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Essek yelps when one of the wings cuts him.
The whirring sound stops when he ends the incantation that powers the device, but the subsequent silence is broken by something falling on the floor of the laboratory—various things, judging by the discordant clattering.
The noise is followed by a voice. “Essek? Is everything all right?”
“It’s fine,” he says around the finger in his mouth. He can taste blood on his tongue. “A miscalculation. It’s just a prototype anyway,” he adds, glaring at the device on Caleb’s work table.
The contraption is surrounded by an eclectic array of instruments Caleb has collected—and in some cases, built—for his own use, selected among the vast supply of his private laboratory.
(“Find me when you have what you need,” Caleb had said after Essek expressed the desire to work on a small side project. And then he walked away, leaving Essek alone to choose, unsupervised. Essek had not needed to be told that no one else had been allowed here, where Caleb's creativity takes its root.
The trust given to him was precious and he was careful with it; he took only what he needed.)
The dragonfly’s four tapered wings, stretched thin between delicate silver frames, are iridescent, translucent, and deceptively fragile-looking. Its metallic body lays on the table without legs or any other appendage to prop it up—it’s supposed to be constantly airborne, after all. It has no frills, nothing distinctive, except for the hollow compartment on its back in which his arcane focus will be encased.
If he can get this damned thing to work. Unlike Caleb, he has little practice coaxing metal and stone into a facsimile of life. His dragonfly is certainly artless compared to the sophisticated, graceful swarm of messenger automatons the Architect Arcane devised for the Herald of Avalir. (The flying hamsters were a whimsical pet project that delighted Jester, and that Caleb rightfully considers to be one of his best creations.)
Artless, yes, but effective, once he can make it work. Besides, Essek would not trust the touch of anyone but himself on something so precious as his magic, no matter how clumsy his attempts may be.
He’s so focused on tracing the failure of his equations that he doesn’t notice Caleb’s presence beside him until his hand is gently but firmly pulled away from his mouth. Caleb doesn’t ask for permission as he examines it.
Essek lets his hand be taken. There is no one else—well, no one else aside from Jester—that he allows to touch him like this without repercussions. He’s never said it out loud, but somehow Caleb seems to know.
“It’s just a scratch,” he says as Caleb examines the cut on his finger. Blood is starting to well again. It hurts, but he clenches his teeth and doesn’t let it show.
All he gets for his efforts is a reproachful look. “You’re not supposed to get close when it’s moving,” he chides briskly, as if Essek was one of his assistants, and a careless one at that, instead of the Archmage Keeper of Scrolls.
Essek didn’t even notice Caleb was keeping an eye on his experiment. He straightens his back reflexively. “I didn’t hurt myself on purpose,” he points out, and Caleb’s gaze softens.
He nods towards the other end of the room, somewhere among the very well organised chaos. “Come. I have a healer’s kit.”
He walks with intent toward a shelf tucked into the corner where there is a stack of rough-hewn parcels fragrant with healing magic and salves. Courtesy of Caduceus, Essek guesses—Caleb has been known to take a calculated risk or three in his working with the arcane, and over the years their friends have become prepared.
Essek drifts along behind, any protest dying on his lips. His mind is still caught on the problem of the dragonfly, but there's something else that wants to be acknowledged, something that has to do with—
Ah. Caleb is still holding his hand.
Heat pools in his cheeks, flowing down his neck and up his ears, in a way that’s surely noticeable. It is shameful to be swayed by such an inconsequential thing, something that would make him send the offender to the other side of the room with a flick of his fingers and no second thought, were it anyone else.
But it isn’t anyone else. It’s Caleb, with whom he’s been dancing a dance of pleasantries and allusions and witty remarks and fond glances. The shared books, the shared meals, the shared knowledge, the shared tools, the shared hours. The looks their friends give them when they think neither of them notices, believing them too lost in conversation at this party or that gathering to pay attention to their surroundings.
Their friends are not… wrong, but they’re not quite right. He and Caleb have not been subtle, but this nebulous, unspoken thing between them is anything but simple.
Caleb sits him down on a padded bench and opens the healer’s kit between them with one hand, the other still warm around Essek’s. His grip has loosened, become soft. It is more tender than it ought to be.
Essek could call attention to this licence Caleb takes with his touch, to the way Essek allows it, only from him. He could make the suggestion between them explicit, even if the thought of misstepping in their careful dance makes him feel more queasy than any experiment with gravity. The problem with the plausible deniability he and Caleb have indulged in is that Essek cannot even be sure Caleb shares thoughts of this kind.
