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Charles was starting to wish he’d listened to Crystal, which was how he knew he was in bad shape.
Still, if he stopped to feel sorry for himself, he’d never get moving again, so he resisted the temptation to have a little lean against the wall and trudged the rest of his way up the stairs to his room. He was lucky, in one sense: his low status meant that he’d been given quarters just above the stables, rather than in the grander wings nearer the castle’s Great Hall. It wasn’t as far to walk — or limp, for that matter.
He made it through the door and let himself have just a moment with his hand braced on the sturdy wood. He’d have quite liked to collapse straight onto the bed, but he’d regret it if he didn’t take off his armour. It was going to be enough of a challenge without letting his muscles stiffen up before he tried. So, he took a steadying breath and straightened, gritting his teeth against a fresh wave of pain.
You can’t be serious, Crystal had said when a lance had shattered against his pauldron and a long, narrow shard had speared right between the plates of his armour and into his shoulder. You’ve got to forfeit.
But he hadn’t listened, had he? Because his final match of the day was against Sir Simon, and he wasn’t going to back down from that challenge. He’d promised. Didn’t much matter if he was hurt. It was just an injury, like the bruises and minor nicks from the hand-to-hand the day before. And they couldn’t prove that the mysterious Crow Knight was a cheat just because Charles had a bit of bad luck against him, no matter what it looked like. No matter the way his patron, who Edwin was sure was a witch, smirked from the stands when Charles rode back past the royal box at the centre of the yard after their second tilt.
So he’d bound the injury for later and told Crystal to strap the lance in place when it turned out he couldn’t grip the bloody thing properly and joked, when she’d warned him that if he wasn’t careful he was going to get his arm ripped off, that at least it wasn’t his good arm.
Well, he had been careful. He still had both arms attached.
He’d not been unseated by the Crow Knight, either — which had put his patron’s nose right out of joint, she’d swept out of the stands in a huff — and he’d knocked Sir Simon off his high-horse on their third tilt, and all. So the pain was worth it, in Charles’s book.
His right arm was pretty useless at this point, though, which wasn’t ideal. Because he’d grinned and insisted he was fine to everyone who’d asked, hadn’t he? So Crystal was down in the stables brushing down his horse, and Niko had gone to find Edwin and tell him it was only a scratch, and Jenny had rolled her eyes and said she’d beat the dents out of his armour tomorrow and fix that gap besides. That meant he had to deal with his injury by himself. Which first of all meant getting his armour off with a bad arm and the bad leg that he’d been ignoring since the hand-to-hand.
Sodding David. Charles wasn’t even going to give him the honorific he’d supposedly earned. After the way he’d treated Crystal, he didn’t deserve a Sir. But he’d got a lucky hit in, right beside Charles’s knee, and then kept swinging for it like he was trying to chop his leg clean off despite his blunted sword.
Charles had been able to ignore the swelling and the ugly purple bruises for the rest of the tournament through sheer bloody-minded determination. He’d used the same grit that had got him out of bed and reporting for duty as a squire at dawn even when his dad had beaten welts into his back the night before. But the soreness radiating up from his knee and out from his shoulder was getting harder to put aside, now he didn’t have the next match looming ahead. Now he didn’t have Edwin’s honour to defend.
He staggered to the table and chair beside the cold fireplace and sat down before his knee started playing silly buggers. Peeled off his gloves because he had to start somewhere. Got his right bracers off and then reached for the buckles on his left arm with shaking fingers.
It hurt. Of course it hurt. Everything hurt. But it wasn’t like he couldn’t handle pain. He gritted his teeth and panted through the simple task, until finally the straps loosened and he could relax with a sob of relief.
He could handle it, but he didn’t have to like it — and alone in his room, without anybody to bear witness, he didn’t have to pretend he couldn’t feel it, either.
So Charles fumbled the left bracers off onto the table and covered his eyes with his good hand. He pressed back the tears that threatened to well up, though he couldn’t stop the sobs that punched through his chest. At least they were silent. The lessons he’d learned over his dad’s knee were worn too deep to let him make a sound.
