And he would’ve said more—more babbling, afraid, hopeful—but Milo’s hands tightened, clutching his. Milo’s eyes were huge, and Milo’s voice was saying, “Yes—yes, oh, Goddess, Van—yes, all of that, yes, I love you, I have since—oh, Van, yes—”

  Van kissed him. The kiss wasn’t entirely planned—this was new, so new, and Van himself had just come from a magician’s bed, and Milo had been frightened for him. But Van could never have not kissed him, at that moment, with that yes on Milo’s lips.

  Milo kissed him back. Awed, at first; disbelieving. But then deeper, sincere, opening up: inviting Van’s tongue, almost innocent in the transparency of desire. Nothing hidden, nothing held back. He tasted like dark strong sugared tea and heat, and because he needed a shave the friction of red-gold stubble shivered along Van’s skin.

  He was real and human and elemental. He was a wonder. Van leaned down, gathered him closer, drank him in, learned the taste and feel of him. His hands in Milo’s hair. His mouth claiming Milo’s, and being claimed. Milo’s hands at his waist, at his back: clinging to him, touching him, pulling him in tighter.

  “I’m here,” Van whispered against the corner of his mouth, promised to the tempting spot under his jawline, vowed to the curve of one ear under shaggy red waves. “I’m here. I love you.”

  “You’re here,” Milo whispered back. His eyes were exhausted, in the way of someone who’d not been sleeping much. But they were brighter now. “You want me.”

  “I love you. And I want you with me. If you want that. If you wouldn’t mind opening up a shop in Baylight—I know it’s small, out on the coast, but—”

  “That’s what I want.” Milo tucked his face into Van’s neck for a second, pulled back to meet Van’s gaze. “That’s all I want. Nothing fancy. A life. With you.”

  “What we want.”

  “I still don’t have any money—not much—I won’t be a burden on you, I swear, I’ll find work, save up enough to start—” He stopped. His hands stopped, too: curiosity conquering other emotions. “Van—what’s in your pocket?”

  Van shoved a hand in. Back out. Then nearly dropped the handful.

  Raw gold and pearls. Lorre’s hair-pins, a tumble of them. More: loose sapphires, diamonds, rubies. An antique amethyst ring. A strand of black pearls, dripping over his fingers. Pools of light, rainbows flinging color.

  Milo gulped, “Goddess…”

  Lorre might’ve meant the wealth as payment, as if to a courtesan or bed-servant. Van didn’t think so, though. The hair-pins, the pearls. Those were personal: items Lorre had worn. A gift.

  He draped the pearls across Milo’s shoulder. Beauty for beauty. “He wants us to be happy.”

  “I was all prepared to hate him. For hurting you.”

  “I know. I love you.”

  “Maybe I hope he’s happy too. Whatever that means.”

  “Yes,” Van said, and kissed Milo again, draped in jewels and possibilities.

  Chapter 8

  They went home in the morning, under patchwork clouds and fleeting rain-showers. Blue sky meandered in and out, playing games with cotton-puffs of white and grey.

  The Queen spoke to them all, one last time; she thanked her volunteers, and she told them she was proud to stand among them, and she told them she was honored by their faith in her. It was a good speech, genuine, and Van did like her. She caught his eye, near the end, and her cheeks flushed pink; Van wondered whether she was thinking of the moment she’d offered him up to Lorre, to be used however a magician might desire.

  He didn’t mind that. He had wanted it, after all.

  He had, he thought, just about everything he’d ever wanted.

  He nodded at his queen, and her expression eased; she gave him a fractional nod in return, and her gaze swept onward.

  Lorre did not come to speak to the army, and his fanciful tent was gone. But a large and beautiful firebird sat atop one of the signal-posts, displaying plumes of indigo and smoky orange and crimson and blue topaz and weathered gold. It tipped its head at Van and Milo, as they passed; it had jeweled labyrinth eyes.

  “Thank you again,” Van said to him. He was holding Milo’s hand. “And if you ever need anything—”

  Lorre took flight, a comet of color against the blue-and-white expanse. Heading north, maybe. Toward the royal treasury, to find a legendary crown. Without looking back.

