Chapter 4 #2
Beacon makes another of those ‘might-be-a-laugh’ sounds.
When he looks over his shoulder, his hazel eyes are warm.
“That’s alright. I couldn’t impregnate you anyway.
” Before Laurel can question that, Beacon continues: “I never wanted to get married. I had another betrothed before this, and I did everything I was capable of to alienate her until she begged her parents to break off the arrangement. They obliged.”
It’s more than Laurel has ever heard Beacon say in one go. He inhales deeply, the forest invading his nostrils. Holding space.
“That was many years ago,” Beacon explains, gesturing with a broad hand to indicate the length of time. Laurel wonders how old he is. “I’m more mature now.”
“An impressive admission,” Laurel comments.
“Yes,” he agrees. “Self-awareness is… I couldn’t keep running from it.”
Laurel bites his lip and drops his gaze to the forest floor.
He needs stimulation, something to ground him, so he fights off his boots until his feet are bare, tail swishing behind him to maintain his balance.
Once steady, Laurel pads forward, damp earth pressing into the soles of his feet, and walks into the creek.
Fresh water trickles from small rock formations, washing away the dirt.
Today, Laurel had time to weave his hair into a nicer braid than his usual hastily tied plait.
He sighs, grabbing the tip so he can fiddle with the black strands and their split ends.
His father is both neglectful and attentive; Rodney notices things in irregular patterns Laurel can’t guess or keep up with.
When something Laurel’s done wrong catches his attention, that’s when it’s handled.
Rodney hasn’t minded Laurel’s split ends, or the way his wispy bangs frame his face, or the length creeping past his waist, so he hasn’t had it cut.
“What do you need from me?” Beacon asks.
When Laurel turns, Beacon has walked closer to the edge of the creek.
“I want to know what you want,” Laurel says with a jabbing finger. “What you want from me. Will we ever find an equilibrium, if not happiness? You don’t have long to decide, and for that, I’m sorry.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“I can still be sorry.”
Beacon tips his head in acknowledgment.
“I just need to… Will you allow me to continue my work? As The Anatomancer?” Such nerves overtake him that Laurel feels his tail wrap around his leg, putting a visual to his anxiety.
A disgusted wrinkle takes over Beacon’s expression. Laurel hadn’t realized how open he was being until he closes off again. “I would not keep your interests from you.”
“But I’ll be leaving with you,” Laurel says.
Frowning, Beacon says, “Yes. Can you not continue your work in Stehr’s Peak?” When Laurel doesn’t answer, he adds, “We come to the Market every Midsummer. I’ll ensure you have a stall from which to vend your wares.”
It’s… He’s being so kind, yet every gentle word tangles Laurel up into a tighter ball, strings upon strings of stressors wrapping around his smoking hot core. He’d rather not explode, but with every new band that encircles him, the more likely it seems.
Beacon opens his mouth, probably to make another attempt at reassurance that won’t assuage Laurel’s true fear, so Laurel blurts, “Do you think you could ever like me?”
The crackle of a jay’s call splits the silence that stretches the space between them. Laurel curls his toes, digging them into the soft sandy creek bottom.
Expression worryingly neutral, Beacon steps forward.
He pauses. Then, squaring his shoulders with determination, he eats up the ground between them with long strides.
The toes of his ghillie brogues touch the water.
He plunges in, the sputtering creek splashing over the thick soles.
Beacon’s steps are not as delicate as Laurel’s barefoot tip-toeing, which means he’s there in seconds, gently resting a rough hand against Laurel’s arm.
His calluses—much more prominent than Laurel’s own—catch the sheer fabric of Laurel’s tunic.
“You don’t need to worry about me liking you,” Beacon says.
Then he firms his grip, holding Laurel in place so he can dip to press his chapped lips to Laurel’s.
The contact only lasts a second before Beacon retreats, brow furrowed. He looks just as confused as Laurel feels. Maybe not for the same reason because all Laurel can think to say is:
“Why?”
“I dislike that you’ve been made to feel as if your presence is a hardship.”
“Enough for you to kiss me? That’s ridiculous.”
Beacon huffs, nostrils flaring. “We’ll have to kiss in three days’ time, whether we want to or not.”
Laurel can’t argue with that. He grabs Beacon’s loose shirt and pulls him in close, mimicking the solid grip he had on Laurel’s arm. Beacon adjusts his touch to the small of Laurel’s back, drawing him in until their chests brush.
“You said you don’t want to marry.”
“Correct.”
“But you kissed me.”
The corner of Beacon’s lips twitches. “Correct, again.”
“And you won’t find me intolerable to be around?”
“Don’t,” Beacon says. His free hand pushes a lock of escaped black hair behind Laurel’s ear. “I don’t find you intolerable.”
“Alright,” Laurel says. He tugs Beacon down, knowing such a strong, stocky athlete could resist without trying. Nonetheless, Beacon complies easily. “I don’t find you intolerable either, so you know.”
“That’s a relief.”
“You didn’t seem to care before,” accuses Laurel. “You were ignoring me.”
“I wasn’t,” Beacon says with a shake of his head. “I told you I prefer quiet, Laurel. Especially while I’m eating. That’s just how I am.”
Gnawing his lower lip, Laurel tries to contextualize everything Beacon has told him. Beacon sighs and tucks his fingers under Laurel’s chin to lift it into a streak of sunlight. Laurel’s lashes flutter to keep the sudden brightness from stinging.
“We will learn more about each other,” Beacon promises. “I swear it.”
“We only have three days.”
Beacon shrugs. “Then we had better make them good days.”
Overcome, Laurel pushes onto his toes to kiss Beacon again. Just as their lips brush, a plop! in the water startles him into stepping back. “What was…?”
Flushing, Beacon bends to scoop the package of Laurel’s leftover fruit out of the stream. “My apologies,” he mutters. “I thought I had it secured.”
Water droplets run off the wax-covered parchment paper.
“It will be fine,” Laurel declares, taking the package and tossing it onto the bank of the creek.
It bounces once before rolling to a stop.
When he returns his attention to Beacon, the taller elf is already near enough to press his lips against Laurel’s forehead, right where it meets the first strands of hair.
Laurel tucks his face into the crook of Beacon’s neck.
His left hand tingles against the prosthesis, both real and artificial fingers twitching, but it’s not caused by irritation this time.
If pressed, Laurel wouldn’t be able to put a name to the bubbly feeling rising up from his quivering stomach and shooting into his extremities.
“Thank you, Beacon,” is all he can think to say.
Beacon only hums, tucking Laurel flush to his chest, grip gentle even though his calluses still scrape the fabric of Laurel’s clothes.
They embrace without leaving the creek until Laurel realizes his feet have gone numb from the cold water.
He slips on the smooth rocks when he attempts to return to dry land and only avoids falling thanks to his tail counterbalancing.
With the barest huff of amusement, Beacon sweeps Laurel up and carries him the rest of the way.