He sat there, sucking in shaky breaths, until he got a hold of himself again and the whistling in his ears retreated to a distant whine. Then he lifted his head with a sniff, swallowed the part of him that wanted to lie down whimpering and took stock of himself instead. His shoulder was throbbing steadily. It might’ve started bleeding again. He’d have to have a proper look eventually, but he had to get to the bandages first, and they were still hidden under layers of metal and padding.
Before he could decide what should be next — logic said it had to be the pauldron on his injured side, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to reach for the opposite buckles if he started jostling the wound — there was a knock at his door. It was followed by Edwin’s voice through the wood:
“Charles, I am coming in,” he said.
He didn’t wait. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, kicking it closed behind him. There was a large bowl of steaming water in his hands — how he’d got the door unlatched, Charles didn’t know. He must’ve used his elbow. Or magic. A cloth was hung over his arm, and the bag that Charles normally carried was slung over one shoulder.
“Edwin,” he said, blinking at him. He tried to straighten from where he’d slumped and hitch a grin into place. “What you doing here?”
“I thought that would be obvious,” Edwin said as he carried the bowl to the table and set it down. There was a soft-looking white cloth swimming in it. Charles’s throat suddenly felt tight.
“Thought I wasn’t going to see you until the banquet thing later,” he said, willing his voice to stay steady.
Edwin stopped producing bandages and bottles and jars from Charles’s bag and gave him an odd look, brows twisted somewhere between irritation and concern.
“Were the blows to your head harder than usual? Have you been knocked senseless?” he asked, eyeing Charles. He put out a hand, cupped his chin and turned his head from side to side to inspect his face and his curls, taking in the bruises where his head had rattled against his helmet from the impact of a lance and the cut on his brow from the day before that’d reopened when the scab caught on the eye-slit. After a long moment, he let go. Charles couldn’t look away from his face, though the tenderness and concern written there made his chest ache. Edwin reached out and lifted the long strip of dark, grey-blue silk tied to Charles’s left arm, and continued in a soft voice, “Or have you forgotten why you wear this?”
Charles swallowed and gave a tiny shake of his head. He hadn’t forgotten.
But wearing Edwin’s favour was new. His heart was still doing a funny little skip in his chest when he caught a glimpse of it fluttering there, a banner marking him out as fighting for Edwin’s honour.
It wasn’t the first time he’d worn somebody’s token. There had been a few ladies, including Crystal, however brief that had ended up being. It wasn’t even like it was the first time he’d fought for Edwin: he did that all the time. It just felt different, carrying a flash of Edwin’s blue with him. Riding out to joust or stepping forward into a duel with it streaming from his arm like a pennant for everyone to see made his chest burn with pride. And it wasn’t why he’d promised to best Sir Simon — Edwin hadn’t given it to him until after he’d made that vow — but the fact he’d been wearing it when he did felt all the more satisfying.
“Then you ought to know very well why I am here,” Edwin murmured as he let the token fall and turned his attention back to his supplies.
He did know. Because Edwin had told him, hadn’t he? That he loved him. And Charles —?
Well. He’d accepted the token.
It had been months since Edwin’s confession. Months since Charles killed the beast that, years ago, had trapped him in the timeless lands of the Unseelie for what Edwin had experienced as decades. Since Charles had told him he couldn’t say he was in love back.
He’d promised, too, that nothing would change, and it hadn’t. Not really. Because Charles would’ve been put out before that Edwin was charmed — thankfully not literally — by the Seelie Court’s Cat King. He’d always have scoffed about someone throwing a whole fancy tournament for Edwin’s entertainment, wouldn’t he? Course he would, when Edwin didn’t even like the joust.
So it wasn’t any different, no matter what Crystal said.