  “He doesn’t like to be thanked,” Milo said. “Does he?” There’d been two plain golden rings among the treasures: unfussy, straightforward, amid decadence. Coincidentally, or perhaps not, one had fit Van. The other fit Milo. It hugged Milo’s finger now; Van could feel it, as they stood hand in hand.

  “I think he does like it,” he said. “But it’s…complicated. Magic. Or just him. Let’s go home.”

  Milo nodded, not letting go. The sun popped out to rest rays atop his red hair like a benediction.

  They’d spent the night packing to leave, gathering equipment and supplies and spare socks; they’d also spent the night touching, stealing and sharing kisses, laughing in amazement that they could. That had felt right too: the way they’d moved together from the start, just one more piece settling into place, a once-broken bone having set itself and neatly mended.

  They had slept together, bundled close. They had only slept; Milo hadn’t asked for more, despite the arousal Van could feel pressing against his hip. He hadn’t wanted to ask either. Not just yet, not now. Too new, for all the rightness. Too bruisable, this emotion.

  He wondered whether Milo was trying to care for him, some lingering concern over any possible physical hurt; he wondered whether Milo was afraid to ask about sex, in case Van ended up comparing a farmer’s son to a glittering shapeshifting wild magician. That was ludicrous, because they were different people and because Van did not want Milo to be anyone else. He hoped Milo knew that.

  Milo smiled at him now, short and freckled and sturdy and perfect. Van felt the love spread out from his chest and all through him, down to his toes in their boots, radiant and warmer than the scattered sun.

  They gathered up packs and bows and provisions. They’d been offered a ride partway, because Claudette was friends with a driver of one of the wagons. She waved at them; Milo waved back.

  The ride was quiet, and the wagon rattled, and Claudette looked at their entwined hands with open fascination. She did not ask about Lorre, but she did ask what they planned to do now, how Van would like running an inn, whether Milo was excited about seeing the ocean for the first time. She herself was going home to join her father in his workshop, crafting guitars and lutes and gitterns; she would be good at that, Van thought, with those quick skillful hands, those bright dark eyes.

  He exchanged glances with Milo, as they got to the crossroads near the Treow Forest; Milo nodded. As they prepared to turn west, as Claudette hugged them in farewell, Van pressed four of the gemstones into her hand. She stared at rubies and diamonds, eyes and mouth astonished.

  Van said, “For your own workshop, when you start that up,” and she laughed, and hugged him again, and promised to visit and bring Milo a new guitar, one of her own design.

  They walked for another hour or so, over well-worn paths and hills. The air began to taste of oceans and home. Van started to whistle, under his breath and then louder, a fishing-song he’d known from childhood. Milo’s smile painted the hills with joy.

  They would not make it all the way to Baylight before night, but Van knew where they were, more or less, and took Milo slightly out of the way, up to the small village and ferry at Convers, with the decent travelers’ inn. They did not need to cross the river, but the village would be tidy and picturesque in the morning, and he wanted Milo to have a decent bed, and they could afford it.

  His parents’ inn, the Gull’s Nest, was overall nicer—not bias, but professional evaluation—but the unimaginatively named Crossroads had well-built walls and a good fire and a bustling common room. News about the war, or rather the not-war, and the border negotiations had made it up to the village before Van and Milo; several cloth merchants and vintners were discussing potential impacts upon sales, loudly.

  A very giddy minstrel was scribbling notes. Van pondered what elements would make it into the song. Not himself, he guessed. Almost certainly Lorre.

  A few heads turned, as he and Milo came in. Several people immediately started their way, with intent. Van should’ve expected that, and hadn’t. He and Milo weren’t in uniform, but did wear the pin of the Queen’s insignia; they’d both been proud to carry it. They also clearly had weaponry, and had been traveling. Questions arose.

  He answered as truthfully as he could—yes, the war was resolved; no, no one had died; yes, it was true about Lorre and the blinding light and also moving a river—and grabbed Milo’s hand and ducked away from well-meaning interest. Up the stairs. To one of the better rooms, because a few of Lorre’s hair-pins had paid for that.

  “I suppose we’ll get more of that,” Milo said, shutting the door. The wood was oak, and heavy, and comforting. The fire, already lit, heated the timbered space. “Everyone’ll want to know.”

