12. The Mountains

"Hey," Micah said, putting his phone down and tapping Andrew's elbow, "we need to stop. It's after midnight. Let's rest."

Hugging the foot of Montana mountains, the Saturn chugged along in the dark. Its gas tank had emptied twice so far, but the party inside had managed to need no other stops than that. Still, Andrew's eyes were rimmed with the red of exhaustion, and he couldn't stop yawning.

Andrew said something back but it was unintelligible through another hearty yawn. He nodded. "Fine. All right. Tell me where to go."

They left the interstate and wound away from city lights and other traffic and to more rustic roads until tall spruce and fir trunks surrounded them like a ribcage stretching toward the heavens. Micah pointed them down a barely marked gravel park road until the only lights anywhere but the sky were from them.

Knees tucked up on the bucket of the seat, Chamomile was asleep with the cats against her chest. Her breathing was soft, so slow it was barely there. Ingrid had spent hours braiding in eucalyptus leaves and flower buds to Chamomile's silvery tresses, and still toyed with it now.

The jostling of the cruder road roused Chamomile until she sat up, squinting blearily, looking down in confusion as her hair stayed twined in Ingrid's fingers. Ingrid struggled to untangle herself, but Chamomile giggled.

"Park by the butte," said Micah. He pointed off to the right.

"By...by the what?" said Andrew.

"That thing. It's the big rock hill."

"Oh. Why didn't you say hill?"

"Because it's called a butte."

Andrew snickered.

"You're a child," scoffed Micah.

"That's not how it's pronounced," said Ingrid.

"Yeah, okay." Micah sniffed.

Andrew eased the Saturn as far off the trail as he could risk it without fearing he'd get them stuck. The four of them unloaded and stretched.

On Micah's side of the car, Chamomile and both cats jumped out.

"Wait a second," Andrew protested.

"They want dinner," Chamomile said with a glare in his direction. "Speaking of…" Out of the backseat she pulled her bow and quiver. It was a beautiful instrument, the bow polished to a shine that glinted with starlight, and the quiver made from supple leather. The arrows protruding were tipped with feathers from a red-tailed hawk she and Micah had recovered after it had been hit by a car. Chamomile dipped in a half-bow toward Ingrid. "Shall we?"

Ingrid nodded. The two females melted into the shadows and were gone.

"What are they going to hunt?" asked Andrew cautiously.

"It's better that you don't know," he told him. When Andrew paled, Micah laughed, "I'm kidding. Probably hare or pheasant. Maybe a hart if they get lucky."

"A hart?"

"A deer."

"Who says hart?"

Micah gave him a look.

"Oh. Right. Someone raised in faerieland. My mistake."

Grinning, Micah bent and picked up short sticks near his feet, snapping off thinner branches and stripping off leaves. "I'll get a fire going."

"Do you just call fire into being?" asked Andrew.

Micah looked confused. "No. I use a flint stick and a knife. Silly city boy."

Unbothered thanks to Micah's affectionate tone, Andrew tilted back his head at the treetops far above them. The stars glinted bright as daylight, pinpricks in an inky black shroud. The clearing near the butte was hardly large enough to fit the Saturn. A thick canopy of trees bowed around them with underbrush heavy enough to feel oppressive. Though it was nothing like the hum of the city, of electricity and engines and the crowd of humanity, the forest was loud.

"On that note, this looks, uh…very wild. What lives around here?"

Micah rested his chin on his hand with his arms braced on the roof of the Saturn. He closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of the ground under his feet. The crisp air, free of car exhaust, sewage, litter, garbage dumps. Peat moss and rich fertile soil, the distant chill of mountain air, animals and their droppings, the sting of spruce. Animals rustling as they settled back into the quiet after being disturbed by the Saturn, the wind in the trees, the crickets and cicadas. A great-horned owl crying mournfully. A pheasant screaming in reply.

He smiled, releasing a long breath. "Name it," he said, eyes still closed, "and it's probably nearby."

Andrew's heart dropped through his feet. He tried to fortify himself, but the truth was that Lilydale was the wildest wilderness he'd ever been in, and it was hemmed in by people within a few miles. But Micah looked so peaceful. At home. Even though the underbrush was thick and ominous. Even if creatures called through the darkness, and he felt eyes on him all around.

