Chapter 16 Little Solstice #3
"How about Grim!" I point toward the floating being who has apparently abandoned his victory dance in favor of exploring the cocoon's interior.
He drifts among the flowers with obvious appreciation, tiny golden form bending to examine blooms with the particular attention of someone encountering beauty they've never witnessed before.
He pauses at my accusation, tilting his transformed skull-face in my direction with obvious confusion.
"Gree?"
The inquiry carries genuine bewilderment—the particular tone of someone who has been accused of something they don't understand and can't possibly have committed.
Nikolai's smile only grows.
"Um," he says, tone carrying the patient explanation of someone addressing a child who has failed to grasp an obvious concept. "You're the one connected to him, remember?"
Oh.
The realization lands with the particular weight of truths that should have been obvious but somehow escaped notice until explicitly stated.
Grim is connected to me.
Not to Nikolai.
Which means if he's transformed, if his usual shadow nature has been replaced by golden light and growing things...
That transformation originates from me.
From whatever Fae power has awakened within my hybrid existence and started asserting itself without my conscious direction.
"Oh," I say aloud, the single syllable carrying defeat that makes Nikolai's smile widen further.
He leans back, settling into a more comfortable position within the cocoon's protective embrace.
His eyes scan our surroundings with the particular attention of someone assessing their own creation, taking in details I probably missed during my self-absorbed examination of my transformed appearance.
"I think this was made by me, though," he observes, gesturing toward the vines and flowers and thorns that comprise our shelter. "Which means..."
He trails off, hands lifting in preparation for what I recognize as spellwork.
"Wait."
My interruption comes before I consciously decide to intervene, hand reaching to catch his wrist before his fingers can complete whatever gesture he's planning.
He pauses, looking at me with confusion that carries genuine surprise at the interruption.
"Are you okay magically to do that?" I ask, the concern that prompted my intervention surfacing into verbal expression. "You just... you've been through a lot. Emotionally and magically. Are you sure you have the reserves to safely dissolve whatever this is?"
The question carries weight that extends beyond simple inquiry.
I watched him cry moments ago—watched centuries of suppressed grief finally find release through tears that spoke to depletion on levels that transcend physical exhaustion.
Magic and emotion are connected in ways I'm still learning to understand, and the intensity of what he just experienced must have drawn from reserves that were already low.
He pauses.
Actually considers the question rather than dismissing it with the reflexive confidence that Fae princes usually deploy.
"Well," he says slowly, the word carrying genuine uncertainty that surprises me coming from him. "I don't know. I don't feel exhausted right now."
Right now.
But did he feel exhausted before he created this cocoon?
Did he sense the depletion that led to unconscious magic-working?
Would he recognize the signs if they were present again?
I sit back on my knees, golden skirts pooling around me in patterns that catch the bioluminescence with increased shimmer. The fabric moves like water as I shift, like something living that responds to my body's commands rather than simple cloth that follows gravity's dictation.
Is this a good idea?
Should I let him attempt spellwork when we don't know the state of his reserves?
Or would stopping him be overprotective in ways that insult his autonomy?
He smirks at my obvious internal debate.
Then he leans in.
The motion closes the distance between us with deliberate slowness, giving me time to retreat if I choose, making clear that whatever happens next is my decision to permit or prevent.
His face approaches mine with the particular patience of someone who has learned to savor anticipation, who understands that the moments before contact often carry more intensity than contact itself.
His lips brush mine.
The touch is barely there—more suggestion than pressure, more promise than delivery. The sensation sends electricity cascading through my nervous system despite its gentleness, every nerve ending in my mouth suddenly demanding more of what's been offered in such limited quantity.
"You could always boost me up," he whispers against my lips.
The words arrive with breath that mingles with mine, warmth that makes thinking difficult, suggestion that carries implications I'm not sure I'm prepared to fully examine.
Boost.
Energy transfer.
The kind that happens through intimate contact between bonded Fae.