And if, when they found out that Sir Simon was competing, Charles had sworn he’d beat him if it was the last thing he did? That wasn’t anything he wouldn’t have done before, either. He’d have walked through fire to knock him down a peg or two on Edwin’s behalf, when it was Sir Simon’s foolishness that had landed Edwin in the Unseelie in the first place.
But when he’d made his promise, Edwin had said, I sincerely hope it will not be the last thing you do, trying to be stern but his eyes bright with amusement — and love, that too, shining there like a lantern in the dark. And, just like the night they’d first met, when Edwin emerged from the darkness like a spectre with light glowing in the palm of his hand and said, I shan’t hurt you, Charles hadn’t been able to turn away or speak.
It wasn’t like the feeling that came over him was new. The urge to protect that wanted to leap straight out of his chest and pull Edwin close, wrap him safe in Charles’s arms where his body could be Edwin’s shield against anything that might try to harm him — that was there all the time. But it’d struck Charles that he didn’t feel it for anybody else. Not their other friends, who he also wanted to guard from harm. Not even Crystal, when he’d been trying to court her. It was only Edwin that made his chest ache with the longing to reach out and hold on.
So he’d laughed instead of thinking any harder about it and told Edwin some shit about how he always bounced back and the moment had passed like hundreds of others over the years they’d known each other.
But then Edwin had come to him the first morning of the tournament with a strip of silk, the same colour as his best tunic where it showed through the slits in his jacket, and offered it in trembling fingers. What was Charles supposed to do? Not accept? When the whole of him blazed with the honour of it being offered, and burned with something brighter than that as Edwin tied it to his arm?
No. He couldn’t.
He’d wanted to wear it, besides. The moment he’d seen it in Edwin’s hands, he’d wanted it on him: an emblem of Edwin’s feelings for everyone to see.
And if he’d worn his token, and he’d fought for him, and he’d won for him, maybe it shouldn’t be all that much of a surprise that Edwin was here to tend to him in the aftermath.
“You are very quiet,” Edwin murmured. He was at last finished with setting everything out and had turned to Charles with a notch of concern cut deep between his brows. His fingers ghosted against Charles’s forehead again. “Were you struck too hard on the head —?”
“Nah, I’m fine,” Charles said quickly, resetting his slipped grin. Couldn’t have Edwin worrying about the state of his mind, could he? He might only be the brawn to Edwin’s brains, but they both knew he needed his wits all the same. Couldn’t very well fight without those. He lifted his good hand and caught Edwin’s, moving it away from his face and ignoring the little pang that went through his chest. “Just thinking about the tournament.”
He told himself it was only half a lie.
“It has been on my mind, too,” Edwin said. He took his hand back and reached for the straps of Charles’s right pauldron instead, opening the buckles far more gently and easily than Charles would’ve managed himself. He glanced up at his face as he worked. “I ought to thank you, for besting Simon.”
“Any time, mate,” Charles said. He meant it. If Sir Simon wanted a rematch right now, if he wanted a duel of honour or any other contest, Charles would take it on, even injured. And he’d come out on top. There wasn’t a world where he could let himself lose, when it was for Edwin.
He didn’t think Sir Simon would want that, though. He’d taken his licks like a man who knew he’d earned them, and when he’d got back on his feet after the final round he’d given Charles a nod. There was something resigned about his expression that told Charles he wasn’t going to be trouble.
Not like fucking David, who didn’t seem to know when he was beaten. Or the Cat King, for that matter.
Edwin lifted his pauldron off. The weight of it no longer pressing onto his bandages was a relief that was short-lived, because as he did it, Edwin murmured, “He came to me afterwards. Simon. That is why I missed you outside the lists.”
“What?” Charles startled.
He’d thought it was funny, when Edwin didn’t show up after the trophy presentations. Niko had come down to join them and explained that he’d got caught up talking to the Cat King, and he’d sent her ahead with his apologies and a promise he’d be along shortly. But when Edwin didn’t arrive after five minutes, ten, Niko had wondered aloud if he was finally taking the tour of the Cat King’s so-called ‘menagerie’ that their host was always banging on about. Except she’d said it in a gleeful tone that suggested they might be exploring more than just a collection of bloody cats, and that had pretty well burst the bubble of Charles’s triumph.
