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Once stability returned to the land, Ike’s gaze began to stray more and more often towards the horizon.
There had been a moment in the tower, where he’d reached out and brushed against Yune’s flames. He’d felt something. A spark, a flicker in the darkness. Warmth.
Then it had been gone, just as fast as it had come.
It had been like that for as long as he could remember. Since he’d been a small boy in Crimea, there had always been something that felt like it was missing. He’d feel, sometimes, like it was within his grasp—like if he just reached out and touched something, everything would make sense. A bright red leaf, the feathers of a blue bird, Soren’s long dark hair. But then he would blink and the moment would be gone.
(Sometimes, he thought he dreamed about it. There would be stone steps washed with blood, and a stained blue dress, a muffled gasp. A woman, falling. And a boy, somewhere deep in the forest, where Ike had promised something precious, something that he couldn’t keep. He’d wake up, his heart hammering in his throat, sweat pouring down his face.
And then it would be gone. Like it had never happened. By morning, the only thing he would remember of the dreams were snatches, and the only thing that he would carry with him an uneasy feeling.)
He felt restless. He felt hollow.
He felt like something was missing.
He thought that, maybe, if he traveled far enough, he’d find what it was.
The decision to leave once peace had returned came easily.
Telling his family, though, that was hard.
He thought some of them knew it was coming before he ever said anything. Titania’s smile had held a melancholy edge for weeks, and Mia had started talking about taking her own journey. It gave him some peace knowing that Mist had Boyd, and that he’d lay down his life in a second for her. He’d told Ike as much one night when they were coming back from a job.
Soren knew. He was sure of that. He’d seen Ike’s gaze stray to the line of the sky too many times for someone as smart as Soren not to figure it out. He said little the night Ike announced his plans.
His sister took it better than he expected. Mist was almost cheerful about it, chatting with him about all the things he’d see and do, and how he’d have to come back when he was ready, and that he’d better bring gifts.
The only problem was that she seemed to assume he wouldn’t be going alone. Her face fell when he told her.
“I just… assumed you’d take Soren with you,” Mist said. She looked worried.
“Why?” Ike said. “Did Soren say something?”
They’d barely spoken since Ike had announced he was leaving. It felt like Soren was avoiding him.
In some ways, that made things easier. Ike would miss Mist, of course, and Titania. He’d miss his family, the mercenaries. Even Shinon. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, he thought that he’d miss Soren the most.
The thought that it might be years before he saw him again—if he saw him again at all—was a sharp, deep ache in the middle of his chest, cavernous. It made him feel like he couldn’t breathe.
That Soren was avoiding him made things simpler, in a way. It was like Ike was already gone.
They only spoke about it the night before he left. Ike hadn’t planned on it. He just couldn’t sleep, and so he’d wandered out into the courtyard.
Part of him had hoped, after the war, that when he came back to Greil’s Retreat, he’d be able to feel his father’s presence in its walls. But there was nothing. Just cold stone.
He was surprised to find Soren standing outside. His head was tipped back, his eyes fixed on the stars above, and he was shivering, dressed only in his thin underclothes. Ike stripped off his own shirt before he knew what he was doing, stepping behind Soren and draping it over his thin shoulders.
“All right?” he asked.
Soren turned, one hand coming up to clutch at the neck of Ike’s shirt.
“Oh,” he whispered. “Ike.”
It was hard to tell in the dark, but Ike thought that his eyes looked red-rimmed, like he’d been crying.
“What’s wrong?” Ike asked.
He raised a hand to touch Soren’s cheek. His skin was cold, but dry. Ike told himself he was just imagining the old tear tracks.
“Nothing,” Soren said, inhaling sharply. He took a step back, away from Ike. “I only came out for some fresh air.” He hesitated, and then he reached out, brushing his fingers against Ike’s wrist. “You should go back inside. You’re setting out early tomorrow.”
Do you want to come with me?
He thought it, but he didn’t—couldn’t—say it. The words stuck in his throat, like voicing them might choke him.
He wanted to ask. He couldn’t.
Struck by the urge, Ike lifted a hand as if to cup Soren’s cheek.
There was a flash of something fleeting – a child’s scared red eyes, their trembling thin fingers – but it was gone before Ike could so much as blink. A strange sort of numbness settled over him in its place.
He let his hand fall back to his side.
“You’ll be alright?” he said.
“Yes, Ike,” Soren whispered, his voice quiet and dull. “I’ll be perfectly fine.”
