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.

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.