Three Kings

by Freydís Moon

“An hour and a half.” Nico looked comical wearing mismatched mittens, one yellow, the other pink.

There they were, Peter and Ethan side by side, crowded into Nico’s space, tending to his wounds. Nico blushed furiously, and Ethan’s mouth curved upward.

Glass panels stretched from floor to ceiling, curving outward toward the sky and sea. The cylindrical lamp glowed, and droplets streaked the windows.

The pair was framed by herb bundles strung above the sink, firelight glinting off the copper kitchenware, their messy countertops riddled with spices, wooden tasting spoons, and half-diced salad ingredients. Everything felt normal in a way Ethan hadn’t expected. Deliriously domestic. Softened by whiskey and close quarters.

Ethan plopped on the floor between Peter’s calves, leaning against the leather chair. His eyes curtained as the fire popped. Peter traced the shell of his ear and played absently with his hair,

“Is that what you’d like to do, then?” Peter asked. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his shirt. He clucked his tongue, staring at Nico with fond, curious eyes. “Or would you rather stay here?”

Nico lifted a brow. “Had trouble falling asleep.” He gave a coy snort. “You didn’t happen to hear an overzealous couple going at it like porn stars, did you? I could’ve sworn—”

Heat pooled in Ethan’s groin. He snapped his teeth around Nico’s thumb, a fast, petty bite. Nico hissed and jerked away, snaring him in a fierce glare. “You’re a menace,” Ethan hissed. “And you’re a coward.”

“You’re not a coward,” he said, defeated. “You’re kind and smart and good, and you scare me. That’s all.”

“Don’t do that to me again,” Nico blurted. Ethan halted in the doorway. “Please,” Nico added quietly, then cleared his throat. “Don’t.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t do what?” “C’mon, you know exactly what. You wanted me to hear you? I abso-fucking-lutely heard you. Fine, good. Whatever. But if this is a game, and you’re playing with me to make your husband jealous—”

People do it all the time, darling. That’s the thing with love—there’s enough to spare. And if it isn’t love, if this experience with Nico is physical, period, and we’re a pit stop in his life, then… Well, then we enjoy it together.”

“You’re the love of my life, Ethan Shaw,” he whispered, poking at a carrot in the bottom of his bowl. “That’ll never change.” Ethan’s heart lurched. You perfect idiot, he thought and met Peter’s dulce-brown eyes. “And you’re mine, Peter Vásquez. Even when you bring home dead seals.” “Handsome seals,” Peter corrected. Ethan laughed, snorting like a schoolboy.

From there, beneath the high, black cliffs, Ethan gazed at his lighthouse—their lighthouse—as the crescent moon skipped across rippling waves. Smoke billowed from skinny chimneys peppering the skyline, and the ocean sang a familiar song.

Nico Locke leaned into him. Their noses brushed, and their breath fogged the air. Ethan, he saw Nico say, lips stretched, tongue touching the back of his teeth. How strange to feel his heart rupture and rebel and restart. How comforting to brace for jealousy and find hope instead.

The kitchen became a mess of spices, bowls, flour, whisks, and sugar. Ethan tore open a bag of dark chocolate with his teeth and tempered the chips. Nico leaned over his shoulder, gazing at the melted treat, and hummed pleasantly. His hand was a timid weight on Ethan’s tailbone. Standing in front of the island, Peter plucked jars and vials up one by one, inspecting the faded labels.

“Thou shalt not worship false idols, and yet—” He clanked his coffee mug against Ethan’s cup. “—here we are.” Everything beneath Ethan’s navel tightened. Worship. He swallowed hard. As if Ethan Shaw might be something holy, as if his magic could possess the same rites and mysticism as the Bible itself. His body flushed at the thought.

“You’ve outdone yourself, darling,” Peter murmured, chin resting on the slope of Ethan’s shoulder. Ethan smiled. “Well, we haven’t tasted—hey!” Laughter tumbled off his lips.

hyperaware of his own clothes, his own skin, his own body—imperfect and rebuilt. Adapted. Insecurity needled his throat. “I might not be what you’re expecting,” he said, sneaking another shy glance at Nico.

The bathroom wasn’t big enough for three people, but they crowded together in the steamy shower anyway. Their feet bumped in the tub. Peter looped his arm around Ethan’s waist to keep him steady, and they didn’t speak, didn’t ask are you okay, didn’t bother with reassurances.

Steam curled away from the water. Ethan took a long, cleansing breath, stripped off his pajamas, and sank into the tub. Thankfully, Peter had learned a thing or two over the course of their marriage and left the harsh overhead light turned off, allowing Ethan the opportunity to savor a bit of well-earned darkness. He tipped his head against the porcelain and closed his eyes, paying mind to the ache in his core, radiating low in his back and deep in his hips. Remnants of last night bruised him, inside and out, and served as a reminder that he wasn’t nineteen anymore. Marathon sex wasn’t something he could bounce back from with an energy drink and half-assed yoga.

He pushed his hair out of his face and craned to assess the bruise at the base of his neck. Hickeys at twenty-nine. How delightfully depraved.

the candelabra scattered gold around the lighthouse. Jarred candles in the windowsill sparked with a snap of Ethan’s finger while shadows reigned over Casper. In the distance, the ocean sent waves crashing against the cliffside, bending sacred lilies and slapping seaweed onto the shore. Nearer, Ethan sucked batter from the side of Nico’s hand and smiled against Peter’s mouth while an oddly shaped pancake sizzled on the cast-iron griddle. Their home rang with stories and laughter. Butter, honey, and cranberry jam perfumed the kitchen. Wood crackled in the hearth, and the kettle whistled.

Nico jutted his chin at Peter and narrowed his eyes, licking syrup from his mouth in a quick swoop.

“You’re a mean little witch,” Nico whispered. “And you’re an ungrateful beast,”

Ethan’s chest constricted. They were both so, so beautiful.

Ethan hiccupped through another laugh. He held the mewling kitten with one hand and laid the other over his belly. Here we are. Alive and breathing, loved and safe. Here I am. Held and holding life. Holding life.