Chapter 11 #2
They tremble together, Beacon having to support himself on arms like gelatin so his legs don’t give out. Gently, carefully, Laurel pushes him back with a foot on his shoulder, guiding him to sit back down. Beacon isn’t sure the chair will survive when Laurel flops into his lap, but it does.
Somehow, they both survive. Maybe more than that. Maybe they’re holding hands and leading each other into a future that looks like thriving instead.
Soft kisses and minutes of panting bring them down to normal heart rates. Laurel sits up, cringing when his naked skin peels away from Beacon’s. “Ew,” he grumbles.
Beacon is no stranger to the discomfort of sweaty flesh on either end—just thinking of getting a shirtless hug from Raibull after a workout would be enough to go flaccid if the prosthetic cock was capable of that. On that note… “How do I get this off?”
Laurel oozes fluidly off his lap to the floor, landing with a moan in a tangle of sore limbs. “It’s not difficult, but it feels weirder than the initial application.” He closes his eyes, and then, heralded by an awful, sucking sensation, removes the phallus from Beacon’s crotch.
It leaves him feeling a combination of relief and loss. Beacon touches the area where the hair has been shorn, everything around it a mess of sexual aftermath, returned to his disappointment of a body.
“Hey.”
Beacon blinks at Laurel, curled on the floor with his cheek against Beacon’s knee.
“It doesn’t change anything about you, you know.”
With a shuddery exhale, Beacon says, “I know.”
“But it still hurts.”
“Yeah.”
Laurel drops a quick kiss onto Beacon’s knee, then wobbles to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up.”
“I don’t suppose you have a shower hidden in here,” Beacon teases, scanning the small workshop.
Chuckling, Laurel shakes his head. “No. There’s a bucket and a hose out back, though.”
“Just like home.” Beacon stretches, joints cracking, then pops up to follow Laurel into the tiny overgrown garden.
Vine-covered trellises block most of the view of the alley behind them.
Beacon doesn’t care if anyone sees his body, but the idea of someone peeping at Laurel triggers a surge of possessiveness.
He puts himself between the gate and his husband’s back, and if Laurel notices, he doesn’t mention it.
“It’s cold,” he’s explaining instead, “and the water pressure can be inconsistent. Always dribbly when you want a steady stream, and then suddenly it— Ack!”
A pulse from the hose squirts Laurel in the face. He recoils, scrubbing at his eyes so hard, he doesn’t notice the skin peeling off his knuckles until what Beacon belatedly realizes must be prosthetic fingers detach from his hand and clatter to the footpath below.
Confusion registers on Laurel’s face until the spiky clumps of his eyelashes go wide.
He holds up his hand, only two fingers and his thumb intact, the other two missing along with a substantial section of his palm.
Mortification paints over Laurel’s lovely face, leaving a twisted, crumpled mess that summarily bursts into tears.
For too long, Beacon stands there, naked and frozen, watching Laurel sob with his damaged hand clutched—hidden—against his chest. When he finally thaws, Beacon lunges into motion. He turns off the hose, kicking it out of the puddle of lukewarm water surrounding Laurel’s feet.
Laurel struggles like a caught cat when Beacon grabs him, but the imbalance in their strength isn’t in question, and it doesn’t take long for him to go lax, crumpling against Beacon’s chest. Beacon strokes his hair back, twisting the clumped strands into a thick tail.
In its current state it’s too dense for Beacon to weave his fingers into, but he does his best, holding Laurel and petting him as he cries himself out.
Eventually, he stills. Beacon wants to scoop him up like he’s done before, but it seems like the wrong action in this moment. The problem is… Beacon doesn’t know the right one.
If it took a long time for Beacon to figure out how to comfort his husband, it takes even longer to realize he doesn’t have to guess what to do next—he can ask. Laurel has remained limp and cold in his embrace, so he hears fine when Beacon whispers, “How do I help?”
Laurel puts space between their bodies, still naked. Beacon fights the urge to put a hand in front of his groin because if he wants Laurel to face him at his most vulnerable, he ought to do the same.
“I should have showed you sooner,” Laurel whispers back, picking up the prosthesis, now speckled with dirt.
“No. You didn’t owe me that.”
“But this is awful.”
Beacon shrugs. “Yeah. But I don’t mind.” Laurel searches his face; Beacon makes sure he finds nothing there but the genuine desire to accept him, to help. He gestures to the prosthesis, fuchsia fingers muddied. “Let’s start by cleaning this off.”
Silence reigns until everything has been tidied, they’re both dressed, and Laurel’s hand has been cleaned and mended. The magic-imbued skin melds so perfectly against his actual flesh, Beacon isn’t surprised he never noticed the seam. Laurel’s skills are truly incredible.
Laurel himself is incredible. All of him, including the parts he sees as missing.
An odd feeling wells up when Beacon realizes that same line of thought could apply to his own being—his own body.
Finished tidying, Laurel leads Beacon out of his workshop, locks it, then brushes his fingertips over the latch. Magic?
“We didn’t do any packing,” Beacon realizes.
Laurel snuffles a laugh. “I’ll come back to work on it later tonight.”
“Not without me, you won’t.”
Coming to a stop on the threshold, Laurel blinks up at Beacon as if seeing him for the first time. “Really?”
There are quite possibly thousands of things Beacon could say in response, even though the things he actually would say reduce it to a couple dozen at best. But none of them fully encompass what he can’t verbalize, and that’s the important part.
Beacon kisses Laurel’s brow, settling on, “From now on, I go where you go.”
“I’m the one going with you to Dun Steorra,” Laurel points out.
“So you can be my house husband and do nothing but be The Amazing Anatomancer, even though your clients will have a much more difficult time reaching you when they have to climb a mountain first.”
“That’ll just prove how much they want it. By the way, Beacon, it’s just The Anatomancer. No amazing.”
“But you are.”
“It sounds ridiculous.”
Beacon slings an arm around Laurel’s shoulders, squeezing him close. “‘Anatomancer’ already sounds ridiculous.”
Laughing, Laurel pinches him in the side. “It doesn’t! I worked hard thinking of that. It took months.”
“We should eat something before the awards, sweet one.”
“It does not sound ridiculous. You have to agree with me—I’m your husband!”
Beacon has never felt so light.