He could do this role, if Lorre wanted that; it might be only his fourth time with a man, but he did have some ideas. And his body decidedly wanted this. Craved it, even. Fucking Lorre, being inside him like that—

  He put a hand on the magician’s chest. Pushed Lorre back into the bed, amid cerulean and amber satin. Lorre went willingly, and spread his legs when Van leaned down over him. His hair made a gilded halo across priceless fabric.

  “You want me to fuck you,” Van said. “So you can feel it. Right? I can do that.”

  Lorre nodded again, and invisible hands trailed along Van’s back, hips, cock: tugging, encouraging. His actual hands stayed put against the bed.

  “This is me,” Van told him, “touching you,” and bent to doing that.

  It was different but equally glorious, like this: glimmering, firelit, thick and rich as caramel. His hands on Lorre, callused and brown against flawless smoothness. His fingers stroking, pressing, pushing in. Lorre made a hushed sound and did something that probably was some sort of very specific shapeshift, body opening, easy, hungry against Van’s exploring touch. Lorre also did the trick with pulling sweet oil out of thin air again, except he used it on himself this time, slick and ready.

  Van touched him, petted him, held him down and held him in place with weight and caresses, and finally slid into him, a long deep glide. Lorre moaned at the feel of it. Van nearly finished on the spot, because it felt so good, it all felt so good, that sensation—

  Sensations. His grip on Lorre’s legs, handling them, pushing them up. His hips rocking, pounding into Lorre. Hard, as requested.

  Lorre did come first. Van, near-senseless from ecstasy, spared a second to be proud of that. He’d done that: made his magician spill all over himself, open-mouthed and quivering, from Van’s cock in him and Van’s hand on his prick, wringing him out.

  That sight shoved him over the edge too, and he lost every thought for a moment, drowning in gold and blue and the tastes of sugar and rain.

  He came back to himself breathless, shaken, aware that he was panting and sweaty and had just emptied himself out inside Lorre’s enchanter’s body. Lorre, for someone at least eighty years old, had recovered remarkably fast, and was gazing up at him with a tiny line between golden eyebrows.

  Van managed, “…what?”

  “Nothing. That was…good.” Lorre paused, added swiftly, “Excellent, really, please don’t take that as faint praise, it isn’t, I feel much better,” and waited for Van’s reaction to this. His hair, no longer smooth and sleek, curled around his face in blond dandelion wisps.

  “Well.” Van eased out of him, rolled onto the bed beside him, stroked the closest slim thigh for more physical comfort. For them both, maybe. “I’m glad, then.”

  Lorre did the quick hand-wave clean-up for them. That was becoming worrisomely normal in Van’s daily life: magic on him, in him, around him. “I needed that.”

  “Happy to help.”

  “I won’t see you again.”

  “You could. If you wanted.”

  “You don’t want that.”

  “I don’t?”

  “Not like…” Lorre sat up. Grabbed a blanket, a sea-green heavy thing. “Never mind.”

  “Not like what?”

  “You want what you want, and I don’t want you, and you don’t want me.”

  “That,” Van said, once he could talk, “was cruel.”

  “Was it?”

  “You’re trying to tell me that you don’t actually care,” Van said, sitting up too, both arms around his knees in the sudden iceberg freeze, “about me.”

  “Of course I care.” Lorre made an exasperated gesture; the fire leapt higher, in its copper dish. “I care when any piece of the world gets hurt. A salmon, a fox, a blade of grass, a vein of copper, you.”

  “A blade of grass.”

  “Don’t ask me to be what I’m not.”

  “No,” Van said. “I’m not asking for that.”

  And, in the firelight, Lorre looked at him, and was the first to look away: down at the folds of green blanket, the tumbled bedding, the foot of the bed.

  Van scooted closer. Next to him.

  Lorre’s voice was smaller than usual. “The general called you…Roche. Your name?”

  “Evander Roche. Van. Nice to meet you.”

  Lorre’s smile flickered, tugged at the corner of his mouth, ducked back into hiding. It was a surprisingly real smile, wry and shy and human. “Yes. I’m just Lorre. No family.”

