’s thumb and sucked, gently, and moaned at the taste and feeling and warmth of him.
March said, voice gone deep, “Good boy.”
Hawk whined in pleasure at the praise, eyes falling shut.
March pulled his finger free. Hawk chased it, but only briefly, because when he sat up, he was nearer to March’s mouth.
He kissed him, without preamble, without thought—and March breathed into it like it was a relief, like the sliding of their tongues did provide him with a longer life.
Though he was no human, and no patron; Hawk’s kiss benefitted March nonetheless.
They continued to kiss, and kiss, and kiss, as Hawk laid down on the pillow again, with March’s hands against his hair, face, throat, chest. He stroked the bare purple skin revealed all the way down to Hawk’s belly button, but stopped short of groping the tent that formed beneath his robe.
Hawk stroked the soft satin of March’s hair down his back.
Squeezed his arms, feeling the weight of his muscles against him.
Hawk found himself drifting within the kiss. A simple, soft darkness pulled him under. He heard March chuckle quietly and say, “Are you asleep?”
To which Hawk moaned a quiet, “No, I’m awake,” in reply, but he didn’t move, or open his eyes, and the gentle dark pulled him into an even deeper embrace.
He woke at dawn to find March pressed against his side, sipping tea and reading a newsprint.
Hawk watched him for a time, knowing they needed to return to March’s tower for the day, but for now—he basked, sleepy and satisfied both.
He scooped the pile of leaves into the reeded basket. One leaf, a particularly bright red, caught his eye. Smiling, Hawk picked it from the mound and held it up to the evening sky—streaked orange and pink with the setting sun.
“Goodness, Hawk, you needn’t be doing chores like this,” said a tow-headed elven woman—the harpist from his first day at Sutaire. Meadow. She carefully picked across the path Hawk had cleaned up, revealing damp stepping stones. “We’ve a whole team of gardeners that care for this place.”
“I know,” said Hawk. He placed the red leaf back upon the pile and continued to scoop the leaves into the awaiting bin. “I just felt like getting outside. Wakes me up.” He glanced at the sky, then back to Meadow. “You’re up early.”
She stopped next to a late-blooming rose and stroked at one pink petal. “I had to run an errand at the bay. We’re getting ready for the big party tomorrow.”
Hawk hummed in understanding. “There’s a party tomorrow?” He hadn’t yet been told.
Meadow giggled. “You’re so funny, Hawk. No wonder March felt you’d be a fit around here.” His cheeks warmed, and she carried on. “Do you know what you’re going to wear for the announcement?”
And understanding came to Hawk in a snap; an echo of the sound made by Meadow snapping the rose from the bush. The party was his. The announcement. He hid the trembling of his hands within the basket he knelt beside. “Oh. Yes. I had a special robe made.”
“How lovely. Aren’t you excited?” Meadow tiptoed closer, inhaling the center of the rose. She pulled the hair from Hawk’s face, away from his eyes, and tucked it behind his ear—with the flower. “What is it? You seem ill at ease.”
“They’re going to announce me, yes, but also the master of my apprenticeship.”
“Ah, right—you’re worried for March.”
“For him? No, I…” Hawk more firmly tucked the flower behind his ear and stood up, face-to-face with Meadow. Her ringlets swayed in the autumn wind, her cheeks flushed, and her smile sweet and unassuming. “Why would I worry for him?”
“Well, he’d taken quite the shine to you, I think.
And he’s not likely to be your master, is he?
He doesn’t perform intimately anymore. I think it’s pretty clear that Bren will be the one taking charge of your education here.
” She gestured with one hand, oblivious to the sudden loud rush of adrenaline within Hawk.
“He’s going to have to go back to being…
well. Bored. I’m sure he’ll get a new disciple soon.
” She caught Hawk’s harried stare and gasped.
“No, I mean it—he’ll be fine, Hawk. I swear. We get new hopefuls every month.”
“It’s not that.” He swallowed. Pulled the flower from his hair. And stared at its fading petals, at its dried-out stem. “March isn’t the one who has taken a shine. It’s me, Meadow, I believe. I want him.”
“Bren will be a very good teacher,” Meadow said, squeezing Hawk’s arm. Everyone at Sutaire touched everyone else so easily. So warmly. Hawk could never give that up, now that he’d had it.
Hawk could never give up March now that he had him. But those two ideas would never work together, would they?
He didn’t think about it too much as he rushed forward and into Meadow’s arms. He hugged her around the shoulders, squeezed, and said, “You must think me selfish.”
Meadow huffed and hugged him in return. “Not at all. March is a very good man. But you shouldn’t worry. You can learn to point your affections at someone—that’s the role of an adame. You’ll be happy with the one Sutaire gives you—Bren now, and a patron later. Will you not?”
Over her shoulder, Hawk looked at where his hands were clutched together. Looked at the rose picked from the garden he’d always wanted.
Another breeze blew some of the flower’s petals away, leaving it sparse and fragile-looking within his grasp. What was he to do?