Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Laurel
Beacon’s parents cite needing to solidify tomorrow’s arrangements for departure, so Beacon and Laurel walk by themselves, hand-in-hand, toward the grounds where the archery targets stand.
After winning the archery competition by a landslide two days previous, Raylen of Moonscliffe will be loosing his final arrows at the Championship Games.
Laurel, after his short chat with Raylen’s partner, Sylar, suggested they attend.
His secret project is complete, after all. No more missing out on everything and seeing how negatively it impacted his new husband.
Laurel genuinely regrets that his absence hurt Beacon, but he didn’t know how to explain without ruining the surprise. So he worked and worked and worked, hoping to minimize the time Beacon spent in the dark. And now it’s ready.
Despite having wanted to watch the event, Laurel can’t help but squirm.
Beacon had grumbled something about Raylen’s flirtatious reputation when Laurel first spoke of attending, but now seems raptly focused on his performance, murmuring to himself about the other archers’ forms. With his expression so serious, even his body engaged, clenching when Raylen draws his bow string, Laurel doesn’t expect the big hand that comes down on his knee when he bounces out of restless impatience.
Beacon strokes his thumb against Laurel’s bare skin, soothing him despite his unbreaking stare at the competition.
They stay long enough after the event for Beacon to clasp arms with Raylen and congratulate him on his winning performance. Laurel hovers back, not doing much more than smiling at Sylar and offering him a polite nod. He can’t socialize right now, not while vibrating with unspent energy.
The second Beacon returns to his side, mouth open to say something, Laurel jumps in, speaking over him. “Would you like to come to my workshop?”
Beacon blinks, probably startled by Laurel’s lack of manners.
“I’m sorry,” Laurel says, only giving a second after the apology before continuing: “I know it’s only a few hours until the final awards, but I wanted to finish packing the rest of my supplies before tomorrow.
” It’s not untrue, but it’s also not the only reason he wants Beacon to visit his workshop.
A small smile tilts Beacon’s lips. “If that’s what you would like, then that’s what we’ll do.”
Laurel can’t help but preen. Getting the chance to observe Beacon interacting with others has given him great insight into his husband’s inner workings.
He doesn’t like being jostled or disturbed unless he’s on the field—even if it’s Laurel jumping on him afterward.
He doesn’t like talking when he’s eating, not even with Laurel.
However, even when irritated, he’s not aggressive or unkind, merely incidentally rude.
It’s much different from what Laurel feared the first time they met, worried about having a cold, apathetic husband.
Quite the opposite—Beacon almost dotes on him.
Even when he doesn’t want to participate, he seems more willing if it involves something Laurel might enjoy.
With respect to that, it’s not difficult for Laurel to balance his needs with a man who genuinely wants an equal relationship.
He’s spent years burying how much it truly hurt to never be considered, not by his mother, not by his former betrothed, and certainly not by his father.
Now, Laurel has the opportunity to think of someone without losing himself entirely.
He leads Beacon out of the marketplace grounds, heading toward his workshop. Laurel almost wants to skip but tries to smother the impulse. Beacon notices anyway.
“You seem excited about something,” he observes.
“Just a lot of energy!” Laurel shakes his hands, trying to dispel the overflowing jitters. “I’m eager for the Market to end tomorrow. It’s fun, but I’m exhausted, and I have to finish packing. I’m ready to finally be free of this place.” All true statements.
“You’re sure you’re that excited to live up a mountain?” Beacon’s voice is soft, vulnerable like a beast’s underbelly.
“It’ll be an adjustment,” Laurel allows. “And I’ll have to wear actual pants.” He wrinkles his nose. “But I’m sure I’ll look acceptable, even in leggings.”
Beacon laughs warmly, squeezing Laurel’s hand in his. The prosthesis groans; Laurel hasn’t taken it off to clean and adjust in more days than ideal. He’s been focusing on other things. More important ones.
“You’ll look wonderful in leggings,” Beacon assures him as they come up on the workshop.
Laurel rushes ahead to unlock the door, slipping the tiny thread of magic through the keyhole so the latch will fully unlock—a precaution against potential meddling from his father. He throws the door open wide so his much larger husband can duck through the narrow doorway.
Last time they were here, it ended poorly, with Beacon startling and running away. This time, Laurel has planned for a much different conclusion.
“I’ve been working on something,” he begins, slipping in behind Beacon.
“So you said.”
