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At the end of the day, Utowin never expected for Easthies to come to him.
That is, he did not think that the knock on his door would belong to those pale, callused hands. When the knock sounded throughout his home, ostensibly a single-occupant dormitory for the Knights who chose to live alone, he was dozing on his couch. He hadn’t quite made it to his bed that night, not after a day of paperwork. Paperwork, the very thing he’d always detested the most. His mind was far more exhausted than his body by the time he lowered himself into the bath, and allowed the scorching hot water to coax him into submission.
Once the water cooled, he had no choice but to lather his hair and body with soap made from Drizzlebee honey, leaving a sweet scent lingering on his scarred skin. He traced a particularly new scar, one that required Sinocia’s deft hands to knit back together with a needle and thread. The stitches had been removed a month ago, but the skin there was still raised. As the milky water drained, he wondered when the feeling of bitter coldness would dissipate from the wound. After all, in his line of work, it was never simple blades, but weapons made from the elements themselves.
He wrapped a towel around his waist after drying his coppery hair, and stumbled through the doorway. His bed was unkempt, as it always was from restless nights of a sleep not deep enough to keep away the nightmares of Silver Eve. Deciding that he was far too exhausted to clean his bedding, he opted to sit on the couch, the damp towel still wrapped around his waist.
An hour had passed by the time the knocking tore him from sleep.
That single hour was far more restful than the hours he had every night; blissfully without nightmares and the sight of blood plaguing his sleeping mind, he actually rested. It was just his luck that the rest he so desired was just out of reach.
The person on the other side of the door knocks for a second time, forcing Utowin to get up. Unbeknownst to him, the towel had fallen to his ankles.
He was seconds from opening the door by the time he realized his error, and rectified the would-be mistake.
If he was going to give someone a show, it may as well have been someone he liked–preferably someone who liked him back.
He shoved on a long woolen shirt that fell just above his knees, and ran for the door, opening it as the person on the other side raised their hand to knock for a third time.
“Easthies.” Utowin’s mouth fell open, his jaw going slack.
“May I–” Before the other man could finish, his eyes were fluttering closed, and his knees were buckling beneath the weight of thousands of witches and non-witches alike.
Utowin’s reflexes kicked in before Easthies could hit the floor, his arms straining beneath the sudden rush to catch someone you didn’t expect to fall. He muttered a strained, “Damn it” as he attempted to readjust his hold, and let out a short breath as he hoisted Easthies up so that his legs were no longer dragging on the cold, stone floor. At least the other man had the sense to wear shoes–although they were the shoes of their uniform, and thus, screeched as the metal toes were hauled across the ground.
Utowin wished that he could have covered his ears, but covering his ears meant dropping Easthies, and he wasn’t quite mad enough to do something like that.
The gall, though, to go and faint right outside of his doorway.
If Easthies had been conscious, Utowin would have been complaining every step of the way to his bedroom. Alas, the other man was out-cold, and Utowin’s own conscience forbade him from calling Easthies a stupid fucking idiot.
Instead, he hoisted Easthies up into his arms, and held him as if they had just been married: Utowin’s right arm supporting Easthies’ back, while his left arm held his knees. Easthies’ breath was uneven, to say the least, as his head rested against Utowin’s chest.
Utowin wasn’t one for worrying. If anything, he was always the last of the Knights Moralis to let concern fog his judgment, but as he spared a glance down at Easthies, curled up in his arms, he forgot to breathe; if only for a moment.
His heart began to race at the sight of his Captain, whose face was flushed like the summertime roses of Zozah.
The least Easthies could’ve done was warn the other man that he felt light-headed…he didn’t need to…resort to such dramatics to get the point across.
This was Easthies, though. His Easthies, who prioritized the Pact above all else.
So, Utowin carried him, and gently placed him onto the crumpled sheets of his bed. He smoothed them out around Easthies, as if that would make the circumstances better, or the place cleaner. He briefly lifted Easthies head, and adjusted the pillow, keenly aware that this was the side of his bed that he never slept on. At least it meant that the pillow had rarely been touched–by others, at least. It knew Easthies; not well, but it knew him. It also meant that the mattress was still firm, because it had rarely known the warmth of another body, especially that of Easthies’ body–the physique painstakingly honed over the course of three decades.
With the practiced ease of a fellow soldier, Utowin pulled Easthies’ shoes off, allowing them to clang onto the floor below, most likely giving his downstairs neighbors the wrong idea. Let them gossip. Silver Eve had undoubtedly changed circumstances for the two men, who seemed to hover around each other like planets, orbiting but never actually touching. They might have admitted their feelings for one another, but a month had passed since then, with only passing glances and the familiar feeling of lips on lips in dark, abandoned places.