Smiling, Micah opened his eyes, which glowed like opals under the half-moon. Andrew pretended like he wasn't wearing the blood ward, like Micah's gaze could inject him with courage, like the look in his eyes made his fear melt away. Weirdly, it worked a little.

Micah pushed off from the car and unwound the flannel from Andrew's waist. He helped Andrew into it and then held him by the waist as he murmured, "I'm really fortunate that I met you." He looked away. "I probably shouldn't have let you come with me though."

"You probably couldn't have stopped me." Andrew grinned. "I'm very hard-headed."

"Whatever's in there," said Micah, smoothing Andrew's hair, "it's very, very good."

Dismissively rolling his eyes, Andrew slung his arms around Micah's shoulders and leaned his cheek on the crown of his head. Their body heat smelted them together like they were made from precious metals as the night enveloped them.

After they let each other go, Andrew rummaged through the trunk. He always had a pair of sleeping bags in his car as well as a flashlight and a first aid kit. Micah picked up the sleeping bags but blocked Andrew's hand when he reached for the flashlight.

"It's better we use the stars, or the fire," he explained. "Your eyes will adjust."

They gathered more than enough wood—sticks, downed branches, and even a few logs—in just a few minutes from around the car. Andrew stayed out of his way while Micah got a fire going. He did it with such ease Andrew started to think there was some magic to it after all.

As if reading his mind, Micah said with his face aglow with flickering light, "It's really not magic." He flashed him a grin. "And before you get any ideas for future outings, no, I'm not the camping type." Micah's smile faded. Using a long dry stick, he prodded the kindling around in the flames. Sparks flew up toward the expanse of the heavens. "This is all just…in my nature."

Andrew sat down in the dirt beside him, clasping his hands over his knees. "You take no pleasure in it?"

"I don't know if it's that," Micah said, staring thoughtfully into the flames. "I love…adore the natural world. But it scares me, too. I feel like I'm part of it." He held his fingers up to the tongues of fire, wincing slightly, but not withdrawing. "Like it's just waiting until I give up on humanity so it can reclaim me."

Andrew gently lowered Micah's hand away from the heat. "You can do that if you want. Or don't. But it's your choice. That's what being human means."

Micah blinked a few times, then nodded. "Yeah," he said softly.

Leaves rustled and a twig snapped very, very close to them. Andrew tensed and grabbed the hilt of the dagger on his ankle. Micah covered Andrew's hand with his own.

On the opposite side of the fire, two sets of emerald eyes caught the firelight and glinted bright as gemstones, blinking once or twice, bobbing closer very slowly.

Clutching Micah's arm, Andrew whispered, "Is it bobcats?"

"Maybe," Micah said, but Andrew shot him another look at the playful note in his voice.

Arwen and Fadil padded into the firelight. Arwen chirped deep in her throat and nosed Andrew's leg, dropping a dead sparrow at his feet. Feathers on the tip of its wing twitched twice. Arwen tilted back her head and blinked cheerfully at Andrew. She nudged the bird with her front paw, and then turned away. She followed Fadil toward the boot of the car and the pair of them jumped into the open trunk. Tails flicked up and blocked out the stars for a sliver of time before the cats disappeared. The shocks of the car squeaked softly.

Heart thundering in his chest, Andrew stared at the bird.

"A gift from the bobcat," Micah said.

The fire was almost embers now. Micah lay on his back on top of a sleeping bag and stared at the heavens. The stars were so bright and clear he could see the band of the Milky Way, speckled overhead like titanium white flicked over a painter's canvas. Orion was not only the belt here but the whole warrior, with his shining silver weapon and his shield outstretched.

Micah thought of his mother—he'd thought of little else since they'd gotten on the road—and how she acted like she was capable of overthrowing the natural order of the world and just chose not to, simply couldn't be bothered. But the stars ruled over her, too. Even she was just a speck in their solar system, in the swirl of the galaxy.

A branch crackled and swung to the side over his head with no pretense of being subtle. Upside-down, a smudge of white caught firelight. A thigh, then another, then a narrow ghostly face with rubies for eyes. It was no wonder Ingrid had so thoroughly terrified Andrew. She emerged from the darkness like a predator, and Micah felt lucky he was not in her diet. He rolled over and propped himself up on his elbow.

Ingrid folded her long legs into a crouch. She said in a voice like wind slipping through fissures in a cliffside, "Chamomile and I made camp elsewhere. We'll be back at sunrise."