  “And they know me here, sort of—I’m not local but we’re not too far; some of them know my parents—so I’m someone they can ask.” Van set down quiver, pack, cloak. “Sorry about that.”

  “No, I don’t mind. They need the news.” Milo, also having got comfortable, held out both hands to the fire. The glow winked along his ring. “We’ll get to your village tomorrow, then?”

  “Mid-morning. Depending on when we head out.” Van gazed at him, basked in the sight of him. In fire gleam, Milo was almost a fire-prince himself: a study in red and gold and copper, hair loose when one hand took out the tie, sleeves rolled up to display strong forearms and muscles and treasure-dust freckles. He was not Lorre; he was thoroughly human, deep-rooted, rolling a shoulder to stretch it.

  The clarity raced along Van’s veins like sunrise, like illumination. Yes, he thought. Oh, yes.

  Milo looked up. Started to speak; stopped. Licked his lips.

  The fire leapt.

  A knock interrupted; bread and cheese and sausages, and a jug of local cider, arrived. The boy who’d brought it lingered, eyeing their insignia, the longbows. “Evander Roche, from Baylight? Were you at the front, with—”

  “We were there,” Milo answered, not looking away from Van. “And now we’re back. And everyone’s safe. Thank you for the supper.”

  The boy scampered out, shutting the door. The shutters of the window were open; moonlight shone on the river below, and came in through glass to mingle and meld with the firelight. The bed, the only bed, stood tall and curtained, not magically splendid but designed for coziness on winter nights.

  “Everyone’s safe,” Van echoed, and held out a hand.

  Milo took it. “Yes.”

  “Are we?”

  “Safe?” Milo reached up, trailed fingers across Van’s cheek. Shorter, he had to tip his head back for their eyes to meet. “I think we are. What were you thinking, just now?”

  “I want you,” Van said. Words, escaping. “I want you, and—and I know it’s too soon, I know you might not—I don’t want you to think I’m not serious about this, like I’d just jump into your bed from his—I’ve never been more serious. About any of this. I look at you and I think that you’re real and you’re true and I can barely believe it and I want to kiss you all over.”

  Milo laughed, though he also blinked, rapidly, and ducked his head for a moment. But he leaned in closer, bringing their bodies together. “I was trying not to rush you.”

  “You’re coming home with me.”

  “I thought…I don’t know. Not comparisons, in bed; I can’t compare, anyway. But. If you were hurt—not physically, or not just that, I know you were sore after that first night, I know how you move—this, I mean.” He set a hand over Van’s chest, over Van’s heart: short blunt freckled fingers against linen and a shirt-pocket. “I’m not someone who wants to hurt you, when you’re healing.”

  Van put his hand over Milo’s, just there. “You said we were safe. You and me.”

  “I did.”

  “We’re all right, then. Healing, maybe. But it’s good.” He lifted Milo’s hand, kissed the fingertips. “We’re good.”

  Milo’s breath caught.

  “I want to,” Van said. “I want you to know I want you. You—no comparisons. Lorre is…Lorre. A raincloud, sometimes. I can’t love a raincloud, not like I love you. I want you, and I want to make you feel good.”

  Milo’s laugh, this time, was uneven; he pushed the other hand across his eyes. “I want that. Us.”

  “Good,” Van said, and drew him in closer, over to the bed, and kissed him.

  He had a bit more experience now, though not so much with undressing another man; Milo assisted, hands colliding, wandering, exploring. Van got them naked, Milo under him, and did a lot of that touching, stroking, caressing. Milo moaned and quivered and surrendered beautifully to sensation, in all sorts of delectable ways: arching up and begging and gasping Van’s name, cock rock-hard and dripping all over himself.

  Van bent down to lick him, to taste him. Milo all but screamed, one hand finding Van’s hair, one hand clutching the sheets. Van found out what he liked, the places and rhythms, and did that more, lips and tongue busy learning the shape of him, one hand fondling the heavy weights below. Milo’s hips jerked frantically.

  Van lifted his head, let the shaft slide along his lips. “Good?”

  Milo whimpered, collapsed against creamy bed-linen, lips pink where he’d been licking them, shiny as his cock.