Utowin was content, though. He had to be when it came to Easthies, and he had no choice but to admit when their something would remain nameless.
Maybe it was for the better–after all, look at how Galga and Atwert ended up.
Utowin couldn’t escape the look that Atwert gave Vinanna and Easthies, either.
He spent countless hours of his sleepless nights wondering if Easthies felt guilty, because for Vinanna, those memories were stolen by the very man asleep in his bed.
“Oh, Eas…” Utowin pressed the back of his hand to Easthies’ forehead, followed by his lips. He was burning up for sure, something Utowin was rather familiar with. How often were sicknesses rolling through Ghodrey, sweeping away the most vulnerable in the middle of the night? First order of business, he needed to cool off Easthies’ body.
His kitchen was less of a kitchen and more of a single counter. Thankfully, it included a sink, but not much else. After all, he never required the use of a proper kitchen space because he never ate in his room. If he did, it was an apple, and even then, why would he rather stew in his room than spend time with his friends in the Order? Easthies was always among them, too; his neck bent, those red eyes of his searching the pages of a census for a name no one else cared to find. If it wasn’t a census, it was the written form of the Pact itself, the words that all Knights had to commit to memory before joining the Order. Utowin knew the words, but he didn’t breathe them in the way Easthies did.
Sometimes, it made him wonder why he committed himself thus.
Regardless, he was still ill, and still required tending to. It was a familiar song and dance to Utowin, who was used to reminding Easthies when to eat; to drink; to change his clothes or shower. There were times when Easthies would sleep in soiled clothes, the fabric caked in dried blood or sweat, because he hadn’t even realized he needed to change. He’d simply fall asleep at his desk, wake up at dawn, and do it all over again.
When they started this–agreement between one another, Utowin began pressing Easthies even more. At times, begging him to brush his hair, because Utowin loved to run his hands through it. If there was something he never reminded Easthies to do–it was to cut his beautiful hair.
As Utowin returned to his bedroom, a cold, damp rag in his hand, he noticed how Easthies’ hair was sprawled out across the pillow. It formed a sort of halo around his head, and it was so distracting, that he hardly noticed that Easthies’ eyes were cracked open.
Lost in a kind of reverie for the man asleep in his bed, Utowin gaped, only noticing that the man was, in fact, not asleep at all, but trying to push himself up in spite of his illness.
“Absolutely not!” Utowin pushed Easthies back down so quickly, he almost let go of the very rag meant to give him relief. “You’re sick, Eas.” It might have been obvious to any onlooker, but Easthies would never be as bold to admit the truth. So, to prove his point, he gently placed the cool rag onto his forehead, and watched as his shoulders sagged into the mattress. “Better, isn’t it?” He asked, incredulous. Easthies nodded, softly, a slight incline of his head that told Utowin he’d be fine.
That didn’t stop him from sitting vigil throughout the night, though.
Stress was one of the most prevalent triggers for illnesses. If someone was so stressed, that even their innards were weak and unable to stave off sickness, then that disease would take root like a most untoward and abrasive weed.
That was what happened to Easthies.
Utowin knew this because, despite the two days he’d spent at his side, he still hadn’t come down with anything.
At that point, it was a matter of convincing Easthies of this truth that proved more difficult than even recovery itself.
On the morning of the third day, Utowin carried a tray in one hand, and a teapot in the other. Steamed eggs seasoned with crushed pepper and sea salt shared the tray with a freshly toasted piece of bread, slathered with honey and butter. On the side, sitting atop its own wooden saucer, was a small wooden bowl already affixed with Easthies’ preferred amount of sugar and cream. There was a scone, too, in the event that his captain was still hungry after his meal.
The tea he had brewed was an herbal concoction made from willowgrape leaves and fairy grass. Taking the medicinal properties of either herb, he requested that the kitchen combine the two for a restorative tea. How it tasted, well, Easthies would have to be the judge of that, because Utowin preferred to stay far away from such bitter brews.
As he placed the tray onto Easthies’ lap, his friend muttered a stoic, “You didn’t have to make all of this.” His voice was hoarse from disuse, although his tone was as serious as always.
“If you think I made any of this, you’re deluding yourself.” Utowin bit the corner off of the buttered toast, licking his lips afterwards. Easthies sighed, but it wasn’t long before he was stifling a cough in the crook of his elbow.
Utowin quickly poured a serving of the tea, proffering the wooden bowl toward his severe captain. “Drink, Eas.” It wasn’t a request, but it wasn’t a command, either. There was still a vague sense of unfamiliarity between the two, creating a chasm Utowin didn’t have the vocabulary to cross alone.
