Chapter Text
“Sebastian, be a dear and help me down.”
“No.”
Grimm ignored me as he walked laps around the carriage, stretching his legs. I sighed melodramatically and flopped myself out of my seat, complaining the whole way down.
Since we had cast the rain spellsong, I insisted on sitting in the front of the carriage with Grimm. The entire first day of travel, he would periodically try to convince me to ride inside the carriage.
“You’re still weak. You should rest.”
I clicked my tongue at him disapprovingly. “Even with the curse gone, you can’t be rid of me so easily.”
I saw his face twitch and he looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
I went on, my voice wheedling in a way I knew irritated him. “I’m so bored in there. There’s nothing to do but stare out the window. At least out here, I can talk to you – or, rather, at you.”
I sighed loudly, hoping to see him bristle, but he hadn’t been taking the bait as easily as easily since I had woken from my heroic, near-death experience.
“Poor Grimm, you’ll have to remain a tortured soul, plagued by my presence for a few more days.”
By the time we arrived at Grimm’s childhood home, I was feeling quite myself again.
As the carriage jostled up the lane, it attracted quite a crowd in the courtyard – his parents, a few neighbors, and some of the farm workers gathered to welcome us.
I had an audience.
The temptation to cause a scene was too great.
As Grimm hopped down and strode around the back of the carriage, I reached out a trembling arm towards him, doing my best to make my eyes wide and shimmering with near-tears, and feebly called “Sebastian.”
His eyes narrowed. My act was transparent: I could stand perfectly well on my own by now, and Grimm knew this, but I knew that with so many witnesses, Grimm couldn’t possibly withhold aid from his dear, sickly friend without judgment.
I could see his face twitching and fighting off a scowl as he walked slowly to me, then offered his hand, the look in his eyes telling me he would rather chop it off. I clasped it firmly in my own, throwing him a doe-eyed smile, and hobbled down the two steps of the carriage, clutching onto his arm to steady myself as I reached the ground.
My audience clapped.
The attention was intoxicating, and I was buzzing. The sympathetic, concerned looks I received from Grimm’s family friends while he could saying nothing delighted me to no end.
I tightened my grip on Grimm’s arm and forced him to walk me up to his parents to greet them, then all the way up to the house, and for a brief, beautiful moment, it felt like coming home with him as a partner, being paraded around to meet everyone.
I hated how much I wanted that in that moment.
“You’re an infernal pest,” he muttered so low that only I could hear, and I grinned back at him.
In the evening, I mingled and chatted with Grimm’s neighbors, much as I had only two weeks before. It was déjà vu, being here after everything had changed.
And yet, it seemed like nothing had changed. The curse was broken, and yet my feelings for Grimm persisted. Despite Grimm’s insistence that I talked the entire journey, I had been quiet at times, and each of those moments were filled with churning, confused thoughts about the man beside me, who I now had some form of neutral alliance with, yet I was still certain that he would prefer to be stuck with anyone else in the world.
Every time the carriage hit a rut and we bumped elbows or shoulders, I felt a thrill rip through me, grateful for the brief moment of contact, wishing it could be longer.
Once I even fell asleep, and upon waking, I was shocked to discover that Grimm hadn’t shaken me off, but rather had let me sleep on his shoulder – even drool onto the fabric of his sorcerers coat, although I’m not sure he had been aware of that at the time. I feigned sleep for a few extra minutes just to maintain what little contact I could. After this journey, I was certain we would resume our normal routine and I would never have an opportunity like this again. It was pathetic.
I was still in love with Sebastian Grimm.
This vexing problem followed me all through the night, as I mingled with his family friends and tried to distract myself.
I was speaking to his parents, though Grimm hovered rather close by, looking anxious. I suppose he feared I would say something embarrassing to them, which would be a fair assumption on his part, as I had never given him reason to think differently of me. But as much delight as that would have brought me, I refrained, if only for the sake of his lovely parents.
Instead, after assuring them I was indeed feeling infinitely better, I very earnestly told them, “I am truly sorry for taking Sebastian away from you during the harvest season. I know it was selfish to request his assistance, but in truth, there is no one I trust with my life more.” True enough, even if it was only a very recent development.
His parents, gentle and generous souls that they were (it was unfortunate that Grimm hadn’t inherited those qualities), graciously dismissed my apology, only expressing their gratitude that I was healthy once more, and that their son could have been the one to aid me, and didn’t he have such a large and kind heart? (Were we talking about the same Sebastian Grimm? Surely not.)
I admit, I had a moment of weakness and poor judgment – as his mother clasped my hand warmly between hers, her teary eyes meeting mine, and his father’s broad face glowed with pride, I said (dropping my voice a fraction) “he is truly the bravest and most selfless man I know.”
And then, thankfully, the supper bell rang, and I excused myself hastily and turned away, only to find Grimm still hovering annoyingly close. He was staring at me with a curious look in his eyes, part astonished, part scrutinizing, and it made me squirm. I did the only thing I knew that would distract him and threw him a salacious wink, which immediately twisted his face into a scowl. Much better.
As everyone milled about, taking their seats, I instinctively trailed Grimm and took the seat next to him so he was sandwiched between me and his mother. He cast a sidelong glance at me, an unspoken question in his eyes, which I ignored.
The meal was spent being peppered with questions about my health and wellbeing, and the journey we had taken. Though I couldn’t give details (nor would I have wanted to if I could – there was something that thrilled me in a particular way, to have a shared secret with Grimm), I glibly recounted some false story, laced with some inkling of the truth. I detailed, in particular, Grimm’s heroics, because I knew how much he hated the attention – how he took me all the way to Dorniere, to the best magical doctor there was, stayed with me for days, never left my side.
“As the doctor worked, Sebastian wept over my prone form –”
“I did not weep.”
“He did,” I insisted, casting a conspiratorial look around my rapt audience.
I almost grabbed his hand for the effect, but I thought that might result in being punched in the face, so I refrained.
The crowd once again cajoled me into playing for them, and, I, needing very little coaxing to become the center of attention, did just that. I played several jaunty, high tempo tunes, then as the night wore on, transitioned to softer and slower songs, recalling the lullabies my mother had sang to me as a child.
I glanced at Grimm and found him piercing me with a dark look, the same look that passed through his eyes occasionally, that I had first mistook for anger, then abhorrence, or disgust, or any number of things I was used to seeing from him. It was a deep intense gaze that pierced me straight through, and I had absolutely no idea what it meant.
I just flashed him a disarming grin and carried on, doing my best to ignore the crawling sensation under my skin, the prickling at the back of my neck. A small part of me feared this was the curse, once again wrapping itself around my limbs, taking over, but I knew that it was truly gone – and whatever feelings still remained in the wake of it were completely my own.
* * *
The first night back at the Fount, sleeping alone for the first time in weeks, the nightmares returned.
I had already struggled with sleep before all this mess, but now my nightmares were of not only my mother dying at my hands, but Grimm as well. Over and over, I saw visions of my mother, collapsed in our dining room; Grimm, bloody and lifeless, deep in a forest, so far from home. Both of them dead at my hands.
So I simply stopped trying to sleep. I threw myself into my studies like never before, spending countless hours and innumerable nights in the library, poring over tomes and encyclopedias and diaries, writing more and more spellsongs in Grandmagic, and a few regular spells as well.
And yet, no matter how much I busied myself, there was always a constant pang in my chest, a persistent tug that told me I didn’t want to be done with Grimm. I couldn’t be done.
We shared very few classes together, by design, but now I looked forward to each one, often arriving early to class just to catch of glimpse of him from across the room, as in every class besides Duality, we were seated as far from each other as possible.
