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It was like being haunted: I had no control over what apparently innocent thing would suddenly turn spectre, making me fear his hands, his voice, as though it were happening again; as though, in some ugly sense, it was happening still.
All I could do was go forwards, into whatever small scrap of future remained for me. I didn’t look back.
It was the worst sort of chicken and egg problem: he needed to first meet Velasin in order to know how to act when he first met Velasin, and after nearly a fortnight’s wait, the contradiction of it had driven him to frustration.
His own beliefs were rather more habit than faith, and something he tended not to poke at too closely, the present moment excepted: the gods were the moons, and the moons were real enough, so why not the stories that went with them? Everything else was better left to more thoughtful minds than his.
Resolving to learn first, judge later, Cae flattened his palms on the desk
Cae soothed him as he might a grieving soldier, by breathing in deep and out again, the rhythm steadying both of them. Later, he could be angry, but right now, he was calm, calm, calm, and little by little, Velasin came back to himself, until his sobs were nothing but breath, and the only tears left were cold.
But I was still trapped; that I’d gone willingly into the cage—that I found it more hospitable than expected, even—didn’t change my inability to leave it. And without that freedom, I couldn’t ultimately choose to trust anything about my situation, because the choice itself was an illusion.
“Yours is a strange and stubborn endurance, Velasin.” And then, more softly still, such that I might almost have imagined it: “Just like your mother’s.”
“Impossibly stubborn. Witty. Kind. So clever he cuts himself with it. Brave.” And utterly beautiful.
“I’m sorry. I’m not … good, at accepting praise.” “I’ll have to help you practice, then,” said Cae. Unhelpfully, his brain reacted to this by conjuring up an image of Velasin, dishevelled and panting in his bed as Cae whispered filthy endearments into his ear. Cae slammed a mental door on that (very intriguing, absolutely to be considered later) prospect and returned his focus to the moment.
But seeing him as he was now—poised, controlled, competent—was thrilling in an altogether more familiar way. It was a skill Liran also possessed, and which Cae was self-aware enough to admit a preference for. He’d already been attracted to Velasin in its absence; to suddenly stumble on it here, now, was rather like being smacked soundly about the ears.
And then there was Velasin, so stubbornly kind that it was equal parts strength and vulnerability. He was also reckless, not quite because he didn’t value himself, but because he valued others or other things more.
“I have lived a cramped life, it seems. So shy of having my greatest indiscretion discovered that I seldom dared indulge in simpler ones.” He lifted his head and looked at Cae, his gaze both soft and piercing. “You must be patient with me, dear Cae, as I learn to inhabit myself.”
“Fuck.” “Not now, dear, I’m busy.” Cae stared at his husband. Velasin blinked at him, guileless until a small smile twitched the corner of his mouth. Cae continued to stare; his heart felt at once three sizes too big for his ribs and yet so tender, a single wrong word would bruise it. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, his own smile cracking across his face like pond ice thawed by sunlight. “You utterly ridiculous man, you can’t even stand—” “Lucky for me, then,” Velasin said, looping an arm around Cae’s neck, “that I’ve such a big, strong husband.”