Ike had expected to feel different once he’d left Crimea. To feel, if not better, then at least something.
He’d always liked traveling. The wars had been terrible, but getting to see new places, experience new things—he’d enjoyed that. He wanted to see those places and experience those things in peacetime.
He met up with Ranulf in Gallia, where he spent a few days in the castle. He could tell that he worried Caineghis.
“Your father left here without ever divulging his secrets to me,” he said on the night before Ike left. “In this and only this, I do not wish for you to follow in his footsteps.”
Ike couldn’t help but smile, shaking his head. The night was humid and unseasonably warm, rich with the scent of night blooming jasmine, and the moon was bright overhead. It was as close to a perfect night as he’d ever experienced, and still he felt like something was wrong.
“If I knew what was the matter,” he said, “I’d tell you. That’s a promise.”
“Well, when you do know,” Caineghis said, “you must promise that you will do your best to seek out what is that you truly want, Ike, son of Greil.”
Traveling with Ranulf was a little lighter, but no less lonely.
Ranulf seemed to grow tired of it after a month, sighing a little one morning as he stretched in the dawn light.
“You’re moping,” he said. “No, that’s not even it. You’re pining.”
There was a flash in Ike’s memory, of long dark hair and red eyes. Soren resting his cheek on his hand, illuminated by a single candle as he worked late into the night. Ink stains on his fingers. Ike had seen him bathing more than once, and always been struck by the severity of his beauty, the stark lines of him, the vine dark tendrils of his hair as they clung to his skin.
He should have asked Soren to come with him. He still couldn’t say what had stopped him. The thought flitted through his mind and then away again, like quicksilver.
“Do you want to tell your ol’ buddy all about it?” Ranulf asked, propping his chin up on his palm.
His voice was light and teasing, but his eyes were sharp, and his tail swished from side to side. Whatever was bothering Ike had started to get under his skin, too. Ike could see it on him.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” he admitted. “So I can’t tell you about it.”
“Or maybe it’s just that you don’t want to tell me about it?” Ranulf pressed. “Come on now. There must be something out there that can make even you smile.”
Ike shook his head.
“How are you supposed to find something you don’t even know you’re looking for?” he asked.
Ranulf gave him a sympathetic look.
“That, my friend,” he said, clapping a hand on Ike’s shoulder, “is a question for the sages. Not for your resident mother cat.”
They parted ways at the border. Ranulf seemed reluctant to leave him, but Ike knew he didn’t make for very good company, and Ranulf had duties to the new king. He left Ranulf with well wishes for Skrimir and continued on his way, alone.
He didn’t pick up another traveling companion. He didn’t seek out company. None of it seemed worth anything to him.
It was in a small border village where he met a woman. The woman was old, older than Ike cared to speculate. Her skin was paper thin, her hair stark white. But it was the mark on the back of her hand that gave Ike pause and made him consider the weight of her years.
(There was something he wasn’t seeing, he knew. An itch at the back of his mind. His thoughts would drift to another mark, another lonely stretch of years, and then skitter away again, avoidant in a way he’d never been.
There was something important just outside of his grip. If he tried too hard to seize it, his head would ache for the rest of the day, a splitting pain behind his eyes.
The further he traveled from home, the worse it seemed to get.)
The woman was old, and half blind, and there was no one to help her fix her leaking roof. Ike knew well it was because of the mark on her hand. Everyone else in the village avoided her, and mothers pulled their children inside when they saw her in the streets.
Still, when a child grew sick, those same mothers brought them to the old woman under the cover of dark. When people desperately needed healing, it stopped mattering where the help came from.
Ike didn’t think he would ever be used to it. Yune, he thought, would laugh at him for that.
Tides couldn’t be turned in a day. He stepped in, helped the old woman with the roof, made sure her fire was stoked and that the salty sea breeze couldn’t seep in through the gaps in her little house. She seemed suspicious, at first.
Ike could hardly blame her.
(“Curse you! Why can't you leave me be?! I don't have any friends, Ike! I don't have anyone else! If I tell you and you turn on me... I... I... I don't think I can survive it.”)
It was on at the end of the week when she spoke to him. He was taking a break to drink water. She had been sitting in the doorway, observing him.
“That’s old magic laid on you, boy. Who did it?”
Ike paused, wiping his mouth off on the back of his hand.
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She squinted at him.