He’d thought that was the worst case scenario: Edwin going off with some other bloke when Charles had won a whole bloody tournament for him. When he’d wanted to have a laugh with his best mate about the armoured tiger made of gold that he’d been given for winning.
But Edwin hadn’t been with the Cat King after all. He’d been cornered by his one-time bully, and Charles hadn’t even known about it until it was too late.
“What did he want?” he asked, trying not to snap. He grabbed Edwin with his good arm and tried to get a proper look at him. He couldn’t see any marks or bruises, but he knew damn well that hurt didn’t always leave a mark. “Did he say anything? I swear I’ll —”
“It was nothing untoward,” Edwin said briskly, shaking him off and moving to unbuckle the second pauldron. He was less careful this time, without an injury to worry about, and it came free a moment later — but there was something he wasn’t saying, Charles could feel it in his bones.
“Then what was it?” Charles prompted. His fingers itched for a sword, or better yet, the mace he favoured when heads needed knocking together on the road. It wasn’t a knightly sort of weapon, but it got the job done, and he wasn’t above using it on Simon if he’d been bothering Edwin again.
Edwin sighed and turned from depositing the smaller pauldron on the table.
“He also wished to congratulate me,” he said, his voice stiff and his eyes fixed on the buckle for Charles’s gorget rather than his face, “On finding such a gallant paramour. He misunderstood the meaning of my token, of course.” Edwin glanced up, nervous, lips parted, and then looked back down to separate the gorget’s two pieces from around his neck and slide them off. “I hope you will forgive me not correcting him.”
“You let him think we’re —” Charles started, and then stopped, his heart at the base of his throat.
Edwin had moved away to set the gorget down and was taking his sweet time over laying it out so he didn’t have to meet Charles’s eye. He smoothed out the supple leather tongue that fitted through the buckle as he spoke.
“Yes,” he said, his voice hushed and ashamed. “I thought it simpler, that way. I did not think it would upset you, but —”
“It doesn’t,” Charles said, far too quick, around the thumping of his heart. It wasn’t even a lie, he wasn’t upset. He was just floored by the idea that Simon was going about thinking that he and Edwin were —
And he wouldn’t be the only one, either. All the people watching would’ve known, when they saw the blue token fluttering from Charles’s arm, that he was fighting for someone. And it wouldn’t take much deduction to see the way he turned to the royal box at the end of each bout like a compass point swinging back to north, and match it up to Edwin sitting there with the same shade peeking from beneath his sombre, stormcloud-grey jacket.
They would’ve naturally assumed they were lovers. That was why people gave favours, wasn’t it? Ladies offering their knights luck — and Charles was Edwin’s knight, always had been and always would be, no matter what else, but somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that carrying the symbol of Edwin’s love for him would make everyone think he loved him back.
His heart clenched.
Because maybe he had realised, somewhere deep down. Maybe that was why he’d felt so proud when Edwin first tied it on, and whenever he’d glimpsed it since then — because in his heart, he knew what accepting it meant. Edwin bringing it to him was a declaration just as clear as the one he’d made as they finally made it to the borders of the Unseelie. And Charles letting him tie it to his arm was the answer he hadn’t been able to give then.
He couldn’t dwell on that, though. Not now, when Edwin was still staring down at his removed armour, head bowed so Charles couldn’t really see his face. He reached out and caught Edwin’s sleeve, tugging gently.
“It really doesn’t bother me, mate,” he promised.
The opposite, in fact. He couldn’t believe people would look at him — a poor knight errant whose best quality was being able to get back up no matter what knocked him down — and think he was worthy of Edwin. Edwin, who was kind under his prickliness and clever as anything and could do proper magic. Who was so handsome he had a Seelie King trying to bed him, and a mysterious knight with links to a witch making eyes at him every time he took his stupid black-plumed helmet off.