Instead of pointing out that at least half the workshop’s contents are very obviously unpacked, Beacon’s gaze slides to the workbench where they were the day he startled and ran. Laurel doesn’t have his creations there for that reason, but also…
“Sit down, please.” Laurel gestures to a table he cleared, then pulls out a small chair, which groans under Beacon’s weight. “It didn’t escape my notice that I neglected to get you a wedding present,” Laurel begins.
Beacon raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t get you one, either.”
“We both had much going on. But I wanted to show you…” Here, Laurel falters. He props himself against the table, tail curling around his ankle. “I accept every part of you as my husband. Your successes, like today, and…”
“My failures?” Beacon guesses.
“No! Your weaknesses, insecurities… I accept those, too.”
Beacon considers Laurel for a moment, before reaching out to cup his cheek.
He draws him in for a soft kiss, murmuring against his lips, “Thank you.” When he leans back, he doesn’t remove his hand, instead brushing a flyway lock of raven hair behind Laurel’s ear.
He traces the long edge up to the point, smiling when Laurel shudders.
“You’re distracting me!” Laurel complains even though he doesn’t actually mind.
Laughing, Beacon withdraws. “Alright then. Tell me your secret.”
“I made you a wedding gift.” Laurel runs his freshly ink-stained fingertips across the boundary of the table, dropping the illusion hiding a fine wooden case. “Open it.”
Beacon looks unsure, but doesn’t hold himself back, raw curiosity in the way he thumbs the latch without hesitation. He opens the lid, and his hazel eyes widen. “Laurel…”
Laurel catches the lid before it can slam closed. “Just hear me out.”
Lips pressed together, Beacon leans back in the chair.
“You struggled with intimacy between us, and even though I told you it wasn’t necessary, I realized that’s something that saves my own feelings, no? Not yours.”
Beacon looks perplexed now, which is better than panic.
Laurel continues, “I wasn’t considering that maybe your insecurities laid more in your perception of yourself rather than my perception of you. Self-centered of me, I know. But I’m rectifying that now.” Laurel gestures to the three figures in the satin-lined box.
“Laurel, these are… I don’t need a dildo,” Beacon finally gets out.
“They aren’t dildos!”
“This is the second time you’ve told me that, but I don’t believe you.”
Rapping his knuckles on the edge of the box, Laurel says, “These are prosthetic phalluses.”
It takes a moment, but finally, understanding dawns. “You—”
“Any of these can be installed onto your body for sexual purposes.” Laurel sketches his fingers through the air above his three creations.
“It won’t feel like wearing something inanimate.
It’ll be a part of your body until you take it off, and if you’d like a more permanent installation, I’m good at those too. ” Laurel waves his tail at Beacon.
“You’re good at many things.”
“I don’t know your tastes, so I guessed for now.
” Laurel gestures to the first in the box.
It’s a normal looking penis with no embellishments.
He matched it to Beacon’s skin tone and the color of his hair, which Laurel had become very familiar with while kneeling for Beacon on their wedding night.
“Normal, obviously. I guessed size for what seemed proportional for your frame, but all dimensions can be customized to your desire. The next one is crystal; it’s capable of warming and vibrating, but it doesn’t look natural. That makes it a tough sell for some.”
Curiosity finally wins out. Slowly, Beacon removes the clear phallus from the box. Its center is vibrant green. “Is this the same stone you used to create your…” He gestures to Laurel’s hands.
Surprised, Laurel tries to hide his wrists, mostly out of shyness. “Yes. I didn’t expect you to notice.”
“They’re stunning,” Beacon says with a bashful shrug.
Laurel flushes with pleasure, then gestures to the final model. “This one was a risk, but I didn’t know if your dysphoria would want something completely unrealistic—”
“Wait. That word you just used…”
“Dysphoria?”
“What does that mean?”
With a soft smile, Laurel indulges in the desire to run his fingers through Beacon’s messy hair, coppery in the workshop’s yellow light.
“It means you don’t feel entirely connected to your body.
Like some parts of it are wrong because you see those parts as belonging to an inaccurate version of yourself.
Am I out of line in suspecting this might resemble your experience? ”
Beacon shakes his head but doesn’t speak. That’s alright.
“It’s not exactly the same, but I felt similarly after my accident—” Laurel sucks in a sharp breath. He never told Beacon about the event or showed him the half of his hand that’s artificial, the rest disfigured. Will his husband be upset at the deceit or disgusted by its appearance?