Chapter Nine
Hamish’s little worker’s cottage fell into a predictable rhythm over Lysander’s first couple of weeks in the country.
Most mornings, after Cassian had finished screaming his declarations at the Melbourne sky and Hamish had left for his edit suite or a meeting, the two of them would wander the neighbourhood on foot or catch the tram into the city, Cassian barefoot until Lysander bought him a pair of thongs from a chemist on Lygon Street and stood over him until he put them on.
Cassian worked under the apparent conviction that Lysander was the world’s foremost authority on everything from tram etiquette to what, precisely, constituted a normal family.
The Huxleys fascinated him beyond all reason.
He wanted to know about Colin and Diwa, about Stephen and Ryland, about the pregnancies, and every last mundane detail that Lysander had never considered remotely interesting.
“Your daddy carried you and Stephen at the same time,” Cassian said, as they sat on a bench in Edinburgh Gardens watching a woman throw a tennis ball for a staffy that kept bringing back sticks instead. “Two babies. Two male omega babies.”
“He did.”
“And your twin’s alpha — Ryland — he loves Stephen?”
“Very much.”
Cassian hugged his knees to his chest and rested his chin on them, his eyes tracking the staffy as it trotted back with half a branch clamped in its jaws. “And now they’re both carrying. Your daddy and your brother. At the same time.”
“At the same time,” Lysander confirmed.
“It’s a Calyx’s highest calling,” Cassian breathed. His voice had gone reverent, his eyes shining. “To carry life within you. To open yourself so completely that the Universe can pass through you and become someone new. I can only hope to experience this joy myself one day.”
Lysander watched him for a moment, this strange, fierce, damaged boy curled up on a park bench in Brunswick East, dreaming about fatherhood.
He didn’t say any of the things that occurred to him: that wanting a baby was one thing but understanding what a healthy relationship looked like was a prerequisite, and that the first step towards experiencing joy was probably getting some distance between yourself and a theology that had sold you to a fifty-one-year-old man.
“You will,” Lysander said instead, because Cassian wasn’t prepared for a sharper response. “When you’re ready.”
And then Hamish would come home.
The shift was instantaneous, as if someone had flipped a switch in Cassian’s wiring.
The omega who’d spent the afternoon interrogating Lysander about Colin’s morning sickness and Stephen’s cravings vanished.
In his place was a creature of wide eyes and soft compliance, angled towards Hamish like a satellite dish tracking a signal.
“Alpha.” Cassian appeared in the kitchen doorway before Hamish had even set down his bag, his voice dropping to that breathy, pliant register that made Lysander’s back teeth grind. “How was your day? Can I get you anything? Would you like me to run you a bath?”
Hamish softened visibly. “I’m good, Cass. Thanks.”
“I could make you tea?”
“Already got the kettle on.”
Cassian drifted closer, and the manoeuvre was so practised that Lysander had to admire the choreography.
One step into Hamish’s space, the chin tilted up, the eyes going liquid.
His shirt slipped off one shoulder in a way that was absolutely not accidental.
Hamish’s hand came up and settled on Cassian’s back, a reflex of care so ingrained by now that Lysander doubted he even clocked himself doing it.
Cassian leaned into the warmth of Hamish’s side and stayed there, his lashes low, his body broadcasting a contentment that bordered on the narcotic.
Lysander watched this performance from his stool at the kitchen island and said nothing, because he’d promised Hamish he wouldn’t punch Cassian, and keeping that promise required a certain economy of engagement.
It was Thursday morning when Hamish decided that Cassian needed to learn how to make toast by himself.
“It’s just bread and a toaster, Cass.” Hamish set the loaf on the counter and positioned Cassian in front of the appliance. “You put the bread in, push the lever down, and wait for it to pop up. That’s the whole job.”
Cassian picked up a slice of bread between his thumb and forefinger and lowered it into the slot.
“Good. Now push the lever down.”
Cassian pushed the lever down.
“Brilliant. Now we wait.”
They waited. Cassian stood in front of the toaster with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the coils glow orange through the slots, his eyes fixed on the glow within, like he was communing with the bread on a spiritual level. Lysander drank his coffee.
The toast popped up. Cassian flinched, then recovered with dignity.