Although the curse was no longer forcing me to seek out Grimm to satisfy some deeply buried desire, I found myself doing it anyway. Whenever I had a spare moment, I would skulk around his classrooms, just to catch a glimpse of him as he hurried off to his next class. I would keep an eye out for him in the refectory, noting his comings and goings. I would go for walks in the gardens or across the grounds just to pass by him as he worked on sword forms or cast practice spells away from curious eyes (except for mine, of course).
Then one day, he found me instead.
I was in the library, in a corner as far from the entrance as possible, surrounded by huge stacks of reference books, as I wrote version after version of a shielding spell in Grandmagic, not satisfied until it was completely perfect.
I was so engrossed in my work I didn’t notice Grimm had approached until the chair across from me scraped backwards.
A part of me thrilled at the sight of him, and I immediately tried to tamp it down. I was still acting like a lost puppy without him, perking up at the mere sight of him, lingering close just to hear the sound of his voice. It made me want to throw myself in the pond again.
Grimm observed the contents of the table with a dubious look in his eyes: the books; the pile of crumpled, rejected, spell papers; the small, but growing, stack of completed spells. No doubt he was confused by my sudden voracious appetite for knowledge.
I put my quill down. “Grimm. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“You’re working rather hard,” he said, almost as if he didn’t believe it.
“Quite. Contrary to common belief, I am capable, when properly motivated.” It wasn’t worth mentioning that he had become my motivation. I felt like I desperately wanted to impress Grimm, to become the type of scriver he would willingly take on as a casting partner. To become the type of person he would take as a partner, period.
“Are you working on spellsongs?”
I rolled my head around my neck until it popped. “Not at the moment. I’m, er...” I shoved the stack of completed spells in his direction. “Trying to work on Grandmagic spells. Proper spells.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise as he picked up the stack and shuffled through them. Before he could say anything else, I said, “why do you ask?”
Grimm didn’t answer right away as he slowly sifted through the spells. I could see his mind churning as he picked out words that were familiar and struggled with the more obscure ones. When he finally put them down, he folded his hands neatly on the table in front of him and seemed to steel himself.
“You said before that you wanted to continue working on spellsongs.” His jaw clenched infinitesimally. “I would – also like that. To work with you, if...you would.” His words came out unusually stilted and his face pinched as if tasting something sour.
“If the idea of working with me is really that distasteful, we don’t have to –”
“What? No,” he said so quickly that it was my turn to look surprised. Something inside me fluttered at the idea that maybe Grimm didn’t find my presence entirely odious. Maybe that meant there was still room to wriggle around and make myself at home in his head.
“I mean,” he went on, more slowly, “the spellsongs are...interesting. I’m curious the extent of their capabilities, how powerful they can be.”
I deflated, but only slightly. Time at Grimm’s side was still time, after all, regardless of what the purpose was. The thought was so lovesick and pathetic I wanted to bash my head against the table. Instead, I said, “very well. If you think you could fit me into your very busy schedule.”
He ignored that. “Tuesdays and Thursdays, right here. Seven sharp,” he said firmly, knowing my penchant for tardiness.
I waved a hand at him as I picked up my quill again. “Yes, yes, I’ll be here.” If I hadn’t already been practically living in this spot for the past two weeks, I probably would have started showing up at six thirty just to prove a point to him. And maximize any amount of time with him. Oh, that thought made me nauseous.
Grimm said nothing, just looked at me closely for a few moments, then stood and left.
* * *
“You look terrible,” Grimm commented one day, astute as always.
I blinked, looking up from the stack of spells he was choosing from in Duality, the papers swimming in my vision.
“Hm,” was all I said.
He frowned even deeper, apparently not pleased with that response. It was funny, really; the Grimm of a few weeks ago would have reveled in my disheveled, disgruntled state, my limited vocabulary. But the Grimm of today looked perturbed. Or, slightly more perturbed from his norm, if the slightly deepened crease between his eyebrows indicated anything.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Ah, and there’s my charming partner.”
The double meaning was intentional, and I was pleased to see that it made him wince. But it was difficult to revel in the grief I caused him when my head felt so heavy and aching.
I rubbed my eyes viciously until stars popped into view. “Don’t you worry, Grimm, I’m perfectly grand. Absolutely tip-top.”
He looked unconvinced, as he should, but I said nothing else about it, and he dropped it once Phade stepped in front of the class.
A short lecture later and we were encouraged to practice casting in our pairs.
His usual meticulous and careful self, Grimm slowly shuffled through the stack of spells I had provided him, taking his time to note the length of each and some of the key words that would indicate its use.
He finally picked a spell from the pile; one of the shorter ones, of course. As he read through the words several times, his face tightened in concentration. Although we had been working on his comprehension in the old language and he was an annoyingly quick study, he was still cautious and unsure of his abilities. I didn’t say anything as he read and reread, repressing my instinctual sighs of impatience.
Looking up when he was finally ready, Grimm seemed to straighten under my scrutiny, but nodded his readiness.
I glanced at the spell in his hand, remembering the tune I had set it to, and leaned forward, propping my head on my hand, closing my eyes as I began to hum. I repeated it several times, Grimm leaning in close to hear me over the chatter and shuffling of the room around us. I tried not to notice the smell of him as he so willingly and unconsciously entered my personal orbit, cedar and vetiver, woody yet sweet.
When he had the tune, I nodded, eyes still closed. I heard him shift, adjusting in his seat, and softly began to sing.
“Out loud, Grimm,” I reminded him.
I felt him seethe next to me, and finally opened my eyes to smile placidly at him. He glared at me but I didn’t back down. “You know my Grandmagic needs the music. You can try without, but you may leave class with fewer eyebrows or bones than you came in with.”
I enjoyed watching him squirm as he took a deep, steadying breath.
And then he began to sing, his voice deep, sonorous, imperfect. But to me, beautiful. Quiet at first, hoping to remain unnoticed by the class. As he sang the spell, became lost in it, his eyes fell shut.
I leaned further forward, chin still resting on my hand, gazing up at him where he stood and sang. Sang my spell. I must have looked for all the world like a lovesick teenager, but I found I didn’t care one bit.
Sebastian Grimm was here before me, singing a spell I had written, in Grandmagic no less, and it was working.
My chest swelled with pride and with another emotion I refused to put a name to, because the curse was gone and that feeling should have been as well. It didn’t matter how I felt, because Grimm could never return that feeling, no matter how desperately I wanted that. Even so, my spells worked, and they worked with him.
The magic I had long feared was too dangerous for the world was brought to life by Sebastian Grimm.
And that had to count for something, didn’t it?
The final notes died away, as the paper in Grimm’s hand smoldered and smoked into nothing. I stared up at him, grinning now, all too pleased with myself. Grimm’s eyes snapped open, fell to me, to ask if it had worked, but he startled when he realized just how far he had to look down at me, because he was floating ten feet up in the air.
The class had stilled and fallen silent, and now all stared up at Grimm as well.
“A lightfoot spell?” someone asked dubiously.
“Not lightfoot,” I said, practically gushing with pride (over Grimm too, not just myself – but yes, mostly myself). “Levitation.”
Even Phade gaped at me, and I knew I had finally impressed – if not shocked – him. Levitation spells were far more challenging that lightfoot spells, requiring far more precise magic. Lightfoot spells simply made one buoyant for a short period of time, but the propulsion upward had to be provided by the caster. Levitation spells worked all on their own, the magic lifting up the person without any prompt.
“How long is this going to last?”
Chimes signaled the end of class, and without hesitation, I hopped up on the desk and grabbed Grimm’s trouser leg. “Oh, only an hour. If that.”
“Loveage,” Grimm growled in warning.
“Come along, Grimm!” I called up to him cheerfully. “I’ll give you a tow to your next class.”
* * *
That Tuesday evening, at 6:58, Grimm appeared once again before my table in the library. I feigned a look of surprise at the sight of him, as if I hadn’t spent the entire day counting the hours, itching to spend this dedicated portion of his day with him.