  “Which way do you like things?” Van stroked him slowly, hand around his shaft, pumping. His own cock was stiff and dark and full; his body hummed with need, with care, with fondness, with love. “Me taking you, you taking me, neither of those? Just my mouth? Tell me what you like.”

  “Oh Goddess,” Milo said, fervently. A bead of dripping want pooled at the tip of his cock. “I—I—I like either part, all of it—I’ve done both—oh fuck, Van, that, please…”

  “I should have asked you that, before.” Van rubbed a thumb over the drip, the slit, testing. That got another moan, long and liquid as surrender, and more wetness. “You know about me. And you said you’ve done this before.”

  “Yes…a few, some, I always knew what I liked, I like sex and I like people—oh—Van, please, please, I’m going to…”

  “Can I fuck you? This time. We can do both. I want you like that, too. But this time…” He did that combination of caresses again. He liked the result. “I think I want to make you feel everything. Good?”

  “Fuck yes,” Milo said weakly, gazing at Van’s hand on his cock. “I’m yours. All of me.”

  “You are.” Van moved up and kissed him, and almost thought better of it because his mouth had just been on Milo’s prick; but Milo did not seem to mind, and kissed him back, meeting him with equal hunger, eyes big and blue and overjoyed. He also got a hand on Van’s prick, fondling, teasing.

  Van found their oil, this time: finally using that vial. It had a faint scent, not strong: vanilla, or just sweetness, an echo of Milo dressing him up and stroking scent through his hair. He kissed Milo’s hip, over a constellation of freckles; he pressed his face against Milo’s thigh for a moment, simply breathing.

  Milo’s hand came down to run through his hair. Van smiled against the freckles, and kissed him again.

  He took as much care as he knew how to, as patient and tender as he could be, with his hand and Milo’s body and opening up. He might’ve been too careful; Milo eventually said, “I won’t break, Van, I love you, now do more,” and put a hand over his, both their fingers growing slippery. Van blushed, and learned about how that worked, when not magically assisted. He guessed he’d got it very right when he moved the fingers and Milo shrieked his name, back arching, muscles rippling with pleasure.

  Van made and underlined some mental notes, at that.

  He wanted Milo around him, under him, everywhere; he wanted to feel them together, and he kissed Milo wordlessly and got himself into place, there, his length and his tip against Milo’s sweet oil-slick body. He pushed in, gradually.

  Like nothing else. Not ever. Milo’s face, those eyes, the sounds. The hot tight depths of him. The way Milo’s breath shuddered and his mouth shaped the word, “Love,” as Van took him and filled him up.

  Van moved inside him, thrust and plunged and tried to find that spot again; he knew he had when Milo clenched around him and gasped his name, head falling back against pillows. Van had a hand on Milo’s shaft, a loose grip for more sensation; he stroked and thrust and whispered, “I love you,” and watched Milo begin to come for him, long drawn-out spurts of release that streaked white-hot between them.

  Van groaned—couldn’t help it—and felt his own body rock forward in response, coming, spilling himself; the incandescence swept through him and swept him away.

  He collapsed across Milo, after. Needing to touch. Not caring about stickiness.

  “Oh fuck,” Milo said, breathless, “you’re so—I love you.” His arms went around Van, holding them both securely in place.

  “Good?”

  “We’re doing that again.”

  “Good.”

  “I love how you feel. Right here, like this.”

  Van kissed his nose. “Me too. Um…messy, though…”

  Milo made a face; Van laughed, said, “I’ll handle it,” and moved, tenderly.

  He found a cloth, and a pitcher of water. He hadn’t done this part much, but he wanted to; that beautiful welcome throb echoed through his chest, worshipful and serene, when he washed Milo’s body clean and checked for soreness, aches, anything requiring his devoted care.

  “I feel wonderful,” Milo said, watching him. “Come here.”

  Van finished cleaning himself up, and came back to bed as instructed. Milo promptly tucked himself into Van’s arms, head on Van’s shoulder. Van, more smooth-chested, started to play with a curl of Milo’s red-gold chest-fuzz; it wasn’t a lot, not anything like a mountain bear or rock-goat, but it was there and it was fun.