"Aw, you know how I worry," said Micah, grinning. "Thanks for letting me know, Red."

Ingrid blinked at him, eyes like pools of wine in the faint light from the embers. She patted his head, and then she melted back into the darkness.

Resting his chin on his palm, still grinning bemusedly, he looked beside him where Andrew slumbered, tucked into his green nylon sleeping bag, fingers curled under his cheek. He'd taken mere moments to fall to sleep. Sighing wistfully, Micah reflected on his own consistently awful sleep. For him, the only nights he never remembered were the ones when he'd pinched one of his dad's sleeping pills. And that kind of dark and dreamless sleep frightened him too much to keep him coming back.

He wondered if that's what made his father so miserable. That every instinct to rest was thwarted, overtaken by darkness and anxiety. That it was all just endless weariness. That the Redwoods lived in Julian like a tapeworm, making him forever hungry.

"Maybe Ingrid was right," he said to the stars. Maybe the Redwoods were Julian's only relief from misery.

Micah sat up and pulled his knees to his chest. He nudged the fire with the toe of his sneaker. A column of sparks rose heavenward, transforming the embers back into small licking flames. He picked up a stick burning like a match and turned it in his hand, transfixed by the heat and the raw fury of the flame. All his emotions fled before the impending injury, which was his favorite part. He brought the tooth of the flame up to his skin and let it flicker against flesh, hungry, more than capable of melting skin down to bone. The pain was hot and slow and he sucked a breath in through his teeth. The soft skin over his tendons began to blister angrily.

A hand slapped the stick out of his grip. It tumbled back into the fire. Micah frowned with annoyance, glancing at Andrew.

"What the hell are you doing?" Andrew demanded, hair sticking skyward from its elastic band. Red finger marks were imprinted on his cheek. His eyes were wild, sparking with fury.

Shaking out his wrist, Micah looked down and said blankly, "Sorry. It's a bad habit."

"You have a habit of self-harming?"

"It's not—"

"Oh yes it is." Andrew drew Micah closer to inspect his wrist. Twisting awkwardly when Andrew pulled him, Micah ended up with his legs tangled in Andrew's and their shoulders pushed together.

Andrew looked up sharply. "There's a ton of scars here."

Shame gripped the pit of Micah's stomach. He pulled at his arm, but Andrew held him fast. They were both silent, the fire crackling angrily. Andrew blinked, shaking his head slightly. His dark gaze shined with tears.

"Don't cry," begged Micah.

Releasing his wrist, Andrew dropped his head against his chest. He swiped his hand across his nose and then across his eyes. "I tried to kill myself when I was fourteen," he said. "I fucked it up; I didn't take enough pills. I just vomited a ton for a few days." He paused. "My mum never even knew. I didn't have the heart to tell her."

"Oh, Andrew, I—"

Hardly hearing him, Andrew said, "I just felt so alone then. I'm over twice that age now and, possibly for the first time, I'm glad it didn't work." Andrew met Micah's gaze with a tear trailing down his cheek like a shooting star. "I hope you don't feel like this forever. That you have to hurt yourself. I hope I can prove to you you're not alone either."

Frozen, Micah blinked disbelievingly at Andrew, lips slightly parted. It had only ever been Ingrid who caught him harming himself once, in his teens, and since then not even Julian knew. Back then, she'd reprimanded him, called him foolish, told him never to do it again. Understandably. That's what he would expect from someone. It hadn't stopped him from continuing to find ways to cause himself pain when things were too stressful, even as an adult, but he'd learned enough not to get caught. But now this? His boyfriend had woken up to find him trying to burn himself and…empathy? Andrew had reacted with empathy? The shared knowledge of the kind of solitary suffering that made it feel as though pain was the only option? It didn't seem right. There had to be a catch.

Andrew stood and went to the trunk of his car, pulling out a little red canvas bag before returning to the sleeping bags and sitting cross-legged, facing Micah. The bag was a First-Aid kit emblazoned with that universal white plus sign, which flashed in the firelight as Andrew unzipped and opened the pack. He unscrewed the top on a white tube and peeled the paper off a latex bandage. As it settled in that Andrew was about to dress this stupid little burn, tears sprang into Micah's eyes again.

Andrew paused. "Hey." He raised Micah's chin with his finger and held his tearful gaze for several seconds before he said softly, "There's nothing to be ashamed of."

