Work Text:
Eddie barely makes it down the stairs before throwing himself onto the closest free bar stool. The bustle of people filing in for the evening rush swallows the wood’s protesting creak. Behind the bar, clouds of steam billow from the kitchen, mingling with the haze of cigar smoke and sweat already hanging over the room. Fat sizzles. The opened kegs drip sour beer. Each splash onto the planks below reverberates through Eddie’s skull like a crossbow bolt. He rotates his ears, trying to find the least noisy direction, and flags down the bartender.
‘A mead, please.’
A silver cup filled with an amber-coloured liquid appears before him. ‘Staying after all?’
‘Found something to think about,’ says Eddie.
The sky outside of the fogged windows shimmers blood red, like a ruby. Eddie takes a sip of his beverage. The rich notes of honey, meadowsweet and almond chase away the savour that has been lingering on his lips since he descended from the roof: Oli’s mouth pressed to his, chapped with dryness and hastily licked wet; sugary like russet apples from his homeland after the first frost.
Eddie rubs his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He can still taste it, if he focuses. He shuts his eyes.
The last time he found himself in this situation, Sausage was sitting beside him, head in his palms, shaking. Sobbing.
‘No note. Nothing.’
Eddie stroked Sausage’s back and shoulders. They were narrower then, and his own hands less scarred.
‘I thought we’d be– He promised!’
Each of his son’s damp, ragged breaths makes his stomach knot tight. He digs his fingers in, tracing the bumps of his vertebrae, just to say I’m here. You’re not alone.
‘I did everything for him. I–’
‘– gave him what he needed, because he couldn’t do it for himself.’
‘Are you saying now that he can, he has no use for me? He only wanted me because I was useful?’
Sausage burst into tears.
Eddie said nothing. The man in question was able to take care of himself again and now he had realized he wanted something that Sausage couldn’t offer.
He pushed his chair closer to draw his boy – no, man; he was a man now, had been for a while – to his chest. Sausage’s fingers clawed at his apron. He pressed his face to Eddie’s collarbone like he’d done all those nights ago on the road, when they huddled on the cold, unforgiving ground, trying not to let the stench of the campfire smoke call old nightmares to the surface.
Eventually, Sausage had rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. ‘What can I do, the next time? Not-help?’
‘You do what you do because you love people. Don’t let him take that from you.’
‘That’s the curse of the healer? Eternal heartbreak?’
‘Don’t attach your heart quite so closely,’ Eddie had replied, back then. ‘That helps.’
It’s a paradigm he has lived by – and healed by – his entire life. He rubs his face.
Oli’s been soft around him from the earliest moment on. More open, less guarded. Trusting. Eager to show him his music and to win Eddie’s approval, which was the first warning sign.
He should have heeded it. He should have distanced himself; cut things off before they got a chance to escalate.
The barkeeper leans onto the bar in front of him. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. The storm season’s coming up.’
Eddie blinks the memory away. ‘Yes?’
The other’s gaze flickers to the ceiling, where the guest rooms are.
Oh. Right.
Were Sausage still here, this wouldn’t be a problem. His house has plenty of unused spaces. Unfortunately, the last Eddie’s heard of him was a letter from Cogsmeade, two and a half weeks ago. But just the thought of taking Oli to the smithy after what happened today has the hairs on the backs of his arms standing on end. Warning bells ring in his mind.
He sighs. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
‘Much obliged,’ says the barkeeper. ‘Another drink?’
‘No, thanks.’ Eddie slides off the stool. ‘It looks like I need to make an unexpected evening call.’
He ignores the other man’s questioning hum and moves to the door. He needs to catch Robin before she heads to bed, to tell her that she’s been roped once more into caring for their patient. Because he can definitely no longer do it himself.
*
‘The late queen’s body wasn’t yet cold and the zealots already came crawling out of their dirty little crevices,’ the leather-worker sneers. His drooping brown whiskers tremble in distaste, almost moving as agitatedly as the grape juice in his glass.
‘The princess regnant does a lot for her people,’ Eddie points out, leaning against the still-open doors of la catedral. The zephyr ruffles his fur, cooling his skin. ‘She’s developed Dawn’s infrastructure on an unprecedented scale. Her building projects–’
‘She means well, but she displays too much leniency to outsiders. It’s either that or she truly is unaware of what her citizens are doing, which I would consider an even more fatal quality in a ruler.’ The leather-worker grouses. ‘The end-result remains the same: false prophets abound. Cult leaders walk the streets unpunished. The light of truth is flickering like a candle in a window, about to be blown out.’
Eddie takes a sip of his own cup. The wine is bubbly and sweet, not enough to get anybody buzzed. Even the children are having some, stretched with punch.
‘It’s only a matter of time until one of them heathens succeeds in proclaiming themselves Dawn’s saviour,’ says the leather-worker. He grabs Eddie’s shoulders. ‘If we send a minister now, to spread the Mother’s teachings, we could still save those poor innocent sou–’
‘Eddie! Eddie, help!’
Robin bursts onto the church plaza, nearly bowling over one of the potted azaleas which have been placed outside for decoration. She dodges the snack table and skids to a stop in front of Eddie. Her heart thumps loud enough in her chest for him to be able to hear it through her ribcage.
‘Robin! What is it?’
‘The smithy’s on fire!’
A plume of black smoke rises above the roofs in the distance. Eddie holds up his hands. ‘Alright, okay. Breathe,’ he says. ‘You know what to do. You did it the last time, and you did it well. First you alert the neighbours by ringing the bell–’
‘No,’ she wheezes, clutching her throat. ‘Eddie–’
‘Robin.’ His brows furrow. ‘This is hardly the first time fire has happened. It’s not even the first time it’s happened this summer.’