  “I know who you are,” Van told him, and nudged him with an elbow, companionably, the way he would’ve with Thom or Claudette or even Milo. “Kind of hard to miss, with that hair.”

  Lorre laughed. Outside the rain picked up, drumming through the afternoon.

  “Can I ask a question?”

  “Why not?” Lorre pulled strawberries out of the air with one hand, a glass dish out of emptiness with the other, and offered him a berry. “Go on.”

  “Do you collect things that’re magic? Like the book about trees. Or whatever’s in that purple bottle.”

  “The bottle’s just a dye.” Lorre handed him another strawberry. They were resplendent, perfectly juicy and red and ripe. “I made it accidentally out of blackberries and indigo and shadows when I was trying to make a cloak, and I can’t work out how to undo it, and it turns everything that color the second it touches anything. I’m not infallible, as it happens, a fact about which I can see you’re astonished.”

  Van snorted.

  “I don’t properly collect things. Sometimes. If they’re dangerous and I think they’re better off with me.”

  “Is that why you want the Fire Prince’s Crown?”

  “Because of that,” Lorre said, “and because he and I—” He stopped, fast enough to be a confession. The dish of strawberries hopped over to the map table.

  “I won’t ask if you don’t want me to.”

  “Don’t.”

  Van set a hand on his shoulder, light enough to not take offense if Lorre pushed him away. Lorre did not, so he slid the hand up to the back of the magician’s neck, under long rumpled hair, and started kneading tension away. Lorre folded up both knees, put his arms on them, hid his face in the arms, but did not move away from being soothed.

  Van kneaded a bit harder, comforting. Got even closer, up against him. Bodies, bare, making contact. Touching.

  “Because,” Lorre said, muffled, “the folk stories say his father was the fire. All those centuries ago. My mother was a river. I don’t know anyone else like me.”

  Van needed a second to work through those improbable statements; and then the sheer awful emptiness of it, the endless void, the infinity of no one else, horrified his soul.

  “I told you not to ask,” Lorre said from behind a waterfall of hair. “But you can keep doing that. Good anchor.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Never mind. Go away now. Stop speaking.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I can turn you into a minnow. Don’t pity me.”

  “It’s not pity,” Van said, hand resting over the nape of Lorre’s neck. “I’ve got you. Anything you need.”

  “I don’t need anything.” Lorre sat back, shaking the closeness off. “Especially not from humans.”

  Breathing, in and out. Even and steady. Even though it hurt. “Of course you don’t. So you want the Crown because it’s safer with you, like you said?”

  “And because I don’t know how he did the perpetual fire, and I want to know.” Lorre made a wry face at the strawberries from across the tent. “If someone can do something I can’t, I need to learn.”

  “So that you can be the best? You are, I thought.”

  “It’s not about being the best,” Lorre said. “It’s about being—” He stopped. Waved a hand, not magical, or not visibly so. “Never mind. You should go.”

  About being valuable, Van thought. About being good enough. About not being alone. “You can keep saying that, and I’ll keep asking if you mean it.”

  “No,” Lorre said. “I mean you should go because—because your friend is afraid for you, and worrying about you, and in love with you. He’s thinking it very loudly. Or feeling it. He doesn’t trust me with you. And he’s right about that, and he does love you, and I think you should go and live utterly ordinary lives and be happy. Be in love. Someone should be.”

  Van couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. Those words, thrown out there—Lorre thought that Milo felt—and if Lorre said so, it was true, it had to be, and that meant—

  That meant Milo’s grin and freckled hands and sturdy warmth at his side forever—the rightness of it, the understanding like a cloudburst, like a cleansing annealing deluge—

  But he was here, too. And he could see Lorre not meeting his eyes. He got out, “Lorre—thank you, I—he and I—but he never said—”

  “He’s been saying it,” Lorre said. “I can feel it. No, I don’t know what people are thinking. I can’t read minds. But I can feel…the shape of some emotions, sometimes. Especially when it’s about me. Yes, self-centered, arrogant, I know, I’m all of that.”