“You don’t, do you? Poor young thing. Whoever it was worked it on you when you were small. Come closer, dear. You’ve been very good to this old woman. Not many are. You know why, don’t you? You recognize this mark.”
“I know why,” Ike admitted, holding still as her wizened hand touched his cheek. “But it doesn’t matter to me. It never has. The beorc, laguz, those who descend from both—you’re all just people.”
She smiled. It was a sad expression.
“It’s old magic, but it’s fading now,” she said. “It can’t hold its grip with the caster gone. And you’ve been fighting it, too, as hard as you knew how. Hold very still for me, dear boy. Hold very still and think of the person you love the most in the world.”
Ike’s brow furrowed. Before he could open his mouth to ask a question, the woman pressed her hand palm-flat to his forehead, the space right between his brows. The old language spilled from her lips, a fast-paced chant of words that felt familiar and alien all at once. It was both a song Ike had never heard before, and a song he had heard a thousand times.
Something within him shattered like glass.
The memories cascaded over him, razor sharp, flashes of things he’d only ever seen in dreams or conjured up in his imagination. Blood washed over streets, and bodies in ebony armor lying everywhere. His father, barely recognizable, his features twisted by bloodlust as he clutched the medallion in one hand and a sword in the other. His mother, running to save her husband.
He’d seen it. He’d seen all of it.
There were voices woven through all of it, and he recognized them.
What did you do to him?
Merely helped him to forget. I could not leave this memory to haunt him. It is too heavy a burden for one so young.
When he came to, he was on his knees, gasping for breath, and everything was suddenly clear. He gasped for breath, one hand locked around his throat, as the old woman hushed him, her gnarled hands wiping the tears from his eyes.
“I remember,” he said. “I remember all of it.”
Amidst all of the horror, the bloodshed and the broken bodies, his mother falling to the ground, there was something else. A sliver of something not horrific, but beautiful. A pair of blood red eyes in a scared child’s face.
One name left his lips.
“Soren.”
The morning light dawned dull and grey, just as it had the day before, and the day before, and the day before. Soren had lost count.
All of Soren’s days were grey now.
He dragged himself listless from his narrow cot, forcing himself to go through the motions of preparing himself for the day ahead. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet, but he paid it little mind. Winter was coming, and it would soon grow colder. The hut’s crumbling walls were a poor match for the wind.
It had been a year since he last felt any true warmth. A year was long enough to steel himself against the fact that he would never feel any ever again.
He carried himself through the motions, brushing his hair – it fell to his hips now, a grating chore, but every time he reached for the scissors, he would remember Ike’s fingers twining through it, Ike’s rough voice saying it looked nice long – and tying it back, slipping on his plain, austere robes.
The cabin was small, but suitable for his needs. It was far enough away from the nearest village that he wouldn’t be bothered, but close enough that he could make the day’s travel for supplies without too much effort. There were a few others who lived nearby, but no one bothered him.
He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. This far away from Gallia, it was unlikely any beorc in a small village would recognize his brand. And if they did, and if sentiments against the Branded followed him here, then there was a tome in his pack and another under the bed.
There was the dagger Ike had given him.
“I’d feel better if you had a blade on you,” he’d said, just before they’d split the combined armies into three factions.
Ike had unstrapped his own dagger from where he kept it sheathed at his thigh, holding it out to Soren. It had been warm from the heat of his body.
Soren kept it on him when he traveled, and beneath his pillow at home.
He had nearly offered it back to Ike before he left, but then he’d thought Ike might take it. And then Soren would have nothing of him. Only the memories.
Mist had asked him, once, before Ike had left, why he didn’t press him. He could insist on going with him, she said. Ike wouldn’t mind. He would be glad for the company, even if he didn’t know he needed it.
But Ike hadn’t asked him. Soren couldn’t force his presence on him. If what Ike needed was freedom, then Soren would give that to him.
He could give Ike anything, after all. Even that.
But it had been impossible to stay at Greil’s Retreat after Ike had left. He stayed just long enough to make sure that everything was in order, and then he left, too. He tried hard not to think about the look on Mist’s face, the sadness he’d seen there. She’d hugged him before he left, and he’d stood there and let her, as she whispered in his ear that she hoped he’d be happy and that he could always come home.
He couldn’t, though, because Greil’s Retreat was merely stone walls to him. His home had only ever been Ike.