His gaze finds Lark in the crowd. Like the rest of the gathered congregation, she’s watching the proceedings with mild interest, but no alarm. She shoves a handful of sunflower seeds into her mouth, puffing out her cheeks, and gives Eddie a thumbs up with her now free hand. Her heavily pregnant mother cuffs her about the ears. Eddie’s lips quirk.
Robin’s eyes are so wide the white in them reflects the sunlight. ‘Oli’s still in there!’
The world screeches to a halt.
The murmuring of the group thickens into a rushing stream. Eddie sees the fingers of the leather-worker rise towards him, his mouth forming words. Who’s Oli?, maybe. He doesn’t hear it.
He just runs.
*
The cloud of smoke is as black as the soot-stained inside of a chimney. It smells like one, too. Heat radiates from the building, amplified, it seems, by the spitting fire within. The yard gate’s hinges scream as the flames bend them out of shape – and with it Eddie’s whole spine.
Oli’s in there.
His heart has gone to stone somewhere along the dirt path leading up to the smithy. It’s dead in his chest; a kernel of cold that burns as bad as the molten iron in his forge.
He wipes a paw across his slick brow, grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his mouth. His squished whiskers make his cheeks prickle, but he ignores it. He stomps towards the entrance.
‘Eddie, wait!’
The front door has not yet bowed under the onslaught. Which means the main part of the fire must still be on the other side, but it’s only a matter of time until it will find the coal storage. He needs to get in there quick.
The closer he gets, the more it feels like the flames are already singeing the tips of his fur. The heat hits him like the steam of a bathhouse after having undressed in the cold air of a snowy mountain. But it’s all superficial. From the inside, his ribcage seems pierced with ice spikes. They spear his heart and his throat. It’s actually enough to make him shiver.
They could dump him into the lava lakes of the Nether right now and he probably wouldn’t even notice. With his bare hand, he reaches for the door handle.
Something solid careens into his side, knocking him off track.
It’s the leather-worker. His rust-coloured fur has always been darker than his daughter Robin’s, but now it shines almost earth-black with sweat.
‘The neighbours are forming a line,’ he rasps. ‘Let me go in, I have the fire-proof cloak.’
He holds up a piece of heavy leather. Eddie yanks it out of his grip. ‘I’m going in,’ he growls, too numb to be surprised at the harshness of his own voice.
He throws the cloak over his shoulders and hops up the stairs to the smithy door. Ignoring the shouting behind him, he raises his foot and kicks the wood.
He’s not really thinking about anything as he runs in, aside from getting inside as quickly as possible, but in the aftermath he will tell himself it was only right. It was his smithy burning. If it was anyone’s job to run in and save someone stuck in the fire, it was his.
He would have done it for anyone. It had nothing to do with the fact that it was Oli.
*
Five steps from the side of the bar, past the still-dripping kegs, take Eddie to the kitchen door. Five more carry him back to tap the bar-top, smooth under his palm. There’s a notch in the wood here, cut by a quill, of all things, judging by the ink stains seeping through the plank. It might have been the one now tied to the worn-out tome underneath the tip jar with a purple ribbon. Several pages stick out of the book, torn at the edges.
Another five steps.
It’s dark in the kitchen. The staff has already gone home.
Five steps back to the bar; fingertips against the notch. Eddie should probably go to bed, too. He bites his cheek, sucking some air between his teeth.
There’s no reason for him to still be down here. Absolutely none.
Today’s fire was no worse than the others. On the contrary – because of the lessons learned from previous accidents, they were able to make improvements to the whole building, which means that this time, almost nothing got truly damaged.
As an added bonus, Oli seems to have gotten over his feelings for Eddie.
The harengon stops in his tracks by the door. He lets his head fall against it with a soft thump.
Transference. Deep affection born out of gratefulness for a caretaker. Affection that, by nature, isn’t real. Yet the slant of Oli’s eyes and the sadness in his gaze told a different story. If Robin’s account was to be believed – and Eddie had no reason not to do so – it had hit him hard.
The kitchen smells of stale cooking and drying beer. He clings to the scents regardless, rubbing his palms over the rough wood to ground himself.
The way Oli looked up at him today, shy and reluctant, unsure if he was even allowed… Acid burns at the back of Eddie’s throat. Like a noose, whatever is wrapped around his inner organs – his lungs, his heart, his guts – pulls tight.
He shoves open the door. The soul flame lantern on the counter blinks to life, casting the room in soothing blue light. He strides past it, grabs one of the hanging pots off the wall and puts it on the stove, then heads for the narrow flight of stairs leading into the cooled basement.
He finds a churn of milk, likely left here for the guests’ breakfast the next morning. He takes it, hoping the staff won’t mind, and carries it upstairs to fill his pot. Then he picks the roasted, ground cocoa beans and associated spices from the rack behind him.
He’s just doing it to check in on Oli, he tells himself. To make sure the remarkable ease with which he’s gotten over being trapped in a burning building was not merely shock. That the trail of bubbling shadows, splashed like ink across his floors and leading him straight to Oli, hasn’t made a return. Maybe also to check that his wounds, of whatever nature, are healing correctly.
Any healer worth his salt would probably warn him to let his patient rest for the night.
But Oli’s not any patient. The least Eddie could do is stop causing him pain.
*
‘Be real with me here: How messed up is this guy?’
Eddie, currently busy counting the money underneath the till because the smithy always needs to have cash on hand for emergencies, flicks a single ear in the direction of the door.