  “You’re not really,” Van said, automatically; and then he nudged Lorre again, gently, and said, “Maybe only a little.”

  He got the very real smile again, for that.

  “I’ve never seen the inside of your tent,” Lorre said. “So I can’t drop you inside it. Maybe over by the cooking-fire?”

  “And now you’re helping me.”

  Lorre shrugged a shoulder: naked, beautiful, hair looking exactly like he’d been recently fucked, eyes looking much older, the age he truly was. “I like being unpredictable, and everyone thinks I’ve kidnapped you. So I’ll return you. To your true love.”

  “My…you think he is. You mean it.” Van heard the words with wonder; breathed them again, to taste and feel them. “He loves me. I love him.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “It’s real.”

  “You’re still going to have to talk to him. I can’t help you with that.”

  “But it’s real. I mean. Him and me.”

  “Do you need me to say it again? It’s real. I’m going to throw you out of my tent now.”

  “Let me get dressed first,” Van said, laughing, getting up; laughing because he couldn’t not, because the joy and the tenderness were bubbling up inside, because he could see his future and he wanted to dive into it and come up surfacing through sunlight.

  Clothing thrown on, weapons gathered, he came back to Lorre. The magician had stayed sitting at the edge of the bed, bundled into the emerald blanket; he got up as Van came over. His eyes gave the emotion away, though he ran a hand through his hair and flattened it into behaving.

  “I’m here,” Van said. “I just want to tell you that. I’m here if you ever need me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “We’re friends, and I care that you’re doing all right.”

  Lorre did a credible impression of complete dismay at that statement. “We’re not friends.”

  “We are, though. And thank you. For telling me about Milo. For everything.” He touched Lorre’s cheek; the magician let him. “For all of it. Nothing I’d ever imagined. A dream come true. Magic.”

  “Of course,” Lorre said. “That’s me. I won’t say good-bye, in the morning.”

  “I know. But, Lorre…” One more touch, tucking blond silk behind an ear. “You’re not alone. You don’t have to be. I hope you do find someone. Someone like you, or someone you like. Enough to let them stay with you, anyway. To try.” He made sure Lorre was looking at him, for the next bit. “You deserve that, being happy. And, look, either way, if you ever want…you come and find us, if you’re lonely, all right? You know where I’ll be. In an inn. Being ordinary.”

  “I’m not ordinary.” Lorre caught Van’s hand, held it for a moment, let go. “But thank you. Evander. Van. I’ve stopped the rain for you, by the way.”

  Van grinned at him. “Thanks.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” Van said, and he meant it. In every way, with all of himself. “Yes.”

  The world flowed and dissolved. Lorre’s magic pushed him through space and distance like mist and clouds, a heartbeat, a pair of beats, until his boots hit the very tangible mud of the ground, and Van’s next inhale held cooking-smoke and the scent of just-departed rain.

  Chapter 7

  Most people weren’t around; Van guessed they were packing up, readying to leave, aware of the Queen’s order about the morning and dismissing the volunteers. A person he didn’t recognize, who’d been adding wood to the fire, was staring at him; well, fair enough. People did not generally walk out of the air on a daily basis, unless, of course, Lorre happened to be involved.

  He said, to the staring person, “Don’t worry about it,” and thought, Milo, and did not run, because of the mud. But he walked quickly.

  When he got closer he saw their shared tent, and he saw familiar red hair and apprehensive freckles outside, pacing. Milo stopped to gaze up the hill, at Lorre’s colorful stripes and ribbons; he sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. He took a step, still looking up that way, and stopped.

  Van said, “Milo.”

  Milo spun around. Froze. Then launched himself Van’s direction, heedless of mud. “Van—you’re here, he let you go, you’re safe—”

  “I’m here. I’m fine.” He put both arms around Milo, marveling at the recognition of it, the way they fit. “It’s all right.”

