5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

B riar couldn’t sleep.

He flipped through his old journal, re-reading segments from months and years ago, and huddled under the covers on his bed. Aster had texted him after the horses were secured in the stables, but they hadn’t talked for long. Driven by restlessness, Briar had crept into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, listening to the old, dark manor creak and whine. He’d shuffled around in his house-shoes, gazed at shadowy paintings, ran his hand along mantles and windowsills, and startled at the sound of bare feet on the floor.

“My, my,” Luca whispered, leaning their shoulder against the open frame in the entryway. They glanced around the living room. “Someone’s feeling owlish this evening. Is it the storm?”

“Might have something to with it, but I think it’s a case of racing thoughts,” Briar said. He drummed his fingers on the back of the couch. “I’m curious—what was it like going from Guardian to assistant?”

“Oh, not much changed, honestly. As serendipitous as the job description is, I couldn’t do much as a Guardian. I looked after the needy, sent them clues, tried to steer them in the right direction, but in the end, humans will do as humans please. At least Aster’s dramatic enough to make things fun. He listens, too. Most of the time. Sometimes .” They pushed their long, black locs back with one hand, and rolled their eyes. “He listened when I badgered him about you, thankfully. Speaking of which, how’re you doing? I know this place is rather drab—so macabre—but artsy, right? A little gothic, a little vintage.”

Briar laughed softly. “It’s beautiful here, and everyone’s been more than welcoming.”

“Good. I’ve noticed you’ve been dining with Aster,” they said, arching a brow.

“I have, yes. I guess we enjoy each other’s company. I never thought I’d see the day, but here we are. He’s quite. . . I don’t know. Charming?”

“Charming is choice word.” Luca nodded. Their rich, dark eyes narrowed a little, but they smiled. “That feeling? The faux-betrayal trying to work its way into your heart? It fades. I know the High Court makes everything feel permanent, but nothing is. Not us, not this planet, not God. You can let your old life go in favor of a new one. This one, if it serves you well enough. And, trust me, not a single damn angel will lay a finger on you for it. Aster will cut their hands off if they try to.”

“I’m capable of defending myself, Luca. I don’t need someone to fight for me,” he said, glancing from Luca to the frosted window.

“Everyone needs someone to fight for them. Give yourself enough time and you’ll fight for him, too.” The floor flexed under Luca’s shifting weight. “I’m stealing leftover dessert,” Luca sang, tapping their fingers on the wall. “Interested?”

“Thank you, but I’ll pass. I should probably try to get some sleep, anyway.”

“Suit yourself. Goodnight, little battle bird,” they said. Their footsteps faded as they crossed the bottom of the staircase and made for the kitchen. Another quip drifted over their shoulder before they disappeared around the corner. “You are, indeed, allowed to like him. Shocking, I know.”

“Shocking,” Briar parroted, laughing under his breath.

He sipped his tea and sat precariously on the edge of the windowsill, balancing on his rounded heels. Before he lost his nerve, he opened his text messages, squinting at the harsh, bright screen.

Briar: Are you awake?

Aster (Bat Emoji): I might be

Briar: Do you want company?

Aster (Bat Emoji): What kind of company?

Briar huffed. He read the text three times.

Briar: The kind who brings you tea

Aster (Bat Emoji): Extra honey

Briar snorted but made sure to spoon extra Manuka honey into Aster’s mug. He crept down the hall in the east wing, following textured, floral wallpaper, and artwork hung between unlit candleholders. He recognized The Witches’ Sabbath by Francisco Goya. Closer to Aster’s door, a winding compilation of snake bones were pinned to the wall in the shape of an ouroboros. He knocked. The door floated open, already unlocked and ajar.

Aster’s lair was as dramatic as the rest of the house. The white walls were accented with framed artwork and bleached animal skulls, and a set of French doors opened to a simple balcony covered in heaping piles of fresh snow. Claw-shaped hooks held back thick maroon curtains, exposing paneled windows. Across from his surprisingly simple bed, an aquarium stretched from floor to ceiling, built into the wall and filled with driftwood, ferns, and exotic plants.

