Chapter 27
?
PANTS. Oh, and trauma. BUT LOOK AT THE PANTS.
Maelin
It fits. It fits perfectly . Every cut, flawless. Every embroidered branch, impeccable.
Giggling chaotically, I circle Zakery in his brand new suit—that I made! With pants !
It molds to his body, carving him into a glorious prince—from ruffled white ascot, down to his usual black dress shoes.
Speechless, he examines his reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall of my studio. He adjusts one sleeve. The corner of his mouth tugs up. “This is amazing, Maelin.”
“I know,” I squeal. “The pants . Look at them! Even! Tapered!” I flare my hands toward his crisp pants, freshly ironed so they have that nice cut. Oh, they are just glorious. Glorious, I tell you. Glorious.
“This is embroidery?” he murmurs, ignoring my pants as he runs a finger up a curling gold branch and fixes his back toward the mirror, beholding the many branches sweeping across that expanse. “How long did this take you? It’s immaculate.”
It only took me two entire seasons of Adventure Time , streamed on my phone, over the course of the past week. But who cares . I made pants. Even pants. Matching pants. Seamlessly shapely pants .
They look like they just came out of an air fryer they are so crisp on him. Just. Crunch .
Ah! I’m so happy.
And he’s still looking at the embroidery, which is just embroidery. A little twined gold floss here, a little twined white there, for petals, and depth. It’s not a big deal. Not like the pants . My face falls moments before he looks at me.
He blinks.
He says, “Sorry.” Looking down, he gasps. “ What are those? On my legs! On my goodness. I have never seen better artistry in my life! ”
I toss my arms together and jut my lip, even though I can’t stop my smile.
“Are pants hard or something?” he asks.
“Take them off. You’re wearing your boxers to the ball.”
“My good madam.” He dodges me when I make a grab for my first pair of pants (without excessive fur to hide every flaw) ever . “Do not derobe me in the broadness of day. I shan’t be fixed to handle it.”
I giggle, losing my pout. “I’m just so thrilled! I’ve never made pants like this before. After this ordeal, my gown will be no problem.”
He glances at the atrocity on a mannequin that would look vaguely gown-like, if it were not such a horrendous mess.
“Will it?” he asks.
I wave my hand. “Ignore that. That is creative process at work. And …”
He nods. “And we trust the process. Yes. I understand. We trust the process, except when I’m drawing you, and part of the process makes you look like a hollow cavern of souls. That is sacrilege. We scorn the process then.”
“No.” If I had a squirt bottle…
He clamps his hands together, pointing his fingers at me. “We mildly detest the process then?”
I sigh. “I’ll allow it.”
He beams.
Which makes me hesitant to broach what we have been adamantly ignoring for five days, ever since I drove over here in the middle of the night and cradled him to sleep. Today, showers have stolen the last of the ink he put on my skin during our date last Sunday. He’s not added any more…because of tomorrow. Very gently as I help him out of the tailcoat, I say, “Are you ready for tomorrow?”
His movement hitches, for just a moment, then he frees a tight breath. “Yes. Of course. I’ve been preparing all week.”
If by preparing he means periodic breakdowns, including one night when I was staying over here that he woke me, crying and hyperventilating and apologizing and pleading to stay with me.
I held him again, combing my fingers through his hair while he kissed the fading stars on my chest. I spent that whole night wanting to dig up his parents’ graves so I could stab them thousands of times. If the embroidery on the suit jacket I am hanging up now is any indication, I am very good at stabbing things. Repeatedly. Without pause and with an exceptional precision that does not carry over into my walking abilities.
The night is hardest, he’d whispered into my skin in between heart-wrenching apologies.
I worry about tonight. I worry that he’ll change his mind, just to avoid confronting parental figures and allowing them to control his future.
Control is something his parents stole from him for years.
He was allowed nothing .
No control of his face, which his parents only ever let hold one expression. No control of his life, which his parents outlined, daily, step-by-step. What classes. What meals. What working hours. The threat of failure hung over him, constantly. And swift punishment met any shortcoming.
Mercy did not live in this home.
I wish I knew how to sink the concept that my parents aren’t like that into his blood, but he has no frame of reference to go by. All he knows of parents begins and ends with controlling, demeaning, demanding monsters.
It’s going to take him a moment to see the differences, and he can’t start that process until we go to see them.
He peels off his dress shirt, and I catch a glimpse of the pale scar across his stomach when his tank top sticks to the material. My gaze clings to it and the way he’s left it unmarked. Veins of dark tattoos stretch from the pale line. His tank top falls back into place as he reaches for his usual overcoat, but I stop him from swinging it on as I lift the hem of his tank top again.
“Maelin—”
His muscles clench as I trace the scar, the veins. They attack a sword reminiscent of a pen and one pulling inspiration from a microphone.
“Viktor and Lukas,” he murmurs.
I nod. “They saved your life.”
“They did. I still don’t know how they knew it was so serious. I think…maybe…they just knew me.”
Lifting my gaze, I let his shirt fall as I meet his eyes. “I’m so glad they knew you. I hope…I hope I can also know you that well, someday.”
He laughs as he pulls his coat on and begins doing the silver buttons. “I hope you never have to save me from an imploding organ. But. Yes.” Carefully, he cups my face and kisses my lips. “I want you to know me so much more.”
“Tomorrow you’ll really be okay?” I ask.
His smile softens, and he says, “If you stay by my side, I will manage.”
“I can’t express how much this means to me. I know things will be fine, but you don’t have that same peace. It feels cruel to ask something so big of you. It feels cruel that I’m letting what happened with Harry keep me from bending when you are very different people. Why do I get to appease my trauma while making you fight yours?”
“You love your parents, princess. I understand why you want me to meet them before we get married. I also understand what you’ve just been through with your ex. If this provides you peace of mind for the rest of our future, I understand why that’s important. I want you to feel safe.”
“I want you to feel safe, too.”
He chuckles. “We’ll work on that one, okay?”
Wrapping my arms around him, I squeeze. “But…”
“No buts. My trauma is dead. Yours is very real, very alive, and very possible. My fears right now are unfounded. Logic demands I recognize that there are good parents in this world. Your worries about me may or may not be unfounded, because humans can fool themselves into justification so easily. The level of trust we need is something earned. I am willing to earn it. I am willing to take steps toward your peace, because I love you. This is hard, but it is not bad. And if I survive it, I will be that much closer to healing from my own wounds while you, princess…” He kisses my cheek. “…will be that much closer to loving me without fear that I’ll chew you up and spit you out when I’m done.” He pulls me into his arms, holding me tight. “Tomorrow, I will be okay. And the next day, I will be even better.”