Micah began, "I'm a grown man that—"

"Hush." Andrew squeezed a spot of ointment onto his pinky and spread it gently on the small burn on Micah's arm. "That doesn't change anything, being a grown-up. Pain is pain. Mental health can suck at all ages." He stuck the bandage loosely over the burn. "And secrecy certainly doesn't lessen any of it."

"How do you do this?" Micah rasped through his tears. "How do you stay unbothered by all my biggest secrets? I'm a fucking disaster."

Andrew shrugged, kissing Micah's soaked cheek. "I like imperfection," he said, wrapping his arm around his waist as he gently drew him into his lap, laying Micah's head on his shoulder and kissing his brow. Before long, Andrew noticed Micah's breathing change, feeling him sink against his chest, limp and heavy. Micah's arm dropped, his fingertips twitching where they curled slightly on the sleeping bag. Caressing the bristly hair over the nape of Micah's neck, Andrew felt his heart swell. Maybe it was a lot of work, keeping everyone under the impression you were carefree and cheerful all the time. Maybe being caught in a darker mood was a relief to him.

Tilting his chin back, he gazed overhead at Cassiopeia shining amidst the creamy band of the Milky Way. Judging by how much the fire had shrunk, it had been hours since they'd made camp and laid down. Andrew watched the stars for some uncertain passage of time, slipping in and out of a meditative state, thoughts coming and going from his mind. Each time a worry clawed at his thoughts, he released it and let it blink away like a shooting star. This was the time to focus on what was constant. The earth cradled him beneath the blanket of the heavens while the flames snapped and hissed, singing words in a forgotten language, an ancient balm to all his unspeakable wounds. Micah's slumbering breath was a whispered harmony, his body soft and warm in Andrew's lap. If it were possible, he would have slept just this way, as he could want for nothing else. But slowly, the chill of the night crept into his bones, and his legs pinned beneath another body began to lose feeling. Such was the difficulty with meditation. Eventually, the corporeal body complained.

As slowly and minutely as he could, Andrew scooted onto his back until his shoulder blades settled onto the sleeping bag. For a moment, he thought he'd adjusted successfully, but then Micah's weight shifted, his forehead bumped into Andrew's chin, and his breathing stuttered.

Andrew winced. "Sorry. I tried not to wake you."

Micah rubbed his temple and said, "Oh, god. No. Sorry. I zonked out." He let his hip slide to the ground and leaned on his forearm so less of his weight was on Andrew's chest. "You were really gonna let me sleep on top of you all night? You saint."

"It seemed like you needed it," Andrew said. Micah leaned over him, firelight painting a sharp orange brush stroke along his square jaw. His collar billowed off his chest and Andrew's eyes were drawn to the exposed pectoral muscles underneath.

Micah saw his gaze drift and felt his cheeks grow warm. He said after a moment, "I did." He reached out and twisted a loose strand of Andrew's auburn hair. "Amazing you can be so lanky and yet so soft."

Like a spasm, Andrew's fingers clenched around Micah's waist, his thumbs catching bare skin between shirt and waistband. Micah swallowed, his smile forming into something more serious as he noticed the heat which ignited in Andrew's ochre gaze.

Micah leaned down, closer to Andrew's lips, his lashes fluttering as he tried to keep his eyes on Andrew's face. But Andrew's eyes slid closed, and Micah didn't want to keep his slightly parted lips waiting. Micah pushed up on his arm, brushing their lips together briefly, pulling back so Andrew had to peer through slitted eyes with an unspoken question in the rising color of his cheeks.

When Andrew realized he was being teased, he clutched Micah's face between his hands and brought him down again to meet him for another kiss, blazing from within with heat and hunger. He flicked his tongue past Micah's lips and into his mouth. Then he let his face go and slid his hands beneath Micah's shirt, roaming along the muscles of his back and the contours of his firm stomach, realizing very quickly that this wasn't going to be enough for him.

Andrew tipped his head to the side so he could say, "Sorry, but if you want to stop…"

"I don't." Micah's voice was deep and hoarse, like a tree creaking during a storm. "I don't want to stop, that is. Do you?"

In answer, Andrew pulled Micah's shirt over his head and set it aside. Micah's hair was mussed over his forehead, sticking to his long moss-green lashes when he blinked and grinned devilishly down at Andrew.