I furrowed my brow up at him. “Grimm, what are you – oh, of course, our study session! How could I have forgotten!”
Maybe a bit too much. He genuinely looked taken aback, and like he was about to turn around and leave, leaving me to my independent studies, as annoyingly considerate he was.
I shook my head, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m just – nevermind. Sit, please. Let me show you what I’ve been working on.” Because of course, since our last conversation here, I had prepared as many spellsongs as I could, to demonstrate that I wanted this too, that I wanted to work with him and would put forth every effort to make it a success.
Grimm carefully placed his bag on the table, shrugged off his sorcerers coat, and then astonished me by not taking the seat across from me as I had expected, but rather the one next to me.
I stared at him as he settled into his seat, then tried to hide my shock when he turned to me, his dark brown eyes meeting mine.
Before the Unquiet Wood, I had never noticed what color Grimm’s eyes were. Now it was all I could think about. They were such a saturated brown they often looked black – I had once thought them sharp, cold, dangerous. Now, when he looked at me, all I saw was the infinite depth of their emotion, the warmth in them;they felt like freshly tilled soil in the summer; hot chocolate on a frigid winter night, thawing you from the inside; a dark ale that left you lightheaded and giddy.
I blinked aside my private and humiliating ruminations. “Here,” I said, shoving a dictionary of the old language at him. “You can help me by looking up a suitable word for ambient. I can’t quite think of the right one.”
He rifled through the huge volume until he found a few synonyms, which he read out loud to me. I settled on the fifth one, writing it down and quickly scribbling the rest of the spell, which I had already composed mentally.
I slid the shielding spell over to him for analysis.
My confidence made me bold, and I ventured into his space as he read. Acting as if I was reading along with him over his shoulder (as if I hadn’t memorized my own spell), I leaned in, dangerously close, close enough to smell him (what was that? His cologne? Aftershave? It smelled of juniper, cedar, with a hint of citrus – but sweeter) and simply dropped my chin onto his shoulder.
An innocent gesture among friends. Nothing more. Unless he wanted it to be.
I felt his shoulders tense up under me, heard the faintest sound of a sharp intake of breath, and fully expected him to shake me off, or snap something about personal space. But after a moment, his shoulders relaxed a fraction and he carried on reading, as if determined to ignore me. I could live with that.
“Hm,” he said once he had finished reading, and I took leave of my perch and sat back, stretching my arms over my head in a nonchalant way that indicated I hadn’t thought anything of that tiny act of infatuation-disguised-as-friendliness.
“Well?” I asked, shuffling papers and books around without real purpose, trying to keep my hands busy and not look at him. I reminded myself to breathe when I realized I hadn’t exhaled for a good ten seconds.
“I...think it has potential.”
“Potential!” I turned on him. “Are you – this is brilliant, one of my best yet. That’s artistry, right there.”
He had placed the spell back on the table and only shrugged. “It’s still a bit flowery and verbose.”
“That’s called personality, Grimm. Character. Pizzazz. I know you wouldn’t be familiar with the concept.”
“Garish, is more like. That I know you’re familiar with.”
I held a hand to my chest in mock indignation. “You wound me, Grimm. I am the very picture of subtlety.”
We went on like this for some time, and somehow eventually got back to work and produced several more spells, nothing particularly complicated, but good practice for composing in Grandmagic as well as encouraging Grimm to work on his old language vocabulary.
Hours had passed, and I felt my eyes growing heavy but fought against them.
“It’s nearing ten o’clock, Grimm. Isn’t that when you typically turn into a turnip or something?”
His eyes flicked from the parchment to my eyes, down and back again, until they finally settled on mine and held them for a long time, not speaking. I began to fidget under his gaze.
“We’ll need to practice. The spells. To make sure they work as expected.”
“Well...yes, of course,” I said, confused as to why he felt he needed to explain this to me.
“Tomorrow.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “Yes, yes, fine. You’re going to work me to death, Grimm.” I slammed my workbooks shut, making a big show of packing my things, even though I had no intention of leaving the library or letting myself sleep.
“Off to bed with you, then. You could use the beauty rest.”
* * *
Probably to the astonishment of us both, Grimm and I began having more and more frequent private study sessions, in which we worked on the old language, my Grandmagic, and our spellsongs. It occurred to me that some days we never even agreed to meet; he would find me in the library, or I would stumble upon him in the casting hall, and we would simply begin bouncing ideas off each other, and there we were, collaborating. I knew it was taking the Fount by storm – Grimm and Loveage, sworn enemies, suddenly spending time together, working together – and (relatively) harmoniously? The scandal of it all!
But I paid the rumors and the pointed looks no mind, as I was just thrilled that Grimm hadn’t cast me aside the moment we stepped foot on the grounds of the Fount.
This particular night, we were holed up in his room (he insisted he couldn’t focus in mine, claiming the “clutter” was “distracting”).
One moment I was fiddling with the wording of a cloning spell, and the next, Grimm was rather rudely shaking my shoulder.
I picked my head up and glowered at him, blinking slowly, my eyes feeling sluggish and heavy.
“Grimm, don’t be rude.”
He had stooped down next to me and was looking into my face sternly. “You fell asleep,” he said, terse and annoyed.
I shook his hand off my shoulder.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Either way, I think that’s enough for tonight.”
“Fine by me,” I said, not really caring one way or the other. I stretched out languorously on the plush sofa, feeling all too comfortable and at home in Grimm’s space
Something landed partially on my face with a muffled whump. I scrabbled at the fabric and pulled away a set of pajamas, soft from years of wear.
“Throwing your clothes at me already, Grimm?”
He ignored me, not even the twitch of an eyebrow. Disappointing.
“You can stay over tonight. There,” he emphasized, when he saw my mouth begin to open and a roguish glint enter my eyes.
I frowned, but shrugged. “Nonsense, I would never dream of imposing.” I began to stand, but felt woozy with exhaustion. Grimm was at my side quickly, gripping my arm to stabilize me. I moved to shake him off again but he held firm.
“Loveage, you’re exhausted. I can tell you haven’t been sleeping. You drift off in classes; you’ve dozed off already twice tonight. And you haven’t been as irritating lately.”
I frowned and opened my mouth to protest, but instead, a wide yawn escaped. Grimm gave me a pointed look and finally released my arm.
“Fine. But no funny business, Grimm. I promised your parents I was a gentleman.”
He snorted at that, but turned away, crossing the room to his bed, where his own pajamas were laid out meticulously. And just as I was trying to decide if I should awkwardly turn around or leave to change in the toilet down the hall, Grimm, his back to me, in one swift motion, peeled off his shirt, the dark fabric revealing the pale expanse of his back, smooth and surprisingly muscular, marred only by the coin-sized scar below his left shoulder where Mathias’ arrow had pierced him.
I think I gulped audibly at the sight. The Grimm of before would take a thousand arrows before he even thought about stripping down in front of me. And yet, here was this Grimm, doing exactly that, and so casually, as if we were on more-than-friendly terms.
His trousers were next and, oh, if that wasn’t something to behold. I wasn’t fortunate enough to see anything more than the shape of his ass through his briefs, but it was enough to give me a glimpse of the curves of him, the thick muscles of his thighs, the delicate strength that had been hiding beneath his clothes all this time.
I felt my mouth go very dry.
All too quickly, he had pulled on a pair of pajamas, and it felt like a crime that the magnificence of his body was covered up by any clothes at all, nevermind a pair of old threadbare rags.
Without a glance back at me, he shimmied under the covers, closing his eyes immediately.
“Dim the lights when you’re done,” was all he said, and left me standing there, gaping at Grimm and his very un-Grimm-like brazen display that was proving very difficult for me to comprehend.
He really wasn’t making this any easier for me.