The blush that spreads across my transformed cheeks feels hotter than usual—the particular flush of someone whose new Fae nature apparently processes embarrassment with increased intensity.
The pink of my skin deepens toward rose, the shimmer intensifying as blood rushes toward my face in response to implications I'm only beginning to grasp.
I huff, one hand rising to push his face away with the particular indignation of someone who recognizes they're being teased and refuses to participate in their own torment.
"And what does that entail with that look?" I grumble, the words carrying accusation that's undercut by the breathlessness I can't quite hide.
His chuckle vibrates through the minimal space that still separates us—warm, amused, carrying the particular satisfaction of someone who has achieved exactly the reaction they were aiming for.
But then his expression softens.
The teasing light in his eyes dims into something more sincere, more tender, more aligned with the vulnerability we shared just moments ago when he was crying in my arms.
He leans in again.
This time, the kiss is different.
Soft. Tender. The particular gentleness of someone who wants to give rather than take, who is expressing care rather than demanding response. His lips press against mine with pressure that feels almost reverent, touch that treats me as something precious rather than something to be consumed.
Oh.
The sensation steals my breath in ways the teasing brush hadn't quite achieved.
This is Nikolai being genuine.
This is the person beneath the masks, the one who just trusted me with his tears, now trusting me with tenderness that feels equally vulnerable.
The kiss ends too soon.
He pulls back with obvious reluctance, his eyes meeting mine with warmth that makes my chest ache in ways that have nothing to do with sadness.
"I'll be fine," he assures me, the words carrying certainty that feels less like performance and more like genuine assessment. "And we can talk with Professor Eternalis to determine if this—" He gestures at my transformed appearance with one elegant hand. "—is going to be permanent or not."
Permanent.
The word carries weight I hadn't fully considered.
This might not be temporary.
This might be who I am now—golden hair and pink eyes and shimmering skin and ears that announce my Fae heritage to anyone who looks closely enough to notice.
Before he can begin whatever spellwork he's planning, I make a decision.
My hand catches his, fingers intertwining with his in grip that demands attention. Then I lean in, closing the distance he'd created with the particular determination of someone who has decided to take action rather than simply receiving it.
My lips meet his.
The kiss is firmer than his tender offering—carrying intention, carrying purpose, carrying the particular energy of someone who wants to contribute rather than merely accept.
I pour into it whatever magic is building in my transformed form, whatever power has been awakening since this Fae heritage decided to stop hiding.
I feel something transfer.
Energy flowing from me to him through the connection our lips create, power finding pathways that physical touch makes possible. The sensation is strange but not unpleasant—like giving away something I have too much of, like sharing abundance rather than sacrificing scarcity.
I pull back just far enough to whisper against his mouth.
"If you need a boost, don't hesitate to ask."
The words emerge shyly, contradicting the boldness of the kiss that preceded them. My transformed cheeks flush deeper pink, the shimmer intensifying with embarrassment that my new Fae nature apparently broadcasts rather than hides.
His grin spreads across features that still carry traces of recent tears, humor and warmth and something that might be affection all competing for dominance in his expression.
"Hmm," he considers, the sound carrying theatrical contemplation. "A submissive little Solstice is kinda hot."
The statement makes me splutter with indignation.
Submissive?
I kiss him firmly and somehow that translates to submissive?
I push him with force that carries genuine annoyance behind it, my palm connecting with his shoulder hard enough to rock him backward.
"Go fuck yourself," I declare with the particular venom of someone whose generosity has been repaid with teasing they didn't deserve.
His laugh echoes through the cocoon, bright and genuine and carrying none of the grief that weighted his voice earlier. The sound bounces off flowers and vines and thorns, filling our protected space with joy that feels almost healing after everything that came before.
"That ain't ladylike at all," he observes, still chuckling, eyes sparkling with the particular light of someone thoroughly enjoying himself at another's expense.
"Fuck you and your lady shit," I respond with eloquence that would make any Fae court proud.