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‘I can’t leave you alone for even one second, can I?’
Eddie, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed in front of his apron, clicks his tongue. Oli ducks his head. His hands are wrapped around a bedpost, his bad foot awkwardly held up in the air. ‘I’m fine,’ he says, rather petulantly. ‘Look, I can even stand on both of my legs now.’
Bracing himself, he lowers his injured heel. The instant it touches the floorboards, pain rushes up his leg. He bites his lip to keep the yelp from escaping. ‘S-see?’ He squeaks. ‘All good. I’m basically Roadrunner.’
‘Whoever that is,’ says Eddie, coming over.
Oli flails. ‘No, no, wait! It’s fine, really, I swear–’
‘Work on that poker face, son.’ Eddie crouches in front of him, open palms hovering by Oli’s knees. ‘May I?’
They’re less than a step away from the bed. There’s no reason Eddie can’t just topple him into the sheets by nudging him with the tip of his little finger. Which is probably not an image his brain should be this fascinated by, but before he knows it, Oli’s heart is drumming against the inside of his sternum. He clears his throat. ‘S-sure?’
Eddie slides his arms under Oli and picks him up as if he weighs nothing. Oli’s fingers scramble for the front of his apron, clenching in the thick leather.
The harengon turns away from the bed and carries him out into the hallway.
A rumble of voices greets them from below; the clattering of plates and glasses, splashing liquids and raucous laughter. Oli cranes his neck as they walk along the interior balcony, but all he can make out are a set of wooden stairs and a web of soft, glowing frog lights hanging from the ceiling beams.
At the other end of the hallway, Eddie pushes open another door. ‘Put your arms around my neck.’
‘Uh, what?’
‘I need one hand to climb this,’ says Eddie, shifting his grip on Oli so he can point behind him.
The cubbyhole they’re in is barely big enough to fit the harengon’s broad frame. He has to tuck his ears flat against his skull, too, to avoid brushing the dust-coated spiderwebs hanging down. At the far wall, which is really only two steps away, a ladder leads upwards. Eddie reaches for the first rung and Oli hastily does as told.
His fingers tangle in the back of Eddie’s flannel collar, brushing warm, impossibly silky, soft fur. Little sparks of electricity race across Oli’s skin from the point of contact. He grits his teeth, slides his grip fully onto the fabric and tries to ignore how coarse it seems in comparison.
The ladder creaks under their combined weight. Oli can feel it bend, just like he feels the breath in Eddie’s lungs and his heartbeat, if he concentrates.
A trap door blocks their path. Eddie pulls up his shoulders, leaning over Oli, and keeps going, pushing against the wood with his head. It rattles and rises, allowing a sharp blade of light to cut through the room. Oli turns his face into his arm, squeezing his eyes shut.
Air rushes over his skin. Real, fresh, outside air, with a speed that takes a lot of open space to reach. Oli gasps, fingertips digging into Eddie’s broad neck. He risks a peek.
The sun glows overhead, full and golden in a sky as bright as the glimmer of a diamond in acres of deepslate, heating the surrounding air so much it swirls.
They’re on a roof terrace three times as big as Oli’s room. It’s empty except for a handful of potted cacti and encompassed by a thigh-high wall made of mud-coloured bricks. Eddie approaches this ledge and lowers Oli onto it, then shifts his grip so his hand rests lightly at the small of his back. Oli twists his head around.
Buildings stretch out below him. Layers of terracotta shimmer in burnt umber and deep bronze, interspersed with patches of warm ochre, rich garnet and alluring sangria tones. Aged copper adorns the slanted roofs, sprinkled here and there with meticulously carved prismarine embellishments; small birds and sunflowers and symbols of luck. Undoubtedly hand-picked rosewood and spruce complete the picture, making every little door and window a tiny artwork in itself. Verdant greenery lines the bustling streets; trees and bushes and veritable forests of giant bamboo. Sweet-smelling blossoms dot lush patches of grass in between.
Oli has seen castles of pure obsidian under canopies of eternal, star-dotted darkness. He’s beheld seraglios cut completely from alabaster and towers blown, as one, from sparkling glass. He walked the halls of the Mezalean matral palace and let its heart-wrenching beauty move him to tears.
All of those memories pale against the vivid perfection of this city. It drives the breath right from his lungs. ‘This is–?’