How could Charles compete with that when he was just Charles? He wasn’t even high-born enough to clean Edwin’s shoes, let alone love him.
And yet, for the past two days, everyone at the tournament had assumed that he did. The thought set a hot ember at the centre of his chest, and he didn’t know whether to call it honour or yearning.
Edwin sucked in a breath and lifted his head. “I am sorry.”
He obviously meant to say more, but Charles didn’t let him. He jumped in as he opened his mouth to continue.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry about,” Charles said, pulling harder on Edwin’s sleeve to turn him reluctantly towards him. “I don’t mind what he thinks about us. You surprised me, that’s all.”
“You ought to know that I do not expect you to maintain any sort of pretence,” Edwin said. He still hadn’t met Charles’s eyes. Instead, his hands lifted to untie the cloth from around Charles’s upper arm, his face smoothed blank. “And you need not wear this again, I will understand.”
Charles’s heart shrivelled up as the knot came loose and the fabric pooled into Edwin’s hands. His voice seemed very small as he said, “D’you not want me to wear it?”
Edwin glanced up, and then didn’t look away, shocked by whatever he found on Charles’s face.
“No,” he murmured slowly. “I would be happy for you to do so, if it is what you wish, but I would not like you to feel that you must for my sake.”
“Right,” Charles said. Relief that seemed too big for what they were talking about flooded through him like a tide. He cleared his throat and added, “I’ll be wearing it, then.”
Edwin’s hands paused in their winding of the cloth, as if he understood what Charles now did: that wearing the favour was an unspoken, I’m in love with you, too.
Then he gasped a breath and let it out through his lips with a buzzing trill of overwhelm. “We have become quite sidetracked,” he said, turning away to put his favour down beside the other pieces of Charles’s armour. “Let us get the rest of your armour off without any more delay, so that I can see to your injuries. It has been long enough already!”
It was a clumsy change of subject, but Edwin was clearly uncomfortable and Charles was in a fair amount of pain, and he didn’t want to think any more about what wearing Edwin’s favour said about him and his feelings any more, besides. So he allowed it and watched quietly as Edwin separated his breastplate and backplate, urging him to sit forward so he could remove both at once with the fastenings on one side still done up. He set them on the table and then knelt at Charles’s feet.
“Edwin,” he said, his voice choked by the sight of him there: Edwin, who shouldn’t have to show that kind of humility to anybody, doing it willingly just for Charles.
“Hush,” Edwin said, cheeks faintly pink in the evening light that dusted in through the window. Then his deft fingers opened the belt that held up Charles’s leg armour, loosened the straps at the back of his legs in turn and took off each piece with a reverence Charles didn’t think he’d earned.
He couldn’t help but hiss when those fingers reached his hurt knee, though. Edwin looked up sharply, then finished taking off the plate that protected his knee and gently felt the swelling underneath.
“You did not tell me that you were so badly hurt yesterday,” he grumbled. Of course Edwin would work out how it’d happened. Sodding David.
“Didn’t want you worrying,” Charles said, “And —”
“If you mean to tell me it is ‘not that bad’ then you may save your breath!” Edwin snapped. He returned to the strap that ran around Charles’s thigh and yanked it open, the brushes of his fingers there sending little jolts through Charles that made him want to curl his toes. All the while, Edwin scolded him: “You really are utterly unbelievable. I could have ensured you were fully healed overnight, but no —”
“Wanted to give the rest of ’em a fair chance, didn’t I?” Charles joked. It wasn’t why, not really — he didn’t have that high an opinion of himself and his skills. He’d honestly forgotten to mention it in the rush of winning the hand-to-hand, and then it’d got late and he’d figured his knee could manage, given that the joust meant a day on horseback rather than on his feet. But Edwin glared up at him, affronted, just like he knew he would, and his stomach did that funny squirmy thing it did sometimes when Edwin looked at him.