The ailings of his mind are shunted to the side when something is pressed on his wound, sending a sharp sting of pain up his nerves. It’s sudden enough that it cracks through the guard he normally keeps on his expression, and he hisses loudly, prompting an amused glance from Caleb.
“Just a scratch, hm?”
“Scratches can hurt.” Essek’s pride is scratched too, now, but he doesn’t mind it as much when it is Caleb doing the scratching.
He shakes his head. What a thought.
Caleb’s hands are nimble and gentle as they wrap gauze around Essek’s finger. He ties the ends together so delicately, as if he were handling one of his delicate, cherished, clockwork-like wonders. As if he were handling something precious.
No—Essek needs to stop thinking in these terms, if he doesn’t want his ego to bruise, too. Caleb is a careful man by habit; of course he would take care with the safety of those in his laboratory.
He’s almost convinced himself, when Caleb catches his eyes. Essek has seen this look on his face before, usually before Caleb ends the preparations for one of his experiments and takes a leap of faith. Is it even faith, when one is confident enough, brilliant enough?
As he’s done a hundred times before, Essek watches, quiet and enraptured, waiting to see what marvels Caleb will work.
Without breaking eye contact, Caleb brings Essek’s wounded hand to his lips.
It’s barely a kiss, more like a brush. A butterfly would not be this light, landing on his skin.
“Something my mother used to do,” Caleb says, without letting go of Essek’s hand or Essek’s gaze, unaware of (or indifferent to) the fact that Essek is frozen, breathless. “A bit of mundane magic, as it were.”
Essek swallows. “Caleb,” he says—his voice is a pitiful croak, and he clears his throat. “Caleb.” His second attempt is more satisfactory.
Or it would be, if he knew what he wanted to say.
Essek allows himself to be touched by Caleb, and Caleb touches with care; it is an unspoken part of their dance that neither pushes the bounds far enough to upset the balance of the friendship they’ve forged over the years. A kiss is not within those bounds.
Caleb is a careful man by habit; deliberate. Caleb moves with intent.
“Are we—is this…” Essek is the Keeper of Scrolls, not a master of eloquence. But he has to try. “What do you want?”
“Everything I can have,” Caleb replies without hesitation. “Which, as a matter of fact, includes you. If you are amenable, of course.”
Did he rehearse this? Essek should have, too. He has given the matter some thought, though, so he’s not entirely improvising when he says, “I have responsibilities, Caleb, many of them, and you do, too. Our friendship, the time we spend together—it is already extending my limitations. I… don’t know how more of that is supposed to work.”
There it is, then, the unspoken thing between them, finally spoken. The spell they’ve been weaving has reached its completion, and Essek is not entirely sure what the outcome will be.
The growing tension is eased when Caleb chuckles. “Essek.” He says his name a way no one else does. “I’m not asking for your hand in marriage.”
But would you? is the question that Essek’s traitorous mind conjures up, of all things. If circumstances were different, if we were not who we are, if, if, if—
“This—” Caleb’s beautiful hand gestures at the laboratory “—is what I’m dedicated to. This is my priority. It is not something that allows my time or my mind to be shared with another, not as such things deserve to be shared.” He’s definitely rehearsed this, the cheat.
Caleb looks at him expectantly, but Essek is already nodding. Who better than him can understand what it means to be devoted to one’s job, to have the prosperity of Avalir as the fulcrum of one’s life? This is just one of the many things he and Caleb share: unfaltering devotion to this city and the unprecedented wonders it allows them to bring forth into Exandria.
The city and the magic that makes it work are their truest lover. One that does not tolerate rivals.
Caleb takes a deep breath, pulling Essek away from his thoughts again. “Having said that, I am not opposed to a… change.” His thumb brushes over the skin of Essek’s wrist in a way that is undeniably intimate.
Essek’s heart is beating so loudly his rib cage must be rattling. “A change of…?”
“Of the quality of the time we spend together, not the quantity.” Caleb’s voice is low, measured, the same as when he’s sharing his thoughts or his theories with Essek. As always, it makes butterflies soar in Essek’s stomach, but the subtle heat in Caleb’s gaze changes the nature of them.