‘Sanctuary,’ says Eddie, pride in his voice.
‘It’s beautiful.’
The words scratch his throat. Oli stares out at the roofs, unblinking, until they blur into a wash of colours.
‘I’m glad you think so,’ says Eddie. ‘It’s my home.’
‘Which one?’
‘All of it.’ The harengon grins, then leans past him to point at a nearby building with a huge chimney sticking out the top. ‘But that one over there, that’s my smithy. The marketplace lies this way; where the music is.’
Oli listens intently, but even when he closes his eyes, he only catches a few distant voices and a shouting child. And, of course, Eddie’s smell, all sandalwood and musk today, earthy and solid. Oli holds his breath. Keep it together.
‘I don’t hear it,’ he says. ‘My ears aren’t as good as the satellite dishes you’re sporting.’
Eddie snickers. ‘I’ll have to take you there sometime, then.’
‘You might just have to.’
A massive shape in the distance catches Oli’s attention. The building is almost three times larger than the surrounding houses. Its topmost part is made entirely out of sandstone – a risk, considering the delicate material erodes away with each rainfall. There’s something hauntingly familiar about the construction. A certain someone’s touch evident in its facade, a kind of je ne sais quoi that reminds him of a particular, old friend’s style. All of a sudden, Oli’s eyes sting.
‘What’s that over there?’
‘Ah,’ says Eddie, lips curving. ‘La Catedral de Santa Perla. It’s one of the first buildings we erected in Sanctuary.’
‘That’s a pretty name.’
‘It is. It’s where we worship our Great Mother of Sunflowers.’
A church, then. Oli should have guessed. Religious extravagance seems to be a pivotal element of most cultures across the universe. Surprisingly many peoples pour a ridiculous amount of their resources, not to mention artistic talent, into it.
As someone who’s met god personally, he doesn’t really see the appeal.
The heat of Eddie’s hand at the small of his back burns over his ribs.
‘She saved us when we had to run,’ says Eddie. ‘With her help, we made it here. It might be wishful thinking on my part, but I believe that she guides the path of everyone who comes to Sanctuary.’
He turns to Oli, and easy smile on his lips, and suddenly they’re nose to nose. Oli draws a sharp breath, which does nothing but fill his senses with more of the harengon’s intoxicating smell. The air between them sizzles, throwing sparks.
‘What’s more, my–’
Before Oli’s able to think better of it, he’s leaning in, unable to resist the magnetic pull any longer. Their mouths collide like thunder. The string dances like lightning through Oli’s veins, humming in his blood. Euphoria blooms in his belly, sweet as honey and ripe, purple grapes at the end of summer.
For a fleeting moment, the world is blindingly bright, still and perfect.
Eddie doesn’t move.
Ice drops into Oli’s guts. He jerks away, frantically searching out the other’s eyes. Churning blue greets him, bare and stunned and – without recognition. The feelings that have taken possession of Oli’s heart without so much as asking for his permission, binding him to this man and this moment in time, have no echo, no counterpart. There is just… nothing.
Eddie doesn’t feel the string.
He just blinks at Oli, seeing right through him.
Nausea twists Oli’s stomach. His heart hammers sickeningly in his throat. His face feels like it’s on fire. He needs to do something. To say something. Something to smooth things over, so he can crawl back to his room, hide under his blanket and maybe perish of embarrassment.
‘What, uh, what were you going to say? About La Catedral de Santa Perla?’
Eddie’s gaze cuts past him, undoubtedly alighting on the church in the distance. He seems a million miles away. ‘My son built it with his own two hands.’
Oli’s brain screeches to a halt.
Oh. Oh, no.
His stomach lurches. Shit, shit, shit.
The sinking feeling hardens into a stone so heavy it might drag him right down along with it to the bottom of the ocean.
He shouldn’t have kissed Eddie. Eddie not only doesn’t feel the string, he has a son – and probably a family, because how can he not? The most wholesome, most loving family in all of Sanctuary; he deserves nothing less.
A sharp pain, like stinging nettle, spirals up Oli’s injured leg. His throat closes up. His lungs start to burn and his whole body follows. He wishes the squid had gotten him. Or the pirate, or any other vile sea creature in between then and getting swept onto the shore.
That way, he never would have had to learn that Eddie is happy with someone else.