I had all intentions of fighting sleep that night, forcing myself to stay awake as I had the several nights before, but hearing the familiar breathing of Grimm so close (which, only once it was gone, did I realize had become a comfort to me), the coziness of the warm sofa, and just how sleep deprived I had become, turned out to be the perfect combination for putting me to sleep in under a minute.
The nightmare was hard to recall once I woke up, but I think it went something like this – I was at home, in our gardens. My mother had collapsed, just as she had that horrid day so, so long ago. I ran to her, but then I saw Grimm in the distance – pierced through by Mathias’ arrow, staring at me vacantly, blood pouring down his chest. I started to run to him, but then stopped – my mother. But Grimm.
I wanted to save them both, needed to save them both.
As I went to move, suddenly I was stuck, held in place by a force greater than myself, and I couldn’t get to either. I saw my mother still, Grimm collapse, and they were both dying, and I could do nothing. I fought the invisible grip holding me, struggled, called out –
I awoke, fighting the force holding me back, wriggling and writhing.
Groggy and disoriented, I found myself able to move again, and flung out one hand to disengage whatever was pinning me down.
But instead of leaving me alone, a hand grasped mine.
I fought it, pulling back, but it squeezed, hard, and that brought me a bit more to my senses.
“Leovander!” Grimm’s voice, sharp and urgent.
As I fought to peer through the haze of sleep, I could see him kneeling before me, his face slowly coming into focus. His hair, usually so pristine and coiffed, was adorably rumpled. His face was creased with deep lines, which was not unusual, and typically meant he was angry – but no, his eyes weren’t angry. They looked wide, concerned. Almost scared. They looked how they had in that moment in the valley of the monster when, for a desperate moment, he hadn’t known what to do.
I meant to say, “what’s wrong?” but the words came out jumbled and thick, my mouth feeling like it was full of sand. I realized I was shivering, from cold and damp, and that the pajamas Grimm had loaned me were soaked through with sweat.
I then felt the most peculiar sensation, as Grimm moved his hand from my shoulder to my face, pushing sweat-damp curls off of my forehead, tucking them back behind my ear, in such a gentle, caring way that I thought surely I was still asleep. The gesture was so effortless, so easy. Almost thoughtless in its simplicity, as if were something he did often and had become second nature.
All too soon, his hand left my face and returned to my shoulder.
“You were calling for me.” His voice was soft, but strained.
“Mm? No I wasn’t.”
“Was it a nightmare?”
I harrumphed, taking stock of my elevated heart rate, shallow breathing, sweat soaked hair. “No.”
“Tell me what happened.”
I shook my head minutely, screwing my eyes shut to avoid his probing gaze.
“Loveage, you were calling my name. You were terrified. Please tell me.”
I felt that I should be embarrassed by this, but I was so sweaty and disoriented and wishing that Grimm would put his hand back on my face that I couldn’t be bothered.
“It was nothing,” I lied. “I don’t remember.”
His eyes searched my face, troubled and alarmed, but rather than endure his probing gaze for another second, I rolled over, facing away from him and tugging the blanket over my head.
I felt his presence behind me for a few moments longer, lingering, as if unsure whether to believe me or not. He finally retreated with a tiny sigh of defeat, and said “at least change into new pajamas. You’re going to get sweat all over my sofa.”
* * *
Grimm was usually punctual for everything, including meals.
This evening, supper was nearly over and I still hadn’t caught a glimpse of the head of silvery-gray hair, which unsettled me. The entire meal I kept an eye out, making a poor attempt at hiding my unease as my head swiveled around like an owl, peering through the refectory.
“What are you doing?” Agnes snipped, irritated that I wouldn’t sit still. “Who are you looking for?”
“Hm? No one.” I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of the final stragglers entering the refectory, but none of them were of interest to me.
“Oh, don’t give me that, Leo. What’s been going on between you and Grimm? You’ve been acting awfully chummy.”
Not chummy enough, I thought glumly.
“Not that I’m complaining,” she went on. “It’s a relief to see an end to this ridiculous squabbling of yours.”
I refocused my attention on my stew, glaring into it, as if that might help. It didn’t.
Agnes turned in her seat to face me full on.
“Really, Leo. What happened over harvest?
“It’s – complicated,” I sighed. Though I was dying to fill Agnes in, I hadn’t yet found a loophole in the curse. I had tried writing it, signing it, performing it via charades – nothing worked.
Besides, even if I could, I wasn’t quite sure that I could accurately mime we met a sorcerer who wrote a counterspell that didn’t work, and then the band of outlaws who stole spells from the archives almost killed us, and even though I was magically cursed to fall in love with the man who cast the spell, I ended up falling in love for real, and he doesn’t return the feeling, and now I have nightmares about him dying because I was the one who almost got him killed in the first place.
Agnes, looking unconvinced, frowned deeply and pushed her glasses up her nose. “You’ve never been mysterious about anything in your life. I wish you weren’t choosing now of all times to start.”
I finally found Grimm on the grass between the pavilion and the pond, much in the same spot he had been when he accidentally gave me the first command I had to compulsively obey.
The anxiety emanating off of him was palpable, but I had never been one to properly assess the danger of a situation before throwing myself in headfirst, so I plopped down next to him, sprawling out on the grass, propped up on my elbows.
“What are you doing out here, Grimm?”
“I come out here to be alone,” he said pointedly. I ignored the hint.
“Mm, I’ve noticed.”
He sent a mild look of bewilderment in my direction but I carried on as if I hadn’t noticed, or as if I didn’t have his entire schedule memorized, or his habits and the places he frequented.
“You weren’t at supper.”
He said nothing, so I went on. “I saved you roast beef and that potato thing you always get. Your favorites, right?”
The baffled look on his face only strengthened, his face growing quite slack.
“I kept it warm, but the spell won’t last too much longer.”
“You didn’t –”
I waved a hand to cut him off. “It was nothing. A tiny cantrip here and there is hardly casting –”
“You shouldn’t be casting at all,” he snapped, with so much vehemence behind it that I was stunned for a moment and turned to stare at him. He looked genuinely angry, and I couldn’t understand why.
“I can do whatever I like,” I finally retorted, and a little of our old rivalry poked its head around the corner, as if it had been waiting all along, ready to pounce at the tiniest provocation.
“And that’s your problem, you always just do whatever you want, without regard for safety!”
“Safety!” I spat. “A simple warming spell has nothing to do with safety, and besides, it has no effect on you. I don’t know why you’re so concerned what –”
“I don’t want you to get hurt again!” he shouted with so much anger that at first, I didn’t process the words, only the tone, and my hackles went up immediately. I almost yelled something back but then stopped short when I realized what he had said.
I don’t want you to get hurt again
I didn’t know how to interpret that.
And then, without any discernible transition, he nearly blurted, “Do you ever worry about failing everyone? Letting them all down?”
I had to pause at the conversational whiplash, but regained myself quickly.
“Worry about it? Never! I’ve become so good at it that I don’t even have to try anymore.”
The scowl told me that a flippant answer was not what he had been looking for.
I tried again. “Look, if you’re worried about yourself, don’t be. No one has any expectations of you – That’s not what I meant,” I corrected at a sharp look from him. “I mean, you’re talented and brilliant without even trying. You always give everything you have, and more. I imagine any pressure you might be feeling is completely self-induced.”
This didn’t seem to be the answer he was looking for, either. Grimm stared at the grass at his feet, hugging his knees to his chest, looking the most vulnerable I had ever seen him. I truly had no idea what to say or do.
“What’s this about, then?” I pressed. “The Coterie? Have you have any inquiries? I know you don’t want Rainer’s help, but –”
“No – it’s not that,” he said, voice a little strangled. “It’s...nothing.”
“Well, I can’t help you if you won’t tell me.”
He seemed to shut down suddenly and completely, turning his head away from me and staring far into the distance. I knew I ought to stop while I was ahead, before I said something that made Grimm want to put a boot up my ass. If nothing else, the weeks I had been forced into close proximity with him had taught me that he needed patience; constant needling and hassling would only drive him further into himself, which was the last thing I wanted.