“I would prefer you not to risk yourself for the sake of so-called equity!” Edwin said, in a way that only made Charles’s smile pull wider. He was annoyed because he cared. He cared so much. About Charles. It felt a bit like a miracle, even now after years together, every time he proved it like this. Edwin huffed and got to his feet to wring out the damp cloth. “Take off your gambeson, we shall start with your shoulder.”
Charles managed to get the red padded jacket unfastened without a problem, but then he needed Edwin’s help to get it off his shoulders. Together they eased it over his right side and Edwin paused to stick his fingers through the stained hole while Charles shrugged out of the left arm.
“This will have to be fixed,” he muttered. “Not to speak of your armour.”
“Jenny’s already promised to re-fit the pauldron so it doesn’t happen again. Maybe she can finally make me a custom set, if we can afford it with the winnings,” Charles reassured him. The stupid gold tiger ought to cover the cost of a whole new suit, if Edwin didn’t mind spending it on that, and they’d still have the bejewelled silver peacock feather that he’d been given for victory in the hand-to-hand to pay for supplies.
Edwin hummed, as if to say that he would be satisfied when it was done and not before, but said nothing. Then he peeled back the hasty bandages wrapped around Charles’s shoulder to reveal the wound.
It was smaller than it felt, that was Charles’s only thought as he twisted his neck to see it. Not as ugly as it might’ve been. At least it was only seeping.
Edwin let the stained bandages flutter to the floor and pressed his wet cloth over the injury. He offered a murmur of apology when Charles couldn’t help the hiss that caught in his throat.
“Did Crystal ensure the entire shard was removed?” Edwin asked when he at last eased the pressure and wiped around the injury instead, cleaning away the dried blood.
Charles nodded, blinking up at the ceiling and focusing on keeping his breathing steady. Edwin was gentle, but it hurt anyway — he felt every brush and dab like the bloody great splinter was going in again. He could stand it, he reminded himself. It wasn’t the worst pain he’d endured. And Edwin was doing it to take care of him, because he loved him. That made it easier to bear.
“Good,” Edwin murmured, and gave his other shoulder a squeeze. “You are doing very well, Charles. Let me apply a salve and fresh bandages, then you will start to feel better.”
“Yeah,” he grunted. He knew that promise was true, not just wishful thinking. Edwin poured magic into his healing tinctures, and usually they numbed the area a bit as well as speeding up the healing. He just had to hold out a bit longer.
He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth when Edwin returned with a sharp-smelling paste, which he smeared around the injury while muttering in a language Charles couldn’t speak or understand — casting a spell. When Edwin was done and he dared look, some of the hot, angry red had retreated from his skin. Then Edwin covered it over with a fresh set of clean, white bandages, and at last the pain that’d been with him since the match against the Crow Knight that afternoon started to retreat.
Then Edwin got the second, larger cloth, dipped it in the clean water still in the bowl and smoothed it down and under his arms, across his back, over his chest.
He ought to ask Edwin to stop, but he couldn’t. Not when he was looking at him the way he was, touching him so carefully as he cleaned the day’s sweat from his skin. Charles could only sit there, unworthy, and accept it, his throat tight and his eyes prickling at the corners, barely able to believe it was happening.
At last, Edwin brought the final clean corner of the cloth to his face, wiping his cheeks and forehead, dabbing the blood from his brow, following the line of his throat when he tipped his head back in invitation.
“There,” Edwin murmured when he was done, stepping back to survey his work. Charles’s chest ached as he stared back at him, lips parted, longing for Edwin to — what? Come back and do it all over again?
Or just come back to him, that’d do. Put his hands on Charles’s skin without the pretence of washing him as an excuse. Tilt his face up, and —
Edwin’s cheeks flushed as if he could read his thoughts and he spun around.
Charles heaved a breath, released from the heavy magnet-pull of longing that had gripped him a moment before. He stared at Edwin’s back. Edwin wasn’t Crystal. He couldn’t have actually seen what Charles had imagined. But maybe he’d had his own little daydream. After all, Edwin was in love with him, and he was sitting here shirtless, wasn’t he? Battered and bruised and probably smelling of horse and sweat even now, but — well. He’d been in worse shape when Edwin said he loved him.
