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“You’re leaving tomorrow.”
They lay naked on Haytham’s king-sized bed, limbs tangled with each other. The night was cold, but the heat of their bodies along with the warmth of the fireplace kept them from freezing. Moonlight seeped through an opening between the curtained window, shining light on Shay’s handsome face, looking as if he was kissed by the moon itself.
“Aye, that I am,” Shay replied. Silence followed, the two men unable to meet each other’s gaze. Their eyes wandered, trying to focus on something else, anything, a vase, a painting, just not him. It’s unbearable—to look at your lover’s eyes not knowing when you’ll be able to drown in his gaze again.
Still, they clung to one another, hoping that this won’t be the last time they find themselves in each other’s arms. Shay rested his hand on the older man’s hip, while Haytham ran his fingers over the ex-Assassin’s scarred chest. They touch and squeeze, trying to feel each other’s presence as much as they can. He’s here, alive and well, but for how long?
Haytham suddenly got up. As much as he wanted to stay wrapped in Shay’s embrace, there was something he needed to do. He walked toward his desk, grabbing his dagger that was placed on top of the hardwood. Shay stared at the other man, entirely at a loss for what Haytham intended to do. Seeing a man like Haytham Kenway, a well-trained and dangerous fighter, wielding a sharp knife in a vulnerable situation, anyone else would’ve tried to escape at this point.
But he wasn’t anyone else. He was Shay Patrick Cormac, a deadly Assassin-turned-Templar. People may think him a simpering fool, lying naked in another trained fighter’s bed, while said trained fighter held a weapon in his hand. These were the kinds of situations Achilles always told him to avoid, but they both knew that he was never the type to follow the rules.
He still didn’t move, didn’t try to take away the dagger from the other man’s hand. He knew that Haytham would never hurt him. The older man held the knife close to his face, which made the hunter flinch, but before he could stand and try to prevent his lover from hurting himself, he saw the quick swing of a blade.
Confusion hit him when he realized it wasn’t blood that fell onto Haytham’s hand.
It was a lock of his hair.
The black, silky strands scattered onto the Grandmaster’s palm. He placed the dagger back onto the desk and rummaged through the drawers. He then retrieved a round gold locket, decorated with small rhinestones on its edges. He opened the locket and placed the lock of hair on it.
He walked back towards the bed, losing himself once again in Shay’s warm embrace. “Something to remember me by,” Haytham said, the subtle crack in his voice betraying his attempt to sound calm and composed. The younger man finally met his gaze as he was given the locket, running his thumb over the precious metal. “Oh, love,” he sighed, bringing his hand to the other man’s cheek.
Tears threatened to fall from Haytham’s glassy eyes. He had lost everyone, his father, his mother, himself. He couldn’t lose another one, not Shay. This must be a punishment from God, for all his wrongdoings, for this deadly path he chose to take. Before he could speak once more, to apologize for assigning this Sisyphean task to Shay, a man he trusted and a man he had loved more than anyone else, he felt a warm pair of lips pressing against his.
It was quick, but it was all Haytham had ever needed at that very moment. “Thank you,” Shay whispered, his voice growing huskier as drowsiness started to consume him. They spent the entire night together. Touching, feeling, and grabbing what they can from each other. The intimacy of it all was suffocating, but they couldn’t get enough of it. The moonlight shone onto their bodies, revealing red and purple bruises and scratches from their prior “engagement.”
Shay tightened his embrace, holding Haytham close and burying his head onto his shoulder and brushing his lips against his neck. “I don’t want to leave you,” he whispered. “You have to,” the older man replied. “For the Order… and for me,” he added, in an attempt to remind Shay what they were truly fighting for.
Shay wanted to speak out, to say that he didn’t care about the damned Order, that all he wanted right now was to take Haytham away to the countryside, or even move to Ireland if the Grandmaster wanted to, but he knew it was reckless. They had a duty to fulfill, and he had made that promise years ago, not just to the Order but to Haytham as well.
So he didn’t speak, pulling away from the embrace to take one last look at his lover. “It’ll be a long time until we can see each other again,” he said. “I know,” Haytham replied, in that typical matter-of-fact tone Shay knew all too well.
“I’ll think of you.”
“I know you will.”
Shay smiled, pressing their foreheads together. “I love you,” he muttered, eyes drooping from drowsiness. “I love you too,” Haytham replied, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek. “I always have and I always will,” he added, placing another kiss on his scar. “Shall I wake you when I leave?” Shay asked, already half-asleep. “You need not to… I…” Haytham hesitated. “I don’t want to see you leave,” he whispered. Shay nodded, his strong grip on the locket slowly waning. “I love you, Shay,” the older man said one last time, holding the other closer to him.
“May fair winds guide you back to me.”