Well, maybe one last ditch effort couldn’t hurt. I bumped my shoulder into his, a daring move considering his current mood. He whipped his head around to glare at me.
“I know it doesn’t mean anything to you, but you’ve never let me down.” I looked at him hard, hoping he would see in my eyes the true sincerity in that moment. “You never could.”
His eyes darkened in that familiar yet mysterious way, a dangerous glint that told me I’d said something that pushed a boundary, though I couldn’t figure out how such a genuine, heartfelt sentiment could be offensive to him.
I puffed out a tiny sigh – exasperated and confused, as was my new norm around Grimm – and stood, brushing off my trousers. Perhaps it was time to give up on Sebastian Grimm, on whatever connection I had hoped we still had after our time in the Unquiet Wood. I was now certain it was entirely one-sided at this point.
“Supper is waiting, if you want it,” I said without looking at him. Then I turned and walked back towards the dorms, alone.
* * *
Over the next few days, Grimm was even quieter than usual, and I feared that this was truly the end; he would pull back entirely from me, any footing I had gained with him irrevocably lost. But despite his moody silence, he didn’t retreat. He would still show up to our study sessions in the library, or find me in the casting hall when I was working with Agnes. Several times he voluntarily sat next to me at meals, but barely said a word, which was utterly perplexing, but it was just such a relief to have him nearby I didn’t even mind. I even caught him looking at me closely in Duality, only to quickly shift his gaze elsewhere once I had noticed.
He was acting odd, and that was saying something for Grimm.
A full week passed before he was back to his old self, as if nothing had happened. We would bicker and banter; he would nag me and I would taunt him. He would tell me that if he weren’t already gray, I would have certainly caused it by now, and I would say that I was becoming more boring by the day just by being around him. And yet as much as he seemed to despise every moment being around me, he never canceled our study sessions or stormed off in a huff like he often did before harvest break.
Emotionally, I felt as though I had been thrown over a waterfall, wrung out, and hung to dry in a hurricane.
If this was all I would ever get, if this was as close as Grimm and I would ever be, I was resolved to accept it, to let it be enough to sustain me, because I would rather have him at arms’ length than not at all.
* * *
My sleep schedule was abhorrent, due to the combination of my crippling insomnia and the fact that even when I was exhausted, I was haunted by paralyzing nightmares. When I closed my eyes, all I could see was my mother and Grimm, both lying still and cold, dead, and all I could do was stare at them from far away and scream and cry and –
It had been a trying week, with exams and long hours of studying and Agnes reminding me that I should be thinking seriously about what I was going to do after graduation.
And if all that weren’t enough, there was my growing irritation at the way Grimm kept glancing at me during study sessions, silently fretting over my fatigue, pestering me to rest more, glancing at my hands – the blackened nails, though finally beginning to grow out, a constant reminder of how we had both come very, very close to dying not so long ago.
By the end of the week I was moving sluggishly, my body working slow, my mind even slower. I needed a drink, but not the sort where I would go out in Luxe, and flirt and gamble and play violin on bartops. Rather, I needed the moody kind of drinking, where I could be alone, and brood and mull and feel sorry for myself. The kind of drinking that always ends in disaster.
Drinking a bottle of wine as I strolled the grounds, I wandered aimlessly, unseeing, unhearing, letting my feet take me wherever they saw fit. Once empty, I lost the bottle somewhere along the way.
I walked for hours.
Until I found myself outside Grimm’s door.
I stood there for probably ten minutes, staring unseeing at the whorls of the wood, wondering what the hell I was doing there. I didn’t remember walking here, climbing the stairs, or taking a left and then two rights.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I raised my fist and rapped sharply, waited a minute, swaying uncertainly on the spot. A part of me was relieved when he didn’t answer, so I turned, about to make my escape with my proverbial tail between my legs but at least my pride still intact, when I heard the door unlatch.
“Loveage?” Grimm’s sleep-thick voice called after me. I almost ran, but his voice pulled me back, as if there was still some magic binding us together.
“What are you doing? It’s the middle of the night.”
I was all too well reminded of that by his tousled hair, the thin pajamas that outlined his frame, the way he squinted at me through eyes still heavy with sleep.
He peered through the dim light of the hallway, eyes narrow, taking in my disheveled appearance. “Are you drunk?”
My bleary gaze dropped to the floor, which swam before me. “I can’t sleep.”
There was a pinched sigh, and I expected him to slam the door in my face, as he so outwardly disapproved of my drinking and cavorting and whatnot. But then he very softly said “come in” and my heart jumped into my throat and almost fell out of my mouth.
Grimm lit a lamp and I stood in the middle of his room, feeling awkward even though I had been here at least a dozen times by now. I felt helpless and stupid as he faced me again, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well?”
I’m not sure why I had come here, or what I had intended to do. The look in Grimm’s eyes was like frigid water being poured over me, and I seemed to have lost my nerve. I just opened and closed my mouth stupidly a few times, but didn’t say anything.
He finally looked ready to throw me out, and, panicking, I blurted, “the nightmares are getting worse. I don’t want to sleep. I can’t – I can’t.”
Grimm’s mouth opened in a very small o of surprise, and I wondered what he had thought I had come there for.
“What – what do you want me to do?” He didn’t say it cruelly, more perplexed.
I shuffled backwards until my knees hit the sofa, and then crumpled onto it, dropping my head into my hands as the world swirled around me.
The cushion beside me shifted as Grimm sank down next to me. “I thought you weren’t having nightmares anymore. You said –”
“I know what I said,” I bit out, harsher than I meant, but I was so tired I couldn’t regulate my emotions. “I lied. I didn’t want you to worry. You shouldn’t have to worry. Because we’re not – I’m –” I raked my hands through my hair. We’re not partners. I’m nothing to you. I couldn’t bear to hear the confirmation if I had said them out loud.
I sucked in a deep breath that tripped over a sob halfway through.
Grimm’s eyes shifted from annoyance, to surprise, until they finally softened into what looked like pity, which was much worse. “They’re only nightmares. They’re not real.”
“I know that,” I snapped back. “Do you think I’m that stupid? Of course I know that. But they feel real, and every time I close my eyes –” I stopped, but then thought, why else would you have come here?
I blew out sharply through my nose, then turned to face him where he sat; he was very straight and still, perched on the edge of the sofa as if ready to flee at any moment. I held his eyes with mine.
“The nightmares are about my mother still, but...also you. You’re...” I swallowed around the word, “dying. In the valley. You’re bleeding, and calling for me, but I can’t get to you. You’re dying because of mistakes I made, because I brought you there, and I need to save you, but I’m stuck – I can’t move, and...I can’t save you.”
Another breath that hitched on something invisible in my throat, dissolved into a ragged sob. “Every night, I have to watch you die, and it’s destroying me.”
Grimm stared at me with very wide eyes, looking utterly perplexed, the pupils indistinguishable from the dark irises in the low light, and it reminded me that there was once a brief moment in the forest where I thought I would never see those eyes again, that those final few moments were all we had left.
My chest was tight, unbearably so, and my breath had become stuck in the center of it. My heart hammered in my ears so loud I was sure Grimm could hear it too. My hands had clenched into fists so tight that I couldn’t feel them anymore.
“I can’t save you, Sebastian. Why can’t I save you? Why can’t I save you? Why–”
Everything went very blurry for a moment, and my vision swam before me, sound rushing like a flooded river in my ears, and when everything became clear again, Grimm’s face was very close, and his mouth was moving as if he was speaking, but I couldn’t hear anything, only the deafening roar in my head.
The rushing wind in my ears turned into a high pitched ringing, and then slowly faded away until I could finally hear Grimm–
“–breathe, Leo, please. Take a deep breath. You’re okay.”