Suddenly he burned to know what thought had brought a blush to Edwin’s cheeks.
It wasn’t like he could ask, though. It wasn’t the sort of thing you could just say to someone who’d said he was in love with you, especially not when you were a knight. Wouldn’t exactly be chivalrous, would it?
So he just watched as Edwin retreated to the wardrobe and started rooting through Charles’s tunics. He finally settled on the softest of the lot, the warm red dye faded by time and wear. Edwin brought it over, still faintly pink, and without a word helped Charles feed his arms and head through the appropriate holes before letting it fall to cover him and his bandages.
“Now, your knee,” Edwin said, and when he tried to protest, “No, your knee, I insist. Can you stand?”
“’M fine,” he tried to claim, but it was spoiled a bit by the way he wobbled when he got to his feet.
“You are hurt and exhausted. You need not pretend otherwise, not with me,” Edwin said in a quiet voice, steadying him with careful hands, and if Charles’s breath caught, he could put it down to his injuries, couldn’t he? Edwin held him there a moment before he murmured, “Your knee, Charles?”
It was only then that he realised what Edwin was actually asking: for him to drop his trousers so he could see the damage. Heat spread across his face, but he cleared his throat and fumbled with the laces of his trousers. He’d promised Edwin things would be the same. And they were. He wouldn’t have thought anything of it before the Unseelie, would he? So it was fine now. Nothing unusual about his best mate needing to see his bruised knee.
He let his trousers fall, grateful his loose old tunic covered him down to his thighs, and sank back into the chair. Edwin took a pot from the table and knelt again. He made a small sound as he probed at Charles’s bruise with cool fingertips before opening the salve and rubbing it gently in. As he worked his way from one side to the other, muttering his healing magic, the persistent throbbing slowly faded and Charles relaxed with a sigh of relief. His eyes slipped closed and he drifted, until he heard the sound of the jar lid scraping back into place.
“Done?” he asked, tilting his head up. His knee was still swollen and mottled purple and black, but it felt better. Like the cool of Edwin’s touch was staying with him.
“Done,” Edwin said without looking at him. He got up and turned quickly towards Charles’s bag, where he stowed all of the healing supplies once again. As he did, Charles dragged his trousers back up, careful of his knee, and did a quick job of lacing them. He’d have to change again before the banquet anyway, so no point doing a proper job.
“How long have we got before this feast thing starts, then?” he asked.
The real question, that he wasn’t going to ask, was how long did he have for Edwin’s spells to take effect. He could pretend to be fine right away, of course, but it’d be better if he could just have half an hour.
Edwin, however, was looking at him with pulled-in brows like he wasn’t making any sense.
“What?” Charles asked.
“I hardly think we will be attending tonight’s festivities,” Edwin told him.
“The Cat King’ll want us there. Winner of his tournament, and all that. And Niko said he wanted you to sit with him,” Charles said, and tried to pretend that the thought of the Cat King yet again placing Edwin beside him didn’t make his fists want to clench, preferably around a weapon.
“I daresay he might,” Edwin murmured. “Nonetheless, we shall not be going.”
“We can’t go pissing off shapeshifting monarchs, Edwin,” Charles said, though he wasn’t sure why he was trying to insist on it. He’d actually rather not go, and take their chances with the Cat King’s temper.
He wanted to rest his aches in the comfort of his bed. His room might be in the unfashionable part of the castle, but it had a good mattress and soft sheets, and he couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be, especially if he could get Edwin to read to him. It’d be a lovely distraction while the healing balms did their job. His stomach was starting to grumble, so a feast might have been nice, but he didn’t want to sit there and watch while the Cat King fawned over Edwin all night.