The little cottage he’d settled in served him well. It was small, but then he didn’t need much space, and dreary. It suited him, he thought. He felt small and dreary, too.
He glanced out of the window and froze.
There, standing by the rickety fence, was a tall, broad-shouldered figure, one that Soren would know anywhere. For a moment, he wondered if the isolation, the crushing weight of Ike’s absence, was making him see things.
After all, he’d never expected to see Ike again.
The door seemed to fly open as he ran out of the hut, down the stone path towards Ike. Ike was leaning heavily on the fence, his broad shoulders drooping. He was unshaven and obviously exhausted, but he still smiled when he saw Soren, the barest quirk of his lips.
“Soren,” he said, and his voice shook Soren to his core. “I finally found you.”
Ike looked more tired than Soren had ever seen him, and Soren had seen him through two wars, but he was smiling. Worn, exhausted—but real and true. The kind of smile he’d only ever given Soren.
He nearly fell, rushing towards the rickety gate, forcing it open for Ike.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice harsher than he’d intended.
Ike didn’t seem bothered by it.
“Looking for you,” he said. “You’re pretty hard to find. I had to call in a favor or two with Volke.”
Soren didn’t know what to do with that. His hands came up, hovering uselessly before Ike’s chest.
He was afraid to touch him. If he touched him, and Ike somehow disappeared, revealed himself to be a figment of Soren’s desperate imagination, or some kind of illusion out of the fog, he thought he wouldn’t survive it.
Then Ike took his hand and pressed it against his own chest, real and solid and warm through his traveling clothes.
“Soren,” he murmured. “I’m here.”
Soren’s breath caught in his throat.
Ike was exhausted. He had to help him down the stone path, Ike’s arm over his shoulders, into his cold, dreary little cabin, which didn’t seem nearly as cold or dreary anymore. Color, it seemed, had flooded the world again. A thousand butterflies fluttered in his chest when Ike laughed, soft and tired, under his breath.
Soren got him settled in the one rickety chair in his cabin, rushing to get water and rag. Ike was tired, he told himself. Ike was tired, and dirty from travel. Soren needed to do something about that.
He felt like he couldn’t breathe.
Ike was here.
He didn’t so much kneel before him as his legs gave out, and he sank to the floor. The water sloshed over the rim of the bowl as his hands shook, but that hardly mattered. The dampness was grounding as it soaked through his clothes. It gave him something to focus on that wasn’t Ike.
He wrung out the rag between his hands and pressed it to Ike’s knuckles, wiping away dirt and grime.
“When did you last stop?” he asked, breathless. “You’re filthy.”
“A few nights ago, maybe,” Ike said. “It didn’t seem important. Volke wasn’t sure how long you’d stay in the same place.”
“Ridiculous,” Soren said to himself, focusing on a spot on Ike’s palm. His hands didn’t seem to want to work right.
“Soren,” Ike said, his voice tired but firm. “Soren, stop. I need to tell you something.”
Soren couldn’t stop, though. He felt that if he stopped moving, he’d shake apart. He moved to wring out the washcloth again only for Ike to catch him by the wrist and pull him to a stop.
“Soren,” he said, his voice unbearably soft. “I remember everything now.”
“You… remember?” Soren said. “Remember what, Ike?”
The corner of Ike’s mouth twitched.
“That day in Gallia, Mist had gone shopping with our mother,” he said, and Soren’s breath caught all over again. “I was wandering around the village all alone. I walked to the edge of the forest, looking for a stick I could pretend was a sword. There was a raven-haired boy lying on the ground.”
The ground felt like it had gone out from underneath Soren. He was glad he was already sitting, or surely his knees would have given out.
He remembered every single second of that day. The feeling of the ground beneath him, and the hot sun above. The way he’d cringed in the shade, hoping for any relief, and the gnawing hunger in his stomach.
The shadow that had fallen across him. The face of the boy standing over him. The same face looking down at him now, older now but no less beloved.
“I remember the huge oak tree by the clearing...” Soren whispered. “I'd been sleeping in the hollow by the roots.”
Ike sighed, fond, as he slid from the chair, settling on the floor across from Soren. He raised his hand, cupping Soren’s cheek, and stared into his eyes as he spoke.