I was trying to breathe, dammit, but my lungs weren’t working properly. Something was constricting my chest, wrapped around me so tightly that I could not physically inhale, as hard as I tried. My lungs hurt and burned, and I wanted to scream and cry, and be somewhere anywhere but here.
I became hyperaware of Grimm’s hands on either side of my face, how very close he was, the feel of his breath on my face as he kept saying silly and unhelpful things over and over.
I wanted to sink into the floor and disappear, but also throw myself into Grimm’s arms, and let him hold me and protect me and chase the nightmares away.
Only one of those options was viable, so I pitched forward, face-first into his left shoulder, pressing my face against the soft wool of his sweater, gasping as I still struggled to breathe, trying to hold back tears. I hated how weak and childish I suddenly felt, hated the fact that he was seeing me this way, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop the panic bursting out of me.
Grimm had gone rigid as soon as my body slammed into his, and the panic caused by the memory of my nightmares was suddenly overshadowed by the panic that Grimm, who I was certain only tolerated me, would shove me off, and tell me to leave. I had gone too far – we weren’t close like that.
But I was frozen, and couldn’t do anything except fight for each breath, hoping he didn’t despise me. A long few moments passed in a miserable state of anxious waiting.
And then I felt something entirely unexpected – after only a brief hesitation, Grimm wrapped his arms around me, tugging me close against him, shifting on the couch to move closer. His arms were strong and firm and grounding, and pulled me in so close I had to readjust, my face turning instead into the hollow between his shoulder and neck. The smell of him was familiar and calming, and I couldn’t help but inhale deep, greedy gulps of it.
He didn’t say anything, only held me, and that was enough.
* * *
Waking up in Grimm’s bed with no recollection of how I had gotten there was one of the most surreal experiences – as I rolled over, mashing my face into his pillow, I was surrounded with his scent, sweet and musky and woodsy, and it was difficult to rouse myself and move at all, because I felt that I was exactly where I needed to be.
Then I was hit with a wild moment of panic that I had done something very reckless and stupid to end up in his bed in the first place, and feared that he would resent me for it and never speak to me again.
Sitting up with such speed that I felt my brain knock about inside my skull, I realized I was still fully clothed and Grimm was nowhere in sight. I vaguely wondered whether he had slept beside me or stayed on the sofa – and very much hoped it was the former, even though it wouldn’t have mattered either way.
As I slowly peeled myself out of bed, I saw a piece of spell paper on the bedside table in Grimm’s small, neat handwriting:
Hope you’re feeling better. I’ll tell your professors you’re ill and pick up your classwork.
Try to rest and please drink some water.
– S
A large blotch of ink at the top of the H indicated that he had put the quill down without knowing what he was going to write, then sat there for some time as the ink bled, until he finally managed to conjure up something coherent.
It was...oddly sweet. And thoughtful, for Grimm.
* * *
Grimm and I carried on as if my emotional breakdown had never happened. Or, rather, I did, and tried to steer conversations away from it whenever I suspected Grimm might bring it up. Anytime his eyes turned pitying and he opened his mouth, I immediately interrupted him with some snide remark or jibe: “the good thing about you, Grimm, is that your hair matches your personality: old and drab” or “you must have been the most wretched baby. I wonder if you came out scowling?” He would just sigh with what little patience he had left and drop it, letting the awkward, crushing silence fall over us again. I was almost disappointed that it was getting harder to get a rise out of him.
Was I trying to push him away? Probably. Did it make me feel better? Only sometimes.
Mostly I just wanted Grimm to hold my face in his hands again, tell me everything was going to be okay, that he would protect me from my nightmares and any other awful that would ever happen to me. I wanted him to wrap his arms around me and hold me until I fell asleep and finally felt safe again.
But I wanted him to do it because he wanted to, because he felt the same annoying twinge in his heart whenever he saw me, because he looked for me in a crowd the way I did for him, because he knew the meaning behind every twitch of the muscles in my face – not just because he thought I was fragile and was about to shatter at any moment.
One Saturday night we had planned to meet in the casting hall to practice some new spells I had written.
I wondered, with mild disgust, who I was becoming, that I would rather spend a weekend practicing spells with Grimm rather than spend the night and wee hours of the morning closing down bars in Luxe.
Even when I showed up to things early, Grimm was earlier. He was already in the otherwise empty hall when I arrived. But instead of his usual stiff, straight-backed figure, I found him sitting on the floor against the wall, elbows resting on his knees, head held in his hands.
“Has your neck finally snapped from the unbearable weight of that giant head of yours?” I called to him cheerfully, tossing my bag down at his side.
He didn’t move, or look up, or even sigh in exasperation.
“Grimm? What’s the matter with you, you’re not telling me to stop being an ass.” I crouched down in front of where he sat, my hand going to his knee without thinking. I snatched it back.
With much effort, he raised his head. He looked exhausted, eyes glassy and slightly bloodshot, his face strained.
“M’fine,” he said, and his lack of enunciation immediately set off an alarm bell in my head.
“You are not fine. Tell me what’s wrong, right now.”
“Nothing. Just a...headache.”
“Headache! You look like you’re about to pass out, or throw up. Or both. Please do warn me if you’re about to throw up.”
He shook his head, then seemed to regret it. “It’s a migraine. I’m fine.”
He moved to stand, the effort on his face telling, and I gently grabbed his shoulders, pushing him back down.
“You are absolutely not fine. Let me just –”
I cleared my throat and reached for his hands. As I begin to hum to get the tune right, Grimm jerked his hands away from me.
“Don’t –” he began.
I shushed him and gave him a stern look before starting again, taking his hands in mine again. They were cold, and I absently tightened my grip on them.
I sang – it was a short spell, but I channeled everything I had into it, thinking, please let him be well. I don’t ever want to see him in pain. Please take this away from him.
When I opened my eyes, Grimm was staring at me, eyes wide.
“What? Is my nose bleeding again?” I reached up, dabbing under my nose to look for blood, but it was dry. “Are my eyes bleeding? That would be a new one.”
Grimm blinked, as if not understanding my question, but then he shook his head slowly, still staring at me.
“Then what?”
“Nothing, just – thank you.”
Relief flooded me, partially at the fact that I wasn’t bleeding from the strain of a simple pain relief spell, but also because I had helped Grimm, and I felt a little bit less like a dead weight around his neck than I had before.
“It helped?”
He nodded but said nothing, and let his head drop against the wall behind him, closing his eyes, his face a little less taut than before.
I sat down and scooted myself next to him, pressing my back against the wall and my shoulder against his. I reached into my coat and pulled out a few blank pieces of spell paper, then had to rummage around my bag to find a quill and inkwell. I paused for a few moments, trying to stop the tremor that had begun in my hand, taking a few deep breaths to stabilize myself so Grimm wouldn’t see just how draining a spell like this could be on me. Then I began to scribble down the words, one of the few spells I did have memorized.
I transcribed a few copies of the spell before I said, quietly and without looking up, “I didn’t know you got migraines.”
Eyes still closed, he hummed in assent.
“Well, keep these in your coat, for the next time this happens. It’s a pain relieving spell, fairly simple. I’ve written it hundreds of times for Agnes over the years. Recently I’ve amended it to include a bit of a cooling effect.”
I kept writing until I had about a dozen spells stacked up beside me, then tidied them up to hand them to him. As I did, I found he was looking back at me, eyes a little clearer, the deep brown shining like two pieces of jasper, precious and beautiful.
“Thank you, Leovander,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on mine, unwavering and with an intensity I told myself was from his current state of discomfort.
My heart thumped. “You’re welcome, Sebastian.”
* * *
It had become an almost nightly ritual now, us studying and practicing together. If, like this particular evening, we were studying in Grimm’s room, I would show up at his door, obnoxiously knock out the rhythm of whatever spellsong I was currently working on, and he would answer the door strangely quickly, though with a displeased look on his face, and I had to wonder for the thousandth time whether or not Grimm liked me and even wanted me there.