Why couldn’t things go back to the way they were before Silver Eve, when they had slept together with a sort of abandon their younger selves once had?
Was this maturing? Realizing that the person you love does not have the capacity to love you in return, despite their affirmations?
Utowin could still remember the softness in Easthies’ voice as he uttered his confession.
Say that you love me, please.
Utowin would say all of that and more, if he were asked to.
He was tempted to say some particularly harsh words, though, as Easthies refused the tea.
“I must return to work, Utowin,” he grumbled, turning away from the still-warm eggs.
To Easthies’ chagrin, Utowin was not going to let him leave that easily.
Placing the teapot onto the empty nightstand, Utowin slowly crawled into bed beside Easthies. He leaned his head against his shoulder, remembering an easier time, before his nightmares grew claws and fangs. “If you intend to work, Eas, you need to get better first. Otherwise you’ll only get worse.”
Easthies, begrudgingly, took a single bite of the eggs. “May I leave now?”
“Nope!” If Easthies wanted to act like a child, Utowin would treat him like one. His patience was growing thinner by the day, despite the proximity they hadn’t known for two months.
Using his fork to slice a piece of steamed egg, he used his free hand to force Easthies’ mouth open. Once the eggs were in his mouth, he let go of his captain’s jaw.
The next few minutes were quiet as Easthies ate and drank.
To his credit, Utowin didn’t make much noise. He simply made enough to keep things interesting.
“Easthies, do you remember when you said you loved me?” It was a brazen question, but he wasn’t sure when he’d get Easthies in private like this again. When Easthies doesn’t offer up an answer, Utowin pouts.
“Easthies.”
No answer.
“Eas.”
Just the sound of teeth scraping against a fork.
“Captain?”
Still nothing.
“Damn it, Eas!” Utowin yelled, throwing his hands up in the air, wholly exasperated.
He pushed the blankets off of his legs, shuddering as the cold of the Great Hall seeped into his muscled body.
A moment away from leaving Easthies to his silence, Utowin felt fingers wrap around his wrist.
He slowly turned, and there was the love of his life. His hair had been down since that first night, when Utowin tended to his feverish body. He dressed him in a nightgown, and when he awoke the next day, he offered him an embroidered robe he bought in Kalhn. After, he had taken a brush to Easthies’ unruly hair. He even offered to braid it, but the other man declined. Perhaps it reminded him of the hair he sported while recovering: a loose braid, always falling to one side or the other.
It was refreshing to see his hair down like this: unadorned and combed through.
Easthies’ hold on Utowin’s wrist tightened.
“I’ve been avoiding you, it’s true,” he whispered, wincing from the inevitable admonishment. “You were so kind to me…after.” He paused, breathed in deeply, breathed out. “I believed myself undeserving of your love, Utowin. You were so willing to give it, and I saw it as a weakness in myself to accept it so quickly. I thought that I needed to prove myself before I accepted what was not mine to accept in the first place.”
Utowin slowly sunk back into his bed, tempted to interject, but scared that, if he did, Easthies would stop.
“I miss sleeping in your bed. I miss kissing you, and lying with you. I miss having supper with you, or enjoying tea together. Drinking together.” Easthies’ face flushed a very light pink at the allusion to liqueur. “When I started to feel ill, all I wanted was you, Utowin.”
“Why didn’t you say something sooner, Eas?” The red-head asked, reaching for Easthies’ hand. “I would do anything you asked.”
“That’s exactly my point, Utowin!” Easthies ripped his hand away, as if scalded.
For once, Utowin did not let him go. He reached out for his hand again, and held it tenderly between his own. He squeezed it, ruthlessly, hopeful that Easthies would understand his physical affection better than his verbal affection.
“You have dedicated yourself to our society of witches, Eas. For once, apply that dedication to yourself. See yourself as a person, rather than as a means to an end.” Utowin pulled Easthies’ hand to his lips, brushing his knuckles with a soft almost-kiss.
“How can you stand to look at me after what I did?” Easthies muttered,
Utowin shrugged in that carefree way he always had.
“Because the Eas I know would never do something like that without cause. No, you don’t need to explain yourself to me until you’re ready to. And, yes, when you’re ready to, I’ll be here to listen.” Utowin shifted closer to Easthies, only stopping as their thighs brushed.
“What would you do without me?” He asked, quirking a playful brow.
“Shall I make a list?”
“In writing, please.”
“Fetch me a pen and ink, then.”
“With pleasure!”
But Utowin didn't get up...not yet. He very slowly slid down, and rested his head in Easthies' lap.
The chasm might've still existed, but on that third day, it decreased in size, if only by a small margin. A small enough margin for Utowin to walk over, for Easthies to meet him halfway.