People have been in and out of the place all day, dropping by to reassure him that they’re happy to wait for their commissions to be completed as long as the quality is up to his usual standards. Which it obviously will be. It’s the only way Eddie knows how to make things.
The man standing in his doorway right now is the first human today who doesn’t want to talk about axes and hoes and butchering knives.
‘Tell me what he’s like. Anything I shouldn’t touch, et cetera; you know the drill.’
He’s tall and graceful; has a thick, black beard and eyes dark as rain on freshly tilled soil. A wolf’s pelt drapes over one of his broad shoulders, held in position by a leather strap. His fist curls loosely around a shepherd’s staff, longer than he’s high. As he takes in the inside of the smithy, his jaw drops.
‘Wow, this place looks wrecked.’
The man is, and has always been, one of the most handsome humans Eddie’s ever seen. According to Sausage, he’s one of the best looking to exist for all eternity, and if anyone knows his men, it’s Sausage. He also has the greatest hands in the business, which is why Eddie wrote to him following that afternoon on the roof.
The harengon’s guts twist. ‘Hello, Jay.’
Jay smiles, making the creases at the corners of his eyes stand out. ‘How are you doing, Eds?’
Eddie fights the urge to shove him out the door. It’s irrational. Jay’s a good guy, with big hands that are strong enough to calm birthing goats and coax their offspring into the world – and he’s here to help Oli walk again, because Eddie thought he couldn’t do it himself. He presses his lips together.
‘Take a look around and tell me.’
‘Good point,’ says Jay. ‘You’re probably glad you messaged me on time, eh? No one could have seen this coming.’
The harengon forces his lop-sided grin to seem as easy and unconcerned as possible. ‘It’s the opposite, actually. My schedule has abruptly cleared up for the next few weeks.’ He stares directly into Jay’s eyes. ‘I’ll be able to handle him on my own.’
‘Oh?’ The human’s brow quirks. ‘That’s a shame. I was looking forward to meeting this genius musician you wrote of. It’s really no trouble if you’d rather take care of your house, you know.’
‘He already trusts me,’ says Eddie. He ignores the way the words twist in his throat. ‘In the interest of his swift recovery, it’s probably best to build on that.’
‘Okay, sure.’ Jay cups the nape of his neck. A curl of hair falls over his forehead, brushing against his long, curved eyelashes. He waves at the door behind him. ‘Then I guess I’ll just–’
‘Yes, you should. I need to get back to cleaning this place out.’
Jay pauses on top of the front steps.
Eddie tenses.
‘How’s Sausage?’
‘Travelling.’
‘Ah.’
‘He’ll be back sometime during the storm season, I think,’ says Eddie. ‘I’ll let you know once he’s here. You can come visit later.’
Jay nods and leaves, taking his big, gentle hands with him.
Finally.
*
‘Lark, there’s ointment in the blue cupboard. Robin, would you mind bringing a bucket of water; get something going for lunch?’
Robin’s ears flatten against her skull. ‘Yes, Eddie,’ she mumbles and darts off, head down, shoulders drawn up.
Eddie winces.
Lark pushes past him and sprints up the stairs, both of her paws pressed to the front of her flannel shirt. A sub-sonic hiss pours from her clenched teeth. ‘Shit, shit, shit, ow.’
It looks like Robin will just have to deal. Eddie follows his second apprentice into his quarters and makes a beeline for the sink. Before he even gets there, though, he realises something is wrong.
It’s too quiet.
He turns around himself. His eyes corroborate what his ears told him anyway: Oli’s not here. He wasn’t downstairs either.
Okay. That’s… okay.
He resolutely fetches a wet wash-cloth and joins Lark by the table. She’s clutching her wrist in her undamaged paw. Several splinters stick up from her palm. The fur on the back of her paw stands up in damp cow-licks.
‘No blood,’ she says.
Eddie nods and holds out his hand. Carefully, using the tips of his fingernails as pincers, he gets to work.
Behind them, the door bursts open. Robin’s footsteps rattle the planks, heavy and uneven under the burden of a full bucket of water.
‘Eddie?’
‘Not now, Robin.’
‘It’s just… am I cooking for three people, or four?’
‘Huh?’ Lark straightens. Eddie doesn’t need to look up to know her ears are rotating. ‘Where did the human go?’
Eddie shrugs, dropping the first splinter onto the tabletop. The death-grip Lark has on her wrist loosens a fraction.
‘Did he bounce for good this time?’ She asks. ‘Or did he leave a note?’
‘His cane’s gone,’ Robin points out. Her whiskers twitch.
Eddie keeps his focus on Lark’s serious mishap. ‘I don’t think he plans on leaving Sanctuary. But if he does, he’s free to do so.’
His stomach twists.
Lark yelps. ‘Ow!’
‘Apologies,’ says Eddie. He takes a deep breath to calm his lurching insides. If Oli wants to leave, he has no right to keep him. Nobody has any right to keep him. Eddie told him so this morning and he’s sticking by it.
‘But you don’t like that,’ Robin says.
Eddie exhales. ‘I know what his wounds look like under those bandages. But so does he. He’s a free man, he can go wherever and whenever he pleases.’
*
The hammer’s last fall echoes through the room like a door slamming shut. The harengon by the newly erected bed in the corner stands with a groan. They put their paw on the frame and rattle it. It doesn’t move. Smiling, they dust off their overalls.
‘There we go. Done.’
Eddie comes over, handing them a cup of tea. ‘Solid work as always.’
The silvery-grey fur around their wide mouth bristles. ‘That’ll be ten emeralds.’
Eddie’s brow quirks. ‘How long have we known each other now, Piper?’