Some days we wouldn’t even study the same things; he would already be nose-deep in a book on alternate casting methods, which was beyond my skills, so I would groan and whine about having to write essays on the benefits of writing spells in one meter versus another, or simply pluck away at my violin, wondering why I was there at all.
This evening, Grimm was already pages deep into an essay of his own, scribbling furiously with fervid concentration. I dropped my bag and plopped myself onto the sofa, suppressing a disappointed sigh that he wasn’t paying attention to me.
“Slow down, Grimm, else the paper will start smoking.”
He ignored me, flipped through a few pages of the textbook in front of him, and continued writing. I rolled my eyes and was ready to give up on having any sort of conversation with him for at least an hour and began to unpack my violin.
There was a brittle snap, and Grimm made an irritated noise. “I broke another quill. This is the second tonight.”
“Well if you wouldn’t strangle them, they might last longer.”
He was busy sopping up the spilled ink that had splattered across the page, and absently said, “there’s a new pack in my coat. Would you mind?”
This was a delightful turn of events for me. Being given permission by Sebastian Grimm himself to rifle through the pockets of his sorcerers coat? What saucy secrets or illicit items would I find therein? The offer was too tantalizing to pass up.
The coat was hanging pristinely from a hanger by the door, and I pretended I hadn’t heard him specify which pocket, so I could rummage through each one in a showy attempt to be helpful.
I rooted through the interior pockets. Blank spell paper, pre-written spells (most of which were mine, I was flattered to discover), a miniature quill, a tiny pot of ink, a pocket-sized reference book of plant and flowers, a sewing kit, and a myriad of many other, boring things.
Grimm was saying something about what a wonder it was that after years of training at the top academy, I still couldn’t follow simple instructions, when my hand closed over something metallic and sharp, almost spiked.
I withdrew the object, and stared.
I felt like I had been sucked into the center of a tornado, the wind rushing through my ears, my stomach turning upside down, the breath knocked out of me. My vision narrowed, until all I saw was the bronze, tapered metal object sitting so innocently in the center of my palm.
Grimm was at my side. I could hear his voice, his tone clearly annoyed, but the words were lost to me.
I came back to myself with a nauseating whoosh.
I looked at Grimm. I blinked.
“What’s this?” I whispered, my voice, for possibly the first time in my life, strained and quiet.
Grimm huffed, a prepared declaration of my incompetence at the ready, until he looked down.
His face slackened and the little color in his already-pale face drained instantaneously.
I stared at Grimm, and he stared at the griffin feather laid in my palm.
Many long moments passed, neither of us saying anything. My heart was pounding thunderously, every muscle within me quivering. Grimm was perfectly still, his eyes wide, pupils dilated, and it looked as though he had stopped breathing.
“Grimm,” I said, very sternly, fighting the urge to scream. He did not move.
“Sebastian.”
His eyes flicked to mine, surprise at the sound of his first name.
“What is this?”
He said nothing for a very long time. My breathing was shallow and too quick, and I started to feel dizzy.
“Why do you still have this?” The calmness in my voice did not match the frenzy in my mind, and I felt my thoughts unspooling rapidly.
“Leo–” Grimm started, but I screwed my eyes shut tightly.
If you want to unravel the curse without a counterspell, you would need to upset the balance.
“Once you woke up, I knew the curse was broken –”
I remembered that moment, when Grimm told me that the feather had been destroyed once the curse was transferred to it, and he had turned away suddenly, couldn’t look me in the eye. I had thought it strange for only a moment, but then assumed it was due to his shame over the recklessness of extracting the spell while I was unconscious.
My eyes snapped open, fury and fear and something else pulsating in my chest.
“How could you have known?”
“I knew –”
I was nearly shouting at him. “But how could you have known for sure?”
A look crossed his face like he might vomit.
“I tested it...while you were unconscious. I kept telling you to wake up. To get up. To get better.” His eyes were regretful, though I couldn’t tell if it was because he had been commanding me or if it was because he truly wanted me to be well. “The curse had been so strong, I was certain if it still had a hold on you, you would respond, even if unconscious.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. None of this was possible.
While Grimm no longer hated me, he merely tolerated me. He only agreed to work with me to see out the potential of the spellsongs, improve his casting skills, increase his chances of being recruited into the Coterie despite having missed the trials.
Grimm moved to take the feather from my hand, but I snapped my fingers closed around it. The metal, like barbs, dug into the flesh and stung, but I held tight to it, as if it would ground me. As if it would give me the answers that Grimm was currently withholding.
If the person who cast the spell were to return the feelings it provoked, the whole thing would likely dissolve on its own.
“When?” I asked, so quietly I almost couldn’t even hear myself ask it.
Grimm pressed his lips into a thin line and looked anywhere but me.
“When?” I demanded again, taking a step closer to him. He was certainly accustomed to his space being invaded by me, but he still drew back slightly, gaze fixated on some spot behind my left shoulder.
“I don’t know...exactly. It had to be before –” he paused, as if fighting the words, taking a deep, shaking breath. “Do you remember in the valley, of that monster. I told you to draw your sword. I didn’t mean to say it like that – as an order – but – you didn’t do it. You snapped back at me, how you normally would, just talking and talking….You didn’t do what I said.” His eyes searched my face, flicking about nervously. “Do you understand?”
For a moment, I didn’t. But then – I remembered. Grimm had shouted that at me, and then at my response, he had frozen and only stared, in a very uncharacteristic way. I had thought him scared, defeated – and perhaps he had been, but not because of the monster, but rather because of the realization that had struck him suddenly in that moment.
“Oh,” I said rather meekly.
I opened my mouth to ask something else, but nothing came out. I closed it again. I was speechless, I think for the first time in my life. I imagine Grimm would have been immensely proud of the fact that he’d had that effect on me, if he hadn’t in that moment look like he was going to pass out.
“Maybe it – happened when you mended my sash. Or when you wrote that mending spell for Jayne’s coat. I’m not sure. As infuriating as you are,” his eyes began roving again, as if he couldn’t look at me directly as he said this, “you care so deeply for people. Even outlaws, who we thought might kill us (and then did try to). You wrote hundreds of spells for them. You didn’t even know them, and you agreed to help them. You’re reckless, and senseless, and arrogant –” I felt I should be affronted at the sudden insults, but his voice was still soft, as if he didn’t mean them to be. “– and a brat sometimes, but you’re selfless. Determined. Passionate. And I...admire that.”
None of this was making any sense. Grimm barely even liked me, nevermind admired me or felt anything more than a mild tolerance for me.
He heaved a deep sigh, as if such a confession physically pained him, his whole body sagging with it. “The spell we cast in the valley. Together. It – changed something.”
My heart thumped, so hard it almost hurt. “You felt it too?” I didn’t mean for it to come out as a whisper, but my voice felt strangled.
He met my eyes, and held them for a long time. In them I saw something deep, something hidden that was trying to emerge, fighting its way to the surface. “Of course.” I thought I imagined him shift infinitesimally closer.
Grimm opened his mouth, closed it, seemed to reconsider. Then, “Sybilla’s counterspell...almost killed you. I was so angry to see you in so much pain, to see it tearing you apart from the inside.”
My eyebrows shot up. I recalled, though the memory was hazy with pain. “That was you angry?” I had merely thought him waspish at the inconvenience of the whole thing.
His eyes flicked up to the ceiling then back to me. His version of an eyeroll. “I felt...protective of you. I never want to see you bleed again. For me, or for anyone. That...was the start, I suppose.”
I scrunched up my nose. “Watching me writhe in pain and bleed from my nose, that’s what does it for you? What a romantic,” I snapped dryly.
It seemed that a switch flipped then, and I came back to myself, my anger rising. I poked him hard in the chest.