“He looked like he was my age. He was as skinny as a twig, wearing rags and covered in dirt. He looked like he was near death. I took out my lunch and I handed it to him. He made a noise like a scared animal and shied away.” The corner of his mouth twitched again, his eyebrows raised, as if Soren was behaving like a scared animal now. Soren would have taken offense, if he could feel anything but the frantic beating of his own heart. “He was suspicious of me at first, but eventually he took my sandwich and started to eat. It was like he'd never eaten before in his life. I didn't have anything else to feed him, so I told him to come to my house. But he kept shaking his head no.”
Soren swallowed hard.
“I was afraid you were going to trick me. Afraid that you were going to chase me away after taunting me with food, just for a laugh...” he broke off, his throat tight. It was still so easy to recall that fear.
Ike fingers slid up into his hair, his touch shaky too as he ran his fingers through Soren’s hair like he was something treasured. Something delicate and beloved. Ike’s voice was a little faraway as he recalled the day, but his gaze was steady and true as he stared into Soren’s eyes.
“I told the boy that I'd bring him some food the next day at the same time and place.” He broke off with a smile, a real, bright, wide one, the kind Soren hadn’t seen him wear since that day. “He finally nodded when I said that. It made me happy. I felt like I was doing something right, helping this boy. Like I was the only one who'd do that.”
“You were,” Soren whispered. “You are. I was happy, too. Not just because I wasn't hungry anymore. Because someone finally would talk to me.”
“I’m sorry, Soren,” Ike said. “I left you. I know it’s no excuse, but I swear, I didn’t know. I didn’t remember.”
He told Soren, his voice shaky in places, about what he’d seen when he’d gone back to the village. His father’s carnage. His mother’s sacrifice. How he’d been frozen to the spot, unable to speak, unable to do anything but scream.
He’d only been a child. Soren clutched desperately at his wrist.
Ike told him of Sephiran, and the spell, and how he thought that it had locked part of him away. Anything related to that day was kept apart, shielding him from the truth. Including Soren, and what he meant to Ike.
“It didn’t matter to me,” Soren said, hating the way his voice broke. “I only wanted to see you again. I only wanted to see the only boy who held out a warm hand when I had nothing.”
Ike held out his other hand.
“Come here,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.
Soren shook his head wildly. He didn’t even know why he was protesting, but he knew that if he gave in, if he let Ike hold him, then he’d shatter completely, and there would be no putting him back together.
The corner of Ike’s mouth quirked up, his expression sad.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll come over to you, then.”
He reached out and pulled Soren against his chest. Soren struggled for a moment, surprised, but Ike held him fast. One big hand rubbed up and down his back, the other cradled the back of his head.
“I’ve got you, Soren,” he said.
He shifted, tucking a finger under Soren’s chin to draw his face up, and then pressed his lips against the mark on his brow.
“That wasn’t so hard, huh?” Ike said. His callused fingers were gentle where he wiped Soren’s tears from his cheeks. “You’re so stubborn sometimes, always making things hard on yourself.”
“Shut up,” Soren said, sniffing. “I’m not—I’m not a child, Ike, needing to be coddled…”
“Just let me take care of you,” Ike said. There was a note of frustration in his voice, but also a deep well of fondness. Everything in Soren ached. “So troublesome.”
His chest heaved with a sigh as he tightened his arm around Soren’s waist.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “Go ahead and cry if you need to.”
The sobbing gave way to pathetic, animal wailing. Soren was helpless to stop it. It was like a dam had broken inside of him, and now that he’d started crying he found that he couldn’t stop.
Soren froze. Whimpers bubbled up in his throat. A small noise escaped his lips, and he pressed them tightly together, shaking his head desperately. He tried to swallow the next sob down, but he couldn’t. The tears spilled down his cheeks, hot and heavy, as an animal howling tour itself from his throat, and then he was practically clawing at Ike’s chest, trying to press himself as close to him as he could, wailing like a child.
He didn’t know how long he cried for, or how long Ike held him. They sank to the floor together, Soren cradled to Ike’s chest and Ike speaking to him, low and soothing, his voice rough with emotion. It’s okay, Soren. I’m here. I’m here now and I won’t let you go.
“I’ll take care of you,” Ike said when Soren’s wailing had quieted down to nothing more but broken whimpers.
The tears coursed hot and heavy down Soren’s cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Ike said. “Soren, believe me. I’m sorry.”
Soren shook his head, pressing his hands to Ike’s chest.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said, his voice wet and miserable.
“I left you alone,” Ike said. “I’m sorry, Soren.”