‘Far too long, which is why this time, I’m not telling you what I’d make a normal client pay.’
Behind the two of them, a chair scrapes across the wooden floor. Robin appears at Eddie’s shoulder, a bunch of emeralds in her open palm.
Piper drops them into their coin purse. ‘Thank you, love.’
They wave at the bed. It doesn’t have a mattress yet, but Eddie’s already taken care of that. He only has to pick it up from the vendor down the street.
‘This for your boy, then? Somethin’ happen?’
Eddie shakes his head.
‘It’s for a patient Sausage dragged in,’ Lark says from her spot by the table, paw bandaged and her mouth full of half-chewed carrot. ‘If he still needs it. He kind of just upped and left today.’
‘Or maybe he’s gone for a walk,’ says Eddie.
‘It’s been three hours. Almost four.’
‘He’ll be back.’
His voice carries a conviction he doesn’t feel. Forcing a smile, he turns to Piper. ‘Sausage is fine, by the way. Last I heard he’s safely arrived in Stratos.’
Piper’s brows disappear into their hairline. They put up their paws. ‘Not that it’s any of my business or anything, but if you’ve got an injured man wandering around out there, you should probably go look for him.’
‘He’s a fully grown adult,’ says Eddie. ‘He can take care of himself.’
‘But you’re worried,’ Robin exclaims.
‘He’s always worried,’ says Lark. ‘He’s Eddie, it’s what he does. It’s his thing. Like he’s cornered the market on it or something.’
Eddie’s ears flatten to his skull. ‘That’s not–’
‘It’s getting dark.’ Piper moves towards the door. ‘Just saying.’
They nod grimly and exit, stomping down the stairs, taking the tea cup with them. Frowning, Eddie turns to face his apprentices. Their whiskers tremble like reeds in a summer breeze and even though they’re not siblings they seem to be able to communicate like ones, because they round on him as one.
‘He’s not that good at walking yet,’ says Robin.
‘And he’s worse with the cane,’ adds Lark.
‘He could have an accident.’
‘What kind of healer would you be if you didn’t make sure he was fine?’
A strange warmth swells behind Eddie’s sternum. He swallows and shakes his head.
‘Come on,’ Lark prods, taking his arm. ‘You know you want to see that he’s okay. You like him too much to just let him die in a ditch somewhere.’
You like him.
A cold shudder runs down Eddie’s spine. Goosebumps rise on his skin and, below his heart, his stomach jumps.
‘Not any more than any other patient,’ he says, but it sounds weak to his own ears. ‘Alright, let’s go.’
*
When the cries of the first phantoms echo across the harbour district in the distance, heralding midnight, Eddie opens the door to his upper floor lodgings. Normally he wouldn’t mind having it closed for the night, but the embers in the stove have only just started to cool and with Oli’s bed right here, it’s probably better to ensure a bit of a draft. So his guest won’t melt in the heat.
Oli crawls under his sheets and sits up against the headboard, his cane within reach. ‘Good night,’ he says.
Eddie curls a hand into his bedroom curtain. His lips quirk. ‘Sleep tight. I’ll try my best not to wake you in the morning while making breakfast.’
‘I’ll attempt to do the same, if I get up early enough to make some.’ Oli’s grin widens. ‘And if I set the smithy on fire, I’ll be sure to run to you before booking it out of here.’
Eddie snorts. ‘That’s very nice of you, thanks.’
He steps into his room and pulls the curtain shut behind him. He already took the time to change into softer trousers and a tank top previously, because after Oli had finished playing and they all shared a bucket-load of tempura from the stall across the street, Robin and Lark decided to cool off by jumping into the closest fountain. Oli had looked at Eddie with such hope in his big, round eyes, the harengon simply didn’t have the heart to refuse him. They returned to the smithy soaked to the bone.
Smiling to himself, Eddie flips back his sheets and flops onto the mattress. He lays against the soothingly cold surface of his pillow and shuts his eyes.
In the other room, fabric rustles. Oli’s probably trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in, in this bed that’s never been used before.
A curious apple scent clings to his bedding, crisp and fresh. Like cider. Eddie turns his nose towards it. It’s nice.
He rolls onto his side. A warm, prickling feeling washes across his skin, like stepping out into the sunshine on a late morning in autumn, after the first night of frost. He rubs his arms, stirring the hairs there.
The blanket pours over his shoulders like water.
The soft sounds behind the curtain quiet. Oli’s breathing deepens.
The cider, Eddie thinks blearily. That’s Oli’s scent.
It surrounded him earlier, when he played song after song for a crowd that refused to dwindle even when night began to fall. His smile seemed gold-spun in the evening light and the scent had been everywhere. On Eddie, too, after he’d hugged him.
But why is–?
A shivery sensation takes his skin. He opens his eyes and blinks at the ceiling.
Oh.
It’s here because Eddie made him sleep in his bed last night.
He drags his face away, but the movement just stirs more of the intoxicating aroma. Whenever he moves, he gets another nose-full of it. The places where his body’s touching the insides of his clothes feel unbearably scratchy all of a sudden.
Sweat beads on his forehead. It slicks his armpits, too. He wants to rub his lips into the sheets to chase every wisp of the cider scent. His mind floats.
He’s so hot.
There’s a tug in his lower belly; a thrumming pulse between his legs. Eddie sits up abruptly. What the heck is he doing?
He’s– He almost–
He clenches his fists. He can’t be doing this.
Reaching behind himself, Eddie flips the pillow over. Then he yanks open the window and waits, shivering, until he’s sure the cooling Sanctuary night air is all that is filling his nose.