“See?” Hamish was already reaching for the Vegemite. “Easy.”
“I want to do another one.”
Another slice went into the toaster, the lever went down, and this time Cassian bent down close enough that his nose was nearly touching the chrome.
Lysander saw what was going to happen a full second before it did.
Cassian reached into the toaster.
His fingertips barely grazed the bread before he yanked his hand back with a yelp, his eyes flooding with tears as he cradled his fingers against his chest. The yelp escalated into a thin, keening wail that brought Hamish across the kitchen in two strides, his hands already reaching for Cassian’s wrist.
“Let me see, let me see — Cass, let me see your hand —”
Cassian held out his fingers, his lower lip trembling, his lashes clumped and wet. Two fingertips were pink from the brief contact, barely a mark on them.
“See?” Cassian’s words came out wobbly. “This is why I need you to make the toast for me, alpha.”
Hamish was already running the tap, guiding Cassian’s hand under the cold water, his thumb stroking the inside of Cassian’s wrist while Cassian leaned into his chest and sniffled.
Lysander set down his mug and stared hard at Cassian across the kitchen island.
Cassian’s eyes met his over Hamish’s shoulder. Then the wobbling lip stilled and his eyes were perfectly clear. Cassian pressed his cheek against Hamish’s collarbone and his eyes fluttered shut, his burnt fingers held beneath the running water, his body melting into the alpha’s care.
? ? ?
Hamish’s mate Pete had booked a Thai place in Richmond for Friday night as Lysander’s ‘formal’ introduction to his friends. Hamish had been talking about the dinner all week, clueing Lysander in on Pete, Yumi and Dev, the crew he’d been working with since his first commission for SBS.
“You’ll love them,” Hamish said, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror and adjusting his collar. “Pete’s been dying to meet you. I may have talked about you a bit.”
“Yeah?” Lysander asked, pleased.
Cassian appeared from his bedroom wearing one of Hamish’s button-downs, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair combed flat in a way that made him look like a Victorian orphan auditioning for a Dickens adaptation.
He stood very still in the hallway, watching Hamish fuss with his collar, and said nothing.
The trouble started at the car.
Hamish drove a ten-year-old Subaru, and Lysander had his hand on the passenger door before Cassian made his move. It was beautifully executed. Cassian materialised at Hamish’s elbow as though transported there by the Universe itself, his chin dropped, one hand coming to rest on Hamish’s forearm.
“Alpha.” His voice had gone lispy and thin, rising barely above a whisper. “I don’t like cars. You know that. They make me feel all wobbly and sick.” His fingers tightened on Hamish’s sleeve. “I feel safer next to you.”
Hamish looked at Lysander. Lysander looked back at him with an expression that communicated, very precisely, that whatever decision Hamish made in the next three seconds would be remembered and raised at a strategically devastating moment in the future.
“Cass, maybe you could sit in the back just for tonight. So you start getting used to it?”
Cassian’s lower lip trembled, and it didn’t take very long for Hamish to completely cave and open the passenger door for him.
Lysander got into the back seat without a word, pulled the door shut, and stared at the headrest in front of him.
Cassian settled into the front with a contented sigh, drawing his bare feet up onto the seat and curling sideways so that his shoulder rested against Hamish’s arm.
As Hamish reversed out of the driveway, Cassian turned his head just enough to catch Lysander’s eye through the gap between the seats.
The look lasted less than a second. It was entirely deliberate, and it said: selected.
Lysander smiled back at him. It was not a nice smile.
? ? ?
The restaurant was loud and warm, crammed with Friday-night tables and the fragrant sizzling of a wok station near the kitchen pass.
Pete turned out to be a broad, sunburnt sound engineer with a belly laugh that drew stares, and Yumi was a colourist who’d worked on three of Hamish’s films. She greeted Lysander with a firm handshake and a frank assessment of his bone structure that he rather enjoyed.
Dev was quieter, an alpha researcher with kind eyes, who instantly rocketed up in Lysander’s esteem with his careful greeting of Cassian.
Hamish pulled out a chair for Lysander next to his own. Then Cassian slid into the chair on Hamish’s other side, leaned against the alpha’s arm, and went completely silent.