“Once again, only if you’re amenable,” Caleb murmurs. It is not hard, right now, to take the promised heat behind his eyes and imagine what they might do with it, how it might sound to hear Caleb’s thoughts warm the silence of Essek’s bedroom.
Essek looks at their hands, still joined; at his lap, where his other hand is clenched in a nervous fist; at floor of Caleb’s laboratory, pristine except for the grooves traced in it by old experimentations (‘stress tests,’ as Caleb calls them); at the slanted light that pours in from the high windows, as they reach a little closer to the sun than the rest of Exandria.
He understands what Caleb is saying. Feelings will not be involved—deeper feelings, that is. The friendship and the understanding between them will always be there, whether their relationship moves to the bedroom or not. They are complicated people, but they are also two of the most capable arcanists in the world, used to spinning many plates at the same time.
The part of Essek’s brain that is always assessing risk and potential tells him it may actually work. Perhaps it is not the sweeping romance some of their friends might expect, but he and Caleb are not the sort to be moved by fancy. They are practical people, and this is practical. This is something they could have.
And now that it is on offer, now that he does not need to hide behind suggestion, Essek can admit he wants this. He can reach out and take it.
His fist opens, fingers unfurling to cup the back of Caleb’s neck. He doesn’t know what he’s doing precisely—this is not something he does often, or ever. And not just the physical part: Essek’s algid, walled-off persona is something he deliberately cultivated, another hidden weapon in his vast arsenal.
But he’s imagined this, many times. He’s imagined being desired by Caleb, he’s imagined what their fingers, their mouths, their bodies can do together, if they would fit as perfectly as their minds do.
It occurs to him, as Caleb answers the unspoken invitation of his touch and Essek himself leans in to close the distance between them, that this is just another way Caleb is special. Just another way Essek allows Caleb to see him like nobody else can. As long as Essek has known him, Caleb’s fine fingers have spun the dials of Essek’s mind to new directions. It is thrilling to be in his company, feel the lens of his understanding focused by Caleb’s hand. Like the privilege of touch, this is something he grants to Caleb alone. Caleb, who has given him an open invitation to his inner sanctum, with all that this implies. Caleb, who has also surrounded himself with a hard shell to protect himself, his mirror in everything.
He must know he is equally cherished by Essek, then.
Time slows down just before their lips meet. An instant of sudden, sobering clarity. A tipping of the scales: Essek can only hope satisfying this particular curiosity won’t upset the balance too much.
By meeting, their lips trace the final rune in the circle, bringing the ritual to an end that’s both expected and thrilling. The hesitations, the misgivings, even the sheer want are diminished as a different feeling is summoned: the certainty that this is right. This is fundamentally, powerfully right.
Caleb’s lips slide on his as if they were made for it, stealing Essek’s breath effortlessly. He gives into it, knowing he’s safe, knowing Caleb is careful with the things he values. His hand clutches Caleb’s hair reflexively, drawing a noise deep in Caleb’s throat that Essek would fear he'd simply imagined, conjured from his most private fantasies—but it is real. He twists his fingers tighter and drinks in the sound of Caleb’s voice.
Real.
He harbours no illusions this is anything serious, and he knows Caleb doesn’t, either. A change in quality, he had said. A natural evolution, really, Essek thinks as he lets Caleb coax him closer, as they both ignore the clatter of the healing kit falling to the ground, as he allows Caleb to lick into his mouth and responds in kind, as Caleb’s hands grab his waist, his hips, his thighs and lift Essek effortlessly (gravity is always bending to Essek’s will, after all), pulling him in Caleb’s lap.
This is where the late night conversations, the confessions, the shared ambitions and dreams and hopes have led them. It is as natural as talking, as heady as the wine they share. It is not unlike casting: a pull on the ethereal Weave translating into something tangible, physical.
Essek gasps into the kiss. His eyes, which he had shut at some point, open wide. “Ethereal,” he whispers, clutching the front of Caleb’s robe with his uninjured hand for emphasis. “The wings. They don’t have to be physical. I can work pure energy into them with an arcane mesh and a binding spell, and—Oh,” he says with an apologetic frown, when he sees Caleb’s amused expression. “Sorry, I was—”
Fondness seeps into Caleb’s laugh. Essek feels him smiling against his own lips when Caleb kisses his apology short. “Go work on your thing. And be careful, this time” says Caleb, letting go of Essek’s injured hand. He catches Essek’s gaze when he sees him hesitating. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promises.