*
On the high plateaus of his homeland, the rustling of the breeze in the grass carries as far as the horizon. Clouds chase across the sky; white sails on ships in a warm ocean stretching all the way to the mountaintops in the distance, snow-capped and looming. A tinkling melody rings out. Wind-chimes?
Eddie’s eyes snap open.
The landscape dissolves into beams of light streaming through the window, but the air on his face does not. Neither does the music. It’s his old ocarina, muffled by the curtain.
Eddie rolls onto his side, wincing at the way the sheet sticks to his skin. His eyeballs feel like two grapes left out in the midday heat for too long and the fur under his arms crinkles when he shifts. He tugs the blanket away from him, moves too far and almost falls out of the bed entirely.
Rubbing at his eyes, he stumbles towards the living room. His fingers grasp nothing but air the first time. Then there’s Oli.
He’s cross-legged on the edge of his bed, right in the middle of an orange square of morning sunshine. It makes his hair glow like a field of barley in the summer. His eyelashes seem translucent, their colour bleached already after a couple of days spent outside. He sways back and forth, more the snake than the charmer, lured by his own instrument’s melody.
Eddie’s breath sticks in his throat. It’s probably better that way. Any sound from his voice box would rupture the tapestry of music spread across his living room.
He doesn’t even dare to move. One step further, and he’d be stepping onto holy ground. In his chest, the thumping of his own heart echoes like a war drum.
Somehow, the way the floor shifts under him feels both momentous and unsurprising at once. It’s just reality breaking over him like a tsunami.
Eddie braces himself against the wall.
The tune ends in a hitch and Oli, as if startled by his own off-key note, drops the ocarina into his lap.
‘Eddie!’
He slides off the bed, grin so wide his teeth show. ‘There you are! I’ve been waiting for you to wake up to make breakfast, because, you know.’ He waves his hands around. ‘I might joke about it, but I don’t actually want to burn your house down.’
Eddie says nothing.
Oli’s smile drops. ‘Is everything alright? Um, good morning?’
‘Good morning,’ Eddie parrots. It’s amazing how steady his words sound, when his insides roll like a row boat in a storm that just tore loose from its mooring.
Oli tugs at the edge of his shirt. ‘Breakfast?’
Eddie’s hands shake. His knees do, too. He wants to get closer to Oli, sweep him up in his arms, bury his nose in the slick patch of skin right under his ear, where the sweat gathers, and get drunk on his smell. But at the same time, approaching him feels like risking a tumble off a cliff he hadn’t known was even there.
Survival instinct kicks in. He needs to regain his balance, and fast. But he can’t do that when his blood is rushing too hot in his throat for him to breathe.
‘Actually, uh.’ He coughs into his fist and reaches for the flannel hung on a hook beside the door as if it’s a lifeline. ‘You can make some breakfast if you like, but I just remembered I have to, uh, go do something important in the smithy.’
Inspiration strikes. ‘Robin was supposed to finish a commission. It’s already been delayed, so now that we can work the forge again, we got no time to waste.’
He almost doesn’t dare to look up. He does it anyway.
A soft smile plays around the corners of Oli’s mouth. ‘I understand,’ he says. ‘You guys got lots to do. Good luck!’
He whistles to himself as he picks up his ocarina and puts it beside his pillow, where all his other instruments are, piled together like eggs in a basket. He bites his lip, then, after a brief hesitation, tugs the sheets up and smooths the fabric.
Eddie’s lungs give a painful squeeze. He high-tails it down the stairs.
*
Clank.
Clank.
Clank.
The fall of the smithy’s biggest hammer rings in Eddie’s ears. He doesn’t turn them away. Instead, he lets the noise reverberate through his skull, bringing the hammerhead down hard enough to pull at his shoulders, his back.
Through the thick gloves he’s wearing, the metal’s heat smears his fingers with sweat. He’ll need to switch them out soon, not only to prevent losing his grip but to avoid boiling his hands. Then again, maybe if he keeps going, the sting will become acute enough to block out the insistent tugging in his chest, pointing him like a compass needle towards him.
Eddie grunts and swings.
His muscles draw taut and slacken. The rhythm of his hits is slowing. He doesn’t allow the strain to let up. If he gives himself a moment to think–
You’re stalling.
Eddie staggers away from the anvil. He lets the hammer drop by his feet, pants into the sweltering air. He tilts his head at the ceiling.
It’s quiet upstairs, no clattering of china or cutlery. No music, either. Eddie’s ears rotate without his permission, searching for any sounds he might have missed. He rubs his palm across his face.
Okay. So he’s having feelings for Oli.
The kind that set his stomach aflutter and that he shouldn’t, by all rights, have. Not just because Oli’s his patient.
Sausage’s patient, his brain corrects.
Eddie inspects the curved blade he’s been working on. It’s a bit thin for a plough, but still sturdy. Robin’s handiwork. It was meant to be the final piece in her time as an apprentice, her first very own commission. He feels cruel for taking it away from her, but she put somebody’s life at risk. No matter how accidental, an action like that can’t go unpunished in Sanctuary.
There is no way he can confront Oli with the reality of his newfound feelings, either, however deep they seem to run now. After rejecting the human so harshly before, there are only two ways a confession like that can end.
The first being, obviously, that Oli realized his own attachment was shallow as a puddle after a light drizzle, and truly grounded in transference. He’s given up on his feelings; the split eased by Eddie’s staying away.
Or perhaps he hasn’t. Maybe he still yearns for Eddie and would be overjoyed by his change of heart. But in that case, could he trust it? Not even a full season has passed since the afternoon on the roof. Eddie has no intention of deserting Oli, but considering how the nature of his affection seems to have spun around on a dime, will Oli be able to believe it?