It’d been bad enough that he’d given Edwin the seat at his right hand in the royal box and spent half the tournament leaning towards him with an arm across the back of his chair and his mouth far too close to his ear. Not that Charles had been watching, or anything. He’d been busy proving his mettle, hadn’t he? It was just, every time he glanced up, the Cat King had been draped all over Edwin like a fur cloak.
By rights, Charles’s victory had earned him a spot at the top table, too. Maybe next to Edwin, maybe on the Cat King’s other side. And if he had to watch the afternoon’s performance all over again from up close, he wasn’t so sure he’d be able to hold back the bloody-toothed version of him that rose like his hackles when he saw them together.
“If Thomas is upset by our absence, so be it. He may stew in his disappointment,” Edwin said, as if, despite the familiarity of first-name-terms, the Cat King’s attention for the past two days had meant nothing to him. Charles almost flinched at the force of the emotion that lanced through his unarmoured chest.
Then Edwin’s gentle hand cupped his cheek and all his thoughts stopped like a horse refusing a jump.
“I would not go without you, and just now you are in no fit state to attend,” Edwin murmured. “You must rest, Charles. You have done quite enough, winning both halves of the tournament.”
For you, Charles thought, I won it for you, because — but he swallowed the words back along with the lump that clogged his throat.
Suddenly he wasn’t sure it was such a good idea for them to stay holed up in his bedchamber together all evening. Not when everything in him ached to have Edwin keep touching him with this kind of tenderness, the kind his dad had taught him he wasn’t allowed, the kind that even now felt off-limits. There was a feeling glowing at the centre of his chest, straining towards Edwin, and just now he was afraid it might burst out.
“We can’t just sack it off, Edwin,” he said, forcing himself to grin, “Anyway, now you’ve worked your magic —” he ignored Edwin’s scoff, “— I’ll be right as rain in ten minutes.”
“Hardly!” Edwin said.
“Well, we’ve got a bit longer than that, haven’t we? I can rest up a bit before it all kicks off, and we can be fashionably late,” Charles suggested. Maybe he could have a lie down for twenty minutes after all. Wouldn’t be quite as good without Edwin’s lovely voice lulling him to sleep, but it’d be the next best thing. He had his balms on his wounds, in any case. That should’ve been enough. He couldn’t let himself get greedy wanting more.
Edwin responded with a dubious hum. “Yes, you had better. And we shall see if you are up to it later,” he allowed. “Now, come, let me help you to your bed.”
Charles ignored the way his heart jumped — he didn’t mean it like that — and took Edwin’s hands when he offered them. His knee wasn’t as bad as before, and he could have walked on his own even if it wasn’t, but he let Edwin slide an arm around his waist anyway.
His dad’s voice in his head insisted that he was weak and pathetic and this wasn’t allowed, and maybe he was right. It felt like he was stealing something — like he shouldn’t enjoy the feeling of Edwin warm all down one side of him and the firm grip of his hand tucking them close. But it wasn’t like he’d asked for it, and it was only for a minute, and then Charles was finally, blessedly horizontal and sinking into the feather pillow with a groan.
“There,” Edwin said as he settled on the edge of the bed and pushed his curls back from his brow.
Charles grimaced for him, since they were probably still sweat-damp from being crushed under his helmet, but Edwin just tidied them for him without complaint. Charles hummed in thanks, his eyes drifting shut against his will. Just for a moment, he told himself. He couldn’t let himself fall asleep and miss the banquet, not when he’d made such a fuss about going.
Not when he could wear Edwin’s favour on his arm, so everyone would know who he won the tournament for. And why, even if he couldn’t say it yet.
“Rest, now,” Edwin murmured. His voice seemed to be coming from a long way away, but his fingers were still achingly gentle in his hair and it was somehow even better than the soothing murmur of his voice around a story. Each brush against his scalp lifted Charles away from the heaviness of his tired limbs, pushed back the lingering soreness of his injuries, and lulled him deeper into the drifting space between asleep and awake until he couldn’t be sure if he was dreaming or not when he heard Edwin’s voice add in the softest, loveliest whisper, “My champion.”