  “It’s been hours—I thought—”

  “I wouldn’t leave you—”

  “You might not have a choice, if—” Milo bit his lip. His hands, on Van’s shoulders, were cautious as a physician’s attempt to do no harm. His eyes searched Van, up and down. “Come inside. Sit down. If you’re hurt, like yesterday—how can I help?”

  “I’m not hurt.” He let Milo lead him inside, where they’d slept beside each other, where they’d comforted each other, where they’d known each other. Milo had got out packs but left the bed-rolls, no doubt because the volunteers weren’t officially dismissed until next morning. The canvas of their tent was undecorated; the small lamp barely kept out the afternoon lowering of clouds.

  He caught Milo’s hands in his. “Milo. I’d never leave you like that.”

  “He might have just taken you. He would do that.”

  “Honestly, I think he wouldn’t. Not without asking. Or at least he’d feel bad about it, after.”

  “Oh.” Milo’s voice came almost soundless. “You do like him, don’t you? You’re going with him. You—you came back to say good-bye.”

  “I do like him. But I’m not going with him.”

  “He doesn’t want you? He’s the worst fucking bastard—using you like this, yesterday, today—I saw you yesterday, and now this—” Milo’s shoulders tensed. He tried to jerk his hands out of Van’s; Van held on. Milo half-shouted, “He can’t keep fucking doing this to you, and I can’t watch and do nothing—”

  “It’s over. I swear.”

  “Goddess—Van, I don’t know how to help.” Milo squeezed both eyes shut, opened them, pleaded, “Tell me how to help. What you need. Anything.”

  “I need you.” He hesitated, watched the reaction. “I always have. Since we met, I think, and you smiled at me and offered to buy the first round. In the tavern. After we signed up.”

  “You were so earnest.” Milo pulled away, pushed both hands against his eyes, whispered, “You were so serious about it—the way you cared, the way you always care—I knew I wanted to know you—”

  “You felt it too. How I feel.”

  “But you don’t. You never—you looked at him and wanted him, and I’m nothing like—”

  “I’m not with Lorre. I’m with you.”

  “If you do want him—if you want to be with him—” The whole broken anguish of a battle, not between countries but between emotions, scarred Milo’s face. “Of course you would, he’s magical and beautiful and—”

  “He is all of that. And he sent me away. He sent me to you.” The right words, the right answers; he hoped, oh Goddess he hoped, because this might be the most important moment of his life, even more so than being tossed into a magician’s bed. Milo was in pain. Van had to make that hurt go away.

  “He…” Milo paused, unsure, on shifting ground. His eyes were the color of the sky at the first edge of light, the fragile dawn of a new morning.

  “He knew. What you want. What I want—what I really want.”

  “You…and he…”

  “It didn’t mean nothing. It mattered. Me being there. But he’s not for me. And I think that’s fine, actually, I’m not meant for that. Walking through the world like that. I don’t want it.”

  “You don’t.” Milo’s voice shook. “Then what…what do you want?”

  “I want to go home.” Van reached out, gathered Milo’s hands into his again. This man, his man. His best friend. The man who’d cared for him, who’d broken his own heart to try to give Van happiness. The man he never wanted to be without, ever, because he knew now, he knew what he wanted and who he loved, with everything he was.

  Milo’s lips parted, but he said nothing. His hands were cold. Van held them, rubbed them, his fingers trying to comfort chilly firework freckles.

  He said again, “I want to go home. I want to sit by the water and watch the waves in sunshine, and I want to take over the inn when Mum and Da decide to step down, and I want to give travelers someplace warm and cozy to stay, a bed, a home. And I want you with me.”

  Milo’s breath trembled; Van heard it. He held on tighter. “I want you right there, designing gowns and shirts and hats, making everyone feel lovely. I want to see you in the morning when we get up, and when we go to bed at night. I want you next to me, like you said once before, where we should be. It’s you and it’s me and I think I knew it all along, from that first day, except it took a push from a magician to make me see it right. But you are right. You feel right—you always have. I love you, and you’re the most generous person I know, too good for me, everything I’ve put you through, I know that, except I’m hoping you maybe don’t know that, and you maybe want this enough to say yes.” He stopped to breathe.