“You bastard. I’ve been suffering like this for weeks, and you tell me that you’ve been harboring this since the forest, you –”
I was cut off from the start of what would have been a very passionate tirade when Grimm grabbed the front of my shirt, that dark glint in his eyes again, tugged me across the final few inches between us, and kissed me.
The reversal of roles from our first kiss was not lost on me.
I was so startled I stumbled into him, but Grimm’s hand in my shirt moved to my waist and wrapped around me, holding me firmly against him. For a moment, I was stiff and paralyzed with shock, but then Grimm’s other hand came to cradle my face, and I thought, finally, and leaned fully into him, feeling the calluses of his hand scrape along my jaw, the contrasting impossible softness of his lips against mine, the smell of vetiver filling my nostrils as my world became Grimm.
He was a scant few inches taller than me, but I angled my face up towards him to encourage him, to let him deepen the kiss. I pressed my body closer to his. Dizzy and lightheaded, I gripped his arm for something stable to cling to.
This was our first kiss, not the one in the shadow of the tower, when I had kissed him to relieve the burn of the curse, when I had so little control over my own wants and desires. Because now, this time, I knew it was me who wanted this kiss, not the curse, and if the tiny, delicious gasps coming from Grimm were any indication, I felt it safe to assume that he very much wanted it too.
That other kiss had been wooden and emotionless, transactional, to fulfill the needs and wants of the curse.
This kiss was something alive, real and warm, his lips moving slowly and softly against my own, leading me in a way I didn’t know I craved, tipping my head back ever so slightly, the soft pressure of his thumb at the base of my jaw sending thrilling shockwaves through me. His fingers on my hip dug into the skin there, holding me firmly, possessively, protectively. And wasn’t that something – because I knew Grimm could protect me, and would. He had – he had taken an arrow for me, without a second thought thrown his life down; thrown a bright, promising, successful future aside to save mine instead, when I felt I didn’t truly deserve such a sacrifice.
A breath I didn’t realize I had been holding for weeks released, and I sighed into Grimm, finally exhaled the grief and anxiety I had felt since we returned to the Fount but never had a name for. It feels like a sappy romance novel, that my world lightened and my worries were lifted as soon as the dashing hero swept me up in his arms, but I won’t deny that that’s exactly how it felt. And it was significantly better than the past few weeks of pining and moping I had endured.
Grimm pulled away, though I made noises of protestation. With light, gasping breaths, he pressed his forehead into mine, eyes still closed, and I couldn’t help but worry that once he opened his eyes, some other spell would be broken and he would pull away, realize that this was somehow related to the curse, that whatever feelings he had weren’t real.
When he did open his eyes, that dark look was back, and for a moment, all I felt was abject fear. Fear of his rejection, his scorn.
But as he looked deeper into my eyes, that look lingered, and as I felt his hands clinging to me, slowly shifting to hold me closer, push through my hair, stroke the back of my neck, I realized so suddenly that my knees almost went weak, that that dark look was not one of hatred or disgust, but desire. Longing.
Oh.
Even now, I hate to admit that Grimm was absolutely swoonworthy.
Speechless again, the only thing I was able to do for a long time was blink up at him, panting a bit from how fast my heart was beating in my chest and how my head was spinning. We stared at each other, breathing each other’s air, holding each other very tightly, teetering on the precipice of old and new, familiar and strange. Though the great canyon of the unknown before us was terrifying, I had never wanted to fall so quickly in my life.
When I was quite certain I wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating, I frowned deeply at him, feeling some kind of confusing mix of resentment and desire.
“You imp. You absolute scoundrel. I can’t believe you would keep this from me,” I protested weakly.
One corner of his mouth twitched upward in the suggestion of a smile. My mouth seemed to travel in the opposite direction, deepening into a scowl.
“When were you going to tell me?” I finally uncurled my fingers from around the feather. It had left deep red marks in my fingers where the cold edges had pressed in. We both looked down at it.
“I wasn’t. The curse was broken. I thought we would move on.”
“You’re an idiot,” I snapped, and, feather forgotten, I let it tumble to the ground as I grabbed his face with both hands, pulling it back to mine, and I proceeded to snog him senseless. I dug my fingers into his hair, marveling at the softness and wishing I had known all this time how it felt. Although his arm was still firm around my waist, I wanted to be even closer; I snaked my arms around his neck, pulled him in so tight until our bodies were completely flush against one another, and then even nearer.
I had spent torturous weeks, months even, if the beginning days of the curse counted, wanting Grimm so badly, and now – now that I had him, and it was almost inconceivable.
I pulled back only a fraction, to whisper against him, “you bastard,” but the venom wasn’t there, and he knew that – he brushed his thumb over my cheek, as if taunting me to strike.
Then he looked pensive and his eyes dropped. He chewed his lip in thought, and before I could say, here, let me do that for you, he spoke, his voice low, uncertain.
“Do you...?” He didn’t finish the question, couldn’t seem to find the words, but I knew what he was asking.
I shrugged, shook my head minutely. “It never went away. I thought it might fade with time, that the curse simply had some lasting aftereffects, but….”
I hated to say it out loud, but felt compelled to, for some reason. “I’ve been following you around. Like when I was still under the curse.”
I almost imagined I saw the corner of Grimm’s mouth twitch upwards again, but it had to be a trick of the dim lighting. “I noticed.”
I frowned in response.
“You noticed that, but you weren’t sure how I felt?” I tightened my arms around his neck, as if I were hanging on for dear life. In a way, I think I was. “You weren’t going to tell me? Ever? You were going to let me suffer for the rest of my life, and waste away, pining for you –”
“Leo, be serious.”
“I’m never serious, darling.”
He startled at the pet name, his ears turning red right away, but then readjusted his grip on me, circling both arms around my waist, and swooped down to kiss me very hard and for very long.
Grimm never explicitly asked me to stay that night, but later, as he changed, he asked if I wanted to borrow pajamas again.
I very much did not want to do that, nor did I want to see any part of his magnificent body covered up, so I snatched the shirt that he was about to change into out of his hand, said “no” very sternly, and threw it across the room.
He looked surprised, but not unhappy about it, and a tiny smile, a bit more than a twitch this time, passed briefly across his lips. He pulled back the covers and got into bed, scooting over to the far side to make room, then looked up expectantly, bare-chested and open-faced and waiting for me.
I had never seen anything more inviting in my entire life, so I quickly stripped (only down to my briefs, mind you – I actually was trying to prove I could be a gentleman) and crawled into bed after him, slotting myself next to him where he lay on his back.
In all honesty, I think this was the first time I had ever gotten into bed with someone without the intention of doing anything other than sleep, and I felt strangely anxious about it – what if I snored? What if he snored? What if I had a nightmare and punched him by accident?
As I lay curled up beside him, the scar beneath Grimm’s collarbone glared back at me, no longer red and raw, but still an angry reminder of that day.
I dragged my fingertips over it, the memory of it and that night still a fresh ache in my chest. Though my mind then was numb with panic, I had still recognized how much I cared for Grimm, how devastating his loss would be. How, if I had lost him, I would have shattered into pieces.
Grimm seemed to sense the roiling thoughts in my head, and interrupted them by lightly taking hold of my hand, drawing it away from the scar, and instead to his lips, which he pressed against my knuckles. His eyes were searching, roving, looking for some answer in my face.
“Alright?”
I felt myself getting weepy and was mortified for it, and dropped my head against him to avoid his gaze.
“This doesn’t mean I’m going to start being nice to you,” I said into his chest. “Or write easier spells for you.”
The tiniest ghost of a smile danced on his lips. For him, a blinding beacon of a gesture. “I would never expect you to.”
I nearly choked on the emotion that had become stuck in my throat. I couldn’t say anything more, so I crawled up until my face was level with his, took his face in my hands, and kissed him until we were both breathless.