“You have a snake,” Briar said, dumbly.

A reticulated python—no, a gigantic reticulated python—flicked its tongue, curled comfortably around a branch beneath a heat lamp.

“Chastity, meet Briar, Briar, meet Chastity,” Aster said. He propped his hip against a sleek, wooden dresser. A paper-thin TV hung above it.

“Is she friendly?”

“Sometimes.”

Briar shot him a quizzical look. How could a reptile that size live in your house and not be friendly all the time? He held his tongue and kicked off his house-shoes. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Had a late call. Couldn’t settle after,” he said. He grabbed the mug, pinching the circular top with his fingers. “You?”

The only light in the room came from Chastity’s aquarium, pouring over the floor and Aster’s feet, casting a yellow glow on his clavicles and the line of his shoulders. Joggers hung low on his hips. Gray, simple. Probably (stupidly) designer. His beauty glinted the same way a blade would, finely sharpened and expertly crafted.

Briar almost forgot to answer. “Clippings,” he blurted, which was a quarter of the truth. The rest stood before him. “Sometimes they’re uncomfortable.”

“They’ll be easier to deal with once they’ve healed. I’d usually say you’ll start seeing regrowth in the next year or two, but with the removal being what it was, it might take longer.”

“Have you ever seen clippings like mine before?” He sipped his tea, toeing the bedroom door shut.

“Not in a long while.”

“But you have?”

“I have, yes.”

“And the ones who were clipped—they deserved it?”

“No,” Aster said. He ran his mouth across the edge of his mug. “Are you still trying to rectify that? Because there’s no use. The only thing you’ll find down that rabbit hole is self-hatred and more trauma.”

“I’m not traumatized.”

“Then what are you?”

“Hurt,” Briar snapped. “Confused. Trying to make sense of it.”

“And if there’s no sense to be made?”

“There has to be.”

“There isn’t.”

“I didn’t come in here to argue with you about this.”

“Then why’d you come?” Aster tipped his head. He tracked Briar with a slow, mindful once over.

“Because I’d rather be alone with you than alone with my thoughts.”

“Is that what you are? Alone with me?”

Briar’s cheeks flared. He swallowed a mouthful of too-hot tea and shook his head. Maybe this was a mistake. A terrible, selfish mistake. Maybe he’d wandered the manor in the dead of night to escape his own haunting—Michael and the High Court and his sore clippings. Maybe he’d misjudged this, them, who they’d been together in the atrium hours ago.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Aster said.

“Well, that’s your fault.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Briar bit out, sucking in a strangled breath. “I hate that I keep bringing it up. It’s like I can’t—I can’t not talk about it, even though thinking about it makes my skin crawl. It. . . It makes me seize up, like I have to mention it, or, or question it, or—”

“Breathe, Briar.”

“I haven’t taken a breath since he took my wings,” Briar said, finally, just like that, flinging the truth like a bullet. His heart plummeted into his stomach. He kept his eyes locked with Aster’s, daring him to open his mouth, to say another word, to throw pity at Briar’s feet like a rotting carcass. Keep it, he wanted to say. Keep your sympathy away from this wrecked place.

Aster placed his mug on the dresser. “I’d like to walk toward you.”

“Then walk toward me,” he said, confused.

“I’d like to place my arms around you, too.”

“I don’t understand why you’re—”

“Because you’re shaking,” he said, gently, cooing at a frightened dog.

Briar hadn’t noticed the tea spilling over his knuckles until right then. He took another hot gulp, draining the mug until there was hardly any liquid left. “Are you asking for permission?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Sometimes Chastity has moments like this, too. She’ll coil her neck and sway side-to-side. It’s her way of telling me she’s in the mood to hunt—sometimes it’s because she feels threatened. Whether she’s hungry or scared, I’ll certainly get bit if I reach for her. She can’t articulate her feelings in a way I’ll understand, but you can. That’s why I’m making my intentions clear.”

“I’m not a snake, Aster.”

“No, but you look ready to bite. Or run.”

“I won’t.”