Eddie couldn’t. At least not without significant proof. Even then it’d probably take months, or years. He’d need to test the structural integrity of what they were building between them at every twist and turn, just to be sure, and he would be wearing his partner down, inevitably, with his lack of faith.
He can’t do that to Oli. He can’t hurt him again.
Maybe he got over you. He certainly didn’t appear too bummed out to see you leave this morning, his mind interjects. He’s not bothered to not be around you.
Eddie grits his teeth. Despite the painful clenching of his heart, the best course of action here would be to let sleeping dogs lie.
‘Nooo!’
Eddie whirls and sees Oli stumble on the stairs, red-cheeked and out of breath, clutching his cane and the banister in one hand and a wobbling stack of sandwiches on a plate in the other. He drops his cane and slaps his palm onto the top of the tower.
‘Phew! Uh, hi!’
His buckwheat honey eyes meet Eddie’s.
‘I made lunch! I didn’t cook anything, so the kitchen remains un-charred for another day. But you’ve been working very hard, so I wanted to do something.’
Eddie’s gaze flickers to the window. The shadows are no longer falling in. Noon, then. Barely past it.
Oli holds his creation out to Eddie. Green leaves and shreds of carrot spill out between uneven slices of bread, slathered in mayonnaise. He’s further layered in chunks of cheese, cucumber and red beets.
‘I needed to make them from stuff that was already there, so they might not be that good.’ Oli grins. ‘Just kidding. I’m brilliant, so these sandwiches are also brilliant. I mean, hey. Food is food, right?’
Warmth throbs behind Eddie’s sternum. He swallows. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t worry about it. You took care of me the entire time. I’m feeling a lot better thanks to you and what kind of bard would I be if I didn’t give back to the community? In this case, the community is you.’
He comes over to stand in front of Eddie, all lanky limbs and beatific smile, and it sends a spur of heat through his guts, a prickling frisson pulsing all the way from his face to the tips of his toes. He turns away, lest the other see the blood rushing to his cheeks. ‘We can eat in the yard,’ he sputters, running to the gate.
Despite it having been several days since the fire, the space behind the smithy is still packed with spare anvils, stacks of tools and a few pieces of furniture roasted beyond repair. Eddie forgot about that.
‘Actually–’
Oli pushes past him and hops onto one of the lower stone workbenches which haven’t been returned to the forge yet. He places the plate next to his thigh. Then he shoves half of a sandwich between his teeth at once and moans. ‘Oh, this is good.’
The sound hits Eddie like a punch to the gut.
Oli waves at him, mouth full.
Eddie’s knees go weak as a kitten’s. He masks his stumbling by catching himself on the work bench with one hand before sitting down.
Instead of taking a sandwich, he watches Oli dig into his. His cheeks have puffed out like a hamster’s. Like Lark’s when she’s in the middle of demolishing an entire bucket of carrots.
Birds gather at their feet, lured from the branches by the possibility of crumbs. Oli pauses mid-chew. His brows furrow. ‘Not good?’
Eddie startles. ‘No, it’s, uh. I’m just not really hungry.’
Oli’s face falls.
‘But since you made it–’
Eddie crams a whole stuffed bread slice into his mouth. It’s too much to work his teeth around, but he tries not to let it show.
‘You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it,’ Oli says quietly.
‘I do like it. It’s good,’ Eddie tells him. It comes out as a bunch of muffled mumbling. Oli doesn’t look reassured.
Eddie huffs, nudges his shoulder and holds up both thumbs. It’s good.
Oli’s lips twitch.
A tingling warmth spreads through Eddie from where they’re touching. His mind feels lighter than it had earlier, calmer. As if the swirling thoughts had lifted like a summer storm, leaving only clean, fresh air.
His stomach flutters. He watches Oli, his pink cheeks, his bony fingers, his round ears, and wishes he still had a chance.
Wishes he could reach out and brush that persistent lock of hair away from the other’s face.
Eddie fists his hands in his lap. No.
With his chance at happiness so close, he has to try. But before he does anything at all, gives any hint or overture, and risks compromising their friendship – his heart lurches – he needs to test the waters.
*
It takes Eddie several days to think of a way to discreetly approach Oli. All of the traditional options that come to mind – flowers, sweets, music – feel wrong, somehow. At least in the context of their shared history.
A bouquet of roses leaves very little room for misinterpretation, but therein lies the issue. If Oli doesn’t return his affections, there’d be no way for either of them to pretend nothing happened. With Sanctuary’s harbour overflowing with ships, the streets bustling with visitors and the locals crammed together in their neighbours’ houses to make space for everyone, the bard wouldn’t be able to do what Eddie did as a matter of course: seek distance. He wants to offer Oli the same courtesy.
Sweets are far less suspicious, but Eddie already presents Oli with nibbles on a daily basis. Fruits, berries, cookies, pumpkin pie. Food in general, actually. If he were to suddenly attach another meaning to their shared meals, the human probably wouldn’t even notice.
And music… well. There’s no way he could serenade Oli better than Oli’s slowly but surely serenading the entire population of Sanctuary. Eddie may possess a harengon’s natural aptitude for sound, thanks to his ‘radar dish’ ears – whatever that is supposed to be – but no training, and certainly none of the intuition which seems to come to Oli as easy as breathing.
In the end, he thinks one night, washing plates and spoons and forks while Oli’s fiddling with a scroll he got off a wandering trader, he might need to pick the simplest option.
‘Would you like to go out with me?’
Oli, who’s been tapping the parchment and humming to it – presumably the notes scribbled in blue-shimmering squid ink onto the slowly deteriorating plant fibre – sputters.
