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Dorian sat beneath the oak they’d stopped by with his legs crossed and his back against the trunk. From here, he could see the pale scar of the small rift through the gap in the leaves. Feel the remnants of the Veil being torn where it’d been buzzing in his blood. The branches nearest it moved occasionally, though the rest of the tree was still.
It’d caught his attention ever since he sat down. It was strange. Remarkable. Not meant to happen, and yet here they were. Notes written in Dorian’s narrow hand sprawled across the page of his worn journal. He wrote at the same speed he spoke, fast and without apology. When a pause wasn’t immediately filled with the voice he’d grown so accustomed to hearing, he glanced beside him.
Ronan lay in the grass with his eyes closed, one arm folded beneath his head and the other one across his stomach. One knee was propped up and the opposite ankle rested against it. He looked like the picture of contentment.
“So you finally fell asleep,” Dorian said.
“I’m listening.”
“You’re clearly not.”
“I am. You’re talking about the tree.”
Dorian squinted, suspicious. Ronan’s eyes remained closed. Some of his hair had come loose from its tie and spread over the grass between them, close enough that one dark wavy strand rested against Dorian’s knee.
“Like I said, the branches keep moving,” Dorian said. “But only the ones nearest where the rift used to be.”
“Perhaps the tree is grateful,” Ronan said.
“The tree?” Dorian blinked. “Trees don’t feel gratitude.”
“You haven’t asked it.”
“I haven’t—” A long, drained exhale left him. “I was about to make an interesting observation.”
“You still can.”
“You’ve rather spoiled the mood.”
Ronan’s mouth curved.
They’d stopped because Ronan insisted the horses needed to rest. Dorian suspected the horses would’ve managed another hour perfectly well; Ronan had seen him studying the sky while riding and decided to give him a better view of it. Naturally, he’d denied this when asked.
Dorian tipped his head back against the trunk. “Closing a rift doesn’t always settle the Veil around it immediately. Whatever is causing that movement may be harmless, but I’d like to come back in a day or two and see whether it persists.”
“All right,” Ronan said. “I’ll come with you.”
“You needn’t. I know how to find an oak.”
“But don’t you want someone to ask foolish questions?”
“Believe me, I have no shortage of those.”
“But those aren’t my questions.”
Dorian lowered his gaze again. Ronan had opened his eyes and was looking up at him, upside down from where Dorian sat. He looked absurdly comfortable for a man who’d spent the morning fighting demons and closing major wounds in the Veil.
“You’re right,” Dorian said. “And yours are particularly foolish.”
“You still answer them.”
A shoulder bobbed. “Someone must. How will you otherwise learn?”
Ronan’s smile was small, almost private. “You could bring a book to read when we come back.”
“I could bring a damn library. You’d still interrupt me.”
“Would you mind?”
Dorian had an answer ready—he was certain of it. Then Ronan’s eyes drifted over his face, and the answer became considerably harder to find.
“I might,” Dorian said, “if you kept looking at me instead of the tree.”
“I can see the tree from here.”
“And?”
“I’d rather look at you.”
Well, then.
Dorian set his journal beside him on the grass and shifted until he hovered above Ronan’s head. The position was awkward: Ronan’s face tipped toward him from below, their noses pointing in opposite directions. Still, Dorian stayed where he was.
“That was a very practiced answer, Ronan,” Dorian said, voice low.
Grimacing, Ronan shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“I was hoping it would sound better when I said it.”
“Oh, it sounded perfectly good. I’m merely questioning your intentions.”
Ronan’s green gaze fell to Dorian’s mouth. Dorian leaned down and kissed him. It was rather brief and crooked; he misjudged the angle and bumped Ronan’s nose with his own, though Ronan didn’t complain. When Dorian drew back, the smile on Ronan’s face was replaced with something a lot softer.
“Was that better than it sounded?” Dorian asked.
Ronan took a breath. “I’d like another chance to judge.”
Dorian’s lips twitched while he dragged a finger through the beard on Ronan’s chin. “You’re remarkably demanding for a man lying down.”
“You’re the one hovering above me.”
“I was here first.”
“Then I’m glad I chose this spot.”
Dorian kissed him again before more could be said. Their lips met upside down, Ronan tilting his head enough to make room. A big, warm hand touched Dorian’s cheek, stretching what was supposed to be only a moment into several. His spine tingled and his cheeks turned crimson.
When they parted, Ronan’s hand remained against his face. Dorian turned against it, breathing unsteadily into his palm while Ronan’s thumb brushed over his lips.
“This is ridiculous,” Dorian murmured.
“What is?”
“My neck. This position. The fact that neither of us has moved.”
“We could.”
“Yes,” Dorian said. “We could.”
Ronan’s thumb continued to brush his lips. Dorian kissed it the third time it passed.
Neither moved.
After a while, Dorian asked, “What were we talking about?”
“The branches still moving.”
“Ah.” Dorian’s fingers curled in Ronan’s beard, nails scratching lightly against his skin. “Are they?”
“Don’t know. I’d still rather look at you.”
Dorian smiled against his palm. “Of course you do.”
He leaned down and kissed Ronan again.