“I’d take the bite, if that clarifies anything.”

“And if I ran?”

“I’d imagine chasing you.”

“But you wouldn’t?”

Aster’s lips thinned. “I’d want to.”

“But you wouldn’t? ”

“You don’t see yourself as wounded, but I do. Chasing you would do nothing. I’d become another unsafe place, another skeleton in your closet, and you’d never come back. So, no, I wouldn’t chase you. But damn, I would let you bite me. Break skin, even. Tear my throat out.”

They were talking about a thousand things at once, as if they’d started rambling in two, three, four different languages and fit the sentiment together, locked the details in, touched the heartbeat of every shared horror, and somehow, Briar understood. His throat thickened. He swallowed, forcing the stone pressed against his windpipe to dislodge.

“Chased things don’t stay for a reason,” Aster said. He took a step. Another. “Caged things always look for escape. Wounded things bite when they’re cornered. Can I take this?” He was there, suddenly, standing in front of Briar, reaching for the mug clasped between his quivering hands. Briar nodded. Carefully, Aster took the cup. “I know it’s a dick thing to say right now, but you’re allowed to feel everything. Every single thing.”

“A dick thing,” Briar repeated. How human .

Aster’s hands met his waist. Fingers caught on Briar’s silk robe, causing the material to pool in the arc of his thumbs. Palms framed his tailbone, holding him there. They stood like that, belly to belly, chest to chest, breathing quietly in the dark. Soap from a late shower still clung to Aster’s skin. Briar followed his ribcage to the soft, small feathers nearest his skin, and pushed his fingers through them. Being held and holding on became a fixed point in Briar’s mind, something he hadn’t considered useful until then.

Of course, he’d wanted to be held. Of course, he’d wanted to hold.

Now he understood why he’d refrained. This easy closeness chipped away at his defenses.

“I’ll change your bandages tomorrow,” Aster said, nosing at Briar’s temple.

Briar nodded. He ran his hands along Aster’s shoulders. “Who gave you that scar? The one across your nose?”

“What?”

“When you showed me your ancient self—part of it, at least—you had another scar. Where did it come from?”

For the first time since they’d met, Aster held his breath. “Michael, obviously. You ever seen him undressed?” Briar shot him a sour look. Aster continued. “You might’ve tended to a wound—it’s a fair question. Anyway, you probably haven’t noticed the scar on his chest then.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“It’s much worse than mine.”

“Ah, this is a competition now.”

“Granted, he got my face—damn him—but I went for his heart. There’s no doubt I inflicted more pain.”

“Surely,” Briar said, almost laughing. He rested his cheek on Aster’s shoulder, paying mind to the soft, rhythmic circles being drawn on his back.

“Is there a reason you wanted to know?”

“Michael is the Archangel of War. I assumed, but I thought I’d ask.”

“And?”

“And. . . and nothing. I’m not the only one who’s faced the sharp end of his sword. Many of us have. I know him well enough to understand that.” Us . The word speared him. He paused, tracing another feather with his fingertip. “Knew him,” he corrected.

“You’re allowed to be angry.”

“I don’t know what to do with it, though. Anger festers. Spreads like mold.”

“Sometimes you need to let it out.”

Briar sighed through his nose. “Is that the best course? Giving into. . . Into, what? Rage? Desperation? The longing to—to. . . what? I don’t even know. I can’t place how I feel, I don’t know what this is.”

“Want to know what I think?” Aster asked. He brought his hand to Briar’s chin and pinched him there, thumb light on his bottom lip. “I think you’re tired.”

Briar closed his eyes, nodding. “Yeah—yes, probably. Most likely.”

“Definitely.”

“Definitely,” he echoed, defeated.

Aster kissed him, just once, and guided him through the candle-lit corridor, past The Nightmare , to Briar’s room in the west wing. His lips brushed Briar’s mouth. “Get some sleep.”

Briar wrung his hands, nodding through the uncertainty squirming in his chest. I could sleep beside you. The words calcified on his tongue. I could share your bed. Instead, he said, “Goodnight, Aster.”