The line between his brows had gotten so much deeper. Soren reached up to touch it, trailing his fingers over the furrow before smoothing over Ike’s eyebrow, fingertips skittering down his cheek. Ike caught his hand and turned his face into it, pressing a kiss to his palm.
Soren’s breath caught. Ike kept his eyes open, staring at him as he pressed his lips to the inside of Soren’s wrist, then down, mouth pressing hot against Soren’s arm through the thin fabric of shirt.
“Ike,” Soren whispered, his voice shaking.
His other hand was next, Ike catching it and bringing it up. He kissed Soren’s knuckles, the pads of his fingers, the heel of his hand. The inside of that wrist, too, as Soren shuddered.
No one had touched him in over a year. Certainly no one had ever—Ike had never—kissed the inside of his wrists, his fingertips. His knees felt weak.
Ike slid their fingers together, interlacing, capturing Soren’s hands and pulling him against his body. He leaned down and Soren had to stand on tiptoes, his back arched, to look up into his face.
“I’m not good with words,” Ike said. “But I want you to know how I feel about you. Let me show you?”
Soren licked his chapped lips. Ike’s gaze followed the motion, blue fire burning in his gaze.
“Yes,” Soren said. He squeezed Ike’s hands.
When Ike pulled him into a kiss, Soren melted against him.
--
When the next morning dawned, the sky was rosy at the edges. Soren didn’t think he’d ever seen it look quite so pretty, the light golden as it fell upon his tiny bed.
Ike hissed at the touch of the cold morning air. His arm snaked around Soren’s waist, tugging him back.
“S’freezing,” he murmured into Soren’s hair. Soren made a stifled little noise when Ike’s fingers gripped his hip, mirroring their position from the night before when Soren had climbed astride him.
Soren’s own hand slipped beneath the blankets, his thumb rubbing over Ike’s knuckles.
“It’ll be colder still if I don’t light the stove,” he said. “Let me up, thank you.”
Ike pressed a kiss to his shoulder. His beard scratched at Soren’s skin.
“All right,” he said, voice rough. His fingers tightened again around Soren’s hip before he let go. Soren shivered a little and it had nothing to do with the cold.
He dressed quickly, pulling his robes around him, but when he turned he saw that Ike hadn’t gone back to bed. He had his head propped up on one hand, the thin blanket pooling down around his hips, and Soren could see all of his broad, muscular chest. Soren felt his cheeks heat up, but not because of that.
Ike was watching him, heat in his eyes.
“Light the stove and then come back to bed,” he said. “If you’re cold, I’ll keep you warm.”
Soren felt dizzy.
“I am going to light the stove,” he repeated, with increasingly floundering fortitude. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. “And then I am going to prepare breakfast.”
Ike raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. He simply shrugged, and Soren averted his eyes before the temptation to slip back into bed became too great.
There was nowhere to hide in his tiny little cottage. Ike was a big man, and he seemed to fill the whole space. Everywhere Soren looked, there he was. Stretching in the misty dawn light, his broad chest on display.
He gripped Soren’s waist as he moved past him, pressing a kiss to the back of his head. Soren was dizzy with it.
They’d fallen into bed last night, too wrapped up in each other to even think about supper. Skipping meals was fine for Soren, but Ike was a big man with a big appetite. He’d be starving by now.
He examined the only stale loaf of bread with dismay. It was fine for him, but hardly suitable to present to Ike for breakfast. He didn’t even have any preserves or butter to mask the taste.
The market, he thought, pressing his fingers to his lips. He’d need to go to the market, and then the butcher. Ike had always preferred meat, something hearty and flavorfully spiced. He’d have to get spices then, too. He thought of the coins hidden away in the small pouch beneath the mattress, grimacing.
“I’ll go into town today,” he told Ike. “You’re still tired from your journey. You should rest.”
Ike shook his head.
“I’d like to see the town,” he said. “Besides, you’ll need help carrying things back.”
Soren had been carrying supplies back on his own for months now. He shook his head, distracted, thinking of what he should buy, what Ike would like best, how much things would cost and the quickest way to and back from the village.
“Soren,” Ike said.
Soren glanced up at him and the corner of Ike’s mouth curved upwards. He tipped Soren’s face up, his fingers warm against Soren’s skin, and pressed their lips together.
It was a sweet, chaste kiss. Nothing like the way he’d kissed Soren the night before. Soren still gasped into it, heat flooding his body.
His lips tingled when Ike pulled away.
“Lead the way,” he said.