He slipped an arm around Andrew's waist to lift him off the canvas under them enough to strip him of his flannel and shirt, accidentally freeing his long hair. Micah's heart flipped over the sight of Andrew's fiery locks cascading over his sharp brow, the ends brushing his shoulders like licks of flame.

Micah touched his knuckle quickly against the blood ward under Andrew's throat to confirm for his own peace that it was still cool, his delay long enough to prompt Andrew to grab him by the belt and uncinch him from it.

Delighted by his eagerness, Micah straddled Andrew and lightly pinched his nipple, which made Andrew's back arch off the ground. He planted a kiss on Andrew's sternum, then on the hollow of his throat, and then on his chin. He said against Andrew's lips, "I won't stop, but I want you to know that I'm going to savor this. So breathe." Micah undid the button on Andrew's jeans, slipping his hand inside the fabric. "Let me savor you."

Hotter color rose on Andrew's high cheekbones visible even in the corner of Micah's eye. Micah's exploration elicited a breathless little moan from Andrew, who twined his trembling fingers through Micah's free hand as they kissed again.

It was shockingly cold in their afterglow, their bodies practically steaming next to the dying fire. Goosebumps raced along Andrew's bare thighs and up over his stomach as he leaned on Micah's chest. Micah stretched over him, grabbing the corner of the second sleeping bag and fumbling with it until Andrew realized what he was doing. They unzipped it together and draped it over themselves before settling back down beneath the stars.

"I hope you won't be miserable in the car all day tomorrow 'cause of this," Micah said softly.

Andrew grinned. "Miserable is not what I will feel about this." He tugged on Micah's wooden earring.

"I meant—"

"I won't even notice any pain," Andrew said, twisting to plant a kiss against Micah's cheekbone. "But it's sweet of you to be concerned."

"I was worried I got a little carried away."

"You did. And it was great."

Micah grinned up at the heavens, pulling the sleeping bag up to Andrew's chin and tucking him in. "It certainly was."

"So," said Andrew, settling back into Micah's warmth like he'd known it his whole life. "We've established you're concerned about me. But are you concerned about the Redwoods?"

"Ah," Micah huffed. "You could say that." He glanced at Andrew with eyes that flashed wine-red. "Are you regretting coming with me?"

"Oh, yes. Nothing but regrets. How I wish I could be watching reruns with my cat talking to the zero people who give a shit about me."

"Okay," said Micah with a gasping laugh. "Jeeze."

Andrew snickered. He poked his pinky finger near the corner of Micah's eye. "They were silver, when we were…in the middle of things. But they turned red when you mentioned your mother."

"Oh. Yeah. I know they change color, but I don't keep track of the specifics. I think they're stupid."

"All right, seems like an odd opinion to hold about one's eyes."

"Says the guy with the lovely, nonmagical brown eyes," Micah muttered.

"Anyway. It makes me curious. I can obviously surmise what silver indicates…"

"You'd be right." Micah grinned.

"But what about the red?" Andrew ran the pad of his finger along the fan of Micah's lashes, smiling slightly since it tickled when he blinked. "Typically, red means danger or, you know, blood. Overall, bad. Bad feelings."

"That would accurately describe my feelings about the monster who bore me," agreed Micah. "I'm terrified of her. And furious at her. And I wish, desperately, that I could exist without her. Suffice it to say, there is no love there."

"It must be overwhelming, then, having to go back there." Andrew cupped Micah's cheek.

"If there was any conceivable way to save my father without ever having to step foot in that godforsaken kingdom, you'd better believe I'd already be doing it." Micah pulled Andrew's hand off his cheek so he could plant a kiss in his palm. "But my father's suffered there enough, and I've worked so hard to keep him safe in Minnesota. I can't abandon him there, even if she only did this to get me back."

"Do you think so?" Andrew asked, watching the goosebumps race up his arm at the feeling of Micah's lips in his hand. "That's why Julian disappeared?"

"I don't think he chose to go back there. I can't pretend to understand what motivates the Queen. But I doubt it had to do with him. She never had any regard for him. I'm sure it's me."

"So you're walking into a trap?" Andrew clarified.

"Probably." Micah shrugged. "But it's better than doing nothing."

Andrew trailed his finger along Micah's smooth sternum. "Maybe I should be more like you."

"I would not advise that," Micah said with a grin. "Why do you say that?"

Andrew was thinking about his mother, left behind when he turned eighteen. But he shook his head slightly. "Maybe I want your cool green hair."