‘O-out?’
The surprise in his tone makes Eddie’s guts swoop. The cliff looms. There’s nothing below him but a dizzying drop. He reels back; a sailor giving slack into his ropes.
‘To the tavern,’ he corrects hastily. He drops the last of the plates onto the shelves. They clatter loudly and he winces.
Oli says nothing.
Eddie’s oesophagus knots around itself. He folds the dish towel in half and hangs it over the oven door.
If Oli wanted to go, he would have said so already, wouldn’t he?
The silence stretches.
Eddie draws a shallow breath, resigns himself to reality and puts on his best cheery smile.
‘We could toast to our friendship.’
Something luminous shimmers in Oli’s eyes. A shine that dims when he scans Eddie’s face. His gaze drops to the parchment scroll.
‘I promised the trader I’d play this for him tomorrow, before he leaves town. I don’t want to disappoint him.’
He slips out of his chair and walks to the bed, where his cane’s already leaning. He’s been managing longer distances without it recently. Once there, he sits against the headboard, close to the lamp, and returns to his tapping and humming.
Giving, for all intents and purposes, the appearance as if he’d forgotten about Eddie’s presence altogether.
*
So. Oli’s not interested in him.
Or, if he is, he’s hiding it well. Now, merely two out of Eddie’s three options remain: laying all his cards out on the table as clearly as he is able to or making an attempt to lay his feelings to rest.
If only he were a braver man.
His nose tingles. It has been doing that ever since he arrived at the market, but he can’t quite pinpoint the cause for it and he doesn’t have time to investigate.
He and Oli are going to have their very first private dinner tonight, without business contacts coming to negotiate, or lurking apprentices, and Eddie has plans. He takes care to select the roundest onions and most verdant cilantro for the occasion, then slings a sack of carrots across his shoulders. The spices he purchases in a couple of radish-sized tins.
He should be heading home right afterwards, to not keep Oli waiting, but in the past few weeks it’s become a habit of his to drift across the market once he’s done with his shopping, to the tinkerer’s table. Where the instruments are.
Today, there’s a glittering new thing on his velvet cushions. It’s a curved flute made of brass that has lids atop the holes which seem to be operated simultaneously. Eddie picks it up and turns it over.
An image flashes through his mind: taking this instrument from his pocket after dinner tonight and presenting it to Oli on his outstretched palms. Listening to him when he puts it to his mouth for the first time. Stepping around him as he plays and putting his hands on Oli’s shoulders, right where his short curls part to reveal the long, slender column of his neck, blue-veined and delicate. Rubbing his thumbs in circles there and feeling the fine hairs rise under his touch, the shudder running through the human’s body.
What would it take to coax him towards the bed in the corner? For him to allow Eddie to run his hands across his arms, the curve of his ribs and the flat of his belly? This time not to help him walk with ease again, but to stir the syrupy heat that sluices like honey, gold and glowing?
They would share a breath, in the split-second before their lips–
Eddie shivers and puts down the instrument. His palms tingle. He flexes them to disperse the phantom sensation of fur-less skin under his fingers.
‘Sir?’ the vendor asks.
Eddie lays a paw over his mouth and shakes his head. ‘I don’t think I should.’
He tries to focus on his inhales and exhales. Apple cider scent hits his nose, crisp and familiar. He startles like a kit that’s been discovered with the last carrot between its teeth.
‘Name’s Oli.’
Eddie rotates his ears, trying to locate him.
‘Had a thing with him once,’ another voice says.
Eddie whirls before he can stop himself. His vision flashes red. He’s pushing through the crowd ere the rest of his brain has a chance to catch up.
A small part of him recoils at the sudden violence thrumming in his blood, but the other, larger part is far more concerned with getting between Oli and whomever he’s talking to. Where is he?
There. A glimpse of wheat-coloured hair. The man opposite of him is–
Sausage?
The last letter his son wrote has not yet fully crumpled in Eddie’s apron pocket; the lines telling him that the man planned to extend his sojourn to Stratos for a while longer, to spend time with his paramour and little Hermes.
How did Eddie not–?
Wait.
The tingling in his nose he chose to ignore. His stomach sinks. He pushes the feeling away – there’s no use for guilt, other than to remedy the situation immediately, by hugging his son.
*
The black-blue sky above Sanctuary is turning a delicate yellow at the edges when Eddie and Oli make their way home from Sausage’s dinner party. The zephyr has awoken already, sluicing down the mountains and flooding the hills. The early mornings during the storm season are the only time of the year that the city is pleasantly cool.
Eddie’s belly is full, his skin is buzzing after a night of good company and his son is finally back. The streets are quiet and empty and he’s walking under the last twinkling stars with Oli by his side. He can’t imagine a more perfect moment. It’s just a tiny bit short of ideal, because Oli seems… off, somehow. He’s scratching at his neck and rubbing the edge of his shirt between his fingers.
Eddie waits until they’ve made it out of the residential district and into the city proper before sidling up to him.
‘Something troubling you?’
Oli jolts. He looks like he wants to deny it, but when his gaze finds Eddie’s face, the harengon narrows his eyes, and he sighs.
‘Sausage and Joel mentioned a few names I recognize,’ he says. ‘Scott. Shelby. Katherine.’
The ruler of Chromia, the Great Witch and the princess, as well as heir presumptive, of the throne of Glimmer Grove.
‘What about them?’
The smithy appears on the horizon. It doesn’t even seem too burnt when it’s not slathered in daylight.
‘I looked for them. Before.’
