Chapter Thirty-Five. Rory
Rory
Rory’s hands shook as he lit the candle.
It wasn’t dark yet. The days were solstice-long, stretched taut and wavering, so even this late in the day, it was hours still until sunset.
But the books he used to read—the ones Wynne hid at the back of her shelf—always mentioned candlelight and nests of blankets for this sort of occasion.
He wanted to do this right.
He stole a glance at Daye, on the other side of the room. She was smoothing the mound of bedding, her back to him. Was she nervous, too? Excited? Did she feel the same way he did? How could he ask?
A sparrow landed on the window beside him, opening and closing its beak.
When Rory looked, he saw two more cocking their heads on the branch behind it.
He’d been noticing it more and more lately, birds flocking to wherever they were, heads tilted and tiny eyes trained on them.
He assumed they were just after his food, but …
“Is it just me, or are the birds following us?” he asked, for something to do. His voice seemed to fray and jump, wavering like the flame of the candle he was holding.
Daye turned. Now that she was facing him, he could see the nervous curve of her brows. ‘I used to feed them a lot, when you were away,’ she signed, her hands moving just a little too fast. ‘Still do, sometimes.’
“Oh.” Rory nodded. He placed the last candle on the windowsill, causing the sparrow to take flight, then fastened the shutter, plunging them into a strange sort of gloom, pale sunlight dripping through the gaps in the ceiling into the pools of orange candlelight.
Daye gave the blankets one last tug and pushed to her feet. Her body seemed to move awkwardly, like she didn’t quite know how to wield it.
Similar doesn’t mean the same, a small voice, sounding very much like Wynne’s, seemed to whisper. Rory shook his head, chasing away the thought. It doesn’t matter, he thought, fiercely. It’ll never matter. It’s Daye.
‘What now?’ Daye signed, expression uncertain. She fidgeted with her hair, newly golden, moving to tuck a strand behind her ear, but her forearm bumped against the new curve of her breast, and she startled, dropping her hand.
“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I guess we … we kiss? And maybe lie on the blankets? And take off our clothes?”
‘Okay.’ Daye reached for the top button of her dress.
Suddenly, it felt like there was no air left in the room. Rory’s heart seemed to thud louder with each button undone.
Daye finished removing her dress and lay down on the nest of blankets. The candlelight limned her golden body, revealing the topography of her; curves and dips, the rosy tip of a nipple, the place where her thighs met. All the air rushed out of Rory’s lungs.
She was so, so beautiful. So beautiful that the desire to touch, to kiss, to simply hold her in his arms, was splinter-sharp.
‘Like this?’ she signed, balancing on her elbows.
Rory nodded, mouth dry, and came closer. He removed his shirt, and then his jeans. His hands shook so hard that he had to try three times before he could open his fly.
His hands hadn’t shaken before, as Daye lay on the grass before him, as he unbuttoned her dress and pushed apart her—
Rory shook the image away. It’s not the same, he told himself.
It wasn’t. Doing the transition wasn’t the same as touching Daye.
Daye looked nothing like herself, her skin becoming leaves and browning flowers.
And Rory learned to go to the place in his head where his hands worked, seemingly by themselves, while he was …
elsewhere. He taught himself not to really see, to look only at what his hands were doing and remember as little as possible.
He wanted to remember this. God, he wanted to remember this.
He stepped out of his underwear. And then they were both naked and Daye was beneath him, her skin smelling of honeysuckle and her breath coming in silent pants. Her hands hesitantly reached to touch his waist, as if asking if it was allowed.
“You can touch me if you want. You can always touch me.” He swallowed hard. “Can I kiss you?”
Daye nodded, the tip of her finger whispering against his skin. And for a while, there was only the fumble as they learned how to align their bodies, how to fit together, their teeth clacking together and their lips parting on surprised gasps.
Daye seemed to melt against him, butter-soft. Her face pressed against his neck, her fingers pressing into his back. It didn’t seem real.
He didn’t know it was possible to be so happy.
He could feel tears slipping down his cheek, splashing against Daye’s neck. Daye looked up, brows furrowed in concern. She caught a tear with her finger, holding it questioningly between them. Her lips parted in alarm, and her eyes darted between them, as if fearing that she’d hurt him somehow.
“I’m okay,” he reassured her. “I’m not hurt. It’s not that sort of crying. I’m … I’m happy.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “I love you.”
‘I love you, too,’ Daye signed awkwardly, one-handed, between them, so that he could feel the words shaped rather than see them.
“Are you okay? Is this …? Are you …” He couldn’t find the words.
Daye nodded anyway. She tipped her head up, pressing her lips to his. And after that there were no more words between them, just the sound of skin on skin, stuttered breaths, and gasps.
Outside, the sun slowly sank between the trees, the endless day finally slipping into night.