Oli hasn’t volunteered much information concerning his life in the time he’s been here and, following the customs of Sanctuary, Eddie hasn’t asked. All he’s been able to piece together of the other’s personal history is that Oli learned to play music at a very young age – a fact readily apparent in the practised ease with which he handles his instruments.
But the past he refers to when he tells Eddie stories – none of them his own – always seems distant. There have been no hints as to how he got washed up onto the shore, nor about what he was doing in the months and years before.
‘You know them?’
‘We’re… friends.’ Oli chews on his lower lip. ‘Or, we were. I haven’t seen them in a long time now.’
That is quite an eclectic circle of friends. Eddie would assume, if asked, that the ruler of Chromia and the princess knew one another through diplomatic relations. But the Great Witch of the Evermore sounds like someone who should be close to neither of them, least of all a delicate socialite princess. Then again, a bard doesn’t fit into this picture either, except maybe as entertainment.
‘In a way, they’re kind of my family.’
Okay, now Eddie really wants to ask. He bites his tongue and holds the door. Oli squeezes past him, hooks his cane under his arm and climbs the stairs. Eddie locks up, follows, and finds the human in the middle of the living room, unmoving.
Gently, he approaches. ‘Did you part on bad terms?’
‘Huh? No, we didn’t.’
‘If that’s the case, why did hearing about them upset you so?’
‘I…’ Oli’s face has gone pallid. ‘I’m worried they won’t remember me.’
Eddie quirks a brow. ‘Why wouldn’t they?’
The other makes a huffing sound that’s probably supposed to be laughter, but fails miserably. ‘Yeah,’ he says, kicking off his shoes. They bounce off the edge of his bed. ‘Why indeed?’
Eddie’s stomach clenches. He feels like he’s missing something. Not knowing what to do, he puts his hand onto Oli’s shoulder, trying to project as much calm confidence as he can muster. ‘They will.’
Oli ducks away. ‘I guess.’
The harengon’s mouth curls. He nudges Oli until the human looks up at him. ‘You are a very memorable man. Believe me.’
He doesn’t smile. But something flickers in his eyes: a tiny, tiny spark. He draws a breath, then lets it out loud and heavy. ‘I would have to talk to them to know for sure.’
His gaze drifts. He slumps into his sheets. Behind the headboard, the shadows seem to swirl.
Eddie’s insides squirm. He can feel the air rushing up from below; the precipice, the call of the drop. The urge to confess has been lurking on the tip of his tongue for days by now. What would happen, he wonders, dizzy at the sheer height, if he laid it all out on the table now? If he told Oli how wrong he’d been and how his feelings had changed?
Would it be fair to him, if he did? It sounds like he’s been looking for his friends for a very long time. If he was so desperate to find them he took the risk of drowning in the ocean…
Oli’s curls are sticking up in every which direction from running his hands through it. His neck is covered in bright pink lines; marks of his own nails. His eyes jump from one point in the room to the next. He’s kneading his pillow, restless as a cat.
Eddie aches to see him like this. He makes a decision.
*
Planks that have weathered tropical hurricanes and come away clean creak softly as the ship they form bobs on the waves. The wind rustles in as of yet slack sails, teasing the tips like a lover curls their beloved’s hair around their fingers.
Eddie walks down the gangway and steps onto the pier, catching the last drifts of a conversation as he does.
‘Are you a hundred percent sure you want to do this?’
‘Yes. I… I… This is something I need to do.’
There’s a determination in Oli’s voice Eddie hasn’t heard since the early days of his recovery, when he’d been hell-bent on getting a bath.
The bard meets Sausage’s eyes without flinching. The sunlight reflects off of his irises, his teeth, and his golden curls, providing a striking contrast to the new, deep blue cloak thrown casually over one of his shoulders.
Both of them stop talking as Eddie approaches.
‘The last of the cargo’s been loaded. The captain and his men have concluded their final rounds. They’re ready to leave when you are.’
‘Great,’ says Sausage. He gives Oli a quick nod and then ducks past Eddie, onto the softly swaying ship.
Eddie swallows. It’s not easy with the lump clogging his throat.
Oli straightens, making himself tall. ‘I wanted to thank you.’
‘No need.’
‘You took care of me for months. If there’s anything I can do to repay the favour–’
‘No.’ Eddie shakes his head and crosses his arms in front of his chest. ‘There is no possible way.’
The human’s face falls and it makes Eddie’s lips twitch.
‘Except for returning to Sanctuary as soon as you are able to.’
Oli’s eyes narrow at him. There’s something melancholy in them. A great big sadness that meets the sadness in Eddie, wrapping around it like a vine. Intertwining them.
If only they could.
‘I will.’
‘There’ll always be a bed for you here. At the tavern, at my smithy… have your pick. Just be sure to come back.’
Eddie’s voice gets more and more quiet as he speaks. He wanted to make this as easy as possible on both of them, but now that the moment has actually arrived, he can’t stop his arms from opening.
Oli throws himself into his chest. Eddie presses him close; his slender body, his lively warmth. He breathes in Oli’s apple cider scent and counts the seconds in his head – not because he wants it to be over, but precisely because he doesn’t.
The human is stiff at first, but then his tension softens. He exhales against Eddie’s apron.
He allows the harengon hold on for longer than he probably should. Long enough for Eddie’s limbs to grow heavy as anvils. He doesn’t want to move them. Not when it feels like there’s such a gulf between them even now; a chasm of his own making.
Oli wriggles out of his grip and brushes his hair out of his face. Their eyes meet, possibly for the last time in a long, long while.
‘Soon,’ he whispers.
Eddie lets himself cling to that almost-promise as he watches the other walk up the gangway.